Big Trouble (14 page)

ANDREW, sucking hard on a straw inserted into a thick chocolate shake, rejoined Matt outside the Gap. From the low-fidelity speakers of the Johnny Rockets across the street came the voice of young Elvis:

Andrew, reluctantly parting his lips from his straw, said, “Can you imagine being
proud
to say that somebody was your buttercup?”

Matt thought about it.

“Like,” said Andrew, “you're introducing her to people, and you go, ‘This here is MY BUTTERCUP!' Hey, did you pee your pants?”

“Shit,” said Matt, looking down at his khakis, which, as was mandatory for seventeen-year-old boys, were six waist sizes too large and covered only the lower butt area. The JetBlast Junior had indeed leaked, forming a large, darkish wet splotch on the right side of Matt's crotch.

“Shit,” said Matt, again.

“Here comes Jenny,” said Andrew.

“Shit,”
said Matt. He violently untucked his white T-shirt and tried to tug it down over the splotch.

“Hi,” said Jenny.

“Hi,” said Matt, twisting his lower body sideways, trying to aim his splotch away from her.

“Is that a squirt gun in your pocket,” asked Jenny, “or are you just glad to see me?”

Andrew barked in laughter, spitting a milk shake mouthful onto the sidewalk. Matt tried to punch him, but missed.

“So,” said Jenny, “where are we gonna do this? There can only be one witness, right? So it's like
way
too crowded here.”

“I was thinking, we could go that way,” said Matt, gesturing toward Grand Avenue. “There's a parking lot behind the five-and-dime store.”

“OK,” said Jenny.

“Listen,” said Matt, “I was wondering if, after I kill you, if you're not doing anything, I mean . . .”

“What he means,” said Andrew, backstepping quickly to avoid Matt's second punch attempt, “is he's proud to say you're his buttercup.”

“Matt,” said Jenny, solemnly, “I would be
honored
to be your buttercup.”

Whoa
.

“OK,” said Matt, just as solemnly. “But I gotta kill you first.”

They set off toward the five-and-dime, Matt making an effort to keep his splotch on the side away from Jenny, but otherwise feeling good and natural, walking next to her.

As they left the noise and bright lights of CocoWalk, the three teenagers did not notice the stocky figure of Jack Pendick, Crime Fighter, following unsteadily twenty-five feet behind them, his hand in his pistol pocket, the nasal wail of Phil Collins filling his melted mind as he steeled himself for whatever was coming in the air tonight.

“I
can't see out this thing,” said Eddie.

“Well,
try
, goddammit,” said Snake.

They were standing at the entrance to the Jolly Jackal, wearing panty hose on their heads. Snake had pulled the left leg of his panty hose over his face; the right leg was dangling down his chest. Eddie had pulled the pelvic region of his panty hose over his face, so that both of the legs were hanging down his back, making him look like a large, frightened rabbit.

“I'm just saying,” said Eddie, “we should of got a lighter shade.”

“We got what we got,” said Snake.

They had obtained the panty hose from the five-and-dime in Coconut Grove. They had not had time to examine their selections carefully, because Snake had shoplifted them while Eddie had distracted the store employees by pretending to have a seizure. Snake had grabbed the first panty hose he saw. They turned out to be Hanes Control Top, for the full-figured woman, in jet black.

“Might as well have a bucket over my head,” said Eddie.

“You just do like I tole you,” said Snake. “You got the sack?”

“I got the damn sack,” said Eddie, patting a rolled-up Winn-Dixie grocery bag tucked into the waistband of his shorts. The plan was, while Snake held the gun on the bartender, Eddie was going to fill the sack with money from the cash register, starting with the large bills, then the small bills, then, time permitting, the coins.

“OK,” said Snake, taking a deep breath. “Remember, don't say nothin' in there. 'Specially don't say my name. And don't do nothin' stupid.”

“Far as I'm concerned,” said Eddie, “this whole fuckin' idea is stupid.”

“We'll see who's stupid,” said Snake, gripping his gun and pushing open the door.

“So,” said Matt, “where do you want to be shot?” He, Jenny, and Andrew had walked through the alley from Grand Avenue and were in the dimly lit parking lot behind the five-and-dime, which contained a couple dozen cars, and, at the moment, no other people.

“Whyn't you shoot her in the crotch?” said Andrew. “You could be, like, a couple.”

“Shut up,” said Matt. To Jenny, he said, “How about I just shoot you on your hand?”

“OK,” she said. She liked that Matt was considerate about where he shot her.

“OK, then,” said Matt. “Andrew, get ready to witness this.”

“Yes, SIR!” said Andrew, leaning forward and scrunching his face into a major frown to indicate how seriously he was taking this responsibility.

Jenny held out her right arm, turning the palm toward Matt, offering her hand to him. He could not believe how beautiful she looked. He raised the JetBlast Junior, holding it with both hands, straight out, like on the TV cop shows. He aimed at Jenny's hand and began to squeeze the trigger.

“FREEZE!” came the hoarse shout from the alley. The three teenagers turned to see a stocky shape lumbering toward them. “FREEZE!” the shape yelled again, even though so far nobody had moved. Then the shape emitted a pop, and the windshield of the car next to Matt fractured into a craze of cracks.

“Holy shit, he's
shooting
,” said Andrew.

“Come on,” said Matt. He grabbed Jenny's arm and, pulling her with him, started running toward the far end of the parking lot. “Andrew!” he yelled back over his shoulder. “C'MON!”

Andrew started running after Matt and Jenny.

“FREEZE!” yelled the shape again. There was another pop.

Matt kept running, still towing Jenny, who was whispering. “JesusJesusJesusJesus” as she ran, one Jesus per step. There was another pop and an instantaneous
THUNK
as a bullet struck near Andrew, who dove sideways behind a car. Matt and Jenny reached the edge of the parking lot, burst through a thick hedge, and found themselves in the waist-high weeds of an unlit, trash-strewn backyard. They stumbled straight ahead, blindly, into the dark.

Back in the parking lot, Andrew, crouching, fear-frozen, behind the car, heard the shape lumbering toward him. It was breathing hard.

“FREEZE!” it gasped. “FRUNHHHMPH.”

The shape, having tripped on a low concrete barrier, went down like a two-hundred-pound sack of suet. The pistol went clattering ahead, coming to rest directly in front of the crouching Andrew. Andrew, not thinking at all, just doing, grabbed the pistol, jumped up, and sprinted toward the alley leading back to Grand Avenue, past the sprawled, moaning mass of Jack Pendick, Crime Fighter.

WHEN Snake pushed open the door of the Jolly Jackal, it banged hard into Leo, who had been on the other side, starting to pull the door open for Puggy, who was straining under the weight of the suitcase containing Arthur's bomb. Behind Puggy was Arthur, feeling in his pocket for his car keys so he could open the trunk of his Lexus. Behind Arthur was John, holding the briefcase.

The force of the opening door knocked Leo into Puggy, who staggered back and dropped the suitcase on Arthur's toe. Arthur screamed and lurched hard into John, who fell backward over a chair, landing on the floor, dropping the briefcase.

Snake, surprised to see so many people right there, jerked his gun up and waved it vaguely around. He said, “Don't nobody
unh
.”

Snake stumbled forward a step. Eddie, right behind him, had walked into his back.

“Watch
out
, goddammit,” Snake said.

“I can't see
shit
,” whispered Eddie.

“Just
shut up
,” Snake said. To Leo, Puggy, John, and Arthur, he said, “Stick 'em up.”

They stuck 'em up, except for John, who was lying on the floor next to the briefcase, and who stuck 'em more or less horizontally.

On the TV screen, two hefty women with lip fuzz were beating on a man with long greasy hair and maybe 60 percent of his original teeth.

Snake said, “OK, first thing.” He moved close to Puggy, who started to back away, watching the gun. Snake—using his left foot, the one Puggy had not broken—kicked Puggy hard in the balls. Soundlessly, Puggy fell to the floor, putting his hands between his legs. Snake kicked him in the face. Puggy moved his hands up to cover his face and curled away from Snake. Snake kicked him in the back, twice, then stepped away.

“I ain't done with you yet,” he said. He pointed the gun at Leo and said, “Open the cash register. Keep your hands where I can see 'em. You reach for that fuckin' baseball bat and I blow your fuckin' head off.”

Leo, keeping his hands up and his eyes on the gun, backed around the bar and over to the cash register. Keeping his left hand in the air, he pressed a touchpad on the register. The cash drawer slid open.

“OK,” said Snake, elbowing Eddie. “Go get it.”

Eddie, holding his hands out in front of him like Boris Karloff in
The Mummy
, inched forward until he felt the bar. He then began to feel his way along it.

“Jesus CHRIST, will you hurry UP?” said Snake.

“Next time,
I
hold the gun,” said Eddie. With his right hand, he pulled the waistband of the panty hose away from the bottom of his face, so he could see the floor right in front of him. He shuffled around the end of the bar and over to the cash register. He looked in the cash drawer.

“I'll be goddamn,” he said.

“Get the big bills first,” said Snake.

“
Which
big bill?” said Eddie. “The one? Or the other one?”

“What the
fuck
are you talkin' about?” asked Snake.

“I'm talkin' about, there's two bills in here, and they're both ones.”

“There's gotta be more,” said Snake.

“Oh yeah, there's more,” said Eddie. “There's, looks like, prolly a buck fifty in change in here.”

Snake pondered this.

“You want me to put it all in the sack?” asked Eddie, holding up the Winn-Dixie grocery bag.

Snake pointed the gun at Leo and said, “Where's the money?”

Leo shrugged. “Business very bad,” he said, pronouncing it “wary bod.”

“You got the money
somewhere
,” said Snake. “You wanna get shot?”

“No,” said Leo.

“You don't gimme the money,” said Snake, “you're
gonna
get shot.”

On the TV screen, the greasy-haired man had yanked down the front of one of the lip-fuzzed women's tank tops, exposing a pair of massive flopping breasts. The nipples were electronically blotted out, in accordance with the rules of network-TV decency.

From the floor, John said, “I have money.”

Snake looked at him. “Where?” he asked.

“Wallet,” said John. “In my pants. I give to you.”

Snake pointed the gun straight at John's head. He said, “It better be a wallet you pull outta them pants.”

John, moving slowly, put his right hand in his pants pocket, pulled out a cheap cloth wallet, and tossed it across the floor to Snake. Snake picked it up with his non-gun hand and counted the contents with his thumb. This did not take long, because the wallet contained one ten, one five and three singles.