Big Trouble

That's it? You're calling to say you're calling?

You said we didn't have the guts.

Because you DON'T have the guts. All week I had all these Gator fans on here, talking trash, and now they run and hide.

Well, I'M calling.

OK, so what's your point?

My point is, you said we didn 't have the guts to call, so I'm ...

Henry, shaking his head, turned off the radio.

"This country," he said.

"No shit," agreed Leonard.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them looking at the Jolly Jackal's crippled, grime-encrusted neon sign, beaming "ACKAL" into the night.

"Why'd he come here?" asked Leonard. "Guy like him, nice house, good job, plenty of cheese, what's he doing in a shithole like this?"

"Good question," said Henry.

"How about we just bring him out here and find out?" asked Leonard.

Henry shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I wanna see what he does."

'Too bad," said Leonard. "Because, you give me two minutes with him and this"—he pulled the car cigarette lighter out of its socket—"and he tells us whatever we want to know. He sings like whatshis-name, Luciano Calamari."

"Pavarotti," said Henry.

"Whatever. He sings, we whack him, boom, we're onna plane back to Newark. No more mosquitos, no more guys in trees, no more Gators, no more ... "

"Shut up," said Henry.

Leonard followed Henry's gaze, and saw two men, one of them limping, approach the door of the Jolly Jackal. In the purple-red light of the ACKAL sign, Henry and Leonard could see that both men were wearing what looked like women's stockings over their faces. The limping one was holding a gun.

"Looks like it's happy hour," said Leonard.

Andrew, sucking hard on a straw inserted into a thick chocolate shake, rejoined Matt outside the Gap. From the low-fidelity speakers of the Johnny Rockets across the street came the voice of young Elvis:

I'm proud to say she's my buttercup

I'm in love ... I'm all shook up!

Andrew, reluctantly parting his lips from his straw, said, "Can you imagine being proud to say that somebody was your buttercup?"

Matt thought about it.

"Like," said Andrew, "you're introducing her to people, and you go, 'This here is MY BUTTERCUP!' Hey, did you pee your pants?"

"Shit," said Matt, looking down at his khakis, which, as was mandatory for seventeen-year-old boys, were six waist sizes too large and covered only the lower butt area. The JetBlast Junior had indeed leaked, forming a large, darkish wet splotch on the right side of Matt's crotch.

"Shit," said Matt, again.

"Here comes Jenny," said Andrew.

"Shit," said Matt. He violently untucked his white T-shirt and tried to tug it down over the splotch.

"Hi," said Jenny.

"Hi," said Matt, twisting his lower body sideways, trying to aim his splotch away from her.

"Is that a squirt gun in your pocket," asked Jenny, "or are you just glad to see me?"

Andrew barked in laughter, spitting a milk shake mouthful onto the sidewalk. Matt tried to punch him, but missed.

"So," said Jenny, "where are we gonna do this? There can only be one witness, right? So it's like way too crowded here."

"I was thinking, we could go that way," said Matt, gesturing toward Grand Avenue. "There's a parking lot behind the five-and-dime store."

"OK," said Jenny.

"Listen," said Matt, "I was wondering if, after I kill you, if you're not doing anything, I mean ... "

"What he means," said Andrew, backstepping quickly to avoid Matt's second punch attempt, "is he's proud to say you're his buttercup."

"Matt," said Jenny, solemnly, "I would be honored to be your buttercup."

Whoa.

"OK," said Matt, just as solemnly. "But I gotta kill you first."

They set off toward the five-and-dime, Matt making an effort to keep his splotch on the side away from Jenny, but otherwise feeling good and natural, walking next to her. As they left the noise and bright lights of Coco Walk, the three teenagers did not notice the stocky figure of Jack Pendick, Crime Fighter, following unsteadily twenty-five feet behind them, his hand in his pistol pocket, the nasal wail of Phil Collins filling his melted mind as he steeled himself for whatever was coming in the air tonight.

SIX

"I can't see out this thing," said Eddie.

"Well, try, goddammit," said Snake.

They were standing at the entrance to the Jolly Jackal, wearing panty hose on their heads. Snake had pulled the left leg of his panty hose over his face; the right leg was dangling down his chest. Eddie had pulled the pelvic region of his panty hose over his face, so that both of the legs were hanging down his back, making him look like a large, frightened rabbit.

"I'm just saying," said Eddie, "we should of got a lighter shade."

"We got what we got," said Snake.

They had obtained the panty hose from the five-and-dime in Coconut Grove. They had not had time

 to examine their selections carefully, because Snake had shoplifted them while Eddie had distracted the store employees by pretending to have a seizure. Snake had grabbed the first panty hose he saw. They turned out to be Hanes Control Top, for the full-figured woman, in jet black.