thinking we were being shot at and trying to fit into the glove compartment. The guy we delivered them to said it happened, something about static electricity tripping the triggers.
Lance said, “Then there was the time we
did
get shot at,” and I figured out why he’d sat down.
“We don’t need to go over all that again.” I turned to Marcela. “It’s much more boring than it sounds.”
She looked suspicious.
“And we should get going. Lance, great to see you again.” I started to slide toward him.
Lance didn’t move. He just smiled and said, “Hey, hold on a sec.”
I could have moved him, but it wasn’t that kind of conversation yet. I glanced at Marcela, and she had a little wrinkle between her eyebrows.
Lance said, “Marcy, hey, it’s not as boring as he wants you to think. I don’t have to tell the story, but I can show you the scar. You remember that, A-Wall? That surgeon guy they brought in saying I should be dead already?”
“I remember.”
“And me saying, ‘Well, I
ain’t
dead, motherfucker, so get to work.’ Marcy, the guy almost pissed himself.”
Marcela said, “Who is Marcy?”
Lance ignored her and looked at me. “But the thing I remember most is right before he put me under, you said you owed me one. That made it all worth it.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” Marcela said.
I was appalled, but the guy deserved an Oscar. I checked to make sure my fork was still on the table and not in his hand, jabbing into his leg to get some tears flowing.
Lance blinked a few times and said, “Yeah, don’t let him fool you. He looks like a lion, but he’s just a kitten inside.”
Marcela laughed. “No more Woodshed for you; now you’re Kitten Wallace.”
“Perfect!” Lance said. “No, wait: purrfect.”
I was surrounded. “Everybody, calm down.”
Lance nodded and got rid of his giggles and put his hands flat on the table. “Oh, man.” He sighed, then failed at sounding casual. “So, can you help me out with something tonight?”
Behind him on the dance floor, a girl tipped out of the sedan chair and disappeared into the lowly masses. A turquoise high heel geysered into the air and became a trophy that was passed hand to hand until someone threw it over the railing onto the floor near our table.
Lance followed my gaze, then plucked the shoe off the floor and put it on the table. He held the heel in his left hand and the toe in his right and made it tap-dance.
Marcela frowned at it.
Lance spun the shoe, read the label, and checked how far it could bend. “Huh.” He kept it in his hands and looked at me. “A-Wall?”
“Woody,” Marcela corrected. She stared at the shoe and didn’t put much into it.
“Right, sorry. Woody, can you?”
“What is it?” I owed him and it was bad form asking, but if I hurt his feelings, maybe he’d leave.
He didn’t. “It’s no big deal.”
Alarms started going off. I expected the next sentence to either be about storing nuclear waste for him—just for a year—or helping him get his car out of the ocean.
“I owe some money to a guy, and I don’t have it yet, and I have to go tell him I’ll have it soon. Nothing’s going to happen—he’s not like that—but it won’t hurt to have you standing there with your sleeves rolled up.”
I ran through it again in my head. No uranium or scuba gear. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“This guy isn’t in Kansas City or anything, right?”
Lance used the shoe to wave that away. “Nah, he’s off the Strip. In a bakery.”
“A bakery?”
“What do you want, a sign that says Illegal Bookmaker?”
I thought about it some more. “How much?”
“Ah, that’s not important.”
“What I want to know is, do you owe enough to kill
two
people over or just one?”
Lance stuck his bottom lip out at the shoe and shared its
Lance said, “Then there was the time we
did
get shot at,” and I figured out why he’d sat down.
“We don’t need to go over all that again.” I turned to Marcela. “It’s much more boring than it sounds.”
She looked suspicious.
“And we should get going. Lance, great to see you again.” I started to slide toward him.
Lance didn’t move. He just smiled and said, “Hey, hold on a sec.”
I could have moved him, but it wasn’t that kind of conversation yet. I glanced at Marcela, and she had a little wrinkle between her eyebrows.
Lance said, “Marcy, hey, it’s not as boring as he wants you to think. I don’t have to tell the story, but I can show you the scar. You remember that, A-Wall? That surgeon guy they brought in saying I should be dead already?”
“I remember.”
“And me saying, ‘Well, I
ain’t
dead, motherfucker, so get to work.’ Marcy, the guy almost pissed himself.”
Marcela said, “Who is Marcy?”
Lance ignored her and looked at me. “But the thing I remember most is right before he put me under, you said you owed me one. That made it all worth it.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” Marcela said.
I was appalled, but the guy deserved an Oscar. I checked to make sure my fork was still on the table and not in his hand, jabbing into his leg to get some tears flowing.
Lance blinked a few times and said, “Yeah, don’t let him fool you. He looks like a lion, but he’s just a kitten inside.”
Marcela laughed. “No more Woodshed for you; now you’re Kitten Wallace.”
“Perfect!” Lance said. “No, wait: purrfect.”
I was surrounded. “Everybody, calm down.”
Lance nodded and got rid of his giggles and put his hands flat on the table. “Oh, man.” He sighed, then failed at sounding casual. “So, can you help me out with something tonight?”
Behind him on the dance floor, a girl tipped out of the sedan chair and disappeared into the lowly masses. A turquoise high heel geysered into the air and became a trophy that was passed hand to hand until someone threw it over the railing onto the floor near our table.
Lance followed my gaze, then plucked the shoe off the floor and put it on the table. He held the heel in his left hand and the toe in his right and made it tap-dance.
Marcela frowned at it.
Lance spun the shoe, read the label, and checked how far it could bend. “Huh.” He kept it in his hands and looked at me. “A-Wall?”
“Woody,” Marcela corrected. She stared at the shoe and didn’t put much into it.
“Right, sorry. Woody, can you?”
“What is it?” I owed him and it was bad form asking, but if I hurt his feelings, maybe he’d leave.
He didn’t. “It’s no big deal.”
Alarms started going off. I expected the next sentence to either be about storing nuclear waste for him—just for a year—or helping him get his car out of the ocean.
“I owe some money to a guy, and I don’t have it yet, and I have to go tell him I’ll have it soon. Nothing’s going to happen—he’s not like that—but it won’t hurt to have you standing there with your sleeves rolled up.”
I ran through it again in my head. No uranium or scuba gear. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“This guy isn’t in Kansas City or anything, right?”
Lance used the shoe to wave that away. “Nah, he’s off the Strip. In a bakery.”
“A bakery?”
“What do you want, a sign that says Illegal Bookmaker?”
I thought about it some more. “How much?”
“Ah, that’s not important.”
“What I want to know is, do you owe enough to kill
two
people over or just one?”
Lance stuck his bottom lip out at the shoe and shared its
Similar Books
