The Big Bounce

Nancy was in the den, once more about to dial the phone, standing just inside the door and looking out into the living room and this time when she replaced the phone, she stepped back inside, out of the doorway.

Wow. Jackie was coming in from the sundeck.

She gave him time to take a good look at Frank Pizarro. She took a breath and let it out slowly and straightened the V-neck of her shorty pajamas and stepped into the living room as Ryan was getting up from his knees. She watched him step over Frank Pizarro’s legs and saw his gaze raise abruptly.

“Late again,” Nancy said. “Aren’t you?”

“I guess I am,” Ryan said. “Do you know he’s dead?”

She nodded and was aware of Ryan’s gaze holding on her. “He came to ask for more money,” Nancy said. “If I didn’t give it to him, he said he’d tell the police about you.”

“You had a conversation and then you shot him.”

“When he came at me. After.”

“You happened to have a gun.”

“When he knocked,” Nancy said. “I didn’t know who it was, so I got the gun first.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Not yet.”

“What’re you going to tell them?”

She kept her gaze locked with his. “That I shot a prowler.”

“Then, tomorrow,” Ryan said, “your picture’s in the paper.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“You might even get it in a magazine. Life maybe.”

“Do you think so?”

“You wear dark glasses wherever you go and people point to you and say, ‘That’s the one.’ “

“Really?”

“Somebody in Hollywood sees the nice-looking little girl with the nice little can and the long hair who shot a man in her millionaire boyfriend’s beach house and you’re there.”

“Hey, neat.”

“Ray’s in a mess because his wife and everybody knows what he’s been doing, but you can’t worry about Ray now, can you?”

“Those are the breaks,” Nancy said.

“You wouldn’t need any fifty thousand. You shoot a cucumber picker and find happiness.”

“Sort of a Cinderella story,” Nancy said. “I like it.” She seemed to be picturing it, nodding, as she stepped in front of the big chair and eased into it, sliding low in the seat.

“How many times did you shoot him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t count.”

“You shot him coming in.”

“No, I heard him. But I didn’t come out of my room until I thought he had gone. Then when I got downstairs, he was waiting for me.”

“You shot Frank coming in the door,” Ryan said. “Seven times. He didn’t knock. He walked in.”

Nancy put on a little surprised look. “That’s right. Because I left the door open for you. But he did knock.”

“What I mean,” Ryan said, “you didn’t mean to kill Frank.”

“Of course I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You thought it was me coming in.”

“Sure.”

“You meant to kill me.”

Nancy sat quietly in the chair. “I did huh-why?”

“I guess there are a lot of reasons,” Ryan said. “But mainly because you thought it would be fun.” He waited, moving to the ottoman and sitting down in front of her.

“Was it?”

“It was all right.”

“But not what you thought it would be.”

“Isn’t that funny?”

Her eyes followed him as he rose now and moved toward the den. “Where are you going?”

“Call the police.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You might get it wrong.”

“You tell on me, Jackie, I’ll tell on you.”

Ryan paused in the doorway. He felt tired and shook his head slowly. He said, “Hey, come on, okay?”

“I mean it. I’ll say you were with him. I’ll tell them about the wallets.”

“All right,” Ryan said. “You tell them about the wallets.”

He went into the den and picked up the phone and she heard him say to the operator, “I’m calling the state police.” There was a long silence. She heard him say, “I want to report a shooting,” and a silence again. Then the sound of words: “Out at the Pointe… Ray Ritchie’s place… Huh?… No, you’ll see when you get here.”

As he came out to the living room she said, “All right for you, Jackie. Boy are you going to get it.”

With his foot Ryan pushed the ottoman over to the walnut console model TV that he could get a hundred and a half for and fooled with the dials until the picture came clearly into focus to show McLain still in there. George Kell said, “Two on, two out, top of the ninth.” Ryan eased down on the ottoman.

Nancy leaned over the arm of the big chair to watch him for long seconds, almost a minute.

“Jackie?” she said, and waited. “Jack, you nifty lover, hey. What if I tell them you came in and surprised him and you had a fight. Do you see it? You even look like you were in a fight.”

Nancy waited.

“I’ll tell them you saved my life. You pulled him off me and-listen-while you were fighting I got the gun. Then he was about to hit you with something, the poker, and I had to shoot him.”

Her eyes opened with the little surprised look. “Hey, Jack, then we both get our pictures in the paper. And in Life-a big picture of us wearing real neat sunglasses. And then both of us get in the movies! Wouldn’t that be it?” She opened her mouth and her eyes, faking it a little but actually taken with the idea.

Ryan looked at her. He waited until he was sure she was watching him and listening and he said, “I’ve been in the movies.”

He looked back at the TV set, at McLain bringing up his leg and throwing from the shoulder with a man on base. The son of a bitch was good, but he could sure get in trouble.

“Listen, I’m serious,” Nancy said. “It can work. It would be more fun with somebody else.” She waited, watching him. “Listen to me, will you? Look at me. This could be great. We tell them what happened and in a couple of days we take the car and go-wherever you want, just go. Jack, listen to me!”

McLain looked over at the runner on first, paused, and delivered his pitch. “Fastball inside and a little high,” George Kell said.

“We can make it look good,” Nancy said. She paused, thoughtful, before pushing herself out of the chair. “We’ll say he was violent. In fact”-her hands went to the V-neck of her shorty pajamas-“before I got to the gun, he grabbed me and tore my pajamas off.” Her hands came down, ripping the front of the pajama top to the hem. She held it open and said, “Jackie, look what he did.”

Ryan looked. He nodded and looked back at the set again.

Nancy was thoughtful for a moment. “Then, all of a sudden, he went psycho and started smashing things.”

She used the poker from the fireplace, bringing it up swinging at the painting over the mantel, hacking at it and smashing the light fixture. She destroyed a glass cabinet in the living room and worked her way into the dining room, smashing every piece of glass and crystal and china she saw: vases, ashtrays, figurines, a mirror vanished in a sound of splintered glass. She shattered the entire floor-to-ceiling thermopane that faced the sundeck, chopping away the fragments of glass that pointed jaggedly out of the frame. She saved the lamps until last, smashing them