MAKE ME A MATCH (Running Wild)

by Hutchinson, Bobby

  CHAPTER THREE

  I love pain because it feels so good when it stops.

  Nicols, a large man himself, was with someone bigger and bulkier whose forehead was so low his hairline met his eyebrows.

  Jimmy scanned the room, saw Karen, and moved toward them. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and his pretty-boy features were screwed into a mask of rage

  “You want a divorce, you could ask me straight out, never mind putting the law on me, Karen.”

  She was trembling, and afterward, Eric didn’t remember getting to his feet.

  He did remember getting into Nicols’s personal space and saying in a low voice, “You broke her nose, asshole. And then you ran away like the fucking coward you are.”

  He was aware of the utter satisfaction he felt when he grabbed Jimmy’s shirt with his left hand, drew back his right arm as far as it would go, and felt bone shatter when his fist connected with Jimmy’s nose.

  “That’s for hitting her,” he growled. Blood squirted as if a tap had been turned on, spraying all over Eric’s shirt.

  Jimmy was a stevedore, and he had the muscles to prove it. He drew back a fist and aimed for Eric’s jaw. Fortunately, he missed. The blow hit Eric’s shoulder instead, and he staggered, at which point Lowbrow wrapped a massive arm around Eric’s throat from behind, and Bruno and Rocky let out a simultaneous roar of outrage and grabbed Jimmy.

  For Eric, throwing the guy hanging on his throat was automatic, one of the defensive moves in the judo class he’d once taken was learning how to flip someone over your shoulder. Lowbrow went flying and crashed into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. They both went down in a rain of beer and broken glass, unfortunately falling on someone’s table, which collapsed.

  More glass shattered; women screamed; guys shot to their feet, hollering.

  Peripherally conscious that Jimmy had shaken free of Rocky and Bruno and was heading his way, Eric missed the fact that the bouncer, the approximate size of a Brahma bull, was also closing in on him.

  Rocky made a grab for the bouncer, and Eric saw the guy land a good one on Bruno’s chin. Over the din the bartender was hollering into the phone, which wasn’t a good sign, but it was a little late now to vacate the premises.

  Eric figured later that with his friend’s help, he could have taken the bouncer, but just then someone else tackled him from behind and he went down hard, slicing his hand open on broken glass.

  Something hit him over the head, hard enough to make him dizzy. He bit his tongue, and there must have been a patrol car nearby, because he was still trying to get up when the officer arrived, one small uniformed woman blowing a whistle for all she was worth.

  Nobody paid any attention. The fight had become a free-for-all, and the officer methodically and without prejudice pepper sprayed the people who looked as if they were most involved.

  Suddenly Eric couldn’t breathe or see. He could hear, though.

  “Out, all of you,” the lady cop ordered in a deep voice. “Anyone still here in two minutes goes to jail.”

  Half-blinded by the spray, gasping and choking, Eric couldn’t see the door, but someone helpfully shoved him in the right direction.

  He staggered, felt fresh night air on his skin, and then Karen grabbed him by the arm.

  “What did you think you were doing, Eric?” She was furious and scared, her nails digging into the skin on his arm. He could feel her shaking, and now that it was too late he was sorry he’d reacted the way he had.

  “I don’t need you to go punching Jimmy for me. He’s got a bad temper, and he never liked you anyway. Now he’ll go to a lawyer and have you charged with assault. Or else he’ll get you alone somewhere and beat you up.”

  Eric tried to say Let him try, but his tongue was swollen and what came out was indecipherable. The entire birthday gathering was now out in the parking lot, grouped around Sophie’s sports car. She had her medical bag in the trunk, and she got it out and went into doctor mode.

  “My eyes are burning like a son of a bitch,” Rocky moaned.

  Bruno was making choking, gagging noises.

  “Where’s Fletcher?” Eric couldn’t see, and he knew he was lisping. He thought he was probably losing his eyesight as well as his lungs. His eyes were on fire, streaming tears; his throat burned with every labored breath. His tongue felt way too big for his mouth, and he figured it was probably hanging down like a dog’s did in hot weather.

  “Right here.” Fletcher sounded upbeat. “Nice to know the papers got served, that’s what Nicols was waving around. I’m gonna have to send him another set, though, because I think he left those on the table.”

  Eric coughed and then gagged before he could manage to say, “You girls all okay?”

  Sophie said. “Fletch got us outside just before the cop arrived so none of us got sprayed. Don’t any of you rub your eyes, it’ll make it worse,” she warned in a stern tone. “Anna, run to that grocery on the corner and get me a gallon of milk. It’s alkaline; it’s the best thing for pepper spray.”

  “I can’t run, I’m wearing platforms,” Anna said. “And my chart for today indicates the possibility of minor accidents.”

  “So walk then,” Sophie expelled her breath in a sigh.

  “Skim, two percent, or whole?”

  “Whole, I guess.”

  “I don’t have much money on me,” Anna announced next. “Bruno, do you have ten dollars on you, honey?”

  Eric, prevented from hollering by his tongue and using every ounce of willpower he possessed to stop from burying his fists in his burning eyes, yarded out his wallet with his good hand and threw it hard in the direction of Anna’s voice. He hoped it hit her a good one. He knew Bruno would totally understand.

  He must have missed. “Thanks, Eric,” she purred. “You mind if I get some polish remover while I’m there? My nails are all chipped.”

  “Just go, Anna, would you?” Bruno sounded as frantic and desperate as Eric felt. “We’re dying here, and you’re worrying over your damned nails?”

  “Well, you don’t have to be that way about it.” Anna was huffy. “I’m not the one who got us kicked out of the pub. And I did warn you about the disruptive effect Saturn could have, didn’t I?”

  Finally, Eric heard what he fervently hoped was gravel crunching as Anna strolled off. He also heard Fletcher laughing.

  Sophie took what seemed an awfully long time tending to Rocky before she got around to Eric. She dabbed his cut palm with something that burned almost as bad as his eyes.

  “You really ought to have stitches in here. I’ll do it for you when we get back to Karen’s place.” She wrapped a gauze pad around his hand, and then he heard her telling Bruno to open his mouth so she could have a look at his teeth.

  “Couple loose ones, it’ll make chewing hard for a week or so, but they’ll tighten up again by themselves,” she said in a cheery tone. “And just rinse that cut inside your cheek with saltwater.” She sounded as if she was starting to have as good a time as Fletcher.

  “Lucky the cops aren’t fond of paperwork,” he was saying. “I’d rather not spend tomorrow in front of a magistrate trying to get you all off on drunk and disorderly.”

  Finally, after what seemed like most of the night, Anna came puffing back carrying the milk. “There were two guys in there and they needed money for food, Eric, so I gave them twenty dollars each,” she announced, tucking his wallet back in his shirt pocket. “Giving and getting are exactly the same, you know.”

  Eric couldn’t muster up a response. He pressed the milky pads Sophie handed him against his eyes, and slowly, the pain receded a little and he could squint around.

  His pals were a sorry sight. Bruno’s Western shirt was torn, and his mouth was puffed and bloody. Rocky’s cheek was bruised and swollen. Their eyes looked as though they were bleeding, running tears as if they’d been peeling onions for the last week.

  “That bouncer must have been wearing a suit of armor,” Bruno complained through gritt
ed teeth, cradling his right hand. “I think maybe two of my fingers are broken.”

  Sophie grabbed his hand and manipulated the fingers.

  “Owwww. Go easy,” Bruno yelped, bending double.

  “They’re just sprained,” Sophie concluded. “What all of you need is ice and Tylenol, lots of each.”

  “What all of you need is a brain transplant,” Karen declared, her voice high and trembling. “How am I supposed to teach Simon and Ian not to hit people when their uncles act like Rambo? I didn’t care about the divorce, I told you that. I didn’t want to have to see Jimmy again.”

  “What happened to him? Where’d he and his friend disappear to?” Eric had to maneuver his sore tongue around the words.

  “I saw them getting in a cab. Jimmy’s probably at St. Joe’s ER right now getting a deviated septum splinted,” Sophie said. “Too bad I’m not on shift tonight,” she added in a low tone to Eric. “Sometimes that procedure can be really painful.” She raised her voice and said, “Okay, everybody, let’s take this party to Karen’s place so I can finish the repairs. Leave your car here, Eric, you can get it tomorrow. You can’t drive one-handed, and you can’t see properly. I’ll give you a ride home afterward.”

  Eric thanked Fletcher and Rocky for their backup.

  Anna had already loaded Bruno in their car and driven away.

  At Karen’s house, Sophie froze his palm and sewed it up.

  “Sorry for causing you grief, Karo,” Eric mumbled. “How the hell did Nicols know where to find you?”

  ‘The sitter said a man phoned here and asked where I was, so she told him.”

  “I’ll stay here tonight in case he comes back.” The thought of crashing on Karen’s lumpy sofa in the shape he was in wasn’t exactly inviting, but he didn’t want her left alone.

  Sophie said, “I can stay.”

  Karen shook her head. “Nobody’s staying. Jimmy won’t come here. Anyway, I’ve got those new locks you put on.”

  Eric wasn’t convinced. “I think one of us ought to be here.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Karen sounded desperate. “Please, both of you, go home. I really don’t need a babysitter. I need to be by myself for a while.”

  Eric was about to argue, but Sophie gave him a look and shook her head. As they were leaving, Eric forced his tongue to cooperate one more time.

  “Karo, thanks for my birthday dinner, it was great.”

  “Everybody brought stuff. I only made the cake. I’m glad you enjoyed that part of it, anyhow,” Karen said. She gave him a strained smile and a kiss. “Don’t forget this.” She handed him the envelope with the gift certificate inside. He’d forgotten all about the gift, which almost made the pepper spray worthwhile.

  When Sophie reached his building, he lisped, “You’re sure Karen’s okay on her own?”

  “I’m sure she just needs time alone to settle down.” She reached across and patted his arm. “Don’t tell Karen, but I think punching Nicols was a great way to celebrate your birthday, big brother. I’ve always longed to hit that big turd hard with something heavy.”

  “I’ve never figured out why Karen married him in the first place.”

  “Well, she was pregnant. And he was there, that’s sometimes all it takes.” She reached over and planted a kiss on his cheek as he was getting out of the car. “If he does press charges, I’ve got the X rays from when he hit Karen. We’ll see how far he gets when the judge sees that. Ice and milk and Tylenol,” she reminded him. ‘"You’ll feel lots worse in the morning.” She gunned the motor and gave him a cheery wave as she sped off.

  As usual when it came to medical matters, Sophie was right. Getting out of bed Sunday morning was a preview of what Eric figured ninety-seven was going to feel like if arthritis, eye infection and a brain tumor set in simultaneously. His tongue was still too big for his mouth when he called Karen.

  “I’m fixing breakfast for the boys. We’re all fine.” She added in a low tone, “Jimmy won’t come here, so quit worrying, okay?”

  “Okay.” He didn’t know what made her so certain, but he decided to take her word for it.

  He’d drooled all over the pillow, and the hand Sophie had stitched burned like battery acid when he finally made it to the shower. His knuckles were sore and scraped raw, his head ached, and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he had to grin. Bloodshot eyes with black and purple bogs underneath, drooping mouth, unshaven—he looked as if he’d had what Sophie delicately called a cerebral accident.

  There was an upside to this, though. He was going to make sure he didn’t look much better by Tuesday, which was when he planned to go in and get his sisters’ money back. That old matchmaker would take one look and beg him to take a refund.

  His birthday had been a disaster, but there were better days ahead.

  In a second-story office where the only concessions to modern technology were two telephones, a shoebox-size microwave and an antiquated answering machine, Tessa McBride was having one hell of a time keeping her solemn vow to never smoke again. There had to be better days ahead, because this was one was heading for the cesspool at high speed.

  Clara Beckford, her boss and the owner and founder of Synchronicity, Vancouver’s Most Personal Matchmaking Service, usually kept Tessa on the straight and narrow. Clara made a habit of reminding Tessa that kissing a smoker was like licking old ashtrays, and the smell of smoke was not an aphrodisiac, and if she wanted a meaningful, longtime, committed relationship like she said, she should plan on having lungs that went the distance. And that if she ever caught Tessa smoking in the office, it would result in instant dismissal.

  But Clara hadn’t been at work for six days now, and the steady stream of complaints from the matches Tessa had lined up was enough to make the Dalai Llama light up.

  “I honestly had no idea Louie had dentures,” she said to Rebecca Hyacinth, who, thank god, had phoned instead of barging in to complain the way others had done. “He didn’t mention them on the information sheet. I have it right here.” She rustled a blank piece of paper—the relevant bloody files were lost somewhere in the bulging file cabinet—and listened as the forty-three-year- old woman went on and on about eating dinner and having the chompers suddenly fall half out, which put Rebecca off her food, because they apparently were well laced with globs of spinach. What in blue blazes were they doing eating spinach on a first date? Honestly, people were unbelievable.

  “He wore a green suit and blue socks with brown shoes? No, he didn’t mention being colorblind, either.” Rebecca did have a point there, but Rebecca herself had a shoe polish black beehive hairdo and a high, round belly that could have held an eighth month pregnancy, which made her just that teensy bit hard to match up.

  Tessa didn’t say so, of course, which should have earned her at least one good lungful of nicotine as a reward. Instead, all it got her was another set of teeth marks on the pencil she was chewing. She had excellent teeth at the moment, but pencils could change that.

  “No,” she explained for the seventh time that morning, “Clara isn’t in. She’s recovering from a bad case of the flu.” She wondered whether to give Rebecca Clara’s home number, and decided against it.

  “It’s personal, my business,” Clara was fond of saying. “People don’t want to leave messages on some machine when they’re feeling excited or discouraged about romance. They want to talk to me. I don’t mind having them call me at home.”

  No doubt about it, Clara was a bit of a megalomaniac. But things weren’t normal with Clara right now, so Tessa wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Yes, Rebecca,” Tessa cooed, “I’ll be happy to put your membership on hold until Clara gets back and personally arranges a match for you, and in the meantime I’ll pass along your concerns to her.” She hung up the phone and blew a raspberry.

  “Eat glass and die, Becky, baby.”

  In the ten months she’d worked for Synchronicity, there’d been other occasions when Clara left things in Tessa’s less-than-capa
ble hands, but there was a frightening difference this time.

  Tessa figured her boss was having an emotional meltdown. In the last month, it seemed as if a light had been switched off in Clara’s gypsy dark eyes. Gone was her vivacious attitude, her bouncy walk, her optimism, her decided opinions. She didn’t come in, and she didn’t seem to give much of a damn when Tessa called to update her on what was going on.

  What was going on was a filing disaster. Clara had her own peculiar system when it came to keeping track of clients, and as long as she was on deck, it worked. In the past week, Tessa had spent untold frantic hours trying to figure out who had been matched with whom and when. She’d finally figured out that a good portion of the information must be floating free form in Clara’s head.

  The truth was, Tessa was beyond exasperated with Clara’s point-blank refusal to use computers or even let Tessa have one in the office, insisting that computerizing the business would make it the same as every other slick commercial dating service. Tessa figured it would simply yank Synchronicity into the twenty-first century where it belonged. The business had upward of a hundred-fifty members; it begged for an efficient cross referencing system, which at the very least would prevent matching another poor unfortunate guy, wearing dentures and blue socks, with Rebecca.

  And it would allow her to make faces at photos on the screen while being bitched deaf, dumb, and cross-eyed on the phone.

  At first, Tessa had been totally disillusioned to find out that matchmaking involved more complaining than it did hearts and happy endings. Clara had explained the Zen attitude, where the matchmaker simply did the best possible and didn’t dwell on the fact that only one or two percent of the people who joined actually found someone to ride off with into the sunset.

  The fact was, Synchronicity made a living on those who sought without finding. They were the ones who renewed their membership regularly. Not that she and Clara ever stopped genuinely trying to find mates for people, goodness gracious, no. But it was impossible to succeed for everyone, even God didn’t do that, Clara had been known to declare.