"She should be leaning over more," said the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell, "so you can see more gazombas."
"Good point, more gazombas," said Eliot, pretending to make a note of it. He was way too tired to argue this morning. It had been a long night: He'd driven Matt home at 2 A.M., and then he'd spent forty-five minutes getting berated by his ex-wife, Patty. Patty was not the berating kind, but she recognized a stupid parental decision when she saw one.
"You knew about this?" Patty had said. "You knew he was going to be creeping around a stranger's yard with a gun, in Miami, and you let him?"
"It was a squirt gun," said Eliot, causing Patty to roll her eyes so hard he thought they would pop out and bounce across the kitchen floor. Patty had always been way better at being a grown-up than Eliot; this was one key reason why they were no longer married.
Eliot said little after that. He just stood there and took his berating, because he knew Patty was right: He was an incompetent moron parent who had let his son get into a dangerous situation. He was also (Patty had reminded him quietly, outside of Matt's hearing) five months behind on his alimony and child support.
"I'm sorry," Eliot had said, as he left. "I'm working as hard as I can."
"I know," Patty had said. "That's what has me worried."
Driving home, Eliot pondered his situation: He was a failure as a husband and as a parent; his business was a joke; he had no prospects; he was driving a Kia. Willing his brain, against every instinct, to think practically, he tried to devise a logical, workable plan for straightening his life out, and his brain came up with: suicide. He would write a farewell letter — it would be funny, yet deeply moving — then he would put on some clean underwear and launch himself off the tiny balcony of his tiny apartment, hurtle toward the parking lot, maybe aiming for the 1987 Trans Am belonging to the asshole in unit 238 who played his Death Star stereo loud all night, and, splat, just like that, his troubles would be over. His life insurance would pay for Matt's college education. At his funeral, people would recall specific feature stories that he had written and describe him as «troubled» but "brilliant."
These thoughts comforted Eliot until he realized that he was way too scared of heights to jump from his balcony. He couldn't even look over the railing when he was out there cooking hot dogs on his Wal-Mart grill. Plus, he did not have any life insurance. So he decided to continue failing at everything.
He got back to his apartment after 3 A.M. and spent the next four hours drinking black coffee and putting together his Hammerhead Beer presentation, which he would be presenting that very morning. He had planned to come up with an idea so original, so imaginative, so creative, and so compelling that even the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell would see its brilliance. But because it was very late and he was very tired, he decided to go with: big tits.
"I'm a whore, OK?" he said to himself several dozen times as he worked. "You got a problem with that?"
And thus it was that the next morning, when the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell walked into Eliot's office, forty-five minutes late, without knocking or closing the door behind him, he saw, on ah easel, in large type, the words
Under these words was an illustration that Eliot had created on his computer by manipulating various photographs that he had basically stolen off the Internet. The illustration consisted of an oily, muscular, smirking male model on a motorboat being offered a Hammerhead Beer by a female model wearing a string bikini about the size of a DNA strand, out of which were falling two flagrantly artificial, volley-ball-shaped breasts.
The images in the illustration were not in scale with each other, because Eliot didn't really know how to work the computer program, and he couldn't read the manual because he couldn't find his reading glasses. Thus the male model looked, relative to the woman, comically small, like an oily, muscular, smirking weasel; any given one of the female model's breasts was larger than his head. The beer bottle appeared to be the size of a fire hydrant. It was a stunningly bad piece of graphic art, so of course the Client From Hell, except for wanting more gazomba exposure, thought it was great.
"You see?" he told Eliot. "You see the difference?"
"Well," said Eliot, "I…»
"You got TITS! Instead of a FISH!" pointed out the Client From Hell. "You know? You hear what I'm telling you?"
"Well," said Eliot, "it…»
"Ask a guy what he wants, tits or a fish, see what he tells you," said the Client From Hell, his voice starting to rise.
"I suppose that…»
"HE TELLS YOU TITS!" said the Client From Hell.
The certified public accountant from next door appeared in Eliot's doorway, glared at Eliot for a full five seconds, then slammed Eliot's door.
"OK, then," said Eliot, "if we're agreed on the concept, we need to talk about placement, but first…»
"Is she from around here?" said the Client From Hell, pointing his fat finger at the gazomba woman.
"No," said Eliot, quickly. "She's… she lives in, ah… Uruguay."
"Uruguay?" said the Client From Hell. "They got tits like that in Uruguay?"
"Oh yeah, they're known for it," said Eliot. "People call it 'Uruguay: Bosom Capital of the World. Listen, I think we need to talk about your, I mean, my fee, because…»
"How far is Uruguay?" said the Client From Hell. "Is that in, whaddyacallit, Europe?"
"No," said Eliot, "it's in Latin America. The thing is, I sent you several statements, but…»
"Latin America?" said the Client From Hell, looking at the gazomba woman with renewed interest. "You're telling me this is a spic?"
"Listen," said Eliot. "We really need to talk about your…»
"How much?" asked the Client From Hell, still looking at the gazomba woman.
"Well," said Eliot, "there was no retainer, I mean, there was a retainer, well, I mean, I sent a statement for a retainer, but you never, I mean, unless it's in the mail, but…»
"How much?" said the Client From Hell, turning to Eliot.
"Here," said Eliot, handing him a statement.
The Client From Hell looked at it.
'Twelve hundred dollars?" he said.
"Well," said Eliot, "bear in mind…»
"Twelve hundred fucking dollars?" said the Client From Hell. He spent more than twelve hundred dollars every month getting his back hair waxed. But he truly enjoyed watching people need his money. It was almost sexual, with him.
"Well," said Eliot, "it's a very reasonable, I mean, if you look at what most…»
Eliot stopped talking without even being interrupted, because, to his amazement, the Client From Hell was taking out his checkbook, then his pen. It was a fat pen. The Client From Hell, sensing Eliot's desperate hope, wrote the check exquisitely slowly; then he tore it out slowly and tapped it against his fat hand a few times, watching Eliot, before he handed it over.
Eliot looked at it.
"This is for four hundred dollars," he said.
"Lemme ask you something," said the Client From Hell. "Whose idea was this?" He waved his fat arm at the beer ad.
"Well," said Eliot, "we're talking about a certain investment of time that…"
"WHO THOUGHT UP THE IDEA OF TITS?" said the Client From Hell. In the hall outside, a door slammed; Eliot knew this was the certified public accountant exiting his office to search for the building manager.
"You did," said Eliot.
"Do you see a fish in this picture?" asked the Client From Hell.
"No," said Eliot.
"The way I see it," said the Client From Hell, "I came up with the concept. This is MY concept."
Eliot looked at the check, then at the grotesque beer ad, then at the check again. He looked at the check for several seconds. When he finally spoke, he did not lookup.
"OK," he said.
The Client From Hell smirked fatly and turned back to the ad.
'Tits like that," he said, shaking his head. "On a spic." Then, without saying good-bye or closing the door, he walked out.
Eliot was still looking at the check.
"I'm a whore," he announced, to his office.
The phone rang, and Eliot considered not answering it, because it was probably the building manager calling to tell him that (a) he was disturbing other tenants, and (b) he was two months behind on his rent. But it also might be Matt. So he picked up the receiver.
"Eliot Arnold," he said, warily.
"Hi," said a woman's voice, and Eliot's heart jumped. "This is Anna Herk. The woman who beat up your son."
"Hi!" said Eliot, thinking about her eyes.
"How is Matt?" asked Anna. "Is he OK?"
"Oh, he's fine," said Eliot. "He's a teenager."
"I'm sorry," said Anna.
"That's OK," said Eliot. "He'll grow out of it, if nobody shoots him."
"No," said Anna, laughing, "I mean, I'm sorry about jumping on him. And I'm really sorry about dumping on you last night. I had no business doing that."
"You did the right thing," said Eliot. "He had no business being there."
"Well, anyway," said Anna, "the reason I called, besides to say I'm sorry again, is, did you lose some reading glasses?"
"As a matter of fact," he said, "I did."
"Horn-rims?" she asked.
"Yup."
"Made in Taiwan?"
"Four ninety-nine at Eckerd Drag."
"Well," Anna said, "I haven't seen them."
Eliot laughed.
"No, really," she said, "I found them in the family room, and I wanted to return them to you."
"You don't have to do that," said Eliot. "I mean they're just cheap…»
"Really," she said, "I want to."
Whoa.
"OK," Eliot said.
"You're in the Grove, right?" she said.
"Yes."
"Well, I'm running some errands around there this afternoon, and I thought maybe I could stop by."
Eliot looked around his small, grimy, unsuccessful-looking office, the most impressive aspect of which was the gazomba woman.
"Well," he said, "how about, I mean, if you haven't eaten, we could, I mean, we could maybe get something?"
"Are you asking me to lunch?"
"I don't mean to, I mean, if you'd rather…»
"Lunch sounds great."
Whoa.
"Do you know the Taurus?" he asked.
"Sure."
"Is one o'clock OK?"
"One o'clock's perfect."
"Great! Well, see you then."
"OK, bye."
"Bye."
Eliot hung up and looked at the phone, thinking: A date! Kind of!
Then he thought: She's a married woman, and she is simply returning your glasses, and you are a loser.
But that did not stop him from feeling absurdly happy as he locked his door and — taking the back stairs, so as to avoid the building manager — headed for the bank to cash the Client From Hell's check, so he could buy lunch.
Henry and Leonard met with their Penultimate, Inc. contact at a pricey Brickell Avenue restaurant called Dunley's, which was decorated to look like an exclusive men's club, with lots of oak and fake old paintings. It was popular with business people who wished to impress clients by buying them steaks the size of Shetland ponies.
The Penultimate contact was a man named Luis Rojas, whose title was director of special operations. They sat in a corner, next to a table of four lawyers who were talking loud about golf clubs. Henry and Luis Rojas spoke quietly; Leonard, still woozy from running into the wall, mainly chewed.
"My employer is concerned," Rojas said to Henry.
"Is that right?" said Henry, cutting off a piece of steak.
"Yes," said Rojas. "He is very concerned, and he wants to know when you intend to finish this job."
"I want to know some things, too," said Henry. "For instance, who is this guy running around with a rifle, and who is this guy jumping on me out of a tree?"
"What guy in a tree?" asked Rojas.
"That's what I'm wondering," said Henry. "You bring us down here, tell us this is a simple job, just like the other times. In and out, you tell us. No security, you tell us. Next thing I know, I got Geronimo running into the house, and I got Tarzan landing on my head."
"Plus the woman," said Leonard, between chews.
"The woman?" asked Rojas.
"Outside, by the wall with Tarzan," said Leonard. "A woman."
Rojas thought for a moment.
"Listen," he said. "Like I told you, my employer is very concerned that you should finish this job. But he is also concerned about who these other people are, why somebody else wants to… be involved. So we would like to know anything that you can find out, in addition to doing the job."
At the next table, the four lawyers were drinking cognac and lighting cigars.
"OK," said Henry, cutting another piece of steak. "We can do the job, and we can see what we find out about Geronimo and Tarzan. But you tell your employer that, number one, we are gonna need sometime, looking around, checking in the trees, you understand? And number two, the price goes up."
The lawyers were puffing vigorously; a dense cloud of smoke billowed outward from their table.
"How much?" asked Rojas.
"Excuse me," said Henry, putting down his fork. He rose from his chair, walked over to the next table, and stood there, waiting, until all four lawyers had stopped talking and were looking at him.
"Gentlemen," said Henry. "Would you mind putting your cigars out?"
The lawyer to Henry's immediate left, Lawyer A, cocked his head and assumed an exaggeratedly quizzical expression, as if he hadn't heard correctly.
"I beg your pardon?" he said.
"I asked you," said Henry, "if you would mind putting your cigars out."
"As a matter of fact, I would mind," said Lawyer A. This got smiles from Lawyers B, C, and D.
"The reason I ask," said Henry, "is, maybe you never thought of this, but when you light those things, everybody else has to smell your smoke. I got a nice New York strip over there, cost me twenty-seven-fifty, and it tastes like I'm eating a cigar."
"Listen, Ace," said Lawyer B. "Number one, there's no rule against smoking in this restaurant. And number two, you are way outta line."
"OK," said Henry, "Number one, my name is not Ace. Number two, I'm not talking about rules, here. I'm talking about manners. There's no rule says I can't come over here and fart on your entree, but I don't do it, because it's bad manners. It detracts from your dining experience, you know? I'm just saying, I don't stink up your lunch, you don't need to stink up everybody else's lunch. So, one more time, I'm asking nice, please put out the cigars, OK?"
"Are you serious?" said Lawyer C, across the table.
"Oh yes," said Henry.
"Un-fucking-believable," said Lawyer C, to his colleagues. "Do you believe this rucking guy?"
"Listen, Ace," said Lawyer D, to Henry. "We're paying customers here, and we happen to like cigars, and if you don't like it, tough shit."
"That's right, Ace," said Lawyer A. He sucked on his cigar, then, holding the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, turned his mouth toward Henry and blew a long, thick stream of smoke into Henry's face. Henry did not move.
When he was done blowing, Lawyer A said, "So listen, Ace, why don't you uhhh…»
Lawyer A was unable to finish telling Henry what he should do, because Henry had put his hand on Lawyer A's shoulder and squeezed it. He did not appear to be exerting himself, but Lawyer A had gone rigid.
"Uhhh," he said, again.
With his other hand, Henry took Lawyer A's cigar and put it out in his cognac. The other lawyers shifted in their seats, as if preparing to get up and do something, but Henry met their eyes in alphabetical order — B, C, D — and they stayed where they were.
Releasing Lawyer A, who grabbed his shoulder and moaned, Henry walked partway around the table to Lawyer B, who flinched violently as Henry gently but firmly relieved him of his cigar and dropped it into his cognac. At that point, Lawyers C and D put out their cigars unassisted.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Henry.
Lawyer D, who was the farthest away, said, "You realize that you have committed assault."
"I know," said Henry, shaking his head. "Time was, you really had to hit somebody."
Then he went back to his table, sat down, and resumed cutting his steak. 'Tell your employer," he said to Rojas, "it's going to be another ten. Apiece."
Rojas pretended to think about this, although it was pretty much the figure he already had in mind.
"OK," he said. "Just keep in mind that my employer wants this finished as soon as possible."
"Believe me," said Henry, "we don't wanna stay in this town any longer than we have to."
"You got that right," said Leonard, between chews.
Puggy awoke to the sound of the angel's voice. "Puggy," the voice was calling, softly. Pogey.
Puggy rolled onto his stomach and stuck his face over the edge of his platform. There she was, in a blue uniform, looking up. She smiled when she saw his face. She was beautiful. Even from the tree, Puggy could see she had all her teeth.
"I bring you some lunch," she said. I breen you son lonch.
Puggy started down the tree, then, as Nina giggled, he scooted back onto the platform and wriggled into his pants. He started down again.
"Hey," he said, when he reached the ground. He wished he owned a toothbrush.
"For you," she said, giving him a paper plate with a sandwich on it.
It was turkey on white bread with mayonnaise, lettuce, and sliced tomato. It was the most elaborate meal anybody had ever made for Puggy.
"Thank you for help me," Nina said.
Puggy looked at the wonderful sandwich — it also had & folded napkin — then at Nina.
"Listen," he said. "I love you."
"So what you're telling me," Evan Hanratty, organizer of the Killer game, said to Matt, "is that her mom beat you up? Her mom?"
They were in the Southeast High School gymnasium, which, from 11:15 A.M. through 1:35 P.M., became the Southeast High School auxiliary cafeteria, which meant that the food tasted even more like unlaundered jockstraps than it would have ordinarily.
"She jumped me from behind," said Matt. "And there were two of them. And I wasn't gonna hit women."
"Looks like they hit you pretty good," said Evan, studying Matt's lower lip.
"Well, I got a lot of help from my backup man," said Matt.
"Hey," said Andrew, "call me crazy, but when somebody starts shooting, I leave."
"Are you guys sure there was a gunshot?" asked Evan.
"You should have seen the TV," said Matt. "It was, like, a bunch of TV molecules."
"Shit," said Evan.
They all reflected on that thought for a moment.
"So," said Matt, "this doesn't count as killing Jenny?"
"Nope," said Evan. "You gotta squirt her. That's the rules. If we start letting people get points for rolling around on the floor, we'd have anarchy."
"Speaking of rolling around," said Andrew, "how was it?"
"Yeah," said Evan. "How was it? I mean, if Jenny's mom looks anywhere near as good as Jenny…»
"Which she does," noted Andrew.
"So, how was it?" said Evan.
"Shut up," said Matt.
"Hey, I'm just asking," said Evan. "You don't have to…»
"I mean, shut up, here comes Jenny," said Matt.
Sure enough, Jenny was approaching. This was unusual, because Matt, Andrew, and Evan were sitting in the section of the bleachers traditionally occupied by Guys Who Were Smart but Didn't Participate in School Activities and Tended to Be Wiseasses. Jenny sat in the section for Pretty and Very Popular Girls; generally, a girl from that section would not be seen in any other section except the one for Guys Who Played Sports and/or Held Class Office.
"Hey," Jenny said, to Matt.
"Hey," said Matt.
"Does that hurt?" she asked, pointing to Mart's lip.
"Not really," said Matt.
"Maybe," said Evan, "if you kissed it, it would feel better."
"Shut up," said Matt. To Jenny, he said, "Is everything OK at your house?"
"Well, my mom's still pretty upset about the bullet," said Jenny. "But the police guy thinks it was just some crackhead who was gonna rob us, and you scared him off."
"My hero," said Andrew, in falsetto, swooning.
"Shut up," said Matt.
"So listen," said Jenny. "I wanted to tell you three things. First, thank you. And second, thanks again for the Fluids CD. I really like it."
"You gave her your Fluids CD?" said Evan.
"No question," said Andrew, "he wants her sex pootie."
"Shut up," said Matt.
"And third," said Jenny, "I feel really, really bad about what happened last…»
"No," said Matt, "it's OK, really, it's…»
"… so I just wanted you to know," said Jenny, "that if you want to squirt me, I'll be at CocoWalk tonight, around eight, outside the Gap. OK?"
"OK," said Matt.
"See you," she said, turning and heading back to the section for Pretty and Very Popular Girls.
All three boys watched her go.
"Whoa," said Andrew.
" 'If you want to squirt me'?" said Evan. " 'If you want to squirt me'?»
"Shut up," said Matt.
Eliot waited for Anna on the patio in front of the Taurus, a venerable, mellow Grove hangout popular with older, pudgier residents escaping the predatory flatbelly young-singles scene that swirled around the glitz bars at the other end of Main Highway.
Eliot passed the time by watching two veteran Taurus patrons, each with a line of empty beer bottles testifying to a Friday well spent, play the ring game. There had been, as long as anybody could remember, a metal ring hanging by a string from a tree on the Taurus patio; the object of the game was to pull the ring back and let it go in such a way that it swung up to, and encircled, a nail sticking up from the edge of the Taurus roof. The two veteran patrons had been doing this for over an hour, with the intensity and concentration of brain surgeons. They got the nail on almost every try. They acted like it was no big deal.
"I could never do that," said Anna, from behind Eliot.
"Hey!" he said, turning around. "Me neither. I think the secret is large amounts of beer." "So," she said, "you hang out here much?" "Oh yes," said Eliot. "I've even competed in the Taurus blowgun league."
"They have a blowgun league?" "Every other Monday night," said Eliot. Anna laughed, causing one of the ring-game contestants, who was at a crucial point in his pullback, to look over and frown. Lowering her voice, Anna asked, "They shoot blowguns in the bar?"
"No, that would be foolhardy," said Eliot. "They shoot them right here, on the patio, while drinking heavily, attempting to hit targets set up only a few feet from the sidewalk, where innocent civilians are walking."
"Better safe than sorry," Anna said. "How'd you do?"
"Well, I never hit the targets, but I never hit any civilians either, as far as I know. Of course it was pretty dark. But I never heard screams. You wanna get some lunch?"
"Sure."
They went inside and sat at a table near the window. Anna gave Eliot back his glasses so he could see the menu. They both ordered fish sandwiches and iced tea.
"So," said Eliot, "did the police come up with anything?"
"No," said Anna, "and I don't think they're going to, either. I guess I'm kind of naive; I pictured them going around with magnifying glasses, you know? Looking for clues!"
"Dusting for prints!" said Eliot. "Analyzing fibers!"
"Yeah," said Anna. "But they're like, 'So somebody took a shot at you. So what's the problem? »
"Geez, it has to be scary, not knowing who did it."
"Or if they're coming back."
"You think they will?"
"I don't know. But I get the feeling my husband knows something he's not telling me. He's been acting weird, even for him. He left last night and he wasn't back this morning. Which is actually fine with me, although I promise I'm not gonna start dwelling on that subject again."
"It's OK," said Eliot. "Dwell away." He kind of liked it when she dwelled on that subject.
"No," she said, "no more talk about me. Let's talk about you. What do you do?"
"Advertising."
"What kind of advertising?"
"Well, today I did a gazomba ad."
"A what kind of ad?"
"Gazomba. As in, Get a load of those gazombas."
"Ah."
"Maybe we should go back to dwelling on your marriage."
"No, I want to know about the gazomba ad."
And so he told her about Hammerhead Beer, and the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell. He told her about the CPA next door who hated him. He told her about the rise and sudden fall of his journalism career. He told her about how he and Patty met in college and fell in love and went dancing all the time, and then Matt was born and that was wonderful, but they didn't dance as much, but they swore they would, one of these days, when Matt got a little older, but they never did, and after a while they stopped talking about going dancing, in fact they stopped talking about pretty much everything, and they made love only when neither of them could immediately think of an excuse not to, which happened very rarely, because any excuse would do, starting with "I'm kinda tired tonight," which they both were, every night. He talked about the slow, agonizing slide down the slope of divorce, and how guilty he felt, and how understanding Matt had been, and how that made him feel guiltier. He told her that he drove a Kia.
"Now you," he said.
She told him that she had been married twice, the first time to the guy she dated for her last two years at the University of Florida, who was captain of the tennis team and came from a very wealthy family and was so incredibly handsome that everybody, particularly her mother, drilled into her brain that she would be crazy not to marry him, because they made such a Beautiful Couple.
"We had a really great marriage, no problems at all," she said, "until maybe the second hour of the wedding reception, which is when my maid of honor told me in the ladies' room that my new husband had just put his tongue into her mouth all the way down to her tonsils. This guy just could not keep his wee-wee in his pants. He was like Bill Clinton, but without any domestic policies."
But she stuck with him, she said, because her mother told her that you have to Make the Marriage Work.
"The thing was," she said, "while I was trying to make the marriage work, he was trying to make every woman in Dade and Broward Counties, and generally succeeding. Never marry an incredibly handsome man."
"I won't," Eliot promised.
"So," she said, "after Jenny was born, maybe the fiftieth time it took him three hours to get back from taking the baby-sitter home, I filed for a divorce. That was when I found out that his family became very wealthy by not letting anybody, ever, get a nickel."
"Didn't you have a lawyer?" asked Eliot.
"Oh, sure, I had a lawyer. But my ex-husband had like the entire Supreme Court. So he got basically all the money, and I got Jennifer. Which is why we ended up living in a dump of an apartment, which is why Arthur looked good to me, which I promise I am not going to start dwelling on again."
The lunch lasted for four iced teas. On the way out of the Taurus, Eliot and Anna were accosted by two disabled homeless Vietnam veterans. Except they weren't really disabled homeless Vietnam veterans; they were Eddie and Snake, who were ages nine and six, respectively, when the Vietnam War ended. Snake's ankle injury had given them the idea of being disabled vets; they hobbled around the Grove, hassling people for money, and on some days it was more lucrative than helping people park. Eddie saw it as a potentially important career move.
"Hey, man," he said to Eliot, "can you help out a disabled veteran?"
"No," said Eliot, who recognized Eddie from around the Grove.
"Fuck you," said Eddie. "How about you, pretty lady?" he said to Anna. "You wanna give me something?"
Snake grabbed his crotch and said, "Hey, I'll give you something."
Anna and Eliot kept walking. She said, "And people have the nerve to say romance is dead."
When they reached Anna's car, she said, "Thanks for lunch."
"Hey, my pleasure," Eliot said. "You want to keep my reading glasses, so we could do this again?"
Anna laughed, but didn't answer. She started looking in her purse for her car keys.
Eliot said, "Do you think I'm incredibly handsome?"
She looked up from her purse and studied his face for a moment.
"No," she said.
"Whew," he said.
She laughed, then studied his face some more. She had the greenest eyes.
"Just so you know," she said, "I love to dance."
"Man," said Eddie, watching Eliot and Anna walk away. "I can't believe the way some people treat veterans, after what we done for this country."
"We didn't do shit," Snake pointed out. "We ain't veterans."
"They don't know that," said Eddie. "And I bet I would of been a vet, if I was old enough."
"I think you have to graduate from at least, like, eighth grade," said Snake.
"Well, that ain't the point," said Eddie. "Point is, these people are some ungrateful fucks." He spat a wad of brownish glop on the sidewalk. "We ain't made but three dollars today."
"Speaking of which," said Snake. "Somethin' I wanna do."
Eddie waited.
"You know that little punk at the Jackal?" Snake said. "Who did my ankle?"
"Yeah."
"I heard he works there now, sometimes."
"So?"
"So I wanna pay him a visit."
"I dunno, man. I don't wanna fuck with that bartender again. Him and his baseball bat."
"His bat don't mean shit if we got a gun."
"We ain't got a gun."
"I know a guy can get us one."
Eddie thought about it. "I dunno," he said. "Why don't we just jump the punk outside?"
"Because the cash register is inside."
Eddie looked at Snake.
"So this ain't really about the punk," he said.
"Oh, it's about the punk," said Snake. "And the bartender. And the cash register. Three birds with one stone."
Eddie thought about it.
"I don't know nothin' about no guns," he said.
"Time you learned," said Snake. "Bein' a veteran and all."