The Smoke Jumper Read Free Page B

teaching this particular brat for six months now and not once had the kid smiled or even looked him in the eye.
    Ed stared out of the window, trying to detect a trace of Chopin amid the faltering cacophony that filled the Rothwells’ manicured drawing room. The January darkness that had barely lifted a corner all day was closing in again and the rain was still coming down. He watched it making rivulets on the waxed finish of Mrs Rothwell’s black Mercedes convertible that basked in the driveway beside Ed’s rusting Nissan. The boy’s streak-blond, spandex-clad mother was, as usual, working out in the gym across the hallway, wearing one of those headphone radios, presumably to drown the horrors of Dexter Jr at the keyboard. She was a thin, small-boned woman with a pointed face and whenever he caught a glimpse of her through the doorway, pounding away on the jogging machine, Ed was reminded of a demented mouse trapped in a treadmill.
    Dexter Rothwell Jr finished and slumped back from the keys.
    ‘Chopin sucks,’ he said.
    ‘You think so? Really?’ Ed tried to sound light, amused even.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You’ve obviously been too busy to practice since last week.’
    The boy grunted and began to pick his nose. They sat for a moment listening to the muted thump-thump-thump of Mrs Mouse clocking up the miles across the hallway. Ed took off his glasses, the old ones with the Scotch-taped hinge, and gave them a polish. It reminded him that he couldn’t afford, literally, to be impulsive here. He took a deep breath and put them back on.
    ‘Okay. What shall we play, then? Want to try some more Led Zeppelin?’
    He wasn’t kidding. In a desperate effort to engage the boy’s interest two weeks ago he’d had him play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and a couple of Rolling Stones numbers. There had been the faintest flicker of interest.
    ‘That sucks too.’
    ‘Wow, they all seem to suck. Chopin, Mozart, Led Zeppelin.’
    ‘Yeah, right.’
    Ed let the silence hang for a moment. The boy was glowering out at the rain, still picking his nose. Ed studied the sullen, slack-jawed profile and made a few rapid calculations about the damage he was about to inflict on his already parlous finances. Well, so be it. He stood up, plucked the music from in front of Dexter’s nose and stuffed it into his briefcase. The boy looked up at him.
    ‘What’s going on?’
    ‘Nothing, Dexter. And that’s the problem.’
    ‘We only just started.’
    ‘Yep and I’m through. I’m out of here.’
    He opened the door and came out into the hallway just as the boy’s mother emerged from the gym, toweling her face with care so as not to mess up her lipstick. She frowned.
    ‘You two done already?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am. Done and dusted.’
    He picked up his coat from the chair by the front door. Dexter stood shiftily in the drawing room doorway, shrugging and mugging at his mother as if the world had gone crazy. Mrs Rothwell looked at her watch.
    ‘But it’s only—’
    ‘The thing is, Mrs Rothwell, you’re wasting your money and I’m wasting my time.’
    ‘Why? Isn’t Dexy making progress?’
    Ed looked at the boy. He was standing there, twisting his fists into the belly of his T-shirt and scowling at the floor like a jilted Neanderthal. It was a pathetic sight and for an instant Ed felt an inkling of pity.
    ‘No, ma’am. He isn’t. In fact, frankly, Dexy sucks.’
     
    The elation lasted only until he got home. The heating was still off and water was still dripping into the garbage bin that he’d placed where the piano used to be. He showered in cold water, singing to keep himself from freezing and from thinking too much about what a reckless fool he had been to give the Rothwells the bullet. Then he made himself some hot chocolate, microwaved half a pizza left over from last night and ate it huddled in his overcoat in front of the TV news which chronicled nothing but doom and disaster and though his own paled by comparison, his mood remained