‘I didn’t call you a cheater, I just asked who dealt,’ Ronnie said. I could almost see him making the effort to pull himself together, to swallow the lump I’d fed him and smile as he did it, but there were tears of rage standing in his eyes (big and bright green, those eyes were Ronnie’s one redeeming feature), and beneath his earlobes the points of his jaw went on bulging and relaxing. It was like watching twin hearts beat in the sides of his face. ‘Who gives a shit, you beat me by ten points. That’s fifty cents, big fucking deal.’
I wasn’t a big jock in high school like Skip Kirk — debate and track had been my only extra-curricular activities — and I’d never told anyone in my life that I’d beat the snot out of them. Ronnie seemed like a good place to start, though, and God knows I meant it. I think everyone else knew it, too. There was a huge wallop of adolescent adrenaline in the room; you could smell it, almost taste it. Part of me — a big part — wanted him to give me some more grief. Part of me wanted to stick it to him, wanted to stick it right up his ass.
Money appeared on the table. Dearie took a step closer, frowning more ponderously than ever, but he said nothing . . . at least not about that. Instead he asked if anyone in the room had shaving-creamed his door, or knew who had. We all turned to look at him, and saw that Stoke Jones had moved into the doorway when Dearie stepped into the room. Stoke hung on his crutches, watching us all with his bright eyes.
There was a moment of silence and then Skip said, ‘You sure you didn’t maybe go walking in your sleep and do it yourself, David?’ A burst of laughter greeted this, and it was Dearie’s turn to flush. The color started at his neck and worked its way up his cheeks and forehead to the roots of his flattop — no faggy Beatle haircut for Dearie, thank you very much.
‘Pass the word that it better not happen again,’ Dearie said. Doing his own little Bogie imitation without realizing it. ‘I’m not going to have my authority mocked.’
‘Oh blow it out,’ Ronnie muttered. He had picked up the cards and was disconsolately shuffling them.
Dearie took three large steps into the room, grabbed Ronnie by the shoulders of his Ivy League shirt, and pulled him. Ronnie got up on his own so the shirt would not be torn. He didn’t have a lot of good shirts; none of us did.
‘What did you say to me, Malenfant?’
Ronnie looked around and saw what I imagine he’d been seeing for most of his life: no help, no sympathy. As usual, he was on his own. And he had no idea why.
‘I didn’t say anything. Don’t be so fuckin paranoid, Dearborn.’
‘Apologize.’
Ronnie wriggled in his grasp. ‘I didn’t say nothing, why should I apologize for nothing?’
‘Apologize anyway. And I want to hear true regret.’
‘Oh quit it,’ Stoke Jones said. ‘All of you. You should see yourselves. Stupidity to the nth power.’
Dearie looked at him, surprised. We were all surprised, I think. Maybe Stoke was surprised himself.
‘David, you’re just pissed off that someone creamed your door,’ Skip said.
‘You’re right. I’m pissed off. And I want an apology from you, Malenfant.’
‘Let it go,’ Skip said. ‘Ronnie just got a little hot under the collar because he lost a close one. He didn’t shaving-cream your fucking door.’
I looked at Ronnie to see how he was taking the rare experience of having someone stand up for him and saw a telltale shift in his green eyes — almost a flinch. In that moment I was almost positive Ronnie had shaving-creamed Dearie’s door. Who among my acquaintances was more likely?
If Dearie had noticed that guilty little blink, I believe he would have reached the same
conclusion. But he was looking at Skip. Skip looked back at him calmly, and after a few more seconds to make it seem (to himself if not to the rest of us) like his own idea, Dearie let go of Ronnie’s shirt. Ronnie shook himself, brushed at the wrinkles on his shoulders, then began digging in his pockets for small change to pay me with.