She warms up slowly, doing stretches and slow laps. She is taking a ball through drills by herself and then with Sam when the guys begin to trickle in.
Rick goes right up to her and stares critically at her masked face.
“Awesome,” he concludes.
She shoots her hip and struts a few steps and gets a laugh for the effort.
Still there is a certain tension. It breaks when she sits down to watch. Sam sneaks a glance at her; she has taken off her mask and holds it disconsolately in her hands.
Rick checks the clock and mutters something to Billy, who nods agreeably.
“Gauthier,” Rick calls, “put on that hockey mask of yours and give me some competition.”
The others stop moving and start grumbling.
“Come on, come on,” Rick urges her impatiently as she fumbles with the mask. “We’ve only got twenty minutes before the Ladies’ Auxiliary wants this place for a belly-dancing class.”
Sam grins at her. “You staying for that?”
“I’m teaching it,” Rick says.
Pete Fosse stalks off the court as Deanie stumbles onto it. Dupre follows. Several guys, Kasten and Bither among them, hesitate. Todd Gramolini holds his ground.
“Chickenshit,” Rick yells at Fosse and Dupre. “She weighs about ninety-five pounds. Are you scared of her?”
The gibe evokes a sheepish look from Dupre. Pete gives Rick an are-you-shitting-me? smirk and a rigid middle finger.
But once they start again, it quickly becomes apparent they have a problem.
“Siddown,” Rick tells Sam. “You’re trying to protect Gauthier. It’s driving her nuts and it’s driving us nuts. Go on, get the fuck out of the way.”
Sam looks to her for confirmation, gets a furious glare, and accepts his exile. Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, he watches her struggle with the distraction of the mask, the way it forces her to change her habits to accommodate it. At first tentative, she becomes frustrated and then angry. She stalks off court and squats, trembling, to remove the mask.
“Good enough,” Rick calls.
Todd takes a last lob at the hoop and a general exodus begins.
“This sucks,” she says as he approaches her. “I suck.”
“It’ll get better,” Sam tells her. “Wanna dunk?”
She makes a face at him.
He takes her by the hand and kneels, offering his thigh as a stepping stool.
“Come on,” he urges.
With a giggle of surprise, she steps up, slings a leg around his neck and slips onto his shoulders. He grasps her knees and rises.
Those players still gathering their gear begin to laugh.
She holds out her hands and Rick flicks a ball toward her.
“No traveling,” Rick calls.
Sam lets go of her knees and she drops the ball into his hand. Feeling like a camel with a rider on its hump, he dribbles it up the court. Just before the post, he pushes the ball down hard and lets it bounce straight up to her waiting hands. She rises on his shoulders, reaching for the rim, and as she stuffs the ball in, he ducks out from under her and she grasps the iron ring and dangles from it, shrieking deliriously. The others raise a cheer. Then she lets go and drops into his waiting hands.
Freddy Cape glances up from his paper as Reuben enters the Vallone Cafe on Main Street in Greenspark and rising, extends his hand. “Cowboy!” Freddy grins, reverting in an instant to the class clown of some two decades previous. “You come looking for me first thing in the morning, I flip on the meter. Fair warning, old man—if your wife booted you out again, I’m representing her.”
Reuben laughs, tries a chair and when it wobbles, rejects it for a sturdier one. “I break my ass on one of these miserable chairs of Tommy’s, you can sue him for me.”
Tommy Vallone leans past him to fling a menu on the table. He slops iced water from a pitcher into a glass for Reuben.
“Up yours, you friggin’ ape,” he remarks amicably. “I hear you say you’re representing his wife, Freddy? Take the sucker for everything he’s worth.”
“Nothing left to take,” Reuben responds. “Freddy was my lawyer last time, remember? He let Laura have everything but my spare kidney.”
While Freddy bows his head, Tommy applauds mockingly.
Reuben pats his stomach. “Just tea for me, Tommy.”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Jesus. I might’s well go away to starve. I remember when you put away two, three breakfasts at a go.”
“Twenty years ago, maybe. Don’t burn it off like I used to,” Reuben says.
Tommy slaps a toddy of hot water and a mug and teabag down in front of Reuben. He taps Freddy’s paper, folded on the table. “Your boy had another cock-knocker of a night.”
Reuben chokes on iced water and Tommy pounds his back.
“Wrong pipe,” Tommy diagnoses. “You oughta be careful about that. I seen a fat old middle-aged fuck like you blow his pump right out one day, tryin’ to cough up an ice cube.”
Freddy Cape kicks back, laughing.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Reuben says. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Tommy pats his shoulder and moves away to wait on somebody else.
“ ‘Fat old middle-aged fuck,’” Reuben grouses. “Listen to him. He must go fifty pounds over what he weighed in high school. Bald as a baby’s ass, too.”
“You should have bought breakfast,” Freddy advises.
“Right.”
“I really hope you aren’t looking for a divorce lawyer.”
“No. I want to talk about an emancipation order.”
Freddy cocks his head attentively. “Sammy? Don’t tell me Laura’s up to her old tricks.”
“No. It’s the Gauthier girl.”
Reuben explains the situation.
“The immediate question,” Freddy concludes, “is whether Judy Gauthier will go along with an emancipation. There’s a lot going for the idea. The girl’s nearly old enough to leave anyway. You wouldn’t think Lord or Judy would be much interested in having her come home. No calls or contact since the incident, right?”
Reuben nods.
“Looks golden to me,” Freddy says. “I’ll be in touch to talk to her. If I were you, though, I wouldn’t look for any insurance coverage on the girl’s injuries. My guess is Judy’s job doesn’t offer insurance benefits and since Lord isn’t
