Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

Back inside, Greer was still behind the counter, punching numbers on a calculator. “Time’s up already?” she said, not taking her eyes off the little screen. “You can hit some more if you like. How much does the electricity cost? A few cents?”

“There’s wear and tear on the machine,” Wyatt said, a concept that came directly from one of Rusty’s diatribes. For the first time, it occurred to Wyatt that maybe Rusty had had a role in shaping him; a very unpleasant thought.

Greer’s fingers went still; she looked up. “Yeah,” she said. “You an accountant in training?”

“No.” But-supposing he didn’t make it to the big leagues, an idea he knew to be a fantasy yet still hadn’t abandoned completely-he’d need a job someday and he wasn’t bad with numbers.

“What are you?”

“What am I?”

“Like, in school, or what?”

“Yeah, in school.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Bridger?”

“Yeah.”

“Go, Bears. Rah rah.”

“You went there?”

“My whole life.”

“Huh?”

“Just feels that way,” Greer said. She gave him a long look. “Or are you the kind who fits in?” Wyatt didn’t answer; but yes, he was. Wasn’t he? “Yeah,” she said. “I believe you are. When’s the first practice?”

Wyatt took a deep breath.

“For baseball, I mean. You’re on the team, right? Got to be-I saw you hit. Hardest thing in sports, according to Ted Williams-hitting a baseball.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Know what?”

“Ted Williams, all of it.”

“My dad was a huge fan. He could spout off stats ad nauseam.”

“Sorry,” said Wyatt.

“For what? He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah, great.”

“So he just stopped being a fan?”

“Got involved in other things,” Greer said. “Other games, let’s say.”

“Football?”

She gave him another look. “Know what I like about you?” she said. “Besides your batting stroke?”

Wyatt felt himself reddening, hoped it didn’t show; in fact, she’d somehow sent a charge through his whole body.

“Your sense of humor,” Greer said. “That’s what I like-no one’s got a sense of humor in this town.”

“I’m actually not on the team,” Wyatt said.

“That one I don’t get.”

“It’s not a joke.”

Greer put a finger to her chin: a nice-looking chin with a tiny cleft. “Not on the team but you can hit, so let me guess. I got it-booted off for getting caught with a six-pack.”

“No.”

“A crack pipe.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re right. No doper, obviously. You don’t have that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“Absent,” Greer said. “So that brings us down to something weird, like you were caught with the coach’s wife.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Wyatt said. “I just moved here and they’ve got rules about transfer students.”

“Of course they do. They’ve got rules for everything, rules that only they can break.”

Wyatt shrugged.

“Must be frustrating,” Greer said.

“It’s all right.”

“Where were you living before?”

“East Canton.”

“A dump worse than this one.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Your dad got transferred or something?”

“Huh?”

“Or your mom? To a new job-your reason for moving in the middle of the year.”

“No,” Wyatt said. “I came myself.”

“On the lam?”

“You got it.”

Greer laughed. “Your way of saying no more questions, I bet.” She glanced at the clock. “How about a cup of coffee, a Coke, something?”

“Um, okay.”

There were Cokes in the drink machine behind her, but Greer didn’t open it. Instead she grabbed her leather jacket from under the counter and said, “Let’s go in your car.”

“Yeah?” He glanced around, saw no one else to take care of the bowling alley. By that time, Greer was practically at the door. He followed her. She held the door for him, then locked it. “It’s okay to close early?”

“Why not?” said Greer.

“What if someone wants to bowl?”

“They can scratch that itch elsewhere.”

Wyatt and Greer walked to the Mustang. A gust of wind rose and blew her against him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

They got in, Wyatt hurriedly gathering books and papers off her seat and tossing them in back.

“First time in a Mustang, believe it or not,” Greer said.

Wyatt turned the key. “This one’s real old,” he said. He started backing out of the space, glanced at her. “Seat belt.”

Greer grinned. “That’s what my grandmother always says.”

“She’s right,” Wyatt said, at the very moment they came to a big icy patch in the middle of the empty lot. Without thinking-but even with thought he might have done it anyway-Wyatt spun the wheel hard and goosed the pedal. The Mustang spun around once in a tight doughnut, Greer suddenly screaming and gripping his right forearm so hard it hurt, at the same time making it not so easy to bring the car out of the spin. But he did, straightening perfectly and driving out of the lot at five miles per hour, using the turn signal and looking both ways. Greer’s grip loosened on his arm, but she didn’t let go completely, not for ten or fifteen seconds, although it felt much longer than that.

High Sierra Coffee was a shadowy little coffee shop off the main drag in Silver City with worn wood floors, shelves full of books, a few people hunched over laptops. Wyatt and Greer sat at a small round table in the back corner, Coke for him, espresso for her. He’d never actually seen an espresso before, must have been staring at it a bit too long, because she said, “Want a taste?”

“One taste and it’d be gone.”

Greer smiled, sat back in her chair; teeth very white, skin very smooth, eye makeup a little smeared. “I’d like to own a place like this someday.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s my dream, anyway. One of my dreams.”

“How much would it cost?” Wyatt said. “The rent, equipment, all that?”

“Who knows?” Greer said. “Too much.”

“There’d probably be insurance, too.”

Her face darkened. “I’ve had enough of goddamn insurance.”

“What do you mean?”

Greer was silent for a few moments. Clouds must have shifted, because a sudden golden shaft shone through a skylight, illuminating their table and everything on it-Coke slowly fizzing, steam rising from the little espresso cup, Greer’s right hand, a strong, finely shaped hand, the nails all chewed down to the quick. “It’s a long story,” she said.

“There’s time,” said Wyatt. “Unless you have to get back to work.”

She took a sip of espresso. Her lips weren’t very full but were, like her hands, finely shaped. “That’s the point,” she said. “I don’t. We’re in receivership, so who gives a shit?”

Receivership: a word Wyatt was all too familiar with, from the unfolding of the Baker Brothers bankruptcy.

“You own the bowling alley?” he said.

“The bank owns it now,” Greer said. “Some bank in San Francisco. But before that my father owned it. Plus a whole big amusement center across town.”

“That’s in receivership, too?”

Greer shook her head. “Turned to ashes instead.”

“I don’t understand.”

She finished what was left of the espresso, put the cup down, rattling the saucer. “Last year, when things started to go bad-the economy, all that-the amusement center burned to the ground. My dad was found guilty of arson in a court of law-so it must be true, right?” Her eyes welled up, very briefly, but she didn’t cry. “My father, who built the amusement center from scratch, I’m talking about he even did the framing, the Sheetrock, the painting-guilty of burning it all down for the insurance money.” Her voice had risen; one or two people glanced over.