Fat Tony -- Section Eight

    Fat Tony sat on the white plastic chair outside his grandmother’s front door.  She wasn’t answering her phone, for the first time he could remember her doors were locked, and he wasn’t going to waste gas running the air conditioning in his car.  And it was hot.  Fat Tony knew his extra bulk was there for a good reason, but it did predispose him towards, rather than away from, large amounts of perspiration in the summer.  So he sat in the shade in front of Grandma’s front door and steamed, in more ways than one.
    If Mr. Robinson was right, Grandma somehow had access to more Livingstone’s Cottontails than had probably ever been in the United States at once.  That, and she was promising she could breed more on demand.  Fat Tony still hadn’t seen one of the little things, but he imagined an assembly line of tiny, glowing rabbits, having their cute knobly horns glued to their heads by machine.  Mr. Rogers could play the film on Picture Picture.
    Where could they have come from?  The obvious answer was something to do with Grandpa.  He didn’t assemble that basement of oddities by being a homebody, or by having principles that were anything but slightly flexible.  ‘Adaptable,’ Grandpa would have said.  Adjusting to the circumstances.
    Fat Tony smiled, remembering the fit his parents had thrown when Grandpa handed him the Kabalah Chisel for Tony’s twelfth birthday.
    “It’s for carving a golem,” said Grandpa, his face straight, the way it always was.  “Fabulously useful things.  Cleaning the yard, fighting wars.  There’s a slender blade in the handle—you pull out the back here—that you use to carve the True Name of God in the forehead.  From what I hear, without that part, it’s just a mess of clay and rock.”
    Fat Tony had asked if Grandpa knew the True Name.  Grandpa had only sniffed, twitching his cheek.  With a little bit of imagination, it could have been a wink. 
    Of course, Mom and Dad hadn’t let him keep the chisel.  Tony wondered if it were in a box, somewhere in that basement.  Since Grandpa had died last year, there had been an itch in Fat Tony’s hands to get down there and pull the boxes open, but the time hadn’t seemed right yet to ask, and Grandma hadn’t offered.  Strange how the two of them could joke about anything but could talk about nothing.
    “Anthony?” said a wobbly voice.  “Is that you?”
    “Sure is, Mrs. Negi.”  Fat Tony stood up to greet her.  “They haven’t put you in a museum yet?”
    Grandma’s neighbor shuffled her way up the walk, her back steeply bent.  “And what museum would have a relic like me?”
    “As I think about it, I can’t find a single safe answer to that question.  Can I perform a tactical withdrawal?”
    “You mean ‘run like a frightened puppy?’  Absolutely, Anthony.  I’ve always liked you, even though you seem to always be sucking on one foot or another.”
    “An occupational hazard.  I’m a professional at speaking before I think.”
    “Good for you,” said Mrs. Negi.  “A young man should find some way to contribute to society.  Is your grandmother home?”
    “I have to say I wouldn’t be out in this heat if she were.  Though these plastic chairs are surprisingly comfortable.”
    “And durable,” said the neighbor.  “My eyes aren’t as good as they were, but it seems you’ve put on even more weight since I last saw you.  Are you eating properly?”
    “My doctor has no complaints about my diet, I can tell you that.”
    “Then you need to get a new doctor.  One that didn’t get a degree on the internet.  Is it true you can get anything on the internet?”
    “Most things.”
    “I heard that someone’s selling real estate on the moon.  Can you believe that?  There’s a fool born every minute, and now they’re moving to the moon.  I suppose that’s as good a place to keep them as any.  Better than my backyard, I tell you.  Of course, we all say that for everything, from garbage to clowns to nuclear waste.  ‘Not in my backyard.’  Problem is, we have to keep it all somewhere, and that means someone’s back yard.”
    “Some people keep clowns in their front yards,” said Fat Tony.
    “No accounting for taste,” said Mrs. Negi.  “Is your grandmother in?  No, you said she isn’t.  She’s hard to get hold of these days.  Spending all her time with the gentleman caller, I suppose.”
    Fat Tony’s eyes blinked.  Several times.  “Pardon?”
    “Oh, he’s handsome enough, I grant you, though a little young for your grandmother.  He must be no more than sixty-five, even wearing old shoes.  But why not?  She’s an energetic woman.  We’re none of us in our prime, but ‘gather ye rosebuds while ye may’ is my idea of a decent motto for living.  If I did needlepoint I’d have that over my sink to remind me to get someone else to wash the dishes.  Would you give your grandmother a message for me?”
    Fat Tony dragged his mind away from the combination of ‘gentleman caller’ and ‘Grandma’ that kept chasing around in his head.  In fact, he had a distinct image in his mind of Grandma and this mysterious caller chasing around a new couch—purchased with money from a cute, horned rabbit—laughing and frolicking.  It was a slow chase and restrained frolicking, but still, disturbing enough.
    “Yes, I can give her a message.  Absolutely.  What’s mine is yours.”
    “Then I’ll take just a tiny bit of your brain and leave the rest to you.  Tell your grandmother that the hot water is working again, and animal control came and took the alligator away.  She was so concerned, I wanted to let her know we’re fine right away, but I think she may have forgotten to take her cell phone.  You’ll give her the message?”
    “Sure,” said Fat Tony, swallowing.  “Alligator’s gone, hot water’s fixed.  Any police knocking on the door?”
    “Now why would they do that?” said Mrs. Negi, laughing.  “Take good care of yourself, Anthony.  Better care.  You look pale.”
    “I feel pale, Mrs. Negi, but I expect it’ll pass soon.  I’ll drink plenty of water.”
    “You do that,” she said.
    As she shuffled away, Fat Tony dropped back into the plastic chair.  It creaked at him but held.  The Cottontails and a gentleman caller.  He doubted the two were unrelated.
    Tony’s phone buzzed.  An email from Malcolm.  Client call on the east side, it said, giving the address.  Time to get it done and get back for your date.
    That’s right.  Six-ish at the Thai place on Speedway.  With an FBI agent who may or may not deal with magical crimes.  Like the illegal breeding and sale of Livingstone’s Cottontails.
    I still haven’t bought flowers, thought Tony.