Bouncing (12 page)

Then the magic carpet they’d been riding had come crashing down. The wind had been knocked out of her, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

Brit stood there watching the waves but seeing Alex’s face, misery squeezing her heart with the thought that Alex was already attached. And why shouldn’t she be? With all her assets—the looks, the brains, the wit—she was every woman’s fantasy. Even more disturbing to Brit was her own poor judgment, for she hadn’t seen the crash coming. She was normally cautious, especially with her heart. She should have known Alex had a girlfriend. She should have asked.

What a fool she’d been to think a woman as attractive as Alex would be interested in her. She wasn’t interested in anything but a fun night. Alex had been playing with her.
Where to, Coach Dodge?
had clearly been an invitation, and if Anke hadn’t showed up when she did, Brit just might have accepted it.

How could she have been so stupid?

Brit sighed. She had a tough decision to make. Could she really coach beside Alex, knowing how expertly Alex had played her? Could she sit beside her on the bench for an entire season and still keep Alex at a safe distance from her heart? Remembering the attraction she’d felt, Brit wasn’t sure she could.

The Cowboy and the Rustler

Two hundred miles to the north, the same stars lit a clear sky in the Pocono Mountains. Keeping to the shadows, P.J. parked his bike next to the back porch off his grandfather’s kitchen. It had been a bitch of a ride over four miles of dark, hilly roads, but the ride home would be mostly downhill. And his pockets would be holding just a few more of the dollars he needed so much more than his grandfather did.

How did he ever get messed up in this gambling business? It had started so innocuously, taking bets at the bakery. Customers came in, handed him their slips of paper with a ten or a twenty, or, occasionally, a hundred-dollar bill. Then he’d begun wagering himself, only a few dollars at first, usually on his favorite teams, like the Phillies and the Eagles. As time went on his bets grew, until he was borrowing money from the cash register at the bakery and his grandfather’s cereal box. Sometimes he won, most times he didn’t. Then there were times like this, when he lost really big.

One of the long shots whose bet he’d pocketed had actually won. Some fucker named Liam Walsh had bet a hundred bucks that he could pick the winners of ten college football games. Against the odds, he’d done it. He had a thousand-dollar payoff coming, and not only did P.J. lose the hundred-dollar bet he’d placed with Liam’s money, but he also had to pay Liam from his own pocket. Hence this middle-of-the-night trek to his grandfather’s house.

What a difference those four miles made in the landscape of the neighborhoods, P.J. observed as he hugged the house, careful to stay hidden away from the eyes of the neighbors who’d been watching out for each other during all the years of their long lifetimes. Only a dozen yards separated the lovely old homes on this street, the trees the occasional sentinel standing watch over an expansive front lawn. In his new, modern neighborhood, his house was surrounded by trees, built into a small clearing in an old forest, just like the other twenty houses in the development, and the only evidence it existed from the vantage point of the road was the mailbox posted at the entrance of a narrow swath of driveway. As he skulked through the night, he enjoyed a sliver of satisfaction knowing that if he ever had to rob his own house, he could do the job with considerable more ease than this one.

Inside the kitchen door, he turned on the flashlight he wore on the band around his head. Its narrow beam of light pointed directly at its target, and he walked purposefully toward the cupboard and the Cheerios box within. Just as he had on a half-dozen prior occasions, he opened the door and the box and felt within his fingers the refreshingly cool texture of the money he so desperately needed. And as he had on prior occasions, he didn’t bother to count. He just closed his fist around the money and pulled it from the box. This time, though, something different happened. He was shot in the eyes by the bright waves of light that suddenly flooded the kitchen.

Startled, P.J jumped back and turned his head. If he hadn’t been so tempted to cry, he might have laughed at the sight before him. His eighty-year-old grandfather, dressed in a cowboy hat and Western shirt, was pointing a very long gun at him. His feet were covered by embroidered cowboy boots and propped up on a chair, and the gun rested in his lap. The scene reminded him of a cowboy movie, but the gun was real, and probably loaded. His grandfather kept it for protection against intruders. Like him.

But P.J. wasn’t
really
an intruder. He was his grandson. Thinking fast, P.J. attempted to humor him. “What’s goin’ on, Papa? Do you think you’re starring in a Western?”

Playing the part, his grandfather snorted and turned his head so that only one angry eye met his. “Some rustlers have been movin’ through these parts, makin’ off with my money.”

P.J. was shocked. His grandfather could barely see, as evidenced by the patches of facial hair that went untouched by his razor and the spots of food P.J. had to wash from the clean dishes left in the sink to dry. How in the hell could he count money? Why would he think to do it? P.J. had been very careful.

As if reading his mind, his grandfather elaborated. “I’ve been saving my money since I was your age, P.J., and countin’ it is one of my few pleasures. A few months ago I noticed two hundred dollars missing, and since then I’ve been tracking you and studying your methods. I’ve made it hard for you by putting that television in here and staying in the kitchen during the day, so I figured you’d have to plan a covert night mission. Since I can’t see too well at night, no one can blame me if I drill you full of holes.”

“Papa! You can’t shoot me! I’m your grandson.”

“And a lousy excuse for one, if you ask me. If you’re startin’ a life of crime at your age, there’s goin’ to be a jail cell in your future. I should do you and the world a favor by puttin’ ya down right now.”

“Papa, please!” P.J. looked around nervously, searching for an avenue of escape. The front door and all the windows would only take him closer to his deranged grandfather, and a run toward the back door through which he’d entered would equally expose him. For the moment, staying put and outsmarting him seemed the best option.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pop ya full of lead!”

P.J. shouted the first thing that came to mind. “Mom and Dad would be devastated!”

Rheumy eyes hooded by bushy, furrowed brows studied his for a moment, and then he nodded and motioned to the table. “Sit down and tell me what’s goin’ on. Why does a spoiled rotten kid have to steal?”

Now P.J. was pissed. He didn’t even try to keep his voice low. No one else was in the old house, and now that he was inside, the thick walls and windows would filter his voice from the neighbors’ ears. “Spoiled? Are you kidding me? I guess you haven’t noticed, but I haven’t been spoiled in a long time, Pop. I have a job while my friends are out playing sports. I don’t ski anymore, because the lift tickets are too expensive. There’s no Hummer parked in my driveway, and we haven’t had a family vacation in three years. My friends went to Colorado for the summer, and I’m selling friggin’ donuts to buy school clothes!”

Those old eyes hadn’t moved, and apparently his grandfather hadn’t been either. His tale of woe didn’t arouse any sympathy. “What I’m hearin’ isn’t so much about you, P.J., as it is about your friends. It’s not your concern what they’re doin’. You have to worry about what you’re doin’, and where you’re goin’. Yes, your parents made you get a job—to teach you responsibility. And if they weren’t responsible, if they hadn’t saved their money and managed it all these years, they would have lost that big house you live in. The bank would have snatched it faster than you can blink an eye.

“But you still have a house, and clothes on your back, and food in your belly. And you have one more, important thing—a future. You have a chance to make whatever you want out of your life. Your parents have worked hard to give you that, and it’s the most important gift anyone can have. Opportunity. Why the hell are you screwin’ it up by stealin’ my money? What if I call the police? You goin’ to get into college with a police record? Or do you wanna make a career in the donut business?”

P.J. knew his grandfather wouldn’t understand if he told him, and he couldn’t help him in any way other than financially. He was frail, old, and apparently crazy, with cowboy fantasies. But maybe, just this once, he could help. And then P.J. would get it together. He’d straighten out. His grandfather was right. He did have a future, if he chose not to fuck it up. “It’s a girl, Papa. I needed money for an abortion, and I borrowed it, and now I have to pay it back, with interest.”

Using the gun for support, his grandfather stood. “Put your hands in the air!” he commanded, and for the first time, P.J. realized he was still holding the money he’d intended to steal.

“Leave my money on the table,” his grandfather ordered him.

He nodded toward the door. “Walk!”

At the door, P.J. hesitated.

“Open it!” his grandfather ordered him again.

P.J. turned, his hands still raised above his head. “Please, Papa. I’m gonna get hurt if I don’t have that money!”

“You weren’t raised to steal or to kill babies, kid. If you figured out how to do all that, you can figure a way out of this mess. And one more thing, in case you’re thinking of addin’ murder to your resume—I talked to my lawyer and told him you were stealin’ from me. He recommended I turn you over to the police to teach you a lesson. He’s probably right. But I’m not goin’ to. I don’t ever wanna see your face again, though. And if anything funny happens to me, you’ll be the first one they look for. Now, get outta my sight!”

On the porch, P.J. sat and buried his head in his hands. What the fuck was he going to do now? If he didn’t have a thousand dollars in the morning, he’d have a few broken ribs instead. Running his fingers through his hair, long overdue for a trim, he pondered his options. Rationalizing with The Man wasn’t an option. P.J. had seen people attempt that approach and fail miserably. His parents would probably react much the same way as his grandfather had, or perhaps they’d do something even more drastic, like try to speak to The Man themselves. No, he couldn’t go to them with this problem.

Then a possible solution occurred to him. Wes would help. His brother loved him, and he was smart. He’d figure out what to do.

Pedaling hard through the night, P.J. was back home twenty minutes later, and, sitting beside his brother on the bed, he told him everything. For the first time since his problems began, he unburdened himself with a cleansing confession, and as he’d hoped, Wes approached the problem not with anger, but with the analytical mind that made him so good at problem solving.

“Let’s talk to him,” he said after a few minutes.

“What? No! He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to hurt people!”

“I understand that, P., I do. But he’s a businessman, and businessmen do business. Let’s see what we can offer him. Maybe it’s a payment plan, or maybe another job we can do for him. We’ll figure it out.”

P.J. looked at the clock. It was just after two in the morning. He’d never sleep, but he should try. Apparently, his brother thought the same thing. “We’ll talk to him in the morning,” Wes said, and then ran a loving hand through P.J.’s hair. “Get some sleep now.”

P.J. didn’t sleep, and for once he was ready before anyone else in the house. “I won’t see you tonight,” his mother said. “I’m working a double. There’s leftover lasagna for dinner. Bring home some fresh bread and you’ll be fine.”

“Okay, Mom,” he said and suddenly felt guilty for what he’d done. She’d gone back to nursing when his father lost his job, and at fifty years old, those doubles weren’t easy. But she did them anyway. And his father now used his mechanical-engineering degree in a department store, a job that was both a demotion in pay and stature, but he happily went to work every day, and some nights, too. This so the family wouldn’t have to move, so P.J. wouldn’t have to switch to a lower-ranked school and lose his friends. So his life would be better. To give him an opportunity. And how was he repaying them?

Promising himself he’d turn his life around, he read the morning paper, waiting for Wes. The headlines didn’t interest him much, but he read them anyway, stalling until he read the sports scores.

“Ready?” Wes asked half an hour later.

P.J. nodded, and they climbed together into the old Toyota Camry that had been his father’s last car. “What are we going to do?” P.J. asked a moment later.

Wes shrugged. “I’m not sure, but we’ll do it together.”

Suddenly, P.J. was filled with dread. This had been a stupid idea, recruiting his wimpy, nerdy brother when he needed a linebacker or a hockey player. But he really had no other ideas, and the wheels were already turning, taking him to whatever destiny was in store for him.

The drive was short, and they didn’t speak again. He sensed his brother was as nervous as he was. P.J. told him where to park, and they looked at each other. “Ready?” Wes asked, and P.J. nodded. He had to do this.

Wes followed him through an unlocked side-entrance door, down a series of corridors, and stopped when P.J. did, in front of an open door.

“Hey, Little Man! You’re here early.” The Man’s greeting was playful and light, but P.J. knew he could grow dark and dangerous very quickly. As Wes pushed him aside and faced The Man, P.J. feared he was witnessing such a transition now. The Man’s face contorted as he looked from brother to brother and back again.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, studying the potential threat before him.

“Weston Blackwell, IV. I’m P.J.’s brother.”

“Oh, nice to meet you. But I’m not hiring right now.”

“I’m not here about a job. P.J. has a little problem. Tell him, P.”

P.J. swallowed and blurted out the details of his crime before he had a chance to change his mind.

The Man leaned forward in his chair, and pointed a finger at Wes. He squinted and his face contorted in anger. “You think you can say you’re sorry and all will be forgotten? That’s not the way it goes, Little Man. There’s always punishment when you screw up.”