“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d really better go. Can you get back wherever you have to go?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I shan’t.” It was cool, ladylike, brutal. “Good-bye, Johnny.”
He watched her walk rapidly away from him, to where the blue convertible was parked, leaving her towel still on the beach. He thought, she could at least have given him a lift back to Revere.
In sudden anger, he turned away, sprinting down the beach toward the sea. The water splashed up over him as he ran in, cold against his burning body. He swam out with long, fierce strokes, until fatigue sapped his anger. Then he came in, dried himself and put on his levis and T-shirt.
He noticed then, that in her haste to get away, Lois had left her wallet lying in the sand beside her towel. He opened it, ruffled quickly through the impressive number of bills, found her driving licence. He put it in his hip pocket, smiling thinly.
He could find Lois, now. He would find her and make her pay for leaving him here like this — for running away when he kissed her. He walked slowly through the sand to the road, to thumb a ride back to Revere where he could get the subway.
The juke box was blaring out a souped-up version of Temptation. Johnny Martin filled his glass from one of the opened bottles of beer on the table. His mouth tasted ratty from too many cigarettes and too much beer. He realised he was a little drunk. His head was fuzzy, and, when he touched his chin, it felt as if someone else was touching him.
He was sitting in a booth with Rusty and Joe Levis and, right across from him, Liz Nolan. They had been there a long time. He took out another cigarette, put it between his lips and scratched a match. Then he tried to move his leg, so Liz couldn’t find it with hers. But, after a moment, the pressure was back against his thigh, and he gave up.
The music stopped, leaving only the sound of the whirring fan, which was supposed to clear out some of the smoke, but didn’t seem to make much progress.
Rusty pushed back a mop of red hair and squinted at Johnny. “We took Liz out to the quarry this afternoon. She was as cool as could be.”
Joe laughed. “Scared some of the boys plenty,” he said. “She went in bare, like the rest of us.”
Rusty said, “She’s been pestering me to take her a long while.”
Liz looked angrily at Rusty. “You didn’t have to tell Johnny about it.”
Rusty picked up a bottle of beer and tilted it to his lips. When he had finished he said, grinning, “Johnny knows you’re a slut. We aren’t giving anything away.”
“She likes you because she thinks you’re refined,” Joe said to Johnny. “Are you refined?”
There was smug self-assurance in Rusty’s tone. Johnny felt the pressure against his leg increase. The beer was making his stomach queasy.
“You’re a punk, Rusty,” Liz said. “A pain you know where.”
“But you put up with the pain pretty good,” Rusty smirked. “As long as Papa pays — or can you make more yourself on the side?”
Johnny got up unsteadily. The movement overturned a bottle on the table. He picked it up while a trickle of beer ran on to the floor. He had to get out of here. But he should talk to Rusty first.
“Want to come with me a minute, Rusty?” he said thickly.
“Sure, chum. If you’ll promise to put Liz out of her misery.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He pushed clear of the booth and waited while Rusty got up. Joe was making some crack he didn’t hear, but Liz and Rusty laughed. Rusty followed him over to the men’s room.
“You going to be sick?” Rusty asked.
Johnny looked at him — the red hair, the squat, tough body, the narrow eyes. He didn’t like Rusty, any more than he liked Liz. But he needed him now. He shook his head.
“What can we get for a Packard convertible?” he asked.
“This years?”
“Yeah.”
“Plenty,” Rusty said, eyeing him sharply. “What’s your angle?”
“I got it figured.”
Rusty’s eyes narrowed. His lips were tight over his teeth. “You won’t make it,” he said. “You never do, when it comes to the point.”
“This time, I will, Rusty. I’ve got to.”
“You said that before — but you always go chicken. That’s why I didn’t try anything last night with the Caddy. You might have gone screaming for the cops.”
Johnny felt the blood flush the back of his neck. He reached out and caught Rusty’s silk shirt in his fist. He swayed a little, as he said hoarsely, “I’m telling you, Rusty. This time is different.”
“Okay,” Rusty said then. “Leave go of me. Well split, fifty-fifty. When the time comes, I’ll give you the pitch.”
“Sure.”
“If you don’t chicken out, I’ll cut you in on something big — bigger than you can imagine — something I’m working on now.”
“And lay off Liz. She likes to play around, and I kid about it, but she’s my woman.”
“I know that, Rusty. Thanks.”
Someone came in then, and they went back to the booth. Johnny had another beer, and then he went home.
He sensed something was wrong, when he climbed the stairs and saw the light leaking out from the door. But he was feeling muddle-headed again from the beer, and nothing made much sense — especially the light being on.
Taking out his key, he fiddled for a few moments with the lock before he could work it. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw his father rising from his chair, his bulk strangely menacing. He saw his mother, too, rubbing her eyes as if she had been suddenly awakened. Johnny stood there, steadying himself on the flat of both feet.
“Well,” he said thickly, “quite a reception!”
He heard his mother say, “He’s drunk, Paw. My Johnny’s drunk!” Her voice sounded as if all the cares of the world were on her shoulders. Johnny felt sorry for her. “A couple of beers...” he muttered.
He looked up, to find his father standing very close to him. A big man, his father — bigger than he would ever be. In the stillness that fell over the room, he could hear his father’s heavy breathing, and he was suddenly afraid. It was as if he had never known this man before.
“I guess I’ll hit the sack,” he said thickly.
“Just a minute.”
It was his father speaking — his father who reached out and grabbed his T-shirt, holding him there. “There was ten dollars missing from the till at the station when I tallied up,” his father said. “You took it, Johnny.”
Johnny felt as if he was going to be sick. The beer was making him that way. He wished his father would leave him alone. He said, out of the corner of his mouth, “So what? I needed the dough. It’s all in the family.”
His father seemed stunned. “How old are you, Johnny?”
“Don’t be dumb. You know how old I am.”
“Twenty — you’re old enough to act like a man. But you don’t. So I’ll treat you like a kid.”
He hadn’t let go of the T-shirt. Johnny felt the sickness in him getting worse. But it was mixed up with anger, now. He pulled back, tearing the shirt. Then, when his father came closer, he brought up his right fist and swung it at his father’s jaw. But his legs weren’t steady and he missed. Then he felt the side of his face explode, as his father’s open palm slapped him hard. He went over sideways, hearing his mother scream.
His father picked him up, and he felt himself go limp. He couldn’t seem to do anything. The room revolved around him crazily, and his throat was as dry as if it was stuffed with dust.
Then his father was beating him, and he had to bite his lips to keep from crying like a baby as the blows came, slamming pain through him. It went on a long time — it seemed like a long time. And then he was sick, and his mother was bending over him, crying and saying, “You shouldn’t have done it while he was sick.”