have everything.”
“Only a punk would do that.”
Chad snuffled, “Who asked you?”
“Your mama did.”
That was enough speechmaking for Eichmann. He leaped at Chad, grabbing a fistful of his tai-chi suit, wrestling with him for the gun. Eichmann threw Chad against the couch, using his superior height and weight as a lever against the smaller man, forcing him to drop the Beretta. He backhanded Chad in the face until thedealer’s nose came apart with the wetness of an overripe tomato. Chad swooned, crashed into the granite coffee table, then sprawled on the carpet.
Chad’s mutiny was over. He was so quiet, it scared me. Eichmann prodded him with a toe and trilled, “He’s out cold! That’ll teach him! What a nebbish, thinking he was going to rob us!”
I retrieved the gun, unloaded it, then tossed the bullets into the next room. The pound was resting on the couch, lying there like a baby waiting for adoption, making me feel quite paternal toward it. Who did it belong to?
“Let’s take the thing and get out of here,” Eichmann said.
17
When it came to sex, Eichmann was fussy, had always been. At first, screwing with Loretta had been intense and shallow, the way it was for most couples just getting together. He only liked several positions, and he stuck to them. Eichmann came slower than Loretta did and sometimes he didn’t come at all. He was afraid to get her pregnant, mortally afraid of having children.
I knew all this because Eichmann was telling me everything.
Later, their balling became more infrequent, but more passionate. Then they stopped having intercourse altogether. Eichmann didn’t know what caused the lessening of his sex drive. Maybe it was boredom with her, and a premature disillusionment with life in general. Eichmann said he didn’t feel anything below his waist. He was numb. I told him it was anxiety. Six days went by; Loretta was at the end of her rope with him.
Everything crystallized the night after we plundered Chad. Eichmann was going through Loretta’s purse searching for a pack of matches when he found a Polaroid snapshot of some guy with a mustache in her wallet. It was an old picture, brown and frayed. A chilly, nonverbal knowledge wound itself around Eichmann’s nervous system, burying its teeth into his ego. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked over to Loretta and flung the photograph in her face.
“How did you get this picture?” Eichmann seethed.
“Where did you find it?”
“In your purse, darling.”
The remoteness in Loretta’s sleepy green orbs was similar to soft-boiled eggs turning cold on the stove. Eichmann should’ve known she had a history before him. He sat down on the couch next to her and said in a completely fraudulent, placating whine, “Please tell me. I promise I won’t raise a fuss.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“C’mon,” he begged, half out of anger and half out of repulsion.
Loretta rolled her eyes at him, hiding her defensiveness behind the gesture. “That’s Tony. I was going to marry him … he’s the reason I came out here, to get away from him.”
When Loretta said that, Eichmann blanched, his face going morgue white. He sighed and asked her the only question a boy can ask a girl at such a time. “Did you fuck him?”
Loretta mocked him, waving a dismissive hand. “God, how ridiculous. Is that the only thing you can think of?”
“No, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And it’s important, if you know what I’m saying.”
She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and pouted prettily. “Yeah, well, we did. We were going to get married. What do you expect?”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. We broke up. I don’t even know why.”
The thought of Loretta alone with Tony in Oklahoma floored Eichmann. A tidal wave of nausea channeled through his guts, weakening his bladder. Helplessly, he said to her, “You don’t know why?”
“Me and
“Only a punk would do that.”
Chad snuffled, “Who asked you?”
“Your mama did.”
That was enough speechmaking for Eichmann. He leaped at Chad, grabbing a fistful of his tai-chi suit, wrestling with him for the gun. Eichmann threw Chad against the couch, using his superior height and weight as a lever against the smaller man, forcing him to drop the Beretta. He backhanded Chad in the face until thedealer’s nose came apart with the wetness of an overripe tomato. Chad swooned, crashed into the granite coffee table, then sprawled on the carpet.
Chad’s mutiny was over. He was so quiet, it scared me. Eichmann prodded him with a toe and trilled, “He’s out cold! That’ll teach him! What a nebbish, thinking he was going to rob us!”
I retrieved the gun, unloaded it, then tossed the bullets into the next room. The pound was resting on the couch, lying there like a baby waiting for adoption, making me feel quite paternal toward it. Who did it belong to?
“Let’s take the thing and get out of here,” Eichmann said.
17
When it came to sex, Eichmann was fussy, had always been. At first, screwing with Loretta had been intense and shallow, the way it was for most couples just getting together. He only liked several positions, and he stuck to them. Eichmann came slower than Loretta did and sometimes he didn’t come at all. He was afraid to get her pregnant, mortally afraid of having children.
I knew all this because Eichmann was telling me everything.
Later, their balling became more infrequent, but more passionate. Then they stopped having intercourse altogether. Eichmann didn’t know what caused the lessening of his sex drive. Maybe it was boredom with her, and a premature disillusionment with life in general. Eichmann said he didn’t feel anything below his waist. He was numb. I told him it was anxiety. Six days went by; Loretta was at the end of her rope with him.
Everything crystallized the night after we plundered Chad. Eichmann was going through Loretta’s purse searching for a pack of matches when he found a Polaroid snapshot of some guy with a mustache in her wallet. It was an old picture, brown and frayed. A chilly, nonverbal knowledge wound itself around Eichmann’s nervous system, burying its teeth into his ego. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked over to Loretta and flung the photograph in her face.
“How did you get this picture?” Eichmann seethed.
“Where did you find it?”
“In your purse, darling.”
The remoteness in Loretta’s sleepy green orbs was similar to soft-boiled eggs turning cold on the stove. Eichmann should’ve known she had a history before him. He sat down on the couch next to her and said in a completely fraudulent, placating whine, “Please tell me. I promise I won’t raise a fuss.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“C’mon,” he begged, half out of anger and half out of repulsion.
Loretta rolled her eyes at him, hiding her defensiveness behind the gesture. “That’s Tony. I was going to marry him … he’s the reason I came out here, to get away from him.”
When Loretta said that, Eichmann blanched, his face going morgue white. He sighed and asked her the only question a boy can ask a girl at such a time. “Did you fuck him?”
Loretta mocked him, waving a dismissive hand. “God, how ridiculous. Is that the only thing you can think of?”
“No, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And it’s important, if you know what I’m saying.”
She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and pouted prettily. “Yeah, well, we did. We were going to get married. What do you expect?”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. We broke up. I don’t even know why.”
The thought of Loretta alone with Tony in Oklahoma floored Eichmann. A tidal wave of nausea channeled through his guts, weakening his bladder. Helplessly, he said to her, “You don’t know why?”
“Me and
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