Ball Don't Lie (21 page)
And that settles it, Sticky thinks. He’s not stealing anything today. He’s gonna go get the bear and maybe take Anh-thu down to the Santa Monica Pier. They can watch all the different people circling around on the Ferris wheel and talk. The most important thing is to be with her on her birthday.
And without even thinking about it, Sticky starts kind of jogging through the alley. He’s excited now because he’s settled on a plan. The weight of decision has lifted from his shoulders. He’s kind of jogging behind the suit guy, slowly cutting into his lead, while at the same time thinking about Anh-thu’s face when she sees the bear. When he sings her “Happy Birthday” in her ear and kisses her sixteen kisses on the lips. And without even thinking about it, Sticky reaches into his pocket and pulls out the steak knife. He pulls the knife out and jogs through the dark alley with it clutched at his side.
The suit guy whips his head around when he hears Sticky’s footsteps, but it’s too late. Sticky slams into him like a free safety. He lowers his shoulder, lunges at the guy and sends him flying into some plastic trash cans. He thrusts the jagged blade against the guy’s neck and grabs a fistful of his hair.
The guy’s eyes are wide. His teeth are long and yellow, lips thin and white. His jacket is ripped at both elbows and tiny drops of dark red blood are starting to soak through. The tip of a dark green tattoo juts out above his collar.
Sticky spies the briefcase, which has sprung open in the fall. It’s full of little white baggies of powder. Drugs. The guy’s a drug dealer. He’s tackled a drug dealer. Sticky goes back to his man, opens his mouth to talk but nothing comes out. Instead of talking he yanks at the guy’s hair and watches his face cringe.
What the hell you want?
the guy says, his voice altered by the pressure of the knife against his throat.
Gimme the money!
Sticky says, pressing the knife harder against the guy’s throat.
The money in your back pocket!
OK, OK, OK,
the guy says, and he holds his hands out to his sides.
All right. Just hold on
. He reaches behind his back slowly, the whole time staring into Sticky’s darting eyes, and into his back pocket. He pulls out the wad of cash and sets it gently on the pavement. Then he holds his hands out to his sides again.
All right, buddy,
he says, almost in a calm voice now,
there it is. There’s the money. But you don’t know who I
am, buddy. You have the money, but I’m just telling you, you
don’t know me
.
Sticky releases the guy’s hair long enough to pick up the money clip and push it into his own back pocket. He has no idea what to do next and this makes him panic. He cracks the guy in the back of the head with the butt of the steak knife and takes off running. He races down the alley as fast as he can. Fists pumping, mouth sucking in air. Chest pounding, burning. He sprints away from what he’s just done as fast as he can, still clutching the steak knife in his hand.
Sticky flies out into Santa Monica Boulevard. He dodges a couple slow-moving cars and ducks into the alley on the other side. He whips his arms at his side, barreling through the length of the alley, and then pops out onto Arizona. A woman in a minivan has to slam on her brakes to avoid hitting him. Her eyes grow huge and she covers her chest with her hand. Sticky slips into the alley on the other side and hurdles a homeless man, an empty crate. On the run, he anxiously looks back over his shoulder but nobody’s there. He pops out onto Wilshire and barely slips past a bus speeding west toward the PCH onramp. The driver sounds his deep horn, swerves slightly, and all the people out walking turn to look. But Sticky’s already halfway down the alley behind the big Catholic church. When another anxious glance behind him reveals nobody he slows down, ducks behind a big trash receptacle and bends over, hands on knees. He begs for breath. Salty sweat rushes down his face and neck. It runs into his eyes and ears and mouth and he can’t get his wind. He leans his head against the church wall. His hands and knees are shaking. When he thinks about what he’s done a wave of panic rushes over him. And then guilt. And then shame. And then incredible excitement. He looks up at the stained-glass windows of the church and prays for a deep breath. Just one good deep breath and he’ll figure out what’s happened.
Sticky peers over his shoulder again, down the dark alley: nobody. He closes his eyes for a second and tries to swallow. He wipes his nose on his shirt and realizes his entire body is shaking uncontrollably. His teeth are chattering. He can’t control any part of himself. Then he notices the steak knife in his hand. He chucks it down the alley and feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
He pulls the wad of money out of his pocket with trembling fingers and slips it out of the money clip. He peeks over his shoulder: nobody. He goes to one knee and quickly counts the twenties in his hands:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
Four hundred bucks, man. Four hundred. It’s the most money he’s ever seen at once. And it’s in his hands.
His
hands. He peeks over his shoulder: nobody. He picks up the four stacks of twenties and counts the money out again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
He wipes the sweat out of his eyes. The sweat off of his forehead. His shirt is completely soaked through, and his heart is still racing. He peers down the dark alley both ways: nobody. He closes his eyes to try and calm down and pulls in his first deep breath. He tries to think about what he’s just done. What it means. Whether or not he’s crossed some invisible line he told himself he’d never cross. He doesn’t know what to think so he stops thinking and pulls in another deep breath. But his body is still trembling. His heart is still racing. He picks up the four stacks of twenties and counts the money out again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
All this money. In
his
hands. Four hundred. He could take Anh-thu anywhere she wants to go. Let her order anything she wants to order. He could walk her into Macy’s and buy her whatever bracelet she wants. He thinks of Dante. Wonders what he’ll say when he hears about this.
You gotta do what you gotta do,
is what he’ll say. But then when he runs through it again in his head, the tackle and the knife to the throat and the blow to the back of the head, the panic comes back. The nausea. The uncontrollable feeling of falling. He swallows hard and looks down the dark alley both ways: nobody.
Get out of here!
he tells himself.
Come on! Go!
He looks down the alley again: nobody. Picks up the four stacks of twenties and counts the money out again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
Four hundred bucks. In his hands.
Get out of here, man!
Go find Annie!
He picks up the four stacks of twenties and counts the money out again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
That’s it!
he tells himself. But as he stands up to leave, he freezes. He can’t move. He hasn’t counted right. He hasn’t stacked the bills right. He hasn’t done anything the way it needs to be done, and his body won’t let him move on to the next step. The next stage. And as he stands there cursing himself, fighting with his body, his mind, all these images come crashing down on him at once: stepping in and out of the shower, tucking and retucking his shirt, tying and re-tying the laces of his shoes, brushing and rebrushing his teeth, washing and rewashing his hands, snapping and resnapping his warm-ups, zipping and rezipping his bag, tossing and retossing change into the bowl with Baby hovering over him, spitting and respitting into the bed of the truck with Baby yelling for him in the background. The cash doesn’t feel right in his hands. It’s off. He’s off. He’s leaning to one side, like after you spin around and around on a merry-go-round and then get off and try to walk. Like that.
He’s counted wrong and now he’s off. And he can’t move. Can’t do anything. He peeks over his shoulder: nobody. He gives in to his body and goes to one knee, starts counting the twenties in his hands again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
And again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
And again:
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-a hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-three hundred . . .
Twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-four hundred.
And before Sticky can pick up the four stacks of twenties and count them out yet again, a dark shadow slinks in from the side and sticks something to the back of his head.
You messed up, buddy,
a voice says. Sticky goes to turn around but two taps to the back of the head make him stop short. The voice says:
Just keep on lookin at that wall, buddy.
This will be over soon
.
The end of the alley is only twenty yards away and Sticky can hear the sound of a car rushing past on California. He can smell the ocean in the air. But all he can feel is the breath of this man on the back of his neck.
Pick up the money, buddy, and hand it up to me slow. Nice
and easy
. Sticky reaches for the cash and slowly brings it up over his head.
That’s it.
When the guy takes the handoff, Sticky spins around and knocks the object out of the guy’s hand. The gun. It tumbles to the ground. The guy staggers back and loses hold of his money. He catches his balance against the trash receptacle and he and Sticky both stare at the gun lying on the ground between them. Sticky jumps at the guy, tries to smack him with a closed fist, but the guy slips it. He shoves Sticky against the wall and reaches down for his gun, cracks Sticky in the mouth. Sticky puts a hand to his bleeding lip. When he looks up the gun is pointed right at his face. He instinctively lunges to the side and sticks his right hand in front of the barrel.
The gun goes off.
The bullet explodes into Sticky’s right hand.
The bullet goes straight through the skin between the thumb and forefinger of his shooting hand, ricochets off the church wall and disappears down the alley.
The guy looks both ways, shoves the gun back in his pants. He reaches down to collect the money and grabs the handle of his briefcase. Then he quickly steps over Sticky and takes off running the other way.
Sticky lays his face down flat against the filthy asphalt. Sweat is streaming down his neck. He rolls over clutching his hand. Rolls back the other way. He opens his mouth wide enough to yell but there’s no sound. He opens his eyes, cheek mashed against asphalt, and from this strange angle watches the guy running away. Watches the boots of this man lifting and falling in silence. He rolls over and looks the other way, sees two older dudes looking at him from the edge of the alley. One of them is pointing. Sticky closes his eyes and opens them. He closes and opens them again and settles his stare on one of the filthy trash receptacle wheels. He stares at the wheel and keeps his face completely straight and then he passes out from the pain.
Before Anh-thu leaves Millers, Sergio checks her bag. Like he always does.
OK, birthday girl,
he says, zipping it open, looking in for less than a second and then zipping it back up. Do your best to forget about this crazy place and go
have some fun
.
Bye, Annie,
Laura and Dori say in a girl-like harmony. Laura winks. Anh-thu smiles, waves to everybody and then walks out into the quiet mall, alone.
All around her, store doors are being shut and locked for the night. Neon signs are being flipped off. Trash bags are being taken out and tossed. Vendors are breaking down their stands and wheeling them away. Security guards, manning the mall exits, fumble with their keys and nod to all the familiar faces of mall employees who head for the parking garage and the freedom of their cars. Anh-thu smiles at one particular guard, Manny, the old Mexican man she always passes on her way out the Colorado exit.
Outside she looks around for Sticky, but there’s no sign of him. She leans against the wall and checks her watch: 9:10. He’s late, she thinks. But he’s always late. It’s possible he’s never once been on time in his life. And besides, she thinks, how appropriate that he be late today, after she has just discovered that late is all that she is. Ten days late. Nothing more. There will be no big talk tonight. No discussion about the future. No weighty decision to make. Everything is still the same, and she’s relieved. She and Sticky are just two high school kids going together.
All of the nervousness Anh-thu has felt for the past couple days has left her exhausted. She hopes Sticky doesn’t want to do anything major. Something that might require her having more energy than she has. Mellow sounds better right about now. Some fish tacos at the park or a hot chocolate on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Something like that, she thinks. Maybe a slice of pizza on the Santa Monica Pier, where they can sit and watch the tourists spinning around on the Ferris wheel. She’d sit and hear about Sticky’s day. About the crazy guys at the gym. Dallas, Dreadlock Man, Old-man Perkins, Dante, New York, Crazy Ray. Sticky always comes back to her with some sort of story involving one of those guys, and she likes listening.
