Jack's Black Book (10 page)

As soon as Pete had tapped his way back to the beach, the young bartender came over.

“I noticed you are a writer,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I said, with pride. “I am.” I glanced at the pool. She was still swimming.

He followed my eyes. “Would you like me to deliver a special note to her?”

“Do you have her address?” I asked.

“Can't give you that,” he replied. “But for a little something extra I can see that she gets it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Give me a minute.” I sat down and wrote on the back of the photo, “I believe in magic.” I gave her my address and phone number. “Call me. Ask for Jack.” I wanted to add, If my sister answers, hang up and try again. But I thought of Betsy strapping the rat cage to my face, so I didn't write anything more.

When I returned to the bar I gave him the photograph.

“That blind kid sure is talented,” he said, admiring the picture. He read the back, then held out his hand for a tip. I gave him a buck. He snapped his fingers. Two bucks. He snapped again. Three bucks. He snapped again. I hesitated. Something was wrong. Madame Ginger said
he
was supposed to give
me
money.

‘Just make it five,” he demanded. “This is special-delivery love mail.”

I blushed, and gave him the money.

“I know this girl,” he said. “She's very sweet.”

“Don't worry,” I replied. “I only write about really sweet things.” I knew that wasn't true. But there was a first time for everything.

“Would you like to know her name?” he asked coyly.

“Yes,” I replied. “Absolutely.”

He snapped his fingers.

I gave him a buck. He frowned. I gave him another.

“This is for her
name,”
he stressed, and then he lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. “And the tragic story behind it.”

That gave me goose bumps. I gave him three more bucks. Now I know why writers have to write so much. Tragedy is expensive.

“Her first name is Virginia,” he said. “She's named after Virginia Woolf.”

“Who's that?”

“She was a famous writer,” he said. “She went insane and one day filled her pockets full of rocks and walked into the river.”

“Did she drown?”

“Yes,” he whispered. He turned to look at Virginia. She was still swimming. “Her parents,” he said confidentially, “are very concerned about her fascination with water.”

I was wrong, I thought to myself. Madame Ginger is right. This could be a tragedy. I looked over at Virginia. She had stopped doing laps and was upside down with her legs kicking back and forth. Please come up for air, I thought. Please.

She did, and I sighed with relief. I wanted her to live at least long enough to crush me like a bug.

That night Betsy continued to experiment with dangerous foods. No wonder BeauBeau committed suicide, I thought, after Betsy made me eat a butter-soaked,
three-pound Monte Cristo sandwich the size of an English-French dictionary. Afterward, she served up a platter of cherries jubilee. She went into the liquor cabinet, then poured half a bottle of mint schnapps on the cherries. “Who would like the honor?” she asked, holding up a box of wooden kitchen matches.

Pete ran to the other side of the room. I grabbed the baby and ducked down behind a chair.

“Jack,” she said. ‘Just before you came home some girl called.”

“She did! What'd she say?” I asked anxiously.

She handed me the matches. “First things first,” she sang.

I knew what to do. “Stand back,” I shouted. “Monsieur Henri shall perform a death-defying feat.” I struck a match and flicked it at the dessert. The flames shot up like the Olympic torch and melted a hole in the plastic light shade hanging over the dining-room table.

Betsy grabbed the platter with cooking mitts and whisked it over to the sink. “Don't worry,” she said. “We can pick the plastic bits out.”

“Well, what did Virginia say?” I asked, standing behind her and breathing down her neck.

“She said thanks for the photo, and that you are very cute.”

“Yes,” I hissed. “Victory is mine.”

“But I worry about this girl already,” Betsy said. “Because if she thinks you are cute, then she might think you are nice, and if she thinks that, then she might think you
have the heart of a human when we all know you have the heart of a rat.”

I didn't tell Betsy she was wrong. Really, I had the heart of a loser. Or at least I hoped so. My literary future depended upon it.

I was crossing Atlantic Avenue when I looked down the road and saw about a hundred baby sea turtles. Every one of them had been flattened by a car. When they hatched out of their nests on the beach, some of them went the wrong way and ended up on the road. Others went the right way and made it to the water. It got me thinking about the difference between real tragedy and fake tragedy. Some people think it is tragic when an innocent person crossing the street is flattened by a runaway cement truck. But that is not tragedy. That is just plain old bad luck. Real tragedy happens to people who are trying hard to do something great, like me, but through some stupid fault of their own, they screw up and everything falls to pieces. Like all the high-and-mighty heroes in Shakespeare who have a tragic flaw and end up dead, dying, or insane.

As far as I could tell, everything was going too well for me. The upside-down leg thought I was cute. Pete was making enough money to keep the rats from eating my brain. And Madame Ginger said the worst thing that could happen to me would be about crushed ice. If I didn't work a little harder to screw things up, my tragic writing was going to look like a rack of Hallmark greeting cards.

I marched over to the Yankee Clipper and took a seat at a patio table. I pulled out my black book and started making notes, when the bartender saw me and came over.

“You know, I was thinking,” he said. “About what you could do to really make Virginia feel special.”

“What?” I replied.

“When you aren't here and she is, I'd still deliver her a Coke on your tab.”

I thought about that. “But I wouldn't be here to watch her drink it,” I said.

“That's not the point,” he countered. “The Coke is for her to enjoy, with or without you. Believe me, women love guys who know how to give them room to breathe.”

He lost me. “How much will it cost?” I asked. I knew how to understand the bottom line.

“Give me twenty bucks,” he said. “That will cover four Cokes and tips.”

I winced. That was almost a whole day's work for Pete. “When can I speak with her?” I asked.

“I'll ask her,” he said. “Don't worry, you're doing very well here. Every time I deliver a Coke to her, she says, ‘Is
it from that nice handsome young man?' And I say, Yes Isn't he a prince? She's warming up to you.”

“Then let's forget the Coke thing,” I said, making a bold decision. “Let's go for broke. I want a date.”

“That could be difficult,” he said, suddenly cooling on the idea. “Let's see what happens once she shows up.”

“Okay.” But already I was thinking, what could be so difficult? I'll just ask her myself. After all, Madame Ginger said I had to go out on a limb.

When she arrived I got up and walked toward her. I figured I'd ask her out, she'd say no, I'd be humiliated and have something to write about. Simple. But suddenly, as I approached her, I thought, what if she says yes? What if she's thrilled to meet me? Then I'll have nothing to write about. But then I thought about it a little more and reality set in. She was older. She was well dressed. She had manners. She was poised. She was refined. She had not said one nice word to me, ever. There was no way in ten lifetimes she'd stoop so low as to go out with a rodent like me who had done nothing but buy her a few Cokes, and poke her in the leg with a stick.

I was right. As soon as she saw me coming, the look on her face went from serene to total annoyance. She bolted across the patio and dove into the pool. It was a crushing blow, but it didn't kill me. And once my breathing evened out, and I realized I was just fine, I knew I had not suffered enough. I needed more.

I sat down and was making a few notes in my black book when the bartender arrived. “Don't take her running
away from you personally,” he said. “She is more shy than you are. Now, let me help you out.” I gave him a five even before he could stick out his hand. He sadly shook his head back and forth. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “This is a whole new level.”

I gave him another five.

“I don't think you heard me,” he sang.

I gave him another five.

“I can't hear you.”

He was worse to me than I was to the lady with the typewriter. Well, what goes around comes around, I thought. I gave him the last of my fives.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I'll see what I can do.”

He went over to her and said something. She shook her head and said no. He said something more. No, she said again. I couldn't hear her but I watched her mouth. I was positive she was saying no, no, no.

He walked back toward me with a big smile on his face. “Surprise,” he said. “She said yes.”

“Yes?” I repeated. “I thought she said no.”

“You misread,” he replied. “I asked if she could go out tomorrow and she said no, only tonight.”

“Oh,” I said. “What do I do next?”

He held out his hand.

“How much?”

“Twenty bucks for her address,” he said. “But look at the bright side. After tonight you will have all the information you need and that'll be it for me.”

“Okay,” I replied. “But this is the last money I'llever
give you.” I dug into my pocket and thought, Which is the worse tragedy, his money-grubbing hands or her potential heartbreaking blow?

He snapped the bill out of my hand, and wrote the address down on a piece of Yankee Clipper stationery.

“Be there at six,” he said. “She's a fanatic about being on time. Also, she's a vegetarian, only goes to foreign films, and is thinking of becoming a doctor.”

“Wow,” I replied. “I thought she had a great future as a synchronized swimmer.”

He dismissed the thought with the wave of his hand. “Get real. This girl is going places.”

There were people waiting for him at the bar so he left. I walked across the patio and down the beach.

I had my hand up, shading my eyes, when I heard Pete scream.

“Leave me alone!” he shouted. “Let go of me.”

“You little faker,” said an old woman. “My sister is non-sighted and your little charade is a cruel insult.” She pulled the dark glasses off his face and hurled them into the surf.

“Help!” Pete screamed. “I'm being attacked.” He gave her a couple stiff whacks on the legs with his blind-boy cane.

She snatched it out of his hands and broke it in two over the top of his head. “Criminal,” she growled.

“Child abuse!” Pete hollered.

“You deserve worse,” she scolded. She had an iron grip on the leather camera strap around his neck. He leaned
forward and panted for air as his eyes bugged out like a Boston terrier's.

“Uh-oh,” I said under my breath. “Trouble.”

“Give me that money,” she demanded.

“It's mine,” he choked out, holding a few dollars just beyond her reach.

“You stole it from people,” she snapped. “It should go to the unfortunate.”

Now, when it came to money, I really got worked up. I ran across the sand, leaping over sunbathers like an Olympic hurdler until I caught up to them.

The first thing I did was snatch the cash out of Pete's hand and shove it into my pocket along with my big roll of cash. Once that was out of the way, I was ready for a fight.

“Get your hands off of him,” I ordered.

“He's a juvenile delinquent,” she declared. “I'm making a citizen's arrest.”

“So am I,” I said, grabbing her flabby arm and tugging her in the opposite direction. “Lifeguard!” I yelled.

“Let go of my arm, you awful child,” she spit out. “Or I'll send both of you to a home for the depraved.”

“Let go,” I shot right back. “Or I'll send you to a nursing home.”

Just then the leather strap around Pete's neck snapped. He shot forward and she sprung back at me. I fell and she landed with her giant butt on my lap. I thought my hipbones were crushed and my legs paralyzed for life. Then she reached into my pocket and grabbed all our money.

“Give that back,” I shouted. I gave her a pinch and she hopped right up, and power-walked toward the lifeguard stand.

Every few steps she swiveled around and hollered, “Nasty boys! Don't you mess with me.”

A lot of people were starting to watch, and judging by how they glared at us, they were getting the wrong idea.

“You mean old fish with feet,” Pete yelled back.

“Come on,” I said, and pulled him along.

“Did she get all the money?” he asked.

“The whole enchilada.” I sighed.

I didn't tell him I had twenty bucks stashed at home. But that was for my date.

“I'll see you later,” Pete said. “I still have some film left I can use at the other end of the beach.”

“Well, be careful,” I said, still limping. “If she sits
on you
, you're dead.”

When I got home I checked the mailbox out of habit. There was a postcard from Mom and Dad. They said they were returning the following day. And I'll be killing rats the day after, I said to myself. I leaned down and looked into the box to make sure there was no more mail. Suddenly a hornet came shooting out and stung me on the forehead. It felt like I had been stabbed with an ice pick. I yelped and ran for the house.

Nobody was home. Betsy had taken the baby next door to swim in the Sopers' pool. They had a daughter, Christine,
who had been an exchange student in Paris and Betsy was trying to figure out how to do the same thing.