Dunk (11 page)

Stinger threw another three pitches, just as perfectly as he'd done from the mound at Pinecrest High, where he'd led the Pine Devils to an undefeated season with his eighty-five-mile-per-hour fastball. He was off to college in the fall on a full scholarship. But first he'd stopped at Camp Sizzle, a local pitching camp where the best of the best get fine-tuned. Anyone who'd lived around here for long knew about the camp. Malcolm, on the other hand, had no clue what he'd just unleashed.

I caught sight of Jason in the crowd, far over to the right. He shook his head and mouthed the words, “You're bad.”

Yeah, I was bad. And I loved it. Stinger hurled three more balls, all dead on target, and then stepped aside to let one of the other star pitchers have a turn.

Malcolm didn't even get a chance to open his mouth. Nearly every single throw plunged him into the water. The crowd loved it, too. A couple times I saw money passing hands. People were actually betting on the pitchers.

“Tough night,” Bob said when I delivered a bucketful of balls.

I shrugged. “It happens.”

Once or twice, when I got close to the cage, I looked at Malcolm and said, “Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.”

My work was easy. The players had to wait between throws while Malcolm crawled back onto the ledge. I didn't have any trouble keeping up, especially since Malcolm got slower and slower.

Now we're even
, I thought as the last member of Stinger's group took his turn. Back in January I'd been over at Corey's house when he was washing his cat. Corey's got bad allergies, and the doctor suggested either getting rid of the cat or at least giving it a bath every couple weeks. Until now I'd never seen anything sadder climbing out of the water than Corey's cat. But Malcolm was looking pretty pathetic. And pretty exhausted. The effort of hauling himself back on that ledge so many times had to be tiring. Even so, I figured he'd gotten off pretty easily.

But it wasn't over.

Stinger and the rest of the pitchers did the one thing guys are best at—they made a game of it. They lined up again and each player took a turn. Whoever missed had to drop out. Then the rest of the pitchers went for another round.

Malcolm spent more time in the water than on the ledge.

Eventually, it got down to Stinger and two other guys. Nobody missed for a while. It seemed like it would never end. Then, finally, the other two guys missed, one right after the other.

Enough
, I thought as Stinger threw his final ball. He raised his hands in victory, then waved at me and walked through the cheering fans, along with his friends from Camp Sizzle.

A large part of the crowd drifted away now that the show was over. Bob tapped his watch to let me know it was nine o'clock. Oh, man—I never expected the whole thing would last that long.

“Y
OU CAN KNOCK OFF
,” B
OB SAID AS HE PULLED OUT HIS WAD
of cash. He frowned as if he was doing some sort of calculation. “Sorry it's not more. Bad night for all of us. Guess my uncle's going to have to wait a little longer for that heart operation we've been saving up for.”

“What?”

“Just playing with your mind,” Bob said, grinning at me with teeth that weren't entirely free of hot-dog relish. “Here, take this.” He handed me two bills.

“Thanks.” I joined Jason over at the far right edge of the crowd.

“Man,” he said. “That was brutal. I wouldn't have stayed in there, would you?”

“I don't know.” I wondered what I would have done if I'd been in Malcolm's place. It would be easy to leave the tank, I guess. Nobody would know who I was. But it would still feel like quitting. On the other hand, what's the point in letting yourself get destroyed? It was only a job. Or was that the sort of excuse that quitters always used?
I quit that job today. Just didn't work out
.

I watched Malcolm crawl onto the ledge and, for the first time in nearly two hours, open his mouth. “Hey, how about that?” He paused and scanned the crowd. “Yeah, how about that. . . . That was really something. . . .”

I wondered whether he had anything left. He must have gone into the water a couple hundred times. He'd sat there knowing that almost every throw was going to send him plunging. It had to be kind of like standing in front of a firing squad. Maybe he was afraid the whole boardwalk was loaded with talented pitchers tonight.

The remaining crowd started to drift off.

“Guess I got dunked, huh?”

A couple people laughed.

“What are you laughing at, farm boy?” Malcolm called to a skinny guy wearing overalls and a white T-shirt. His voice didn't have its usual harsh edge. “You take a wrong turn with your tractor?”

The guy threw three balls and missed three times. Then he shrugged and started to walk away.

I waited to see whether Malcolm would get him to try again. He couldn't allow the mark to escape that easily.

“Let's go,” Jason said. “I'm tired of watching him take the plunge.”

“Just a minute.”

“Come on. Let's get some pizza. I practiced for three hours this afternoon. I'm starving.” He turned and headed north.

“Okay,” I said as I caught up with him. “But let's go to Salvatore's.”

“That's where I was going,” Jason said.

I pointed south. “Salvatore's is that way.”

Jason looked around for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Right.” He turned and we headed back past the dunk tank. I wasn't surprised at his mistake. The boardwalk is so long, and so crowded with games and shops, that almost everyone gets confused once in a while—even people who live here.

Behind us, I could hear Malcolm saying something about cows and overalls. I couldn't tell if the guy took the bait. Pretty soon the sound of the rides and the crowds drowned out anything from the Bozo tank.

“How about Stinger,” I said. “Ever see anything like that?” Jason shook his head. “Not in this lifetime. Speaking of which, have you figured out how to keep Malcolm from killing you?”

“What's he going to do? It's part of the job. Just one of the risks he has to take. He might have run into Stinger even without my help. Right?”

“Maybe,” Jason said. “But I wouldn't want to try to convince him of that.”

“Forget about it.” I checked the money Bob had given me. A five and a ten. “My treat,” I told Jason. When we got to Salvatore's, I ordered a whole pie. I splurged for a large bottle of soda, too. One of the three-liter deals.

“You guys win the lottery?” Salvatore called from behind the counter when the waitress brought us the pie.

“Chad's been working hard,” Jason called back.

“Or hardly working,” Salvatore joked, almost as if it was a reflex.

An ache in my side told me Jason was right. I'd been working hard. In a way it felt good, like after a rough game of football with the guys. I'd earned the pains. But this was better than a hard day of sports. I had money in my pocket. I'd been paid for every ounce of agony. My good feeling slipped away when I thought about Malcolm. If I closed my eyes, I could see him plunging into the water, over and over. It was like one of those movies where people live through the same thing endlessly until they figure out how to get it right.

“So you going back tomorrow?” Jason asked.

I took a small bite from the tip of my slice. It was just hot enough to burn the top of my mouth. I sucked in air to cool the cheese, then managed to chew without searing too much flesh. “I don't know. The work really rots. But the money's great.” That was the worst part—I didn't know what I wanted to do. I had reasons for quitting. I had reasons for not quitting. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

“As long as your mom doesn't find out.”

“She wouldn't care,” I said. “It's not like a real job. I mean, it's just a couple hours a day. It's no different from running errands for an hour or two. I'm just running a whole bunch of short errands in a very small place. I don't think she'd have a problem with that.”

“Maybe you should ask her.”

“Nope, I don't have to. I'm sure she wouldn't mind.” I didn't have any doubts about that. Besides, the best way to avoid getting turned down was to avoid asking.

We finished our pizza, then walked to the south end of the boardwalk, where we watched a couple drunks get tattoos.

“Man, I'll bet he's starting to wish his girlfriend had a shorter name,” Jason whispered to me as the tattoo artist sketched out a heart and
Annabella
in ballpoint pen on this guy's chest. His buddy, who'd already gotten a dagger on his left shoulder, was slumped back, half passed out in one of the chairs along the side wall.

“Sure hope Annabella doesn't dump him,” I said.

Jason nodded. “Yeah, when it comes to tattoos, there aren't any do-overs.”

“Are there ever?” I asked. Each choice people made in life seemed to add a couple dots of ink to the picture.

Jason just shrugged.

By the time we headed home, everything was winding down. Two girls were closing up the Cat-a-Pult. They stopped to watch Jason as we went past.
Give it up
, I told myself. It was like that kid's song about Clementine. She was lost and gone forever.

The dunk tank sat dark and empty in the shadows. A scattering of crumbs, peanut shells, and ketchup splats showed where Bob had been standing. I walked up to the tank and looked inside, wondering what it felt like to plunge into the water. Wondering even more how it would feel to lean into that microphone and let loose, free to say anything to anyone.

The bars creaked and shifted beneath my hand. “Hey, it's not locked up.” This was too good a chance to miss. The crowds might be gone, but I could at least see what it felt like from the inside. I swung open the gate.

“Dude, you're the only guy on the planet who would break
into
a cage,” Jason said.

“I guess I'm just special. Mind if I practice on you?” I asked. I knew I could do a lot better than Malcolm's stupid blond jokes.

“Go right ahead.”

“Cool.” It would only be fair, after all the times I'd let Jason practice volleyball with me. I stuck one leg through the opening and over the ledge. As I got ready to swing my other leg inside, a blinding light struck me in the eyes.

“All right, you, what's going on here?”

I squinted past the beam, barely making out two figures standing side by side.

“It's okay, I work here,” I said. That was a break. There was no way I could get in trouble.

“I don't see any work being done.” The light dropped lower, playing over my chest and hands, allowing me to open my eyes wider than a squint. For a moment, all I could see was a large yellow blotch. Then it faded, revealing who I was facing. Oh, crap—it was the same two cops who'd almost busted me the other day.

“We just closed up. I work here, for Bob. He runs it. I was checking to make sure the water level was okay for tomorrow.” I knew they didn't care whether I belonged there or not. They just wanted to hassle me.

Officer Costas waved the flashlight. “Get over here.”

I swung my leg back out. Officer Manetti pulled a pad from his belt and asked for our names. Officer Costas stared at me, and then at Jason. “It's not worth our time to bring you punks in,” he said.

“Move along,” Officer Manetti said.

“Thanks,” Jason said.

Before I could take a step, Officer Costas tapped the bars of the Bozo tank with his flashlight. “If you really want to spend time in a cage, I can arrange it.” I guess it was supposed to be a joke, but he didn't laugh. Neither did I.

“I hate them,” I muttered as I slunk off with Jason.

“They're just doing their job,” Jason said.

“I don't care. I still hate them. That's twice this week. I haven't done a damn thing, and they act like I'm some kind of criminal.” I kicked the back of a bench hard enough to send a jolt through my ankle.

We left the boardwalk at Fifteenth Street and headed toward Sea Crest.

“What's up for tomorrow?” I asked Jason when we reached my house.

“Practice. All day. Need to get ready for the tournament.”

“Maybe I'll come watch,” I said.

“Sure. . . . See ya later.” Jason waved and jogged off toward his house. I headed down the walkway to my front door.

A motion on the outside stairs caught my eye. Malcolm rose up from the bottom step and walked toward me.

He was angry. No mistake. And this time, I didn't think he was acting.

“Y
OU SET ME UP
,” M
ALCOLM SAID
. H
E STEPPED SO CLOSE
I could feel his breath on my face.

“Duh.” That's not what I'd wanted to say. I'd wanted to apologize. But those words wouldn't come.

His right hand shot out and grabbed my shirt. In the streetlight his eyes seemed to reflect fire. He pushed me against the wall of the house. I could feel the siding dig into my back.

“You worthless little piece of crap,” he said.

I kept my mouth shut as the nature of the situation sunk in. I could get hurt.

“It's hard enough out there.” His fist clenched and twisted, drawing the shirt tight against my shoulders. “It's hard enough without you making it worse. You understand?”

“Yeah.”

He thrust his face closer to mine. “If you ever—” He stopped in midthreat, let go of my shirt, and backed off. The muscles in his neck flexed as he clenched his jaw. I could tell that one part of him was dying to let loose and kick the living crap out of me. But another part was forcing him to hold off.

It was just a joke
. I wanted to tell him that, even if it was a lie. This was never just a joke. This was payback. And I'd loved it, at first. But I was afraid to open my mouth. I figured anything I said could send him over the edge.