Read Online Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen - Free Book Online

Bruce holds a finger up to him, signaling not now.
    â€œOkay, guys,” Bruce says. “It’s payback time.” He reaches into his gym bag and pulls out his almost empty water bottle, upends it into his mouth, glugs down its remnants, and then slams it down onto the bench. “Who’s got to piss?” he asks, his eyes burning with a fevered look I’ve never seen on him. He rattles the empty bottle. “Well, fill’er up.”
    Because we’ve been sweating our asses off for the last three hours, no one’s got a lot to contribute to Bruce’s bottle until it’s Fisher’s turn. Vance Fisher takes Bruce’s bottle into the toilet stall and tops it off. Then he calls for another.
    â€œCome on, guys. I’m flowing here,” Fisher yells from the stall. “Hook me up!”
    â€œWhere’s he put it?” Larry Menderson asks.
    â€œIt’s all that soda he drinks,” Bruce says. “You’re gonna rot your teeth, Fisher.”
    â€œThis isn’t right,” Ronnie protests.
    â€œRelax, frosh,” Fisher says over the sounds of his stream. “Baby Jesus ain’t gonna cry just because we’re pissing in a water bottle. Check your Bible. It’s not like we’re breaking a commandment. You ain’t gonna burn in hell.”
    â€œPete, give Fisher your water bottle,” Bruce says.
    â€œHurry, guys,” Vance calls again.
    â€œWhy mine?” Pete whines.
    â€œ ’ Cause you’re a freshman.”
    â€œSo is Ronnie,” Pete answers.
    â€œRonnie’s too busy saying prayers for all our lost souls,” Bruce says, then slaps Pete’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Do it for the team.”
    Pete finally sacrifices his water bottle for the good of the counterstrike. By the time we clean up our lockers, dress, pee, and walk down the long basement hall toward the varsity football locker room, it’s real late and nobody should be around except maybe a janitor.
    Since they’re freshmen, we let Ronnie and Pete stay outside in the hallway as lookouts. Bruce tells them to whistle real loud if they see anyone approaching and then hightail it out of there. Bruce leads the way in to the enemy lockers, shaking the pee bottle like it’s a protein drink needing mixing.
    â€œOkay, dickheads,” he whispers to the empty locker room. “Time for a little justice.”
    We move in a clump, afraid and excited. If anyone catches us in here, we’re dead. Bruce makes a V with his index and middle finger, and brings it up to his eyeballs, then points the V out to the surrounding locker room. Fisher, the deer hunter in our group, nods his understanding.
    â€œFan out, guys,” Fisher translates. “Keep your eyes open for the captains’ lockers.” The skinny junior, lanky as a scarecrow, with a gap-toothed grin and crooked nose, devours the whole experience like candy. Usually I think of Fisher as a screw-off, with no plans after graduation other than opening a bait-and-tackle shop or maybe joining the marines like his older brother, on the condition they let him get high and sleep late. But right now, hunting down lockers with bottles of piss, Fisher impresses me.
    Unlike Fisher, Bruce doesn’t look excited or pleased, just angry. He’s been fuming ever since we found the squirrel. No one’s talking to him other than Fisher, his mission cocommander.
    The lockers in the varsity room are triple size and each has a glossy label with a player’s name and jersey number stenciled across it. This makes our mission easier. Me and Paul, too scared to wander off alone, stay together and find Jankowski’s locker at the same time.
    â€œOver here,” I stage-whisper. Paul punches me in the shoulder.
    â€œShhhhhh,” he says, and puts a finger to his lips. Bruce rounds the corner, shaking his bottle like mad, practically walking over me to reach the target. He hops up on