Milo said, “Entitled little prince.”
I said, “Or he thinks you can protect him from the parking nazis.”
“Delusions abound.” He U-turned at the next corner, glided to the curb across the street from the Challenger, and rolled down his window. “Todd.”
Leventhal, hands fixed rigidly on his steering wheel, turned jerkily and nodded. None of the bravado he’d shown the first time.
He said, “Um, where?”
“Here.” Milo hooked a thumb toward the Impala’s rear seat.
“We’re taking a ride?”
“No, we’re taking a meeting. C’mere.”
The boy looked around and got out. Gray hoodie, bright-blue board shorts, orange sneakers. The thunderbolts etched into his hair had been highlighted yellow. He crossed the street, got into the backseat behind Milo, and immediately began fidgeting. “Smells weird back here.”
Milo said, “New cologne, Todd. Eau de Felony. So what’s on your mind?”
“This.” Reaching into his jean pocket, Leventhal produced a single sheet of paper.
Screenshots of several Twitter posts.
The same poster: V-I-M Numero Uno.
Similar messages, one day after the other, all within the last week:
TL and SA socialize suckalize screwalize.
TL and SA and their ilk are like elk. hunted.
TL and SA have low genetic life expectancy. dna do not allow.
TL and SA party partially perish permanently.
TL SA MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD.
Milo said, “Someone doesn’t like you and Shirin.”
“No! It’s more!” The boy’s new voice was shrill, constricted. “Look at the bottom one—look!”
“Lotta MD’s. Something to do with a doctor?”
“No! It means ‘must die’!”
“You figured that out because—”
“I didn’t figure, I know! Motherfucker comes up and whispers it to me, online he doesn’t want to get kicked off so he hides it with code. Look at his handle! It’s obvious!”
“V-I-M…”
“Vengeance is mine! He says that, too!”
“This person has threatened you to your face.”
“He always looked at me weird,” said Leventhal. “Now he’s saying it. Whispering. Like he’s telling me a fucking secret.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Piece of shit autistic spazz-whack named Moman.”
“First name?”
“Crispin.” Snickering at the sound of the name.
“Crispin also goes to Beverly.”
“Not like a normal person,” said Leventhal. “He was like homeschooled ’cause he’s fucked up, started this year so he could like go to Harvard or something. He misses a lot ’cause he’s fucked up. Allergies, flus, whatever. But when he’s there he’s being psycho with me and Shirin.”
“Why you?”
“ ’Cause he’s an asshole!”
“When did he begin seriously harassing you?”
“Like a month ago. When he found out.”
“About what?”
“The party! The one where it happened. He comes up to me Friday, says ‘I want to go,’ I’m like ‘Fuck off, loser.’ ”
“You and Shirin both told him that.”
Silence.
Milo said, “Just you.”
Leventhal nodded. “She likes me to be in charge.”
“But now she’s being targeted along with you.”
“Zactly. You gotta do something. It’s your job.”
“Have you talked to campus security?”
“Useless fucks,” said Leventhal. “They’re gonna bring his parents in, my parents will have to come in and hers, there’ll be shitloads of useless bullshit. You need to check it out. Not just for me, for you.”
“For me, how?”
“Your case. He lives there.”
“Where?”
Leventhal’s eye roll said he was dealing with a garden slug. “There. Where it happened—like a block or two, whatever.”
“Crispin lives near the party house.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I tell him fuck off but he shows up anyway dressed like a geek—suit, tie, shiny-shine shoes. Tries to go in, the footballers block him. He starts crying. Monday, this starts.” Pointing at the paper. “Okay? Now you need to handle it. He’s a fucking loon, eats his own boogers, tortures animals.”
“Really,” said Milo. “You’ve seen that?”
Shrug. “People talk. He’s nuts! Okay? I’m doing what you said. Calling you with clues. I’m giving you awesome clues!”
“Thanks for the information, Todd. Anything else?”
Leventhal folded his arms across his chest. “Like what?”
“Anything you think would help.”
“What would help is you do what I tell you.”
Flinging open the door, the boy stomped to his car, revved the engine, roared off.
“Well,” said Milo, “looks like we’ve been given our marching orders.”
He examined the posts, handed them to me. “Diagnosis?”
I said, “Twitter allows you two hundred eighty characters. All of these are a fraction of that.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe a boy of few words because verbalizing is a challenge. Then there is the matter of the animals.”
He exhaled. “So there is.”
Working his phone he searched crispin moman. “No address, no surprise, he’s a minor…here we go: An Adrian Moman lives on the 1200 block of Benedict, could be Mommy or Daddy. The Beverly Hills side but yeah, not far.”
He googled. “Daddy.” Showing me a thumbnail of a small, bespectacled, blow-dried man in his fifties with the smile of a carnival barker.
“Agent at CAA…it’s worth a look-see. School won’t be out for a while but if Todd’s right and the kid misses a lot, he could be home. Want to take a chance and stop by? Meet another child of privilege?”