American Boy - Larry Watson [35]
I nodded in Johnny’s direction. “I’m his friend, if that’s what you’re wondering. But he’s too nice a guy to tell you what a fucking prick you are. So that’s my job.”
“Like a fucking bodyguard?” he asked with a laugh.
“That’s pretty close. And now I’m the one who’s telling you you don’t know shit. Not about him. Not about his father. And not about her. So either shut the fuck up or cash in your chips and get out.”
Glen Van Dine rose from his chair, but as he did so he backed up, careful to put some distance between us. He was a college man, all right, with his penny loafers, corduroys, and blue oxford shirt rolled above his elbows. His blond hair was already thinning, and his front teeth were a little too prominent. But girls, I knew, found both him and his brother desirable properties.
“Let’s just play some cards,” pleaded Otis.
“Hey Matt,” said Johnny, “it’s okay.”
“Yeah, Matt,” said Van Dine, “it’s okay.”
“I changed my mind,” I said. “You either walk out of here now, or I’ll throw you out in the fucking snow.”
One moment the young men in that small kitchen were arranged to play and watch a card game, and the next they were all standing, pushed back toward the wall in order to give the two combatants room. Only Gary Krynicki thought to pick up his chips and put them in his shirt pocket.
Glen Van Dine’s smile altered slightly. “I didn’t think it was up to you who stays and who goes.”
“Wrong.”
Van Dine glanced around the room, looking, no doubt, for allies. But even his younger brother had become a spectator. The room was quiet and still.
“If you guys bust anything,” said Otis, “my ass will be grass.”
Van Dine pointed at me. “Hey, tell him. I was sitting here playing cards when he starts in with this bullshit.”
I had two to three inches and at least twenty pounds on Van Dine, but I didn’t know what that difference would mean once we came to blows. He was four or five years older, and I was never sure exactly what advantages age conferred.
“Why don’t you guys take this out to the garage?” Otis suggested.
“Okay by me,” I said.
To get to the adjoining garage it was necessary to go down three steps, through a heavy door, and then down another step. As if they had been given an order to evacuate, the group headed that way in advance of Van Dine and me.
Johnny and I were the last two leaving the kitchen, and he grabbed my shoulder. “This is stupid, Matt. What the hell is this about, anyway? If you’re doing this for me—”
I shrugged out of his grasp. “Better get out there if you want a good seat,” I said.
“I can fight my own battles, you know.”
What was I supposed to say to that? No, Johnny, you can’t? This is my battle as much as it is yours? I didn’t respond, and just kept walking toward the garage.
Starting in grade school, I’d developed a reputation as someone who wasn’t afraid to mix it up, and over the years I’d had more than my share of scuffles and fistfights. But what others might have seen as aggression on my part was in truth closer to impatience. When it looked as though a fight was imminent, I almost always wanted to get right to it. This probably was another example of what Dr. Dunbar had called getting ahead of my skates, but somehow suspense was harder for me to handle than a punch in the jaw.
Glen Van Dine was standing by the open door to the garage, where cold air, concrete, and a group of bloodthirsty males waited. “What do you say?” he said. “This is your last chance to eat your next meal with your own teeth.”
His line sounded scripted, and I guessed he was losing his enthusiasm for what was coming.
I thrust my middle finger in his face.
As I pushed past him, he threw a punch. The doorframe restricted his swing, and as a result, he hit me with a clumsy, weak forearm on the side of the head, more of a clubbing push than a blow.
He drew back to hit me again, but I was close and quick enough to grab his arm before he could throw the punch. I pulled him toward me, and the