“Nah. I don?t smoke.”
Walt laughed. “Good one.”
More cars were pulling up and parking, more vets strolling into the post. If Mr. Bainbridge appeared and spotted Jack, he?d for sure mention it to his father. Best to get out of sight.
He waved and headed back to his bike. “See ya.”
He rode across the street to USED where he parked in the shadows alongside the store. He watched the VFW from those shadows until cars stopped pulling up and the front door closed.
Then he stole across the street and around to the rear of the post.
The backyard was dark, making it easy to find the basement window: He simply followed the light. Someone had opened it for ventilation and air laden with cigar stink wafted out.
Jack knelt for a look and immediately felt the moisture from the wet grass soak through the knees of his jeans. Crap. He should have thought of that. He bent forward and found himself overlooking the TV set.
A motley group of mixed ages, shapes, and sizes: World War II vets in their late fifties and early sixties, fiftyish Korean survivors like his father and Mr. Bainbridge, and the Vietnam vets in their late thirties and early forties. They all had one thing in common: They?d made it through the fire of war. The experience bonded them. They seemed genuinely to like each other.
Smoke layered the air as some stood around smiling and talking, beers in one hand and stogies in the other, while others sat at the tables shuffling cards or counting out chips.
He spotted Mr. Vivino in the mix. Jack bet his wife and daughter were glad he was out having a good time and not beating on them. He watched him move through the crowd, grinning,
laughing, shaking hands. Mr. Politician. Mr. Freeholder-to-be.
We?ll see about that.
Jack backed away a bit when he saw Mr. Bainbridge approach. He bent and disappeared behind the top of the TV. From this angle Jack couldn?t see what he was doing, but guessed he?d opened the cabinet doors. Half a minute later he rose and turned to the crowd.
“All right,” he said, holding up the cassette boxes. “Which do we want—
Jack tried to project his thoughts through the window:
“
“Yeah!” said another voice. “
A chorus of “
No-no-no-no!
“
Jack suppressed a groan as Mr. Bainbridge popped open the box and pulled out the cassette. He realized then he?d made an awful mistake. He had no idea how long these movies ran. What if they showed only one per smoker? He should have hidden
And worse, he still didn?t know if his copying had been successful.
He wanted to kick something.
6
Jack paced the dark, narrow aisles of USED. He?d let himself in but left the lights off so he could hang out while the film was running. Every twenty minutes or so he?d sneak over for a peek into the basement. So far, the same every time: some watching the TV and making wisecracks, some playing cards, some in deep conversation. He?d seen Mr. Vivino and Mr.
Bishop, the local lawyer and proud father of blubber-butt Teddy, with their heads together. They looked like they were planning a revolution.
The one thing Jack could never see was the TV screen, so he had no idea what the men were watching. At this point, he didn?t care. He just wanted it to be over so they could move on to the main attraction.
He stopped at the store counter and grabbed the flashlight Mr. Rosen kept there. He
flashed it on one of the clocks. It had been an hour or so since the film started. He doubted it was over yet but guessed he should check again anyway. Who knew? Maybe the tape would jam and they?d start the next film early.
Once more he hurried across the street to the rear of the post. As he peeked in the
window he spotted Mr. Bainbridge approaching the TV.
“I think that deserves an Academy Award, don?t you?” he said to his buddies.
Some laughed, some clapped, some kept talking, and the card players barely looked up from their hands. Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop still plotted in the rear of the room.
Mr. Bainbridge ducked out of sight, then reappeared holding another cassette box.
“Okay!” he announced. “For our next Oscar contender we have
This was greeted by halfhearted cheers and clapping from the vets, and a silent fist pump from Jack.
Yes!
He settled onto his already wet knees and sent up a prayer that there?d be something on that tape.
Mr. Bainbridge stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled out the unlabeled cassette. He frowned as he turned it back and forth in his hand.
Put it in the machine, Jack thought. Just. Put. It. In.
Finally he shrugged and did just that.
“Okay!
A few scattered claps amid the chatter and then he stepped to the side and watched. Jack couldn?t see the screen, only Mr. Bainbridge?s face. But soon enough, if Jack?s copy had been successful, that face would tell the story.
He studied his expression. The smiling anticipation changed to a puzzled frown. But that didn?t mean much— if Jack?s tape was blank, that was how he?d react.
Jack watched the frown deepen as the squinty eyes widened and the cigar slipped from loose lips and fell to the floor.
Jack tightened his fists. He could think of only one thing that would cause that sort of reaction.
The video had transferred.
And then he heard the voice from the TV?s speakers.
Mr. Bainbridge gaped. “What the … ?”
He wasn?t the only one noticing something wrong. A couple of the men who were seated up front lost their grins as the reaction began to spread through the room like ripples from a stone dropped in a still pond.
One of the card players noticed and nudged the guys on either side. A player with his back to the screen turned. And then farther into the room people stopped talking and stared at the screen.
Gradually the room became a silent sea of stunned faces.
Only Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop, against the back wall, continued talking. Eventually they must have realized something was wrong because they clammed up and looked around.
Jack focused on Mr. Vivino?s face … watched the blood drain from it as his eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.
“What the hell is
