The Party (6 page)

Michael Olson was doing inventory at the Eleven when Nick Grutler walked in. Michael had seen Nick at school—it was hard not to see that tall, black body—and wondered if he played basketball. He had thought of asking him. It was not fear of Nick that had kept Michael quiet. Once Bubba had accused Michael of being especially kind to minorities because he felt guilty about not fully trusting them. It was Bubba’s contention that everyone was prejudiced to a degree, and the best anyone could do was to try not to let it interfere with how he treated other races. But Michael was genuinely color blind. People were people to him.

Michael had not approached Nick because Nick did not look as if he wanted to be approached. It was as simple as that. The Rock probably wished he’d had as keen instincts. Michael had heard what had happened in the weight room. But unlike Russ Desmond, he did not take pleasure in The Rock’s downfall. Michael disliked violence in any form.

But now that Nick had come into his store, Michael felt no qualms about introducing himself. He nodded as Nick approached the counter. “Hi, how are you doing? Don’t we go to school together?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Nick’s eyes. “I go to Tabb,” he mumbled.

“So do I.” Michael offered his hand. “I’m Michael Olson. Nick Grutler, right?”

Nick shook his hand. He had a mean grip. “How did you know?”

“You can expect most people at school to know your name after you floored The Rock.”

A note of wariness entered his voice. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“The Rock doesn’t have many friends.” Michael had only brought up the weight room incident because he wanted to answer Nick’s question honestly. He wanted to get off the subject. “You look like you’ve been out in the sun all afternoon. Can I get you something to drink? You know we sell soft drinks in glasses here as well as bottles and cans.” Michael picked up the king size cup behind him. “These are only fifty five cents.”

Nick looked vaguely uncomfortable. He pulled a couple of silver dollars out of his pocket and laid them on the counter. “These are good, aren’t they?”

Michael picked one up. “Yeah, sure. Though you don’t see many of them around. Did you get them at the bank?”

“No. At the Italian market.”

“In the mall? Man, I love the smell in that place.”

“Their warehouse in the back don’t smell so good.”

“What were you doing back there?”

“They needed some boxes moved.”

Michael knew the owner of the market. He had probably worked Nick to death for a couple of hours and then given him the two silver dollars, probably thinking Nick would imagine they were worth more or something.

Michael was looking for a new employee. The owners had told him to hire whomever he wanted. They trusted his judgment.

“Was it a temporary job?” he asked, knowing it was. Who would hire a black with bloody hair?

“Yeah. I’ll have one of those big Cokes for fiftyfive cents.”

“Sure.” Michael reached over, scooped some ice into the paper cup. “Have you done enough work for one day?”

Nick seemed interested. “I could do more.”

“I’m rearranging our storeroom. But because I have to keep coming back up front to handle the register, it’s taking me forever. It’s backbreaking work—all you’re doing is lifting—but someone like you could probably finish most of it in a few hours. I could give you thirty bucks under the table, no tax taken out?”

Nick accepted his Coke, took a deep swallow. “Show me where to start.”

Michael led Nick to the rear of the store and gave him an overview of how disorganized things were. Nick grasped immediately what had to be done. After a couple minutes of discussion, Michael left Nick alone. He needed help with the storeroom, true, but Michael was also using the chore as a test. If Nick did good work, he would offer him a permanent parttime job. It would be handy having someone around who could reach the top shelves without a ladder.

Two hours later, as it began to get dark outside and the faint sounds of Tabb High’s band drifted through the open door from the direction of the school stadium, Nick reappeared and announced he had finished. One look in the back and Michael was astounded. Not only was everything neatly arranged, Nick had obviously used his own initiative—and used it wisely—in setting up certain sections. This meant a lot to Michael. He’d previously had a couple of employees who had been fine workers except that they had required constant supervision. Obviously Nick had common sense as well as powerful biceps.

Getting three tens out of the cash register, Michael made his offer. He could guarantee him at least twenty hours a week, although some weeks he’d need Nick close to thirty. He gave him a brief summary of what his responsibilities would be, and what he would start at. Nick listened patiently, and from his stoic expression, it was impossible to tell what was going on in his head. He asked only two questions.

“Will I be working with you all the time?”

“Most of the time,” Michael said.

Nick thought for a moment. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“I’m offering you the job because you’ve proven to me you know how to work. I’m not
doing
anything for you.”

Nick nodded. “I appreciate it, anyway. The only one who would even talk to me at the mall was that Italian guy, and I know he just ripped me off.” He put his thirty dollars in his pocket. “Can I just keep working now?”

Michael smiled. “You’ll take it then?”

Nick smiled, too, finally letting his pleasure show. “Yeah. But I’ll have to call my dad to tell him I’ve got a job.”

Michael pulled the phone from beneath the counter. “Sure, then take a break. There’s a lot to do here, but you don’t have to kill yourself.”

A half hour later Michael wondered if he’d lied to Nick about not killing himself. They got held up by a guy with a gun.

Nick was in the cooler, putting the beverages in from behind, and Michael had returned to the inventory report and the register when the masked man entered. He wore a dark nylon stocking over his head on top of a blue knitted cap and a pair of silver sunglasses. He had his gun drawn as he entered.

“Get your hands up!” he snapped, waving his revolver nervously. Michael carefully set down his note board and pen. His first reaction was not one of fear, but of pure amazement. It was only eight thirty. Who would be stupid enough to try to pull off a holdup now, when anybody could walk in at any second? The Eleven was open twentyfour hours a day, for god’s sake. But Michael didn’t consider suggesting to the guy he come back later.

“What can I do for you?” he asked calmly, slowly raising his hands. There was a button located beneath the counter that would sound an alarm at the local police station. Unfortunately, it was so situated that Michael would have to ask permission of any thief to use it. The clink of bottles continued to sound from behind the cooler. Nick must not know they had uninvited company.

“What’s that?” the fellow demanded. He wasn’t very good at this. Outside of his obvious anxiety, he had a rather squeaky voice. Shifting the gun from one hand to the other, he scratched under his nylon stocking.

“What was what?” Michael asked.

“Do you have someone back there?” He peered toward the cooler. It must have been hard to see through the disguise. “Hey, you back there! Get out here before I blow your buddy away!”

“Yeah, come out here, Nick. We’ve got a guest.”

Nick appeared a moment later, his arms hanging by his sides. “Mike?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Michael said, trying to relax everybody concerned. “We’re all cool here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” the guy spat out, cocking his revolver. “Give me your goddamn money. No funny business.” He gestured toward Nick. “And you, get your hands up and come over here.”

Michael did not want to give him the money. In no way did he plan on risking his or Nick’s life to save it, but he did feel a responsibility to the owners of the store to get to the alarm button if at all possible. Opening the register, he rapidly began to toss all the change on the counter, like he was scared and didn’t know what he was doing. The masked man shook his gun angrily.

“Just the bills, man! Just the bills!”

“Yes, sir, the bills,” Michael answered breathlessly, pulling the drawer out still farther, past the point of no return. The drawer slipped from the register, the money pouring loudly onto the floor. Michael feigned shock. “Wow, I’m sorry.” He bent over. “Here, I’ll pick it up.”

“Man, you’re a peach.” The masked man chuckled, falling for Michael’s chicken act, leaning forward to watch him better. But it was already too late. Michael had hit the button the instant he had crouched down. At this very second, several patrol cars would be changing direction and moving toward them.

Michael didn’t know when he had hired Nick that Nick had never depended on a cop for anything in his life. He didn’t know about Nick’s incredible reflexes.

As Michael began to collect the money behind the counter, Nick lashed out with his foot at the gun, sending it ricocheting off the ceiling and into the cereal row. Startled, the masked man twisted around to retrieve it. Before he could get halfway there, Nick grabbed ahold of his arm and whipped him into a stack of beer bottles. The guy slid toward the freezer on a wave of broken glass, foam, and noise.

“Oh, God,” Michael whispered. Moving quickly, Nick collected the gun and turned on the fallen thief. Seeing him coming, the guy frantically began to rip at the nylon over his face.

“Mike, don’t let him kill me!” he cried. “It’s me! It’s Kats!”

“Kats,” Michael said, disgusted. “I should have known.”

Carl Barber, better known as Kats, was a nineteenyearold loser. He had gone to Tabb High for five years, taken advanced pottery and Shop I, II, and III, and still hadn’t graduated. He’d had a lifelong dream of joining the marines, but without the diploma, they wouldn’t take him. He worked at the gas station up the street from Tabb High. He had oil under his fingernails a surgeon couldn’t have removed. Whenever kids from the school drove into the station—dozens of students cruised by every morning and afternoon—Kats got into a fight with them. Admittedly, Kats usually didn’t start the fights. He was one of those rare people that no one respected. Guys would pull into the fullservice area and tell him to dust their tires. According to Bubba—who took Kats about as seriously as everyone else but who nevertheless spent a fair amount of time in his company—Kats had been genetically cloned from Rodney Dangerfield. Nothing ever went his way, that was for sure.

“Stop, Nick,” Michael said. “I know this guy.”

Nick looked bewildered. He shook the weapon in his hand. “This is real, Mike. He was pointing it right at us.”

Michael came from behind the counter, furious. “So you hold us up with a real gun! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Kats grinned, his ugly teeth protruding from beneath his thin black mustache. It was not true, like some said, that he greased his hair and mustache with oil from the gas station, at least not intentionally. But it was a fact he was always running his hands through his hair even when he was laboring beneath filthy dripping heaps.

“I was just trying to give you boys a little scare.” Kats giggled. “I did, too. I saw the way you fumbled that cash register!”

Michael turned to Nick. “All right, go ahead and waste him.”

“Mike!” Kats cried, squirming in a pond of Miller Late.

Michael took a step closer. “I fumbled the drawer on purpose! I hit a button to call the police. It also trips an alarm in the homes of the owners. They’re all going to be here in minutes. What am I supposed to tell them?”

Kats tried to get up without cutting himself, brushing off scraps of glass knit together with torn beer labels. “Christ, Mike, what’s the big deal? The gun wasn’t loaded. It was just a prank.” He grinned again. Michael really wished he would stop. tHow’d you like my disguise? I knew you wouldn’t recognize me with that voice I was using. Got it off an old gangster movie I watched last night. What do you think of my piece, huh? Picked it up at the swap meet last Saturday. It fires a twentytwo—”

“Shut up,” Michael said wearily. “Just take your piece and get out of here before the police arrive. I don’t know what I’m going to tell them.” He tried to count the broken bottles. “But I do know one thing, you’re paying for this mess.”

Kats tried to snap the revolver from Nick’s hands, failed. Nick did not appear to trust Kats any more now than when Kats had been holding them at gunpoint, Nick gave the weapon to Michael, instead, who accepted it reluctantly. Michael had never understood why anyone made handguns. They were no good for hunting. They were only good for killing people. Had Kats been stowing it in his refrigerator, he wondered. The steel felt unreasonably cold in his hand. He was anxious to be rid of it.

“Why should I?” Kats said angrily. “It was this big lug here who tripped me. I ain’t paying for it, no way.”

“If you don’t,” Michael said flatly, “I’ll give the police your address.”

Kats saw he was serious, nodded. “OK, lighten up. I’ll pay for the beer. And I’ll leave now.” He started toward the door,

“Go out the back,” Michael said. “I don’t want some cop taking a shot at you.” He held out the gun. “Take this with you.”

Kats smiled as he accepted the revolver, slipping it into his belt beneath his shirt. He had a fetish for guns. It was probably part of the reason he wanted to join the marines. His crummy singleroom apartment was packed with rifles, shotguns, all kinds of ammunition. “Good thinking. Hey, you’re not really mad at me, are you, Mike? You know I would never try to rob you. You and me, we go way back. Coming to the game later?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Michael chuckled in spite of himself. This was turning out to be a weird day. “Go ahead, get out of here. Go home and take a shower. You stink.”

“Thanks, Mike. See you later.”

When he was gone, Michael called the police. Turned out they had received no alarm. He called one of his bosses, told him he had accidentally bumped the button. The boss gave him the same story as the police; no alarm had gone off. Hanging up the phone, Michael pulled on the wiring attached to the button. It was burned out, shorted.