Big Trouble (11 page)

“SO what you're telling me,” Evan Hanratty, organizer of the Killer game, said to Matt, “is that her
mom
beat you up? Her
mom?
”

They were in the Southeast High School gymnasium, which, from 11:15 A.M. through 1:35 P.M., became the Southeast High School auxiliary cafeteria, which meant that the food tasted even more like unlaundered jockstraps than it would have ordinarily.

“She jumped me from behind,” said Matt. “And there were two of them. And I wasn't gonna hit
women.
”

“Looks like they hit
you
pretty good,” said Evan, studying Matt's lower lip.

“Well, I got a
lot
of help from my backup man,” said Matt.

“Hey,” said Andrew, “call me crazy, but when somebody starts shooting, I leave.”

“Are you guys
sure
there was a gunshot?” asked Evan.

“You should have seen the TV,” said Matt. “It was, like, a bunch of TV molecules.”

“Shit,” said Evan.

They all reflected on that thought for a moment.

“So,” said Matt, “this doesn't count as killing Jenny?”

“Nope,” said Evan. “You gotta squirt her. That's the rules. If we start letting people get points for rolling around on the floor, we'd have anarchy.”

“Speaking of rolling around,” said Andrew, “how was it?”

“Yeah,” said Evan. “How
was
it? I mean, if Jenny's mom looks anywhere near as good as Jenny . . .”

“Which she does,” noted Andrew.

“So, how was it?” said Evan.

“Shut up,” said Matt.

“Hey, I'm just
asking
,” said Evan. “You don't have to . . .”

“I mean, shut up, here comes Jenny,” said Matt.

Sure enough, Jenny was approaching. This was unusual, because Matt, Andrew, and Evan were sitting in the section of the bleachers traditionally occupied by Guys Who Were Smart but Didn't Participate in School Activities and Tended to Be Wiseasses. Jenny sat in the section for Pretty and Very Popular Girls; generally, a girl from that section would not be seen in any other section except the one for Guys Who Played Sports and/or Held Class Office.

“Hey,” Jenny said, to Matt.

“Hey,” said Matt.

“Does that hurt?” she asked, pointing to Matt's lip.

“Not really,” said Matt.

“Maybe,” said Evan, “if you kissed it, it would feel better.”

“Shut up,” said Matt. To Jenny, he said, “Is everything OK at your house?”

“Well, my mom's still pretty upset about the bullet,” said Jenny. “But the police guy thinks it was just some crackhead who was gonna rob us, and you scared him off.”

“My hero,” said Andrew, in falsetto, swooning.

“Shut up,” said Matt.

“So listen,” said Jenny. “I wanted to tell you three things. First, thank you. And second, thanks again for the Fluids CD. I really like it.”

“You gave her your
Fluids CD?
” said Evan.

“No question,” said Andrew, “he wants her sex pootie.”

“Shut up,” said Matt.

“And third,” said Jenny, “I feel really, really bad about what happened last . . .”

“No,” said Matt, “it's OK, really, it's . . .”

“. . . so I just wanted you to know,” said Jenny, “that if you want to squirt me, I'll be at CocoWalk tonight, around eight, outside the Gap. OK?”

“OK,” said Matt.

“See you,” she said, turning and heading back to the section for Pretty and Very Popular Girls.

All three boys watched her go.

“Whoa,” said Andrew.

“‘If you want to squirt me'?” said Evan.
“‘If you want to squirt me'?”

“Shut up,” said Matt.

ELIOT waited for Anna on the patio in front of the Taurus, a venerable, mellow Grove hangout popular with older, pudgier residents escaping the predatory flatbelly young-singles scene that swirled around the glitz bars at the other end of Main Highway.

Eliot passed the time by watching two veteran Taurus patrons, each with a line of empty beer bottles testifying to a Friday well spent, play the ring game. There had been, as long as anybody could remember, a metal ring hanging by a string from a tree on the Taurus patio; the object of the game was to pull the ring back and let it go in such a way that it swung up to, and encircled, a nail sticking up from the edge of the Taurus roof. The two veteran patrons had been doing this for over an hour, with the intensity and concentration of brain surgeons. They got the nail on almost every try. They acted like it was no big deal.

“I could never do that,” said Anna, from behind Eliot.

“Hey!” he said, turning around. “Me neither. I think the secret is large amounts of beer.”

“So,” she said, “you hang out here much?”

“Oh yes,” said Eliot. “I've even competed in the Taurus blowgun league.”

“They have a
blowgun league?
”

“Every other Monday night,” said Eliot.

Anna laughed, causing one of the ring-game contestants, who was at a crucial point in his pullback, to look over and frown. Lowering her voice, Anna asked, “They shoot blow-guns in the
bar?
”

“No, that would be foolhardy,” said Eliot. “They shoot them right here, on the patio, while drinking heavily, attempting to hit targets set up only a few feet from the sidewalk, where innocent civilians are walking.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Anna said. “How'd you do?”

“Well, I never hit the targets, but I never hit any civilians either, as far as I know. Of course it was pretty dark. But I never heard screams. You wanna get some lunch?”

“Sure.”

They went inside and sat at a table near the window. Anna gave Eliot back his glasses so he could see the menu. They both ordered fish sandwiches and iced tea.

“So,” said Eliot, “did the police come up with anything?”

“No,” said Anna, “and I don't think they're going to, either. I guess I'm kind of naive; I pictured them going around with magnifying glasses, you know? Looking for clues!”

“Dusting for prints!” said Eliot. “Analyzing fibers!”

“Yeah,” said Anna. “But they're like, ‘So somebody took a shot at you. So what's the problem?'”

“Geez, it has to be scary, not knowing who did it.”

“Or if they're coming back.”

“You think they will?”

“I don't know. But I get the feeling my husband knows something he's not telling me. He's been acting weird, even for him. He left last night and he wasn't back this morning. Which is actually fine with me, although I promise I'm not gonna start dwelling on that subject again.”

“It's OK,” said Eliot. “Dwell away.” He kind of liked it when she dwelled on that subject.

“No,” she said, “no more talk about me. Let's talk about you. What do you do?”

“Advertising.”

“What kind of advertising?”

“Well, today I did a gazomba ad.”

“A
what
kind of ad?”

“Gazomba. As in, Get a load of those gazombas.”

“Ah.”

“Maybe we should go back to dwelling on your marriage.”

“No, I want to know about the gazomba ad.”

And so he told her about Hammerhead Beer, and the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell. He told her about the CPA next door who hated him. He told her about the rise and sudden fall of his journalism career. He told her about how he and Patty met in college and fell in love and went dancing all the time, and then Matt was born and that was wonderful, but they didn't dance as much, but they swore they would, one of these days, when Matt got a little older, but they never did, and after a while they stopped talking about going dancing, in fact they stopped talking about pretty much everything, and they made love only when neither of them could immediately think of an excuse not to, which happened very rarely, because any excuse would do, starting with “I'm kinda tired tonight,” which they both were, every night. He talked about the slow, agonizing slide down the slope of divorce, and how guilty he felt, and how understanding Matt had been, and how that made him feel guiltier. He told her that he drove a Kia.

“Now you,” he said.

She told him that she had been married twice, the first time to the guy she dated for her last two years at the University of Florida, who was captain of the tennis team and came from a very wealthy family and was so incredibly handsome that everybody, particularly her mother, drilled into her brain that she would be crazy
not
to marry him, because they made such a Beautiful Couple.

“We had a really great marriage, no problems at all,” she said, “until maybe the second hour of the wedding reception, which is when my maid of honor told me in the ladies' room that my new husband had just put his tongue into her mouth all the way down to her tonsils. This guy just could
not
keep his wee-wee in his pants. He was like Bill Clinton, but without any domestic policies.”

But she stuck with him, she said, because her mother told her that you have to Make the Marriage Work.

“The thing was,” she said, “while I was trying to make the marriage work, he was trying to make every woman in Dade and Broward Counties, and generally succeeding. Never marry an incredibly handsome man.”

“I won't,” Eliot promised.

“So,” she said, “after Jenny was born, maybe the fiftieth time it took him three hours to get back from taking the baby-sitter home, I filed for a divorce. That was when I found out that his family became very wealthy by not letting anybody, ever, get a
nickel
.”

“Didn't you have a lawyer?” asked Eliot.

“Oh, sure, I had a lawyer. But my ex-husband had like the entire Supreme
Court
. So he got basically all the money, and I got Jennifer. Which is why we ended up living in a dump of an apartment, which is why Arthur looked good to me, which I promise I am not going to start dwelling on again.”

The lunch lasted for four iced teas. On the way out of the Taurus, Eliot and Anna were accosted by two disabled homeless Vietnam veterans. Except they weren't really disabled homeless Vietnam veterans; they were Eddie and Snake, who were ages nine and six, respectively, when the Vietnam War ended. Snake's ankle injury had given them the idea of being disabled vets; they hobbled around the Grove, hassling people for money, and on some days it was more lucrative than helping people park. Eddie saw it as a potentially important career move.

“Hey, man,” he said to Eliot, “can you help out a disabled veteran?”

“No,” said Eliot, who recognized Eddie from around the Grove.

“Fuck you,” said Eddie. “How about you, pretty lady?” he said to Anna. “You wanna give me something?”

Snake grabbed his crotch and said, “Hey,
I'll
give you something.”

Anna and Eliot kept walking. She said, “And people have the nerve to say romance is dead.”

When they reached Anna's car, she said, “Thanks for lunch.”

“Hey, my pleasure,” Eliot said. “You want to keep my reading glasses, so we could do this again?”

Anna laughed, but didn't answer. She started looking in her purse for her car keys.

Eliot said, “Do you think I'm incredibly handsome?”

She looked up from her purse and studied his face for a moment.

“No,” she said.

“Whew,” he said.

She laughed, then studied his face some more. She had the
greenest
eyes.

“Just so you know,” she said, “I
love
to dance.”