Boys Life

apprentice seems like a bargain to me. Shall we go?” His hand guided me toward the steps that led down. It was a powerful hand, and it would not be denied. I had to go. Dr. Lezander flicked a switch that turned on the light over the stairs and flooded light below me. As I descended, I heard the rustle of his red silk robe and the shuffle of his slippers on the stairs. I heard him slurp his coffee. It was a greedy sound, and I was afraid.
    My father had not taken Jacob Steiner and Lee Hannaford directly to the Union Pines Motel. On the way, jammed in the pickup truck with the wipers knocking away sleet, he’d asked them if they wanted some lunch. Both men had said yes, and that was how they’d wound up walking into the Bright Star Cafe.
    “How about a booth in the back?” Dad asked Carrie French, and she guided them to one and left them with luncheon menu cards.
    Mr. Steiner took off his gloves and overcoat. He was wearing a tweed suit and a pale gray vest. He hung his overcoat and his hat on a rack. His hair was as white and thick as a bristle brush. As Mr. Steiner slid into the booth and Dad sat down, too, the younger man peeled off his jacket. He was wearing a blue-checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his muscular biceps. And on the right bicep… there it was.
    Dad said, “Oh my God.”
    “What is it?” Mr. Hannaford asked. “I’m not supposed to take my jacket off in here?”
    “No, it’s all right.” A sheen of sweat had broken out on my father’s forehead. Mr. Hannaford sat down beside Mr. Steiner. “I mean… that tattoo…”
    “You got a problem with it, friend?” The younger man’s slate-colored eyes had narrowed into dangerous slits.
    “Lee?” Mr. Steiner cautioned. “No, no.” It was like telling a bad dog to sit.
    “No problem,” Dad said. “It’s just that…” He was having trouble breathing, and the room wanted to spin. “I’ve seen your tattoo before.”
    The two men were silent. Mr. Steiner spoke first. “May I ask where, Mr. Mackenson?”
    “Before I tell you, I want to know where you’ve come from and why you’re here.” Dad pulled his gaze away from the faint outline of a skull with wings swept back from its temples.
    “I wouldn’t,” Mr. Hannaford warned Mr. Steiner. “We don’t know this guy.”
    “True. We don’t know anyone here, do we?” Mr. Steiner glanced around, and Dad saw his hawklike eyes take in the scene. A dozen or so people were having lunch and shooting the breeze. Carrie French was fending off the good-natured flirting of a couple of farmers. The television was tuned to a basketball game. “How can we trust you, Mr. Mackenson?”
    “What’s not to trust?” Something about this man-the way he carried himself, the way his eyes were darting this way and that, sizing things up-made Dad ask the next question. “Are you a policeman?”
    “By profession, no. But in a sense, yes.”
    “What profession are you in, then?”
    “I am… in the field of historical research,” Mr. Steiner answered.
    Carrie French came over on her long, pretty legs, her order pad ready. “Help you today?”
    “Got any griddle cakes?” Mr. Hannaford plucked a pack of Luckies out of his breast pocket.
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Griddle cakes! Do you have ’em here or not?”
    “I think,” Mr. Steiner said patiently as the younger man lit a cigarette, “that they’re called pancakes in this part of the country.”
    “We’re not servin’ breakfast now.” Carrie offered an uncertain smile. “Sorry.”
    “Just gimme a burger, then.” He spouted smoke through his pinched nostrils. “Jesus!”
    “Is the chicken noodle soup fresh?” Mr. Steiner asked, examining the menu card.
    “Canned, but it’s still good.”
    “I will not eat canned chicken noodle soup, my dear.” He gazed at her sternly over the rims of his glasses. “I, too, will have a hamburger. Very well done, if you please.” Pliss, he pronounced it.
    Dad ordered the beef stew and a cup of coffee. Carrie paused. “Ya’ll aren’t from around here, are you?” she asked the two strangers.
    “I’m from Indiana,” Mr. Hannaford said. “He’s from-”
    “Warsaw, Poland, originally. And I can speak for myself, thank you.”
    “Both of you sure are a long way from home,” Dad said when Carrie had gone.
    “I live in Chicago now,” Mr. Steiner explained.
    “Still a long way from Zephyr.” Dad’s eyes kept ticking back to the tattoo. It looked as if the younger man had tried