9

It was a cute little house, especially since Gloria had laid her strong hands on it, shoring up the sagging porch, installing new plumbing, painting every inch of it a nice cream, the trim a soft blue. But the rooms were small. So Junior, getting dressed for school, was having a hard time running from Big Gloria, which he would have anyway even if she hadn’t picked up a broom.

“Mama, what did they do to you at work? You lost your mind?”

“Just tell me where you went last night, son.”

“I told you. Nowhere. I went to sleep.” She whacked him hard with the broom handle. He backed away, hands up, saying, “They’re gonna get you for child abuse.”

“They’re going to get me for first-degree murder if you don’t tell me. I called around nine, you’re supposed to be here. You think I don’t check on you?”

Well, no, he didn’t. She didn’t used to. He told her that.

“Yeah, and you didn’t used to be a juvenile delinquent. You think I want to wake up some morning and see your name in the papers? When you reach your goal, life of crime, kill somebody? ‘Junior Jolted!!!’ That’s what the headlines’ll read when they strap you in the chair and stick the juice to you.”

“Aw, Mama.”

“Don’t you aw-Mama me. Just tell me what you were doing, Junior.”

“Hanging.”

“Hanging where?”

Junior ran his hand over the little twists that covered the top of his head. Baby dreads is what they called his do. He said, “On the Boardwalk.”

“With who?”

“Some guys.”

“What guys?”

“Guys, Mama. You know, guys from school.”

Big Gloria reached for a pencil and paper. “Names?”

Junior fell back on the blue and gold paisley sofa, arms wide. “What you gonna do? Call their folks before breakfast?”

“I most certainly am.” She was standing over him now, leaning down, putting her face right close to his. He could smell her talcum powder. “I am not standing by and watching you turn into a hoodlum like every other boy around here. You’re not stupid. You do fine in school. And I’ve raised you better. Just because you turned sixteen, your hormones got you all in an uproar, does not mean I’m setting you loose. I’ve told you a million, jillion times, you’re going to college, boy—”

“I know, I want to.”

“—or I’ll know the reason why. You’re going to make something of yourself, support me in my old age.” She poked him in the chest right at the green line on his T-shirt that said Fill to here with margaritas. “And I want you to stop wearing this stupid stuff. Where’d you steal this, anyway? You keep going this way, you’ll run up on some security that won’t call me, is going to send you straight on to juvie. It’ll probably do you some good. Let you practice up for prison, the big time.”

“Aw, Mama.”

“Your record’s stuck, boy.” She tapped pencil to paper. “Names?”

There was no getting around a woman who thought she was big as the Taj. She almost was, too. And stubborn as all get out. “Rachel Rose,” he mumbled.

“What’d you say, Junior? Speak up.”

“Rachel Rose,” he hollered.

She stood staring at him, hands on her hips, staring in amazement. “Who?”

*

From there it was easy, making up the rest of the story. Not that that part wasn’t true, being with Rachel Rose.

It was true too that they bumped into each other in front of the arcade. Rachel Rose looked like a million bucks wearing an off-the-shoulder black midriff top that clung to her sweet chest, cutoffs over black tights ending in lace at her little ankles, high heels.

She said, God, how’re you feeling? He shrugged like he almost drowned every day, no biggie.

Then they’d hung out for a while at Aladdin’s Castle, the arcade at Bally’s, playing pinball. Rachel Rose had thought he was some kind of wuss at first, said she never saw a pinball machine before. She said it was nothing at all like video games—NARC, Gauntlet II.

Which gave Junior a chance to be the man of the world. He explained to her how pinball was back. How these new machines in the arcade, Big Betty’s Truck Stop, Monday Night Football, had high-tech thumper bumpers, stereo sound, modular plug-in boards. How when he went down to visit his Great-Aunt Beautiful in New Orleans, his second cousins took him to a pool hall that had about a dozen old pinballs, the kind that go ka-chunk when you knock a row of targets down. The kind you finesse, hitting them on the opposite side when a ball’s about to go out.

He told her about his favorite, an antique from the fifties called Central Park. It had a monkey that hit a bell, a horse and carriage, a man on a bench feeding pigeons, a cop, a garbage man. He didn’t tell her that Jake, the man who owned the pool hall in New Orleans, had painted all the faces black—except for the garbage man’s, he left it white. He did tell her he’d been to New York, where he saw the real Central Park, which was really cool, most parts of it. Especially the little zoo. They had penguins, polar bears, the coolest little monkeys, so tiny their little hands almost broke your heart. And all over the place people were doing their thing, one heck of a lot better than here on the Boardwalk. He saw rappers, roller skaters, jugglers, pretty girls in little bright-colored skirts jumping two ropes, so good, people gave them money. But the park was dangerous too. There were bums all over the place. People living in cardboard boxes. Gangs of kids wilding scared him.

Rachel Rose shivered. She was from LA, Newport Beach, where she said it was a lot safer.

It was a lot whiter too—as in totally. If a black person came on the island who wasn’t a maid or a handyman, patrols were all over them like a cheap suit. That was her daddy’s expression.

But she didn’t tell Junior any of that. Instead, she said, wasn’t it funny, they both lived on islands on opposite sides of the continent, facing the ocean. But her life was so boring, she said. Kids did nothing but go to movies, hang out in shopping malls, South Coast Plaza, places like that. In California you had to go cruising around looking for fun. Whereas Junior had it all, right here, every night.

Junior thought she must be putting him on. AC had to be one of the deadest places on earth. Used to be something, that’s what the grannies said, back in the twenties, when fancy rich people drove great old cars like Stutz Bearcats down from New York. Now all you saw every day were thousands of tour buses full of old, old people with their plastic cups full of quarters.

His best friend, Rashad, he’d told her, enjoying talking with her a lot, used to wait tables at one of the casino coffee shops till Rashad got to where he flat hated old people. He said, first of all, they give the codgers these coupons on the bus worth ten dollars for lunch. Rashad sat down with the menu, put together every combination on earth, and there’s no way you can come out an even ten, excluding tax and tip—and there’s a joke, that last word.

Rashad told the old folks that from the get-go when they put their coupons on the table, but did they believe him?

Nooo, said Rachel Rose.

They tried the hamburger, fries, cole slaw, giant Coke. That was $9.50. The deluxe turkey club and coffee was $11.25. And on it goes, until finally they ordered, always under what the coupon was worth. And then they wanted change.

Like the casino owed them that back. No way, Rashad told them. So then they get mad and what do they do?

Stiff him, said Rachel Rose.

That’s right, said Junior, loving the way she looked when she laughed. Plus they take everything that’s not nailed down. They bring plastic zip-up bags, dump in the whole bucket of pickles. All the crackers and bread and Sweet’n Low. It made Rashad so frustrated, it’s no wonder, said Junior, that sometimes the two of them, after Rashad got off work, they’d find themselves a couple of people who look prosperous, not the codgers, but regular tourists, lady wearing gold chains and diamonds, and—

“And what?” said Rachel Rose.

Uh-oh. Junior realized he’d gone too far with this story, making up most of it as he went along. Rachel Rose was giving him this look.

“And what?”

“Well, you know.”

“You rob ’em?” Rachel Rose’s big blue eyes were even bigger. And softer. Her voice was whispery and really low.

“Well—”

She stepped a little closer. He could feel her warmth, see every eyelash. “God, that’s exciting,” she said.

There you were. It just goes to show you. There’s no way to know what’s going through a girl’s mind.

That’s what Rashad, who was always studying people because he was going to be a movie director like Spike Lee, said. He said, “Boy, you’re just humping along, doing your stuff. Half of it makes girls mad as hell, but some of it, and there’s no predicting which part, makes ’em look like that. Like starlets in the movies, faces all soft, ready for their close-up.”

Just like Rachel Rose looked now.

“Well, yeah,” Junior said, giving his dreads a little shake, puffing his chest, shifting his weight.

“How do you do it?”

Junior stood off and looked back at himself. “Actually, we have several different methods.” Sounding like an expert. Trying not to crack up.

“Like what?”

“There’re different ways—”

“Show me one,” she breathed. “Show me one now.”

She was begging him. He had to pull this off—and make it look like he knew what he was doing.

“Well, okay.” He shuffled around, staring at the laces on his high tops. “Here’s one. First off, we buy ourselves a couple of hot dogs. We put lots of mustard on ’em.”

He and Rashad had read about this gimmick that slick dudes did in New York. They were thinking about using it in a video Rashad had started working on, Junior providing the background music with his harmonica plus technical assistance. They’d finish it someday. Someday would be when they had some money, new equipment, better than Rashad’s old broken-down—

Uh-huh, she said. He could tell she thought he was crazy, but she stepped right up to the counter and ordered the dogs.

“Now grab yourself a whole bunch of napkins. Good, now give them to me. No, hey, wait, girl. You’re not eating that thing. Just come with me. Let’s stroll.”

Off they went, down the Boardwalk. It was still early, a little after ten, but there were plenty of people all over the place because the Miss America show had just let out. People were dressed up like they were trying for Miss America. Women in spangles and pearls with fancy hairdos were giggling when their high heels stuck in the Boardwalk. Mixed in with the pageant crowd were the geezers from the tour buses who ate their dinners about five o’clock, then went back for some more gambling. They were out now for a nightcap: an ice cream cone and a little stroll. And there was that bunch of ugly girls with their stupid signs that showed up with that crazy Reverend Dexter Dunwoodie. There was the Rev now, with his fat-assed self and his silly, greased-up hairdo.

Rachel Rose pointed at them. “Who’s that?”

Junior pretended he didn’t know. It embarrassed him, explaining about a black man dragging this pitiful bunch of white girls around protesting the pageant. Now, did that make sense? Somebody ought to protest his ass. Ask him what he did with all that money he collected last year, his mama said every time she saw him on the local news, supposed to be building a special high school for street kids, help them out.

They walked on past Eddie and Louie. Eddie, a huge man singing “I’m Just a Prisoner of Love,” had a soft, womanish face. His big old privates were about to fall out through a hole in the crotch of his checked pants. Louie was a 100-year-old twisted-up arthritic wearing a 1000-year-old Hawaiian shirt and playing the keyboard.

Gathered around them were a circle of middle-aged white men in Bermuda shorts or baggy pants, those stupid white hats. Their ladies were dressed in colors like aqua and peach. But they weren’t who Junior was looking for.

To do this right—and why not, if he was going to do it—he needed a nicely dressed couple. They’d be headed for one of those casino restaurants that didn’t have prices on the menu. You cared what it cost, forget you. They’d played some baccarat and were out for a breath of fresh ocean air just like the codgers.

“What are we gonna do?” Rachel Rose whispered.

“Be cool. Stop fidgeting.” He nudged her over to his left side. The ocean was on his right. They were walking up toward the Taj. He dropped a little behind her. She stopped, turned around, and gave him the big eyes. “Nope. Don’t look at me. Keep going. That’s right. You’re doing great.”

I’m doing terrible, he’d said to himself. How’d I get myself in this spot? This isn’t a little shoplifting. This is Boardwalk robbery. I could get myself arrested for real. But he didn’t know how to back off without making a fool of himself.

So they strolled on past Fred, a beggar who’d held out a cup so long his hand had frozen like that.

There was no one who looked exactly right to Junior, who didn’t look like they’d scream and call the cops. Maybe he didn’t have the stuff it took to be a mustard chucker. Maybe he’d have to admit to Rachel Rose he was just jiving.

Then, there they were: two white ladies loaded down with purses, jewelry, pearls, gold earrings, probably the real thing. They were yakking 90 miles a minute. One of them, the woman closest to Rachel Rose, was tall, very skinny, with lots of frizzy red hair. She looked like an old stork, except she was carrying a briefcase instead of the baby you saw in most pictures of storks.

It was now or never, thought Junior, his heart pounding. Go, he said to himself, go! Quit daydreaming. So when they pulled just about even with the two ladies, Junior shoved Rachel Rose hard.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Rachel Rose sounded truly concerned. The girl was a natural. Of course, she didn’t know what was going on.

The Stork Woman, staring down at her white linen dress splattered with mustard, teeter-tottered on the edge of tears.

“Here, ma’am, let me help you.” Now Junior was Johnny-on-the-spot, wiping at Stork Woman with a handful of napkins, dabbing her this way and that.

“I am so sorry,” Rachel Rose kept saying, wringing her little hands. “I feel so bad. Can I pay you for your cleaning?”

Now, that was going too far.

Then the Stork Woman’s friend pulled at her arm and said, “Come on, Mary Frances, let’s go back to your room and wash it off.”

“Sorry, so sorry,” Rachel Rose echoed. Junior gave the ladies a last big so-sorry smile and pulled Rachel Rose on down the Boardwalk, which wasn’t easy with her spike heels.

Then he pushed her through the doors of the Showboat, down the long center hall, past the band playing Dixieland, past the casino waitresses in those short little purple and black outfits that pushed their boobs up, the bottoms cut so high you could see their behinds, past security, giving them the eye. Junior gave the man back a big smile—though not too big. Actually, Junior was terrified.

“What’s going on?” Rachel Rose sounded a little pissed. Then she turned and whispered to him, “When do we do it?” The girl really didn’t know.

“We did it.”

That stopped her dead in her tracks.

Junior took her arm—he was afraid to stop—and led her out the casino’s back door, out onto Pacific Avenue. He turned left, heading back down past the back of the Taj, Resorts International, down toward the Monopoly, hurrying her along.

On top of everything else, it wasn’t safe back here off the Boardwalk. Somebody could hit them in the head, take their stash. He didn’t want to tell Rachel Rose that.

But then she stopped again, right in the middle of the sidewalk. “I’m not going another step until you explain to me what happened.”

What happened? What happened, he said, was that she chucked the mustard on the Stork Woman, and he wiped it off her, along with—he held them up—her wallet and her miniature tape recorder.

“Holy Jesus!”

Junior grinned. “I wouldn’t go that far. Junior Sturdivant’ll do.”

“My God!” She couldn’t get over it. “What if you get caught?”

“You? Who’s this you? We did it.”

Then the little girl threw her hands up in the air like somebody was holding a gun on her.

“You were the mustard chucker,” he said.

“The what? The what!” And Rachel Rose sat down, just like that, on the sidewalk. Her shoes fell off. She doubled over, holding her stomach. Junior thought she was having some kind of fit. But she wasn’t. The little girl was laughing her butt off.

Well, hell, he thought, the deed was done. So he plopped down too, and before he knew it was wiping tears and snuffling. What he really wanted to do was cry, he was so scared inside.

Then, just as it was getting good—Rachel Rose turned and threw her arms around his neck, she felt so soft, smelled so good—a car at one of the Monopoly’s service doors, he hadn’t even seen it before, someone slammed one of its doors, then after a minute, slammed the trunk, now a door again, and cranked up, flashing its brights.

Junior froze, guilty, red-handed, feeling the loot still warm from the Stork Woman. Whoever was in the car had seen the whole thing—Junior holding up the stash.

What? said Rachel Rose, nuzzling against his T-shirt, the one that said Shut up and kiss me. And she was about to, he could tell that, except he was so scared somebody, plainclothes probably, was about to get out of that car and slap the cuffs on him, he pushed her away so he could keep an eye on them.

The engine roared. The driver slammed the car into reverse. It screeched back, forward, came on, blinding them, till Junior thought they were dead for sure. The sucker’s gonna squash us flat right on the sidewalk, arms around each other like Romeo and Juliet in the play Miz Abrams made us read last year. The headlights were dazzling, blinding him, he was going to die. Then they slid on by.

Junior’s attitude did a 180-degree flip flop. He was mad as hell they scared the bejesus out of him, made him look like a fool in front of Rachel Rose who’d been about to lay a wet one on him. If he ever got his hands on…

But the night was too dark, and the lights were too bright. Junior couldn’t even get a good look.

If he had, it was Kurt Roberts whom Junior would have seen staring out of the passenger seat before he was jerked out and shoved into the trunk. Kurt Roberts, the very man who had pushed him into the pool. With dried blood on his face, eyes puffed and swollen into slits. His long, thin nose broken and askew. A couple of shiny white capped teeth were missing. His mouth gaped open and closed. He looked like a big fish who’d done battle with an outboard.

Saying, Help. Help. Somebody help me, please.

But Junior didn’t see him.

*

And none of that was what Junior told Big Gloria. How could he? She’d kill him. Instead, he made up this nice little story about running into Rachel Rose, did Mama remember her from yesterday afternoon, the pretty little girl by the pool?

That didn’t make her happy either. What are you doing messing around with her? You’ll find yourself killed when her daddy gets ahold of you.

There was an awful lot of threatening to kill his young ass around these days, thought Junior. Then he told his mama how he and Rachel Rose had played pinball, ate hot dogs, walked down the Boardwalk. He walked her home to her hotel. That was the end of it.

Later, at school, Junior would think how stupid he was for telling her that much. Placing himself and Rachel Rose on the Boardwalk wasn’t the smartest thing he could do. You never could tell what might pop up. The Stork Woman could describe them, then the cops would come looking for them. But it was hard to lie to Mama. There was something about her that made you want to tell her everything, even stuff you were ashamed of.

And Big Gloria would worry herself crazy knowing that Junior had told her some version of the truth.

Gloria had spent her entire life listening to men tell lies, and she knew one when she heard it.

What she wanted to know was, son of mine, only child of my womb, did that white man make you so mad, the one who pushed you in the pool, that you broke into his room, beat the tar out of him, killed him with your bare hands, and dragged him off somewhere?

Son of mine, only child of my womb, could you do that? Did you do that? Have I already lost you?