Patti M. Walsh

With a sluggish April sun burnishing his forehead and a damp wind smacking his lanky body, Tony kicked the dirt around his feet, bungling even imaginary attempts to chip, push, and dribble a ball down the pitch before shooting a game-winning goal.

When the dust settled, however, there was no ball, no goal, and no applause. Instead, a silent swirl of sand mimicked the boy’s hair, eyes, and dog. It separated Tony from where he yearned to be. That would be the soccer field, a few hundred yards away, where the semi-professional Red Knights were taking on the Macra for a berth in the championship.

Glancing down at his dull khaki shorts and plain white T-shirt, Tony imagined that he was wearing the scarlet and gold of his Red Knights. Or even the green and orange of the Macra. Longing for a uniform stained with blood, sweat, and tears, he smeared grit across his blank face and clean clothes. He kicked the dust again.

“I wanna play, Cool.” Licking his chapped lips, the boy reached down and scratched the head of his Irish wolfhound, Finn McCool. “Or at least be there to cheer and jeer.”

Glancing at his watch, Tony realized that he was late. Charlie expected him a half-hour ago. Playing make-believe warrior in tactical video games with his best friend was as exciting as his life got. He ached to be a real player—a striker, forward, midfielder. Crap. Even a goalie. Anything, as long as he could play. But soccer player did not pertain to this 13-year-old, nor did soccer mom describe his mother.

“Soccer is dangerous,” she would warn when he begged to play. “And messy.” Given her reputation as an impeccable housekeeper, she didn’t tolerate dirt. And as a world-famous harpist, she encouraged Tony to pursue her career path. After all, he had both talent and long, strong fingers.

“You’re not athletic,” his father would say, calling Tony’s angular frame “uncoordinated” and his big feet “clumsy.” He envisioned Tony using his brain, not some hypothetical brawn. Maybe follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer.

Tony preferred neither. Sure, he was smart and liked playing the harp, but he craved soccer more. Squinting, he made out the scoreboard. One-one in the first period.

“Hey, Setanta.”

Tony’s wiry hair stood on end. He hadn’t seen anyone approaching and nobody called him by his last name. Ever. That was a legitimacy reserved for cool kids, which he wasn’t. And he sure as heck didn’t want anyone—cool or not—watching his make-believe game.

The dog turned toward the voice before the boy did. Cool was big—so big in fact, that he could place his paws on Tony’s shoulders. His menacing size belied a gentle giant. His tail wagged as if the husky kid approaching on a customized bike were a friend. His tail froze, however, when Tony did.

Ferdiad, better known as Ferdy, was not a friend, although he had been 10 years ago.

In an instant flood of memories, Tony remembered when Ferdy was his best friend. They were neighbors in a suburban Washington, D.C., apartment complex, the only boys in a building full of working adults.

Then five years old, Ferdy would race his trike around the internal corridor, shouting, “Catch me!” Hands outstretched, three-year-old Tony would waddle after him, shrieking with glee. The boys laughed, their mothers laughed, the neighbors laughed—until one day, when Tony tripped in his pursuit. Not only did he remember falling, but also crying. Wincing still at the image, he wondered if Ferdy remembered it, too.

Races, laughter, and tears came to an abrupt end when the Setantas moved into a single-family house a few miles away in a quiet subdivision. Now, the boys rarely talked.

They had nothing in common.

Not home life. Tony wished his former friend lived with both parents in a nice house, as he did. Instead, at 15, Ferdy lived in the same apartment. The building was now crime-ridden and dumpy. Tony had heard that Ferdy’s mother was never there. Some say she worked several jobs to make ends meet; others, that she lived with a boyfriend in Springfield.

Nor bikes. Unlike most boys his age, Tony usually chose to walk, given his history of falling off bikes and scooters. Ferdy always had fancy wheels.

Nor school. They did end up in the same middle school for a year when Ferdy repeated fourth grade. The older boy was now in high school.

And certainly not interests. Tony had nerdy friends; Ferdy, cool girlfriends. Tony played harp; Ferdy, hooky.

Breaking into a fear-induced sweat, Tony knew this couldn’t be good. His damp palms nearly dropped Cool’s leash when the older boy skidded to a stop with a dramatic wheelie.

Ferdie had dense dark curls and pale, reptilian-like skin. He stood astride his Stingray Chopper bicycle with ape-hanger handlebars. The bike reeked of money. So did Ferdy, who sported a thick gold chain around his neck. Oversized aviator sunglasses covered the upper half of his face. A snarled grin covered the bottom half.

“Hey,” the lizard kid grunted.

Sensing trouble and feigning confidence, Tony patted Cool and swallowed hard. He lifted his chin and forced a casual response.

“Hey, Ferdy. What’s up?”

“Not much.” Ferdy thrust his head toward the soccer game. “You got a favorite? Anything riding on one of them?”

“Not really.” Tony kept his preferences to himself.

“You play?”

“Nah.”

“How come? Thought I saw you practicing.”

Tony shrugged.

“Listen, as long as you’re not doing anything—and you seem to like soccer—I got a job for you. And your guard dog here.” Cool stood at alert when Ferdy pointed at him. “Wanna take in the game? And earn a few bucks?”

As suspicious as he was, Tony did want to see the game. And he could use some money. His parents never gave him any, telling him he would spend it foolishly, like on a new video game. Or recklessly, like on going to soccer matches. Contrary to their beliefs, soccer was logical, he reasoned, and money to watch it, an investment in his well-being. But intuition told him that anything associated with Ferdy was bad. So bad that he just shook his head.

“Oh, come on.” Ferdy pulled a small envelope from his denim jacket pocket and teased a ticket out of it. “And an extra 10 bucks in it for your troubles. All you have to do is deliver this …” He pulled a fat envelope from a different pocket. “To Daggar.”

Tony squinted at the game. His parents would never consent. They’d never know, right? They thought he’d be playing video games with Charlie for the next two hours. He glanced at the larger brown package. Why didn’t Ferdy deliver it himself? As if he knew what Tony was thinking, Ferdy yanked off his sunglasses, revealing a shiner.

“Daggar and I got into it last night. Over this.” He waved the larger envelope a few times. “Money I owe him.”

Why did Ferdy owe Daggar money? Daggar was an older dude. Although Tony didn’t know him, everyone knew about him. Rumor had it he took bets on games and sold drugs. Tony’s father called him a thug.

“I don’t care to see his ugly face ever again,” Ferdy continued. “You’d be doing me—and yourself—a big favor if you would just take these.” Ferdy seized on Tony’s hesitance and shoved the two envelopes into his free hand.

With that, Ferdy rode away. Cool’s muscular neck flexed toward the older boy, ready to chase him. Tony’s father called Cool a sighthound—a dog bred to spot, chase, and bring down prey.

“Primarily deer and rabbits,” Tony’s father would say while throwing Cool a ball. He could play fetch for hours. “They’re also loyal.”

Prancing and whining softly, Cool’s keen vision darted between Tony and Ferdy. Loyalty to Tony stopped the hound from following his chase instinct.

Since Tony resembled Cool—shaggy, beanpole body, lean face, and deep-set chestnut eyes—the boy often fancied himself a sighthound, too. But watching Ferdy’s receding image, Tony kicked the dirt again. I’m not a sighthound. I couldn’t take down a shadow, let alone a rabbit.

Cool stared at Tony while Tony stared at the ticket.

Looking from the game, to the envelope, to his watch, and back to the game, the boy weighed his options.

“We have time,” he told his dog. “Mom doesn’t expect me for a few hours. And Charlie will understand if I don’t show up. I’ll send him a selfie when we get there.”

With a quiet whine, a series of pants, and a lopsided dog grin, Cool seemed to vote for the adventure.

“Let’s go!” Tony suddenly headed toward the field in an awkward run. Cool needed no urging and quickly overtook Tony, who lost control of the leash. Cool’s shaggy coat rippled in the wind.

Winded and nervous when he arrived at the parking lot, Tony nabbed Cool. He calmed himself with deep breathing as he often did before beginning harp practice. It wasn’t hard to find Daggar. Lounged against his vintage Mustang and ringed by a half-dozen cronies, he looked the part of a two-bit gangster zombie—pale skin, slicked-back hair, fedora, open-collared shirt, skinny jeans, gold necklace.

What’s with the gold necklaces?

Daggar pinched a cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger, sucking smoke into his lungs. He blew it at Tony as he approached. Yuck.

“You lost, kid?”

Tony chewed his lips and held out the envelope. “Here. Ferdy asked me to give this to you.”

“Ferdy, huh?” Daggar took it, thumbed through the cash, and grinned. “Well, tell him thanks.”

Before Tony could respond, or even turn toward the admission gate, a swarm of uniformed police officers materialized.

“You’re under arrest,” a plainclothes detective barked at Tony. “What’s your name, kid? Joe, take the dog.”

With red and blue lights strobing everywhere, it took a few seconds for Tony to realize the guy was telling him he had the right to remain silent, not Daggar, who was surrounded by his own blue squad.

“No!” Tony screamed. Cool barked as the officer named Joe muzzled him and shoved him into a crate. “No! You don’t understand. Please don’t take my dog. I can explain.”

“Turn around,” the detective said as he handcuffed the boy. Words like “remain silent” and “lawyer” spun with the speed of a soccer ball amidst the flashing lights. “You can explain at the station. I’m Detective Markle. What’s your name?”

“Tony … Anthony … Setanta.”

“Setanta? Related to Lou Setanta? The lawyer?”

“Yes, sir.” Tony dropped his head in shame. “That’s my father.”

“I know him. He’d tell you right now not to say anything. So don’t.”

Tony’s face reddened when he thought of his father. And his mother. Tears erupted. What would they say? What would his friends think? What about Cool?

“Cool! My dog. Please …”

“We’ll take good care of him,” Det. Markle said as he folded Tony into the back of a police car. “Don’t worry about the dog. That’s the least of your problems.”

“Please …” His voice and tears dried up when he saw Daggar glare at him, as if the thug blamed him for the bust.

It wasn’t his fault, Tony reasoned. He did what Ferdy had asked. FERDY! Tony went from humiliated to angry. This was Ferdy’s fault. It had something to do with the money he gave Daggar. It was one thing to be arrested. But it was another thing altogether that Ferdy had set him up. And now Daggar blamed him with a deadly stare. As the squad car wailed down the street, Tony was almost relieved to be in police custody.

* * *

His sense of security disappeared when his parents arrived at the police station.

“What’s going on here?” His father barked at the desk sergeant in a voice so loud Tony could hear it from the room where he was being held. He recoiled as footsteps pounded down the hall. It was his mother’s soft-soled shoes, however, that entered the room first.

Running long fingers through her unstyled ash-blonde hairdo, she could have been a banshee announcing death with wild hair sticking out in all directions. Behind her, Tony’s father was sweating, something he rarely did. He scraped two metal chairs into place across the table. Now, Tony didn’t know if the noise or the silent stares were louder. What will they do to me? He dropped his eyes to avoid theirs.

Det. Markle followed, holding a file and a bottle of water.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he said, offering Tony the water. “How do you know Daggar and what were you doing at the soccer field?”

“Daggar!” His father bellowed.

“Soccer?” His mother wailed. “You were supposed to be playing computer games with Charlie. You lied! How could …”

The detective held up his hands.

“Ma’am, please. I’m asking the questions.” He turned to Tony’s father. “Sir, I advised your son of his rights and told him not to say anything until you arrived. Right now, I need to establish some facts.”

Assuming the coolness of a lawyer, Lou Setanta sat up straight, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and placed his right hand for a moment on his wife’s left shoulder. Then he took out a notepad and nodded. Markle resumed his questioning.

“How do you know Daggar,” the detective repeated, “and what were you doing at the soccer field?”

“I don’t know Daggar,” Tony said.

He started to take a sip of water but stopped. He had watched enough TV to know that the police used bottles of water to check for DNA. Seeming to read his mind, his father gestured for Tony to drink it. The cool liquid perked him up and calmed him down. Then he took a deep breath and related how Ferdy approached him while he watched the soccer match from the hill above it.

“Who is this Ferdy?” Markle asked. “And how do you know him?”

“Ferdiad Daman. Used to be my best friend.” Tony glanced at his mother, who nodded slowly. “Then we moved away. We went to the same school for a while, but now he goes to the high school. Honest.” Tony met his father’s glare before continuing. “I hardly ever talk to him anymore.”

“So, what happened today to change that?” The detective stood. Tony cowered beneath Markle’s six-foot frame. The detective flipped his chair backward and straddled it. “Go on.”

With encouragement from his father, Tony detailed his encounter with Ferdy, culminating with the money Ferdy owed Daggar and his black eye.

“Black eye, you said?” The detective wrote everything down, then excused himself.

Alone, finally, with his parents, Tony broke down in tears. He wished his parents would say something. Anything. His mother reached out and covered his hands with her own. They were as cold as the metal table between them. His father stood and paced.

Tony sobbed his apologies for deceiving them, saying over and over, that he just wanted to watch the soccer game.

“Quiet, Son.” His father lifted a finger toward the camera tucked into the corner of the ceiling.

Markle returned after what seemed like an eternity but was about an hour.

“Your story checks out, Tony. We’re bringing Ferdiad Daman in for questioning. You’re free to go.”

Unlocking the handcuffs, he turned to Lou. “You’ll need to fill out some paperwork at the desk.”

“What about my dog?” Tony demanded. “Where’s Cool?”

Markle grinned. “He’s at the front desk making friends with the sergeant. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Rubbing his wrists, Tony followed his parents out of interrogation and into the main squad room, only to witness two officers wrestling a hostile Ferdy into the room he had just left.

“You!” Ferdy screamed. “You’re trying to pin this on me, you double-crossing liar. You’re going to pay for this, Setanta. I’m gonna kill you!”

Tony’s mother wrapped her arms around him. His father stood between the boys, quieting Ferdy for a moment.

“You lay one hand on my son and …”

“You threatenin’ me, man? Officer, you hear that?” Ferdy glared at everyone within his line of sight. “Nobody threatens me and gets away with it. You hear that, Setanta? You set me up. When I get outta here, when I clear my name, I’m comin’ for you. I’m gonna kill you. You’re gonna pay!”

Markle gestured to the uniformed officers to get Ferdy into the interrogation room while he ushered the Setantas to the front desk.