“He said he’d refer me to group counseling.”
“Yeah,” his uncle said in a flat voice. “He gave me some names.”
“I don’t think he was the right person for me.”
“He said the same thing.”
“I’m sorry,” Dooley said.
“I don’t want sorry, Ryan. Sorry is bullshit. I want you to do what you’re supposed to do. Grow up, for Christ’s sake. This is no joke.”
The rest of the meal passed in silence. Dooley was glad when it was time to clear the table. He was gladder still when his uncle turned on the sports channel in the living room while Dooley cleaned up the kitchen.
Fourteen
Dooley rolled out of bed the next morning with every intention of doing the right thing. He was scheduled to work that night. Schedules were posted every Saturday for the coming week and once they were set, they were carved in stone. Dooley had started at the video store right after he moved in with his uncle, so that made three months he’d been working there. He’d never missed a shift. He’d gone in a bunch of times when other people called in sick, but he’d never called in sick himself. Rhodes’s get-together was tonight. If Dooley wanted to go, he had two choices: switch with someone or call in sick. The only person he knew well enough to ask to switch was Linelle, and she was already working tonight, which meant he’d have to call in sick. He would also have to tell his uncle. At least, he should tell him. He could imagine how well that would go. His uncle would want to know why he was telling the store he was sick when, in fact, he was perfectly healthy. Then Dooley would have to make another decision—tell the truth: I’ve been invited to this party; or lie: maybe something like, I asked this girl out. If he lied, his uncle would want to know why the hell he had asked a girl out when he knew full well he was scheduled to work. He’d also want to know who the girl was. Then he’d tell Dooley, take her out some night when you’re not working. If he told the truth, his uncle would want to know why the hell he had accepted a party invitation when he knew full well he was scheduled to work (in other words, tough shit, Ryan, obligation and responsibility trump party time). He’d also want to know who was having the party and, tell me the truth, Ryan, are we talking booze, maybe a little smoke? Because if we are… no party time for Dooley.
And that was just too bad, right?
Then Dooley’s uncle came into the kitchen, fully dressed, a mug in his hand, which he refilled from the coffee machine, and said, “You working tonight?”
“Yeah,” Dooley said. “Until closing. Why?”
“Jeannie has some charity event she’s been working on. One of those fancy dress things at a hotel downtown. We’ll be late. Later than you.”
“No problem,” Dooley said.
And there, just like that, he had an opening. Still, he might not have taken it if he hadn’t run into Rhodes in one of the school bathrooms that morning and if Rhodes hadn’t said to him, “So, you’re going to be there tonight, right? Because the more people who show up, the more money we raise, and I guess I don’t have to tell you what that would mean to Beth.” And, just like that, her face appeared in Dooley’s head and the opening his uncle had given him became the door that he just had to walk through.
The rest of the day unfolded like every other mind-numbing weekday: class, lunch, class, class. Then home—which was deserted—where he called the store and prayed that Linelle would answer. When she did, sounding bored as she rattled off the name of the store, its location, and, “How may I help you?”—all of it delivered in the same prairie-flat tone—he told her, “I’m calling in sick.”
Linelle perked up immediately. “Kevin’s gonna be pissed,” she said with delight. “He’s gonna go all spluttery and red in the face. Thanks, Dooley. You made my day.”
“Do me one more favor?”
“I’m going to expect payback.”
“If my uncle calls the store—he probably won’t, but if he does—tell him I’m on a break. Ask him, does he want to leave a number where he can be reached. He’ll probably say I can get him on his cell. If he does, call my pager, okay?”
“This is getting complicated, Dooley.”
“He probably won’t call. He’s going out tonight. But just in case. Okay?”
“You owe me big time.”
“Goes without saying,” Dooley said. He didn’t know why, but he felt comfortable talking to Linelle. He knew she knew all about him, but she didn’t seem to care. The thing about Linelle, though: she didn’t seem to care about anything.
Next: Shower and get dressed. Put on something nice but not too fancy. Or should it be fancy? Shit. He didn’t know. He finally decided on clean black jeans, shoes (not sneakers), and a black shirt he had bought with his first paycheck from the store. All nice, but casual, comfortable. Ready to go.
He stopped at a bank machine on his way to Rhodes’s place. Rhodes had said the party was to raise money for a scholarship in Everley’s name. Dooley wondered how much he should give and how much other people would be giving. The kids who were going to be at the party had actually known Everley. They were his friends. Dooley hadn’t really known the guy and, anyway, he hadn’t liked him. He withdrew two twenties, broke one of them buying a pack of gum, and set aside the other twenty and a five-dollar bill to put toward the scholarship.
When he got to Rhodes’ house, he stood outside on the sidewalk for a few minutes, looking at the house and thinking: Wow! The place looked like a castle. It was made of stone and even had a turret on one end. Dooley bet it would be cool to have a room in that turret, with windows all the way around. The house stood on a property that was flanked on both sides by wide lawns edged with flowerbeds. Tucked away behind the house, but still visible from the sidewalk, was a six-car garage. All the garage doors were closed, so Dooley couldn’t see if there actually were six cars inside. However many there were, he bet they were high-end. All the other houses that Dooley had walked past on Rhodes’s street were as big as Rhodes’s. Some were even bigger. Dooley wondered how come a guy who lived in a house like this in a neighborhood like this went to a regular school instead of some exclusive private school.
It wasn’t Rhodes who answered the door when Dooley rang—of course not. It was a small, brown-skinned young woman in—a maid’s uniform! Dooley had never seen anything like it outside of the movies and TV.
“I’m here for the party,” Dooley said.
The young woman stepped aside so that Dooley could enter. She was pretty but seemed shy and didn’t look him in the eyes. She gestured to her left, where Dooley heard the babble of voices underlaid by the pulse of music. He followed the noise and found Rhodes in what looked like a gigantic games room filled with people and all the big-ticket toys money could buy—a pool table, a pinball machine, a couple of arcade-style video games, a flat screen TV—plus a wet bar and a table spread with snack food. He stood in the doorway and scanned the room. There was a large photograph of Mark Everley trimmed in black sitting on an easel near the bar. In front of the easel, on a small table, was a glass ball with an opening at the top—it reminded Dooley of a goldfish bowl. It was half-filled with money—olive green and pink, which meant twenties and, Jesus, fifties—as well as what looked like checks. Rhodes was sitting on a couch near the easel, a skinny blonde beside him. He had a bottle of beer in his hand. Everyone in the place had a drink of some kind. Rhodes spotted Dooley and waved him over.
“Glad you could make it,” he said. He introduced Dooley to the people around him, including the guy Landers, whose first name turned out to be Peter and who obviously remembered Dooley (he stared at him as if he were a stain on the carpet before leaning over and whispering something in Rhodes’s ear) and another guy, Marcus Bracey. Both of them, judging from their clothes and accessories—check the shoes, check the watch—looked to be out of Rhodes’s league financially. Dooley glanced around to see if he recognized anyone else and saw Gillette on the other side of the room, watching him. He wondered how Gillette had got himself in
with this crowd.
Rhodes smiled pleasantly as he listened to something Landers was saying—Dooley wasn’t paying attention; he was looking at Gillette. Then Rhodes said to Dooley, “What can I get you to drink? We got beer—domestic and imported. Also the hard stuff. If you’re into smoke…”
“Ginger ale would be fine,” Dooley said.
Rhodes laughed. “Come on,” he said. “It’s a party. People are supposed to have fun remembering Mark. Like a wake, you know?”
“Ginger ale would be fine,” Dooley said again.
Rhodes shrugged. “Then ginger ale it is,” he said. He turned to the skinny blonde beside him on the couch, who was, in Dooley’s opinion, wearing too much makeup, and said, “Be an angel, Jen, and get the man a ginger ale.”
“Why can’t Esperanza get it?” Jen said, her voice whiny.
“Esperanza is on the door,” Rhodes said. He had a soft way of speaking that didn’t have much effect on the blonde. When she didn’t move, he leaned over, whispered something in her ear, and kissed her on the cheek. That got some action. She giggled and staggered to her high-heeled feet. She was back a few minutes later with Dooley’s drink.
Dooley sipped his ginger ale and listened while Rhodes told Bracey, yeah, it was true his dad had paid what sounded to Dooley like a fortune for the latest addition to his Fender Stratocaster collection, which was a Fender that had belonged to Eric Clapton for about five seconds. He told Dooley that his dad also had Fenders that had belonged to Muddy Waters, Jeff Beck, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Richie Sambora, and Tommy Castro, whoever the hell he was. Dooley just nodded. He also had (the information provided by Bracey) a gun collection that included a Colt six-shooter that had supposedly once belonged to Wyatt Earp and a decommissioned automatic weapon that had been featured in a Schwarzenegger movie—all of it, like the Fenders, under lock and key.
Dooley looked around while Bracey and the others talked. He wondered where Beth was and if she was really going to show up.
“Hey, Dooley,” Rhodes said. “You shoot pool?” He nodded to the pool table that dominated the far end of the room.
“Not in a long time,” Dooley said. And, boy, hardly ever sober.
“Come on.” Rhodes stood up. As Dooley got to his feet, he saw Gillette across the room again, still staring at him. Rhodes noticed, too.
“Eddy mentioned that he knows you,” Rhodes said. “He wasn’t big on details, but I get the impression you and he aren’t exactly best buddies anymore.”
It would surprise Dooley if everyone in the room didn’t come to that conclusion. Gillette was glaring at him like he wished he could take a chainsaw to him, or a baseball bat.
“How did you two hook up?” Dooley said.
“Well, he is part of our school community,” Rhodes said. It took Dooley a moment to get that he was trying to be funny. The principal at their school always referred to the place as a community and was always reminding them that in a healthy community, people make allowances and accommodations and everyone tries to get along.
“There’s all kinds of geeks and losers that go to that place,” Dooley said. “I don’t see all of them here.”
“Eddy got off on the right foot with me,” Rhodes said with a smile. “He trashed a car of this guy I know, a guy who lives right across the street.”
Dooley could think of a lot of ways to get a friendship off to a good start, but that one sure hadn’t come to mind.
“It was over some girl,” Rhodes said. “And the guy is a total prick. So I—” He ducked his head a little, just like he had out in the schoolyard when he’d stopped Landers from hammering Warren. It made him look modest and kind of shy. Dooley bet the girls liked that look. “I kind of alibi’d him,” he said. “I know it was wrong. God, my parents would kill me if they found out I’d lied to them—and to the police. But it served the guy right. He’s one of those guys who thinks that just because his parents are loaded, he can be a dickhead and no one will call him on it.”
Dooley guessed that Rhodes had a different view on what it meant to have rich parents.
“Eddy’s nothing like most of the people I know,” Rhodes conceded. “But he’s okay. He can be a lot of fun.”
That had been Dooley’s experience, too, once upon a time.
Rhodes nudged Dooley toward the pool table, and Dooley let himself get roped into a game, which he lost and which Rhodes seemed to have a good time winning, although he was a gentleman about it. Dooley started to relax a little and even let himself think, Jesus, it must be nice, living in a place like this, being able to entertain so many people—he couldn’t begin to figure how much all the booze and food and what-have-you was costing. Rhodes played Landers next, while Dooley and Bracey watched. Landers turned out to be a better pool player than Rhodes, but Rhodes didn’t seem to mind. He leaned on his cue and watched Landers sink three balls in a row. Landers was lining up another shot when all of a sudden he straightened up, glowering. Rhodes and Bracey both turned to where Landers was looking. Landers thrust his cue at Bracey and strode across the room, muscling a few people aside.
“Here we go,” Rhodes said. He handed his pool cue to Dooley and went after Landers, who by this time was shoving a guy who had been making it with a stick-thin girl in a tiny black skirt. The guy Landers had shoved staggered backward, but he recovered fast and came back, ready to deal with the situation. The stick-thin girl was tugging on Landers’ arm, trying to pull him back. Landers yelled something at her. Rhodes stepped in between Landers and the other guy. He had his arms out, keeping Landers and the other guy away from each other, and was talking mostly to Landers. Dooley remembered the scene in the schoolyard. He had the impression that Rhodes was used to breaking up fights between Landers and whoever Landers was pissed at for whatever reason. He wondered if things might have been different if Rhodes had been there with Everley and Landers that time. The stick-thin girl was still hanging onto Landers. Landers shook her off, like a horse flicking off a fly. Rhodes leaned into Landers and said something else. Landers grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged her away from Rhodes and the other guy. Rhodes turned then and said something to the other guy, who was shaking his head and shrugging. You didn’t have to be a lip reader to get what he was saying: It wasn’t my fault. Rhodes waved Jen over. Jen guided the other guy to the bar and popped a beer for him.
“Problem?” Dooley said when Rhodes joined him and Bracey again at the pool table.
“Girls,” Rhodes said. “They can fuck you up, right?”
“I guess,” Dooley said. He started to hand one of the pool cues to Rhodes, but Rhodes was already walking away from him again. No wonder. Beth had entered the room.
“She is definitely not as advertised,” Bracey said, eying her appreciatively. “Not even remotely.”
Dooley had no idea what he meant and didn’t care. He watched as she hovered near the door, scanning the room. She was wearing a pink sweater and a black skirt with high, black boots. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders. When she spotted the photograph of her brother, she went still. Even from where he was standing, clear across the room, Dooley could see the color in her cheeks fade. It was clear she loved her brother. He thought, even if she knew what an asshole he could be, it probably didn’t matter to her. She’d probably forgive him. There were guys he knew, guys who had gone out of their way to put other people into the hospital with serious injuries, whose mothers used to come to visit them and hug them and kiss them and tell them over and over, “I love you,” not that it made much difference.
Rhodes greeted her, taking both of her hands in his and holding them, talking to her and nodding at the glass bowl with all the money in it. Dooley had to hand it to him, the guy was always on the mark. He knew exactly what to do and his timing was impeccable. He was smooth, too. Maybe that was bred into him. Or maybe he learned it from his old man. Dooley admired the easy way that he introduced Beth around to the people she didn’t know. After that, he stopped the music and clinked a knife against
a glass until everyone settled down. When the room grew quiet, he began to talk about Mark Everley—what a great guy he was, what a cut-up he was, the guy could have been a comedian, what a fantastic photographer he was, even better than he was a comedian, how he maybe could have been the next Richard Avedon or the next Yousuf Karsh (Dooley thought, Who?) and, finally, how much everyone was going to miss him—in other words, the kind of stuff people said about somebody who had died, no matter how much of a jerk the guy had been. Beth wiped a few tears from her eyes, but she didn’t start bawling. Rhodes talked next about the scholarship Beth wanted to establish in her brother’s name and pulled something from his pocket—a check, Dooley guessed—and made a big deal of showing it to Beth, enjoying how her eyes widened, before putting it in the glass bowl.
Dooley was wondering how much Rhodes’s check was for when he noticed Beth looking across the room at him. He started to smile at her, but something in her eyes stopped him. She looked angry about something—probably the fact that he hadn’t called her about the hypnosis thing. Now he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d only come to the party so that he’d have a chance to see her, maybe talk to her, and here she was looking at him like he was something a dog had deposited on her front lawn. The hard look that she was giving him threw him.
Someone—Bracey—thrust a glass into Dooley’s hand.
“Champagne,” he said when Dooley began to protest. “We’re gonna do a toast.”
It turned out to be a toast to the memory of Mark Everley. The toast was done not by Rhodes but by Landers, who referred to Everley as the best friend he’d ever had and then knocked back his glass of champagne. Everyone else did the same. Dooley saw Beth looking at him from across the room, so he raised his glass to his lips—he didn’t want to make her any angrier than it looked like she already was by being the only person in the room not to toast her dead brother—but he didn’t take a sip. Bracey went around refilling glasses before another guy—a guy Dooley recognized but didn’t know by name—made a second toast. Beth crossed the room and stopped in front of him.
Dooley Takes the Fall Page 9