the Big Bounce (1969) (18 page)

He should have sold her the wallets one at a time. Go back once a week and she would have to pay him without any clothes on.

He should have taken her in the house or put her down on the grass. She had been asking for it and it would be something to do it to her, Mr. Ritchie's girl; but because she was Mr. Ritchie's girl, he had not touched her, because he couldn't believe it the not having any clothes on and because he had been afraid if he touched her, something would happen. He didn't know what. Something.

All right, he should have done a lot of things it was too late to do. But he still had one thing left, if he could get it straight in his mind how to say it to her and make her believe it. He still knew about Ryan and he could still call the police and tell them it was Ryan that robbed the place Sunday.

So the idea was to go to her at night when Ryan wasn't there and tell her how much it would cost for him not to call the police, sticking to the five hundred this time and not coming down to any lousy eighty bucks.

He began to put words together, the way he would say it to her. Like: If you don't have the money, have your boyfriend steal you some. I don't care where you get it.

The important words: Get me five hundred or I call the police.

But as he lay on his blanket smoking the cigarette, in this dim oven of a place with its tin-shed roof and smell of mold, Frank Pizarro said to himself, Wait. What are you talking about the police for? Why the police. Man, you see it? There's somebody better than the police.

Tell her, she don't pay, you write a letter to Mr. Ritchie.

Chapter
13

AT FIRST, opening his eyes and moving, feeling the soreness in his shoulders, Ryan didn't know where he was. Settling again, stretching his legs and moving his hands over the cool aluminum arms of the lounge chair, he had a good feeling from the soreness, a feeling of having worked and finished something. He was glad he had fought the guy and it was over. He was glad the guy had seen them.

Maybe he was never going in at all and it had been just talk. Maybe if Bob Jr. hadn't showed up, he would have thought of some other excuse. Or maybe when the time came he would have taken off. He wasn't sure.

Or maybe he was just tired. No, that wasn't it. He was tired all right, and sore; but that didn't have anything to do with it. It was something else.

It was a feeling of relief. He could come right out and say to himself, You don't have to break into the place. You don't have to take the money and go through all that. You don't have to get involved and worry about her bragging about it to somebody. You don't have to be waiting for something to happen. You don't have to even think about it anymore.

He felt like a cigarette. He touched his shirt pocket; it was flat. He couldn't see if there were cigarettes on the umbrella table; it was too dark over there. Turning to look at the table, he turned a little more to look at the house. The room off the patio was dark, though a faint light was coming from somewhere in the back part of the room. The upstairs windows were dark. He wondered if she had gone to bed. He didn't know what time it was. After ten anyway. He must have slept about three hours. He thought about going for a swim to loosen up but decided it would be too much trouble and it wouldn't help much. Tomorrow when he woke up, he'd be so stiff and sore it would hurt to move and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He wondered why she hadn't left a light on.

Nancy heard him on the outside stairs and now, sitting in the oversized chair in the dark, she saw him on the sun deck; she watched him slide open the glass door and come in; she watched him pause, getting his bearings, then start for the den. When he was within a few feet of her chair, Nancy said, Hi.

He didn't answer right away. She had surprised him and it took a few seconds for him to locate her and think of something to say.

I was going to surprise you,
Ryan said.

I don't sleep in the den.
Nancy waited.

Ryan leaned close to her chair to turn on the lamp.

Where do you sleep?

Upstairs.

Show me.

After,
Nancy said. I brought up everything we'll need.

Like what?

From the bar.
Nancy watched him, her head slightly lowered, her eyes raised. Ryan stared back at her. It was her half-assed Ann-Margret look, but it was all right.

The beer's in the fridge,
Nancy said. She didn't move.

I don't think I feel like anything.

I do,
Nancy said.

I didn't think you drank beer.

Sometimes. Will you get me one?
She watched him go to the kitchen and in the corner of her eye saw him reach in and turn on the light. She heard the refrigerator door open and, after a moment, close.

From the kitchen he said, There isn't any beer.

Nancy stared at the sliding glass door, at the darkness outside, and the dim reflection of the room. She could see herself sitting in the chair. Look in the cupboard next to the fridge. Bottom shelf.

What're you English, you like warm beer?

Put a couple of bottles in the freezer. It'll only take a few minutes.

Maybe we should have something else.

I don't want something else, I want beer.

Ryan looked in. I believe you.

She waited. She heard him open the cupboard. There were faint sounds. Then silence. She counted a thousand and one, a thousand and two, a thousand and three, a thousand and four

You don't have any beer,
Ryan said.

She looked over her shoulder, past the corner of the backrest, to Ryan in the doorway.

You've got a bunch of old wallets, but you don't have any beer.

Nancy twisted around, leaning on the chair arm. Do you recognize them?

He stared back at her. He stared thoughtfully, taking his time. Finally he came into the living room. He drew up the ottoman of Nancy's chair and sat down.

I have never been mean to a girl,
Ryan said. I have never talked loud to a girl or ever hit a girl.

There's beer downstairs,
Nancy said.

Maybe I'll have something else.

Help yourself. Behind the bar. The beer's in the fridge underneath.

Do you always say that?

What?

Fridge.

She frowned a little. Not always.

It's a dumb word,
Ryan said. He got up and went down the circular stairs to the activities room. A lamp at one end of the bar spread a soft pink light over the polished wood. He found a bottle of bourbon and poured some of it into an Old Fashioned glass. He took ice and beer from the refrigerator, put two cubes into the glass, and opened the beer. He lit a cigarette from a dish of filter-tipped cigarettes on the bar; he blew the smoke out slowly and took a sip of the bourbon.

Nancy had not moved. She waited as Ryan placed the beer and a glass and the bottle of bourbon on the table next to her and sat down on the ottoman.

All right,
Ryan said. Tell me the name of the game.
He watched her patiently.

You sound different,
Nancy said, at different times. I'll bet you're moody.

Tell me the game, okay?

Being moody is all right if you have something to be moody about, but I think most people pretend, like a pose.

Ryan drank the rest of his bourbon and stood up. I'll see you.

The game,
Nancy said, is called unless you're a nice boy and do what I tell you, I'll go to the state police with the wallets. It's sort of a long name for a game, but it's fun.

It is a long name,
Ryan said. Why do you think I have anything to do with them?

Because your friend told me. Frank something. He came here last night and said he'd go to the police unless I gave him five hundred dollars for the wallets.

Five hundred?

He settled for eighty.

Why did he think you'd be interested?

I guess because he saw you with my car. He decided we must have a thing going.

Well,
Ryan said, that's his story.

No, it's my story now,
Nancy said. I'll say I saw you come out of the house. I followed you and picked up the case when you threw it away.

You're going to a lot of trouble.

Because I need you.

Ryan shook his head. No, I think you've got the wrong guy.

And I think if your friend was arrested,
Nancy said, he'd blame the whole thing on you.

Ryan sat down again. He poured bourbon over the melting ice cubes and sipped it, seeing Frank Pizarro in a straight chair with the sheriff's cop, J. R. Coleman, standing over him.

I think you might have something,
Ryan said.

Good.

Yes, I can see that.

Nancy smiled. Very good. I thought you might be mad at first, but you're taking it like a little man.

I want to get it straight,
Ryan said. If I back out of our deal, you'll call the police and put them on Frank Pizarro.

Right.

You don't care about Bob Junior seeing us.

Not at all.

I'll have to think about it,
Ryan said. He raised his glass. Can I get some more ice?

Help yourself.

I don't guess you want another beer.

I hate beer.

He got ice from the refrigerator in the kitchen and came out carrying the beer case. Nancy watched him drop it on the ottoman.

I've thought it over,
Ryan said. No.

Nancy waited a moment. Okay.

So I better take this with me.

Go ahead. I don't need it.

He sat on the edge of the ottoman, facing her, his knees touching her legs tucked under her. Look,
he said, don't do anything dumb, all right? People start telling on each other it gets to be a mess. The police start asking you questions and it gets in the newspaper and whether you like it or not, everybody knows your business. You don't want that, do you? I mean you got a good deal here, what do you want to wreck it for?

I was just thinking,
Nancy said, your little job Sunday will be in the Geneva paper tomorrow. They'll be talking about it in town.

For a couple of days maybe.

Everybody will keep their doors locked.

That's another thing,
Ryan said. Bob Junior will read about a robbery and have it on his mind. I mean, our timing is bad.

Why don't you relax?
Nancy said. She took his cigarette and drew on it before settling back in the chair. She gave Ryan her nice smile and a soft, warm look with her eyes.

I was just playing,
she said then. Do you really think I'd go to the police?

If you thought it might be fun.

Jackie
Sounding hurt, disappointed.

And if you thought you could stay out of it,
Ryan said. But that's what I mean. You can't stay out of it. They put your picture in the paper and your life story and everybody knows your business. It puts Ray on the spot and he dumps you, like that.

Nancy pressed close to one arm of the chair, making room and patting the seat cushion. Come on over,
she said, and gave him her sympathetic pout look. Come on, let's be friends.

He had the feeling he shouldn't move too fast like reaching out to pet an animal that might take his hand off if he didn't do it gently. All the wallets were in the beer case with all the names in the wallets of the people who had been robbed and a minute before she had been holding the case over him, ready to drop it on him. Now she was a girl sitting there, being a girl, trying to hook him the old way and pretty sure she could do it. And even turning on the fake girl stuff, she looked better than any girl he had ever seen before.

What Ryan did, sliding in beside her, he put his hands against the back of the chair and moved in to get his mouth on hers, his hands supporting him before sliding down to her shoulders, her hands coming up around his neck and fooling with his hair as she pressed against him. Their mouths came slightly apart, giving her just enough room to say, Let's go upstairs.

He walked home carrying the beer case, along the beach, along the cold-sand edge of the water, feeling the night breeze and the soreness in his jaw and shoulders. He saw himself walking along the beach in the darkness, then saw himself standing by the bed buttoning his shirt and pushing it down into his pants, Nancy a soft, dark shape against the white sheets, lying on her back unmoving, one hand on her stomach, her legs a little apart, her eyes looking at him with a calm, nothing look. He had dressed in front of girls lying in bed before. He had said things that made them laugh or giggle or smile; he had grabbed for them again and wrestled with them and rolled off the bed with them and had slapped their bare tails and said, See you,
and some of them he had seen again and some he hadn't. He liked girls. He had never forced a girl to go to bed if she didn't want to. He had never said, Come on, if you really love me.
He had had fun with girls and the girls had had fun. He thought he had had fun with Nancy. Now he wasn't sure. Did he have fun with her because he was with her or did he have fun only because he'd gone through the motions and only the motions were fun?

Every one of the other girls he could remember had been a living person and now he wondered if he had ever thought of Nancy as a person. He couldn't picture her when she was alone. He couldn't picture her yawning with no one watching. The broad in the backseat of the station wagon, the ten-buck broad with the two guys and the dollar-a-bottle beer he didn't picture her as a person, either. Thinking about it didn't make sense and he became aware of himself again, the sand and the darkness and the surf coming in. He put the beer case down and cupped his hands against the breeze to light a cigarette. He saw his hands in the glow of the match. He saw himself walking along again: a hot dog Jack Ryan who had just notched up another one and was now having his smoke.