Elmore Leonard - The Big Bounce

He watched the ball sail up against the sky in a high arc, an easy one, the kind you camp under that Colavito would punch his glove waiting for; as the ball came down he saw the girl in the bathing suit walking along the edge of the water, a good fifty yards off, but Ryan knew right away who it was: the dark hair and sunglasses, the slim dark girl figure in a yellow two-piece suit that was almost but not quite a bikini: flat brown stomach and the little line of yellow, good legs, thin but good.

She looked his way, brushing her hair aside with the tips of her fingers. She saw him, he was sure; but it didn’t mean she recognized him, he could be just a guy raking the beach. Maybe he should wave or move down to the water to meet her, but he decided right away that would be dumb. He let her go by, watching now as she moved away, until she was so small she blended into the shapes and colors far down the beach.

If Ray Ritchie’s beach house was in that direction, she was going home. If it was the other way, she’d be back. He thought about her looking at him in the bar and he thought about what Mr. Majestyk had said, about Ray Ritchie keeping her. He had never known a girl who lived with somebody. He knew all kinds of girls, but not one like that. She should have blond hair and great big jugs and be taller and older and wear high heels. And he remembered Mr. Majestyk saying, “How old do they have to be?” He wondered how old she was and where she was from and where she had met Ray Ritchie and how he had got her to live with him, how he had put it when he asked her.

He would say something to her if she came back, but he couldn’t think of what to say and began smoothing the sand again with the rake.

Just relax, he told himself. What’s the matter with you? It was funny, he knew she was going to come back. It didn’t surprise him at all to see her, finally, a spot of yellow in the distance, coming slowly, taking forever, but he still couldn’t think of anything. He said in his mind, “Hi, how you doing?” He said, “Well, look who’s here.” He said, “Hey, where you going?” He said to himself, “For Christ sake, cut it out.”

Ryan moved closer to the water and started raking the sand, smoothing it, not looking at the girl but still seeing her, the slim dark legs and long hair.

He timed it right, straightening up when she was only a few yards off, to lean on the rake like a spearman.

She looked at him, then, unhurriedly, away from him. Ryan waited until she was past, so she would have to turn around.

“Hey.”

She took two or three more steps before turning half around slowly, legs apart, and looked at him.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” Ryan said. He gave her time to say what ?

But she didn’t. She waited.

And finally Ryan said, “I was wondering what you were looking at me for in the bar?”

She waited a moment longer. “Are you sure I was looking at you?”

Ryan nodded. “I’m sure. You think it’s about time we quit fooling around?”

She smiled but barely. “What’s the matter with fooling around?” The wind blew her hair and she brushed it from her eye, the hair slanting across her forehead, dark brown and probably brown eyes.

“I mean wasting time,” Ryan said.

“I know what you mean.”

She was at ease, studying him; he hung on to the rake handle and stared back at her.

“I’m surprised to see you,” Nancy said. “Bob Junior doesn’t scare you?”

“If I want to stay around here, I guess it’s up to me.”

“How did you get the job?”

“I don’t know. The guy offered it to me.”

“For the summer?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“You’re not too sure of much, are you?”

He stared at her, waiting for the words, and she stared back at him. He had never had trouble talking to people, especially girls, and the feeling tightened him up. He didn’t like it and he thought, What are you being so nice for?

Nancy kept watching him, not smiling or rubbing it in, but watching him. She said, “Do you want to start over?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan said.

“You could come to my house and play.” She raised her arm and pointed. “That way, almost a mile. White stairs and a lamppost at the top.”

“I guess Mr. Ritchie’s not here.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s there with you? I mean, a maid or something?”

“Nobody.”

“Don’t you get scared, alone?”

She shook her head, touching her hair again. “I like it.”

“What do you do?”

“Different things.”

“Like what?”

“Come tonight and find out.”

“I don’t know.”

He watched her shrug and turn away. She was expecting him to say something. He was sure she was waiting for it and that was good. He watched her walk off waiting for it, not able to look back now. They could shake their tail and expect the guy to sit up, but he had done enough sitting up for one day. She’d come by this afternoon or tomorrow, same time, same station. So why get excited? Right?

You’re damn right, Ryan thought.

ONCE WHEN JACK RYAN WAS THIRTEEN, he hung from the roof of their apartment building, four stories above the alley, to see if he could do it. The first time he tried it, he didn’t hang all the way. He sat down on the edge, in the back of the building where there was no cornice, and rolled over and held on with his chest and forearms, his face close to the dry tar surface of the roof and his legs over the side. He pushed himself up, pressing his hands flat, until he could hook a knee over the edge and the rest was easy. He walked around the roof for a while, taking little breaths and letting his hands hang limp and flexing the fingers, the way a sprinter does before he turns and walks over to his lane and sets himself on the starting block. It was a summer morning and he was alone on the roof, above the round tops of the elms and the peaks of the houses and the chimneys and television antennas. He could hear cars on Woodward Avenue a half black away and a car below him in the alley moving slowly, squeaking, taking a long time to pass the building. When he was ready, he moved to the edge of the roof again and sat down with his legs hanging. He could do it and knew he could do it if he was careful and didn’t let himself get scared or do anything dumb. But just knowing he could do it wasn’t enough.

After, he would put on his dark blue sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves and his baseball cap that was creased and squared the right way and go to Ford Field for practice. He would stand seven feet off third base in the sun and dust during batting practice and, with each pitch, crouch a little with his arms hanging loose, then wait for the next pitch, adjusting the squared cap, looking down at the good pocket in the Japanese glove and smoothing the ground in front of him with the toe of his spikes.

After practice and after lunch, sometime in the afternoon, he would bring some guys up on the roof and before they knew what he was doing he would be hanging from the eaves trough, four stories up. He could see their faces as he pulled himself up.

Do it or don’t do it, he thought, sitting there that morning, and he did it: rolled over on his stomach and let himself down gradually, holding the edge of the trough, which was round and comfortable in his hand and didn’t sag, until his arms were stiff above him, his toes pointing to the alley. Count to ten, he thought. He counted to five slowly, then began counting faster and almost started to pull himself up too quickly. But he made himself relax again and pulled himself up slowly, carefully, until his arms were over the edge and he was lying on his chest.

When he was up, away from the edge of the roof, he thought: Why tell anybody? If you can do it and know you can, what more do you want? That was a funny thing, he never did tell anybody or even hint at it. He kept it to himself. But every once in a while he would take it out and think about it.