Nebraska by Ron Hansen Page B

to his spaniel.
    “Plenty of playmates,” said Rick.
    “This place is a population bomb.”
    “Yeah, but I love kids, don't you? I get home from a week on the road and there's nothing I like better than to roll on the floor a few hours with them.”
    The man spit ice cubes back into his glass. “But your kids are girls!” the man said.
    Rick shrugged. “I figure my wife will tell me when I should stop it.”
    What'd he think, that Rick would be copping feels, pawing them through their training bras? Maybe South Bend had its creepy side, after all. Maybe a few of these daddies could bear some scrutiny.
    Rick gave a full report to his wife, Jane, as they sat down with beers on the newly carpeted floor of the living room, tellingher about all the fascinating people he had met in just a casual swing down the block. Jane said, “I don't know how you can just go knocking on doors and introducing yourself. I can't think of a single thing to say when I'm with strangers.”
    Rick said, “That's one of the things that comes with being a traveler. You just assume you're welcome until someone tells you otherwise.”
    But how did that square with the uneasiness Rick Bozack felt with his old chum Mickey Hogan? A year ago Mickey had been a high-priced copywriter, but then he had gone out on a limb to take over a smaller house that had been strictly an art and layout jobber, and the gamble had paid off in spades. Mickey turned the firm into a real comer in South Bend, what they call in the trade a “hot shop.”
    Of course, Mickey had always been a brain. They had been rugby buddies at Notre Dame, and they used to shoot snooker together and swap tennis shoes and generally pal around like they were in a rowdy television commercial for some brand of light beer. Now Mickey was almost skinny and as handsome as Sergio Franchi, and taking full advantage of it, don't let anybody kid you. They had doubled to the Notre Dame/Army game last season, and Mickey brought along a knockout who kept sneaking her hand under Mickey's blue leg warmer. Rick couldn't keep his eyes off her. Even Jane noticed it. “Boy, I bet she put lead in your pencil,” she said.
    So Rick was delighted but amazed when in February Mickey said he'd make the third for a terrific bunch of seats at the Notre Dame/Marquette basketball game. Mickey was even sitting on the snow-shoveled steps of his condominium, like some company president on the skids, when Rick pulled up along the curb. And now Mickey was smoking a black cigarillo as Rick told him how astonished he was these days to see thateveryone he met was about his age; they had all risen to positions of authority, and he was finding they could do him some good. You always thought it was just your father who could throw a name around. Now Rick was doing it himself, and getting results! “I'm really enjoying my thirties,” Rick said, and then smiled. “I've got twenty credit cards in my wallet, and I don't get acne anymore.”
    Mickey just looked at him, bored.
    “Okay, maybe not twenty credit cards, but my complexion's all cleared up.”
    Mickey sighed and looked out the window.
    Rick had forgotten how much of a jerk Mickey could be.
    Rick kept the engine running and shoved the Captain and Tenille in his tape deck so Mickey could nestle in with some good tunes, then he pressed the door chimes to a house the Herdzinas had just bought: eighty thousand smackers, minimum. A small girl in pink underpants opened the door.
    “Hi,” said Rick in his Nice Man voice.
    The girl shoved a finger up her nose.
    Karen Herdzina hugged him hello. The hugging was a phenomenon that was totally new to South Bend and Rick never felt he handled it well. He lingered a bit too long with women, and with men he was on the lookout for a quick takedown and two points on the scoreboard.
    “I'll put some hustle into Walt,” she said. “Tell him to get it in gear.”
    Walter came out of the bedroom with a new shirt he was ripping the plastic