Popcorn

Oh yes, Bruce knew Wayne ’s tone of arrogant approbation; he had found the same thing in his face many times. What he was not used to was finding it heavily armed and having broken into his house.

‘Do you want money?’ Bruce found a voice of sorts. ‘I have money, about two thousand dollars in cash, and there’s some jewellery…’

Wayne raised one booted foot on to the coffee table and leant his weight upon his knee, bending towards Bruce, his boot crushing the residue of the white powder that Brooke had placed upon it. It would have made a good closeup for one of Bruce’s ironic moments, symbolizing virile, honest mayhem kicking aside pretentious decadence.

‘Mr Delamitri… May I call you Bruce?’

Bruce nodded. He hoped the nod was firm and dignified, politely showing that he was following events closely and considering his options. In fact he nodded like a toy dog on the rear shelf of a family saloon, a panicky movement which suggested that Wayne could call Bruce anusbreath if he wished, so long as Wayne refrained from killing him.

‘Bruce, we don’t want no money. We got money, we got more money than we can spend, and we don’t spend nothing anyway because we steal all our stuff. We just came around to visit with you. Is that OK? If we visit with you? How about we all sit down? Maybe we could have us a drink? Would that be OK? I like bourbon and Scout here’ll take anything sweet.’

Wayne stepped back to the couch opposite the one on which Bruce and Brooke still sat, and collapsed casually on to it. Scout joined him, but with none of his showy confidence. She perched on the edge of the cushion, as if anxious to show that she did not wish to intrude or be the cause of any inconvenience. Bruce got up and went to his drinks cabinet, leaving Brooke alone on the couch. She had been half lying on it since being disturbed in midembrace, and she seized the opportunity to sit upright and adjust her clothing. Brooke, like Scout, was barefoot and Bruce had been on the point of liberating her bosom from her dress when they were interrupted. She put her shoes back on and did her best to cover herself up. A highly revealing evening dress is not the most comfortable garment in which to confront armed intruders.

There was an embarrassed pause. Nobody knew what to say. Socially the situation could not have been more difficult.

Scout turned to Brooke in an effort to make polite conversation. She felt, perhaps rightly, that though she was a guest, the burden of social responsibility lay at least partly with her. ‘You’re Brooke Daniels aren’t you?’

It was like two people forced into conversation in a doctor’s waitingroom. Brooke’s face twitched in a reply of sorts; she was clearly in no mood for smalltalk.

‘Yes, you are,’ Scout continued. ‘I’d know you anytime from all the magazines you’ve been in… Vogue and Esquire and Vanity Fair… I love all that stuff, it’s so glamorous and nice… I’ve been in a magazine too…’

‘Sure, Scout, America ’s Most Wanted.’ Wayne laughed and slapped Scout’s thigh.

‘It’s a magazine! Isn’t it Brooke?… Brooke? It’s a magazine, isn’t it? America’s Most Wanted is a magazine, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s a magazine.’ Brooke’s throat was so dry she was surprised that the words came out.

‘Of course it’s a magazine, and I was in it and you said I looked cute, Wayne.’

‘You always look cute, honey. Don’t need no magazine to prove that.’

Bruce brought Wayne his bourbon. He had agonized over how much to pour. A lot? A little? Would Wayne be a violent drunk or a mellow one? If shitfaced, would Wayne start singing ‘Danny Boy’ and collapse, weeping, on Bruce’s shoulder, swearing they would be buddies for ever? Or would he puke up on his boots and spray the room with bullets? Bruce had eventually opted for rather a short measure, which he had attempted to pad out with ice. Wayne knocked it back in one, but to Bruce’s relief did not immediately ask for another.

‘Hear what I said, Bruce? I said Scout here’s cute enough for any damn magazine, and I’m right, ain’t I?

Bruce didn’t answer, preferring to make another attempt to establish Wayne ’s agenda. ‘Look… if you don’t want cash, I have a customized Lamborghini parked right outside and-’

‘Bruce, I don’t want your damn car.’ Wayne ’s voice was calm but suddenly sinister. He addressed his reply to the ice in the bottom of his glass. ‘Matter of fact, I got a car.’

‘I see.’

‘An American fuckin’ car. Made in the motor city USfuckin’A, out of sweat and American steel’ – Wayne ’s voice began to rise – ‘not some fuckin’ wop, faggot, greaseballbuilt pile of tin shit for queers! A Lamborghini! Bruce, I am surprised at you. When you drive a foreign car you are driving over American jobs.’

Bruce was silent. It did not seem the right time to discuss the relative merits of free trade and protectionism. He gave Scout her drink, thankful to have a diversion, even such a small one.

‘This is creme de menthe,’ he said. ‘It’s sweet.’

‘I love cocktails.’

Bruce returned to the drinks cabinet and collected two small bourbons for himself and Brooke. He sat down beside her on the couch, sipping at his; she did not touch hers.

Again an uncomfortable silence descended. Having so completely misfired with his last attempt, Bruce was reluctant to have another go at establishing what these lunatics wanted. Brooke had nothing to contribute either. It fell once more to Wayne and Scout to keep the nervous, desultory conversation going.

‘Why’d you do that Playboy spread, Brooke?’ Wayne asked. ‘I mean, I ain’t saying it wasn’t beautiful, because it was, but hell, I wouldn’t never let Scout do a thing like that. I’d kill her first, and Hugh fuckin’ Hefner too.’

‘Oh, come on now, Wayne,’ said Scout coyly. ‘As if anyone would ever want to see me in Playboy magazine!’

She was clearly fishing for compliments. Bruce wondered about attempting to ingratiate himself by assuring her that she was certainly centrefold material. He was glad he didn’t.

‘Sure they would, honey,’ Wayne said. ‘Oh yes they would. Excepting I wouldn’t let you do it, on account of the fact that my rule is that if a man even looks at you with lust in his eyes, I have to kill him. So if you was to be in Playboy I’d have to kill just about half the men in the United States.’

‘You’re getting there anyway, honey!’ Wayne and Scout laughed at this.

Wayne turned to Bruce as if to explain some small private joke. ‘Scout’s exaggerating of course, Bruce. Why, I bet I haven’t killed more than forty or fifty people.’

Again an embarrassed moment, as Scout’s laughter died away into silence.

‘So why’d you do it, Brooke?’ Wayne returned to his theme. ‘I’d really like to know.’

Brooke could only stare. It would have taken a less astute judge of character than she to have failed to notice that Wayne was unpredictable. She had noticed the traces of bruising on Scout’s leg where Wayne ’s marauding hand had pulled away her thin cotton skirt a little. Brooke decided that the more desirable of two deeply undesirable choices was to say nothing. Scout spoke for her. She knew the answer; she had read it in a magazine.

‘Brooke did it, Wayne, because being an incontrol woman does not mean denying one’s sensuality. Isn’t that what you said, Brooke? I read that.’

Brooke nodded.

‘She didn’t do it for men, Wayne, no matter what you and your barroom pals might think,’ Scout scolded. ‘She did it for herself because she is proud of her body and proud to be beautiful and there is nothing wrong or dirty in celebrating that. In fact, it’s an assertive thing to do, a feminist thing to do.’

Scout finished her little speech and turned, smiling, to Brooke, clearly hoping to have won her approval.

‘That’s right, um… Scout, it’s all those things.’

Wayne got up and helped himself to another drink. ‘Well, I guess that makes me feel a whole lot better about jerking off in the john over it, Brooke. I must confess, I never realized I was doing such a fine and empowering thing.’

Scout looked as though she wanted to die with embarrassment. But before she could apologize to Brooke, Wayne pressed on. ‘I want to ask Brooke something now, Scout, and I don’t want you getting mad at me. OK?’

‘Well, it depends on what you ask her, Wayne.’