A Pagan's Nightmare (24 page)

The Marlins’ pitcher kept throwing over to first to hold the runner close to the base. After the third throw over, Larry turned
and spoke across the empty seats between us. “Ned, I know you said you didn’t want to talk business at the ballpark, but I
can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to know what that producer said or I’m gonna start pacing around the stadium.”

I knew this was coming.

I could not look Larry in the eye. I just kept staring at the infield, not really focused on anything—until the Marlins’ pitcher
beaned the batter. The home crowd groaned at the sound of ball hitting flesh. Fastball to the shoulder muscle. Ouch.

The batter staggered to first, and I used this moment to try to level with Larry. “Angie and I promised each other that tonight
would be a make-up date. We limited our topics to small talk and flirting. This means that you and I can’t talk business.”

Larry sat silent for a minute—until the pitcher walked the next batter to load the bases. “Did you and the producer talk numbers?”

“I told you—I can’t talk business. Let’s just enjoy the game.”

Larry drew his legs in from the aisle and leaned over to pick something up from under his seat. He brought up an unopened
packet of ketchup, tore off the corner, and squirted the contents into his right palm. Then he extended his arm across the
empty seats. “Go ahead, dip your finger in it.”

“For what?” I asked, wondering if he had gone mad.

“So you can write the number on your palm.”

“With ketchup?”

“Of course. This way you can keep your promise to Angie, and I can find out what the producer offered.”

The next batter strode to the plate, and I reached across seat 3 to dip my left index finger in Larry’s handful of ketchup.
Sufficiently dipped, this finger found its way to my right hand and drew a large red eight in the palm. I held this red palm
up for Larry’s inspection.

His reaction stretched over several seconds. He read my palm, blinked in disbelief, grinned stupidly, read my palm a second
time. Then his grin grew into something beyond stupid.

He moved his lips in slow motion, “Eight
hundred thousand?”
he asked in a whisper.

I shook my head no before thrusting my palm across the seat at him again. Ketchup oozed down my wrist.

His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He gathered himself and whispered, “Eight
million?”

I shook my head again, this time harder.

The crowd booed as the Marlins’ manager removed the starting pitcher and brought in a lefty. Over the chorus of jeers, Larry
shouted at me. “I don’t understand… eight
what?”

I momentarily forgot my pledge to Angie and shouted back. “Just eight. Eight thousand!”

I’d seen ruptured balloons deflate more slowly. Larry’s very breath left him;his arms flopped over the armrests, and his legs
slid back out into the aisle. He remained in this posture while the lefty warmed up and the crowd continued to boo.

“That’s all?” Larry asked.

I nodded and wiped the ketchup from my palm with a napkin. “It’s an offer to option the movie rights. A two-year option for
eight grand.”

“You declined his offer, didn’t you? I mean, surely my stuff is worth more than that…. Isn’t it?”

“I told Mylan that I’d talk to you about the ending, then get back to him.”

Neither of us was watching when Atlanta’s oldest player smashed his bat into the next pitch. Both of us, however, followed
the ball’s trajectory until it slammed into the right-center field wall. The first of three runners crossed the plate, then
the second and third runners slid into home, one behind the other. The umpire signaled safe, hesitated as the ball got past
the catcher, and signaled safe again. A three-run triple.

That’s when Angie and Miranda returned with soft drinks and pretzels.

“Did we miss anything?” Angie asked as she settled back into her seat.

“Just a few runs, dear. Nothing major.”

The small talk resumed and, thanks to a few deft questions from Angie, it was revealed that Miranda worked as a news editor,
enjoyed the occasional Killian’s Red, and preferred Pantene shampoo.

After the win, the four of us left Turner Field with thousands of other happy fans. Larry and Miranda strode ahead of Angie
and myself, and it was then that Angie asked me a question with a tad too much volume. Her question was, “Can I ask Larry
a little something about the yacht-stealing part?”

Miranda turned in mid-stride, eyebrows raised. “A stealing part to what?” she asked with a smile and great innocence, like
people do when they interrupt at cocktail parties.

I butted in before Angie could answer. “Oh, just a term paper that our son, Zach, has to write for an ethics class at Auburn.”

Miranda seemed content with my answer. Soon she strode ahead with Angie, the two of them on to some topic involving Underground
Atlanta.

I walked along with Larry and spoke out the side of my mouth. “She still doesn’t know that she’s the main character in your—”

Larry smiled and waved to the Braves mascot, who had attracted a crowd in the parking lot and was handing out free plastic
bats to kids. “Not a clue.”

“Have you even shown her the first chapter?”

Larry applauded loudly as the mascot led the crowd in orchestrated cheers. “Nope,” he said. “All things in their proper time.”

I walked along wondering how this young lady would receive Larry’s tomahawk chop of confession.

A quick scalping, perhaps?

At the exit gate we said good-bye to Miranda and Larry, then made a right and walked up a sidewalk toward our car. We passed
a street vendor on the way, and before I could object, Angie was digging in her purse for money and ordering a hamburger all
the way and a large Coke.

“You know how caffeine keeps you awake at night,” I said as she paid the man. “And didn’t you eat two hot dogs at the game?”
Suddenly I was very concerned with my wife’s figure.

She handed me her purchase. “Carry this, honey. It’s not for me.”

Five minutes later we were north of the stadium and beneath an 1-85 bridge, standing on the curb and peering up into dark,
angled crevices. “Victorrrr?” Angie shouted.

I felt the need to intercede. “Honey, this could be dangerous. This side of town is—”

“Victorrrrr!”

The raspy voice waited for a break in the traffic before speaking. The voice came from the fourth dark crevice. He had an
old sleeping bag wrapped around him. “That you, Mizz Watson?”

“And Mr. Watson,” I offered out of sheer instinct.

Angie stepped around me and scaled the first few feet of concrete. “It’s me, Victor. I brought you a burger.”

He shuffled down and accepted the meal and sniffed its warmth. “With pickles and ketchup and everything?”

“All the way. Just like you prefer. And a drink, too.”

He climbed back up toward his condo before turning to me with one last comment. “If you’re Mistuh Watson, then you should
be proud to have a woman like
Mizz
Watson.”

What could I do but
agree?

Saturday morning I woke to the smell of pancakes. Blueberry, medium well.

Since Angie was still sleeping soundly in the center of our king-sized bed, this scent could mean only one thing.

Robed and barefoot and not very surprised, I descended the stairs and found our son, Zach, sitting at our breakfast table,
chewing with gusto. His eating was intense;his clothes, wrinkly. Everything about him looked disheveled, from his Dave Mathews
Band T-shirt to his khaki shorts to his leather sandals with the broken straps. A small duffel sat on the floor at his feet.

He chewed a huge bite, wiped syrup from the corners of his mouth, and grinned up at me. “Had a free weekend, Pop. Hope you
and Mom still have room for me.”

Since he was busy eating, my greeting was a simple squeeze of his shoulders. “You been up all night?”

“Yep, but it’s not what you think. I’ve been reading.”

“Of course you have,” I said, not believing he would be studying on a weekend. “And did you make enough pancakes for all of
us?”

“Plenty,” he said, nodding at the stove top. “And by the way, great story.”

“What story?”

“The one you left spread out on the sofa in the den. That’s what I’ve been reading.” He swallowed half a pancake in one gulp.
“I just finished the part about the guys stealing the yacht. This the same story Mom warned me about?”

I opened a cabinet and withdrew a glass. “What did your mother tell you?”

Zach poured syrup on his next bite and let the morsel dangle on his fork. “Well, Dad, just before you went to L.A., Mom called
and
told me that you’re representing a story that promotes atheism, foul language, petty crime, and very little respect for personal
property.” He counted off each of these shortcomings on his fingertips. Finally he glanced at me as if searching for confirmation.
“So, is that the same story I found on the sofa?”

I tried to think of a worthy comeback, but the morning was too new so I exercised my parental right to change the subject.
“What time did you get in?”

“’Bout 3:30 a.m.”

I shook my head slowly and with great exaggeration. “Son, we’ve always been able to talk. So if you need to tell me that you
were at your frat party, had a bit too much fun, and—”

Zach dropped his fork and waved his hands in front of my face. “Earth to Dad! I’m in a
service
fraternity. We work with foreign-exchange students, tutor people in English, hold car washes… that sorta thing.”

“Oh.” I opened the fridge and removed a carton of milk. “But still, you haven’t even been to bed yet?”

“Nah, but I’ll sleep today… after you let me read the ending. You do have it, don’t you?”

Angie came up behind me and thrust an empty glass around my waist, shaking it to encourage me to pour. “Yes, Ned, we all want
to see the ending.”

I poured us both a glass, and we toasted our Friday night makeup date. She filled two plates with the remaining pancakes and
set them on the table before hugging Zach from behind.

“Glad you’re home, precious,” she said, and dipped a finger in his plate of syrup. “Mmm, and you even cooked for us.” Then
she hugged him again.

“Mom… don’t smother. Just one normal hug is fine.”

After devouring my breakfast, I wiped my milk mustache and pointed into the den at my computer. “Clan, the ending is supposed
to arrive this morning.”

They pointed me toward the den, where I logged onto the Web and found an e-mail from Larry.

* * *

Ned, find attached the first part of the ending. Call me later.

Larry-who-is-surely-worth-more-than-eight-grand

While pages printed, Zach and Angie held a brief argument over who should read first. They even pointed their forks at each
other from across our breakfast table.

“I’m only home for a day and a half, Mom,” Zach explained in desperation, threatening to shake syrup on her.

Angie conceded to her son. But then I printed out a second copy.

Zach took his pages from the printer and went outside to sit in the white rocker on our front porch. Pages in hand and rocking
slowly, he had no idea that he sat just feet from where a protest had been held a week earlier, organized by his own mother.

The Watsons… just a normal suburban family.

A
QUARTER MILE FROM SHORE
, Castro’s yacht had imbedded its nose deep in a sandbar. MC Deluxe caused the imbedding, yet no one was left on board to
complain. At 4:35 a.m. the stolen vessel sat vacant, already abandoned, its crew having fled over the starboard side—via rope
ladder. Lanny, DJ Ned Neutral, MC, the Former Donald, and the ever-surprising Crackhead were swimming hard for the shore.

A beam of light swept across the water, then jerked out of control like a bad home movie. Some two hundred yards behind the
escapees, the Coast Guard cutter slid to a sudden halt, stranding itself on the same sandbar. This event—at least from the
escapees’ perspective—served to even things up.

By the time the guards in black fatigues realized what had befallen them, and Marvin had reclaimed his bullhorn, the fleet
five were halfway to shore. Battling waves, rain, darkness, and some annoying seaweed that wrapped around their wrists and
ankles, they swam hard and squinted through the downpour.

They proved unequal in swimming skills, however. The order had not changed since they first left the yacht: Crackhead was
the best swimmer and remained several body lengths out front, MC Deluxe was in a tie for second with Lanny, the Former Donald
held onto fourth, and DJ Ned was fifth, far off the pace.

Behind them the bullhorn sounded. “THOU SWIMMETH TO THY DOOM!”

Lanny turned in the water to check on Ned. Beyond the DJ he saw guards on the side of the cutter, lowering an inflated raft
into the sea, Marvin behind them with the bullhorn. Through the rain Lanny saw seven guards pile into the raft, one of them
revving an outboard motor.

Lanny heard the motor accelerate. A beam from a spotlight passed beside him, then behind him. Back and forth over the water
went the beam. Lanny dove under, then rose to check on Ned. Still a long ways from shore, Ned trailed even farther behind,
trying his best to propel his large frame through the sea.

“Ned, hurry!”

Ned was by now winded and struggling. “I’ll make it, Lann-o…. Just go!”

Lanny tried to touch bottom with his feet but could not. His survival instincts screamed at him to keep going. He swam harder,
harder still, and soon was only a few yards behind Crackhead and MC, who remained out front.

To his right Lanny saw marsh grass, only the tips of the blades showing. The tide had risen, and if there was any beach, it
was hidden by the marsh.

Far to his left, the guards in the inflatable raft angled across breakers and bounced over waves. Their spotlight shown firmly
on the Former Donald, who had turned left in an attempt to outmaneuver—but had unknowingly swam right into the path of the
guards.