Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [40]
“I thought you were already driving drunk,” Zak said.
“Fuck you.”
“Pay Hugh.”
“Sure. Why not? You lose, the two of you pay me back the thousand tonight and the second thousand when the banks open Monday.” Scooter took out his wallet and counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills, whereupon Hugh danced away counting and recounting the bills. Even to Zak, who knew this was an act, the exuberant gloating grew bothersome. Zak borrowed Giancarlo’s bike but retrieved his own helmet and shoes from camp, strapped on the gear and rode around for a minute or two, then pedaled out of sight higher on the road, turned back down the hill, and let it rip for a hundred yards in an abbreviated practice run. He hit an unexpected rock in the road, bounced, and almost crashed before regaining control.
“Sit back and let it roll,” Giancarlo advised when he got to the starting line. “Feather the brakes before the first right-hand turn then don’t touch them through the turn. Feather them a little bit before the last set of washboard, then ease up and let it roll. Watch out for the gravel at the bottom.”
Nadine and her girlfriends jumped into the Porsche while everybody else remained at the starting line. Before they left, Nadine came over and kissed Zak’s cheek, then glanced over to make sure Scooter saw it. “Good luck.”
Zak knew the kiss would only make Scooter angrier and wondered for the first time if Nadine was using him against Scooter in some sort of battle in which Zak had already been nominated to be the loser. He didn’t think Nadine had that much guile—any guile, for that matter—but it was something he’d never considered until that moment.
Scooter watched Nadine climb into the Porsche SUV twenty yards away. “Pussy,” Scooter said, winking conspiratorially at Zak as if they were best buddies. “You spend nine months trying to get out and the next ninety years doing your damnedest to get back in.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to fuck that.”
“Just get in the truck and try not to kill yourself.”
“Sure. Fine.” He stepped close and said, “But I’m going to catch you and it’s going to be the sorriest ‘accident’ you ever saw. There’s not going to be a thing any of your friends will be able to do about it.”
“I think I’m going to give the money to Greenpeace,” Zak said. “Just to piss you off.”
17
May
Zak couldn’t help feeling twinges of envy during his first visit to the Seattle Tennis Club. Generally, when the outdoor courts were damp, Nadine opted to play at Seattle U, but this week the custodial staff’s summer floor-polishing program had rendered it unavailable.
After four weeks of getting trounced almost daily, Zak had finally managed to win a few hard-fought points but no games. He suspected his improvement was dispiriting to Nadine, who voiced fears that she was subconsciously allowing him points. The notion that she might be easing up because he was a guy was unthinkable to her. “You do any better, I’m going to see a sports psychiatrist,” Nadine said, joking.
“Don’t worry about it,” Zak said. “I still haven’t won a game.”
“But I haven’t skunked you in a week.”
“You like me. I make you nervous.”
“I do like you, but you don’t make me that nervous.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Zak loved her competitiveness and knew the comment would make her try harder.
They played for an hour, during which she became more and more distracted and then finally excused herself. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Zak took the occasion to get a drink of water and visit the men’s room. When he got back to the court, she still had not returned. After twenty minutes he spotted her near a Coke machine on the far side of a gaggle of middle-aged women who played in some sort of June Cleaver league, all in tennis whites and with three-hundred-dollar rackets under their arms. As he drew closer, Zak saw that Nadine was talking to a man in a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. Scooter.
Zak negotiated his way around the group of women and approached the couple. “What the hell are