Dunk (7 page)

After about fifteen minutes, she glanced at her watch and stood up. “Got to go. Guess you'll have to take over.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Try not to strain anything.” She headed back to her lifeguard chair.

When I got tired of sitting I caught Jason's attention and said, “I'm going to hit the boardwalk.”

Jason nodded, paused to catch his breath, then said, “Sure. See you around two.”

“Great.” I left the beach and strolled toward Doc's arcade.

A different Bozo was working the tank. I watched him for a minute. He wasn't as bad as the other one, but he wasn't all that good, either. A few people got annoyed enough at his insults to a pay for a chance to dunk him, but most folks just walked right past. I knew I could do better.

“Where'd you get that haircut, kid?” the Bozo called.

I ignored him and went over to the barker.

“Two bucks,” the barker said, holding out three balls in one hand. He didn't even bother to look at me.

“That's a really ugly haircut,” the Bozo said. “What'd you use, a lawn mower?”

I took a deep breath. Sometimes it was so hard to ask people for things, especially strangers. And especially things I really wanted. But this was just two words. A lot shorter than
Would you like to go to a movie?

“You hiring?” I asked. I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell him how bad most of his Bozos were. And how good I'd be.

He looked at me now and grinned, revealing clues of past meals clinging to his teeth. I noticed more food smears on the front of his shirt. Even out in the fresh air, I caught a strong whiff of clothing badly in need of a tub of soapy water. “Yeah, I got an opening.” He pulled a piece of beef jerky from his shirt pocket and tore off a bite.

“Really?” It came out as a shout.

“Really.” He stared at me for a moment as he chewed the jerky. “You a hard worker?”

“The best. You can ask anyone. Doc at the arcade will tell you. Or Salvatore at the pizzeria. Ask anyone. Dependable, too.”

“It's a tough job. Most guys I hire don't last.”

“I'll last,” I promised. “You have my word.”

“We'll see.” He wiped his right hand on his jeans, then held it out. “My name's Bob. You can call me Boss.”

“Chad,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip felt greasy.

“Be here tonight at seven,” he told me.

“Great. I'll see you then.” I headed off, my heart pounding like someone was trying to kick it out of my chest. Seven. I wondered whether he was going to give me Malcolm's spot. That would show him. Maybe Malcolm had messed up. This was so excellent! I couldn't wait to tell Jason.

No. I wouldn't tell him. I grinned as I realized how I'd play it. I'd ask him to meet me in front of Wild Willy's tonight. When he got near the tank, I'd let him have it. I'd nail him with all kinds of personal stuff. He'd freak. It would be so cool. He'd go crazy trying to figure out how some clown knew all about him. It would be like the Psychic Bozo Network. Man, maybe I could surprise Mike and Corey, too.

When I was about ten feet away from the tank, I thought of something. “Hey,” I called back, shouting to get Bob's attention, “what should I wear?”

He shrugged. “Something you don't mind getting wet.”

Duh. I guess that made sense. No problem there. Anyone who lived near the ocean had plenty of stuff that could get wet. I had a blue long-sleeved T-shirt. And thin nylon pants. There'd be clown makeup in that room next to the tank. Otherwise, the guy would've told me to buy some. They probably hired new Bozos all the time, so they'd have to keep supplies on hand.

I walked along, picking out people and practicing in my head the things I'd shout when I was in the tank. I knew I was going to do a great job tonight.

Job? Oh, man. I swore out loud as I realized what I'd done. If I asked Mom for permission, she'd say no. If I didn't ask, I'd be sneaking behind her back. But I didn't have to tell her today. I could wait a couple days. Get real good at it, then have her come see me. If I was absolutely wonderful, she'd have to say it was okay. She was always trying to get me to do stuff in school like go out for the play or learn an instrument. This wasn't any different.

I swung by the Cat-a-Pult on the way to Doc's. Gwen wasn't there. Maybe she was working at a different booth. Or maybe she'd be coming later in the summer. I hoped she'd come soon.

“Hey, my favorite gofer. Where you been?” Doc asked when I reached the arcade.

“Around. Need anything?”

“Desperately.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and peeled off a faded ten. “Get me a double sausage sandwich from Strombo's, and a large coffee. Black.”

I took the money. “Be right back.”

“Tell him not to give you the stuff that's been sitting out since yesterday,” Doc yelled after me.

“No problem.”

I got Doc his sandwich.

“Whatcha have left, one year of school?” Doc asked when I gave him the bag.

“Two,” I told him.

He glared across the room and shouted at a couple kids who were shaking one of the iron-claw machines, then looked back at me. “And after that? Got plans?”

I shrugged. “Maybe California.”

“That's not a plan. That's a state.”

“Yeah. I know. But it's a state where the boardwalk arcades are open all year round.”

Doc grunted. I couldn't tell whether that meant he agreed with my comment or thought it was totally absurd.

“Down the road, you ever need a full-time job, come see me.”

“Thanks.”

“I hired your dad at least twice,” Doc said.

From what I remembered, my dad had worked for just about everybody around here. But never very long at any one place.

“Got a confession,” Doc said. “I think I fired him at least twice, too.”

“I figured.” This wasn't a subject I felt like exploring. But there was something else I wanted to ask Doc. “Hey, that guy you told about the apartment. Malcolm. Is he a friend of yours? He seems kind of crazy.”

“I met him last fall when I went fishing in Texas. He was working the southern carnival route. He's weird, but he's not dangerous.” Doc turned away to shout at a kid who was kicking the change machine.

“Where's he from? Is he really a teacher? Has he been a Bozo for long?”

“What do I look like? The History Channel? Stop asking so many questions.” Doc scanned the arcade, then walked over to the old Street Fighter game, his belt jangling with a cluster of keys that must have weighed fifteen pounds. He opened the front panel of the machine and clicked a switch until I had a bunch of credits. “Here. Waste some more of your life. My treat.”

“Thanks.” I realized Doc was finished chatting. I played until I used all the credits. By then it was time to head back.

Gwen still wasn't at the Cat-a-Pult. Not that I was obsessed or anything.

The air was heating up, getting pretty warm for this time of year. It felt even warmer because there was almost no breeze. The last thing I wanted to do right now was move boxes. I really didn't feel like helping Malcolm, but I couldn't let Jason down. Besides, I had this funny feeling that if I didn't go along, Jason and Malcolm would be best friends by the next time I saw them.

Maybe they already were.

I found them sitting together on the upstairs porch when I got home. Jason leaned on the railing above me. “Hey, Chad, did you know Malcolm is going to teach at Baldwin this fall?”

“I heard. Come on. Let's get this over with.”

They came down and we walked over to Jason's house. He got the keys from inside, then unlocked the Blazer. Malcolm climbed in the back. I rode up front with Jason. I think the person with the license was supposed to be in front, but it didn't matter. Jason was a good driver. He swore he was driving in New York when he was ten. The way he handled himself in traffic, I believed him.

“You win them all?” I asked as we headed down the road.

He nodded and told me the high points of his games. Behind us, Malcolm didn't say anything, which was fine with me.

“So what'd you do after you left?” Jason asked.

I nearly blurted out the news about the Bozo job before I remembered my plan to surprise Jason. He wasn't the only one in for a surprise. I glanced back at Malcolm, who was staring out the side window, looking sad. I almost felt sorry for him. But I realized that his expression had nothing to do with his feelings. He could switch on anything. If he wanted us to think he was sad, that's the way he'd act. I didn't see how anybody could trust a person who could fake his emotions so easily.

I turned away and passed the time telling Jason the highlights of my Street Fighter session. He listened, but he kept his eyes on the road, especially when we merged onto the Parkway.

The next exit wasn't far, and the U-Store place was right off the ramp. “It's nothing heavy,” Malcolm said as Jason pulled into the parking lot. “Mostly boxes.”

A lot of boxes, it turned out. We crammed as many cartons as we could in the back of the Blazer and stacked the rest of the stuff on one side of the rear seat. From the sound of them, half the boxes were probably filled with videotapes. There was also a small TV—the kind with a built-in VCR.

“This shouldn't take long,” Jason said as he pulled up to the curb at my house. He hopped out and opened the back of the Blazer. Malcolm went ahead to unlock the door.

Jason and I each grabbed, a box and followed him. It felt weird going upstairs. I mean, this was part of the house, but as long as someone else was paying rent, the apartment really wasn't part of my home.

Other than some furniture my mom had bought—a couch, a kitchen table, and two chairs—there wasn't much of anything inside the living room.

“You can stack them over there,” Malcolm said, pointing to the bare wall opposite the couch.

Jason put down his box and stood for a moment, breathing like he'd run all the way back from the U-Store. “You okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “I'm fine. Just kind of hot.”

“Sit down,” Malcolm said. “Chad and I can get the rest of it.”

“Yeah.” I hated to agree with him, but he was right. Jason looked washed out. “We can handle it from here.”

Jason shook his head. “I'm fine.” He jogged down the stairs and grabbed another box from the Blazer. Then, I guess to show how fine he was feeling, he stacked a second box on top of the first.

I only took one for myself. Even that turned out to be almost too much. Jason was halfway up the steps, and I was right behind him, when he collapsed.

I
BARELY MANAGED TO DROP MY BOX AND REACH UP IN TIME
. Jason's damp T-shirt smacked against my palms. As I toppled backward under his weight, I shot out my right hand and grabbed the railing. I couldn't hold him without falling, so I moved down a couple steps and tried to lower him gently.

Malcolm rushed out to the porch. “Hang on!” he cried, racing down to meet us. He pulled the two boxes off Jason, tossing them up to the porch, then helped get him to a sitting position on the steps. The box I'd dropped had already tumbled to the ground.

“Guess I slipped,” Jason said. He leaned against the railing.

“You're sweating like crazy,” I said. “I think you're sick.”

Jason shook his head. “Just hot. That's all.”

“I'll get you a cold drink,” Malcolm told him. He went back upstairs.

“What happened?” I asked. “Something's wrong. You're about as pale as beach sand.”

“I'm fine,” Jason insisted. “I must have a bug or something. No big deal.”

Malcolm came back. “Go inside and sit,” he said as he handed Jason a carton of orange juice.

I watched Jason get up, ready to grab him if he stumbled, but he kept his balance. I flinched when I thought about where he would have landed if I hadn't been there to catch him. Or where we both would have landed if my vision had been blocked by a second box.

“This ever happen to him before?” Malcolm asked me when we reached the bottom of the steps.

“Nope. Jason's so healthy he makes me sick sometimes.”

Malcolm gave me a puzzled look.

“You know what I mean.” I wasn't in the mood for friendly chatter. I grabbed the box I'd dropped, and shook it to see if anything had broken. In answer, I heard tinkling. I opened the flap. The box was crammed with books and magazines, but there was also a diploma in a thin black frame wedged between the books. It was from some place I'd never heard of, called Juilliard. The glass was cracked and a couple pieces had fallen off. “This broke,” I told Malcolm as he walked past me.

He glanced down, then said, “It's not important.”

Fine with me. I put the diploma back, closed the box and carried it upstairs. “You gonna live?” I asked Jason, who was sitting on the edge of the couch.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I feel fine. Honest. I must have slipped or something.” He stood up.

“Just stay there,” I said. He really was looking better, but I figured he shouldn't take any chances. I gave him a light push. He plopped back down on the couch without any resistance.

We finished unloading. Then Malcolm drove the Blazer back to Jason's house.

After we'd all stepped out, Malcolm pulled two tens from his pocket. “Here you go.”

I didn't want his money. But it would be more of a hassle to turn it down than to take it. “You should rest up,” I told Jason.

“Yeah, maybe for a bit. I'll catch you later,” he said.

“Okay.” I started walking back home.

Malcolm headed that way, too. He walked next to me, but I ignored him. I checked my watch. It was almost four. In three hours I'd be working in the tank. I realized that if Malcolm lost his job, things at home would improve immediately: He wouldn't be able to pay the rent, and then he'd have to move.