Part 7 (2/2)

As soon as they are seated in the Caddy, Julie and Dennis start arguing with each other again, but the car's windows are rolled up and Mouse can't make out the words. She turns to Andrew, who is mumbling to himself and seems lost in thought. After a moment he snaps out of it, looks at Mouse and shrugs apologetically. ”When Julie makes up her mind to do something in a certain way,” he says, ”there's not much point in fighting it.” He nods his head in the direction of Mouse's Centurion. ”Want to go?”

Andrew makes polite small talk on the way to the diner. It's a good effort, but not good enough to hide the fact that he is uncomfortable being alone with her. Mouse wonders if he saw something that Julie missed. What was I doing this morning between nine and twelve? she thinks of asking him, but of course she doesn't say that. Wounded by his apprehension, Mouse decides that she doesn't like Andrew.

Soon enough they are at the Harvest Moon, a Fifties-style malt shop with lots of chrome and neon. Mouse follows Julie's Cadillac into the lot behind the diner. She barely has time to set the parking brake before Andrew exits the car. ”c.o.c.ksucker,” Maledicta grumbles at his back.

Inside the diner, Dennis tries to sit next to Mouse, but once again Julie Sivik intervenes; she takes the seat to Mouse's left for herself and insists that Andrew, not Dennis, sit on Mouse's right.

”What the h.e.l.l is this, Dial-a-Date?” Dennis complains loudly. ”What do you keep putting him next to her for?”

”Here Dennis,” says Julie, handing him a menu. ”You'll feel better once you've got food in front of you.”

A waitress takes their orders, and while they wait for their lunches to arrive, Julie tries unsuccessfully to get a conversation going. More specifically, she tries to get Andrew and Mouse to have a conversation; she does this by asking Andrew a series of set-up questions, like ”So Andrew, did you know that Mouse once worked at Bit Warehouse, same as you did?” But Andrew won't follow her lead, and between his obvious discomfort, and Dennis's jibes about Dial-a-Date, Julie is soon forced to give up. No one says anything else until the food comes.

It is while they are eating that the thing happens that changes Mouse's mind about disliking Andrew. Within sight of their table is a booth in which a man sits with a young girl of four or five. The man saws mechanically at a large T-bone steak, forking one piece of meat after another into his mouth.

The girl isn't hungry; there is a plateful of peas and mashed potatoes in front of her, but rather than eat any of it, she just uses a spoon to push the peas around and trace patterns in the gravy. Eventually she grows bored with this; as an experiment, she taps the rim of the plate with the bowl of her spoon.

Pleased with the sound it makes, she begins striking it repeatedly, like a gong.

The man sets his fork down. He grabs the girl's spoon hand, stilling it; he doesn't speak, but his eyes flash a warning. The girl, momentarily chastened, goes back to pus.h.i.+ng peas. The man returns to his steak. Then the girl, growing bored again, clinks her spoon against the side of a water gla.s.s. This time the man doesn't bother to put his fork down; he just hauls off and backhands her across the face. It is a powerful blow: the girl is knocked sideways in her seat and nearly falls out of the booth. Her face turns purple and she begins to cry, softly. A few of the other diner patrons look around at the sound, and look away again.

Then Andrew stands up. (”Oh Jesus,” says Dennis, ”here we go,” but Andrew ignores him.) He walks over to the booth, positioning himself on the girl's side of the table, and stares at the man, who has gone back to sawing at his steak ”Excuse me,” Andrew says.

The man in the booth takes a moment to finish chewing a bit of gristle. ”What do you want?” he finally asks.

”Is this your daughter?” asks Andrew.

”Yes, it's my daughter,” the man in the booth says. ”What do you want?”

”You could have broken her eardrum, hitting her like that,” Andrew informs him. ”Or her jaw.

Or” -- he points to the fork clutched in the man's fist -- ”you could have put her eye out.”

The man drops the fork into his plate and brushes his hands together. He sighs impatiently. ”Get out of my face, a.s.shole.”

”Don't call me an a.s.shole,” Andrew says.

The man in the booth seems amazed to hear these words coming out of Andrew's mouth. He is bigger than Andrew by a fair margin, and much meaner-looking; he wears a suit, but it is rumpled and worn, as if he spends a lot of time engaged in hard physical labor. . . or administering beatings to people who annoy him. ”Would you like me to poke your eye out?” he says. ”Or rip out your f.u.c.king --”

”Don't threaten me,” says Andrew, his own voice not threatening but firm, the voice a father -- a good father -- might use to dissuade a child from pursuing a dangerous course of action: Don't play with those matches, honey!

And the man in the booth hesitates, confused by Andrew's lack of fear. He studies Andrew's face for a moment, then looks down -- checking Andrew's hands, Mouse realizes, to see if he is holding a weapon. He isn't. And though Andrew is physically fit, he doesn't carry himself like a fighter. It is a conundrum.

”What are you, crazy?” the man in the booth asks. Andrew lets the question hang there, and the man in the booth continues, wary now: ”How I treat my kid is none of your business, pal.”

”A grown man beating up a little girl is everybody's business,” Andrew tells him; he says this in a loud voice, and once more heads begin to turn. ”You should be ashamed of yourself.”

”Ashamed of myself!” the man guffaws. He looks out of the booth, seeking a confederate among the diner patrons who are staring at him. His gaze settles on Julie. ”Do you believe this guy?” he asks her.

”He thinks he's my G.o.dd.a.m.n conscience!”

”Maybe you need one,” Julie says.

The man bobs his head. ”Well,” he says, turning back to Andrew, ”well, there you go. That's one vote for you.”

”I don't need votes,” Andrew says.

”No, of course not,” says the man. ”You know you're right, right? You're an expert on childcare.

But let me tell you something: if you had to put up with this f.u.c.king kid --”

”If she were my daughter, I wouldn't call her 'this f.u.c.king kid.' And she wouldn't be crying while I stuffed my face.”

For an instant it looks as though the man is going to take a swing at Andrew after all. But Andrew doesn't blink or flinch, just goes right on looking him in the eye, and in the end the man in the booth decides not to risk finding out why Andrew isn't afraid. ”Fine,” he says. He twists in his seat, digs frantically in one of his pants pockets. ”Fine, tell you what: you go get yourself a kid, OK? You get yourself a kid, live with it for a couple years, then you come back and lecture me on how it's done.” He slaps a twenty-dollar bill down on the table next to his plate. ”Come on, Rebecca!” he barks, sliding out of the booth. He shoves Andrew aside and scoops up the little girl, who has been watching the confrontation with great interest, her tears forgotten. The man starts to carry the girl away; halfway to the door he stops, turns back, and points a finger at Andrew. ”You'd better hope I never see you again.

a.s.shole.'”

”If I hear you've been beating up little kids,” says Andrew, ”you will see me again. And not just me.”

”Crazy.” The man lowers his arm, shakes his head. Catching a waitress's eye, he says: ”You've got crazy people eating here, you know that?”

He walks out, taking the girl with him. Andrew watches until they are gone, then returns to the table.

”I wish to Christ you wouldn't do that,” Dennis says.

Andrew nods, and replies sadly: ”I know you do, Dennis.”

”That guy could've killed you. He could've pulled out a gun and shot you dead. It happens.”

”I don't think he had a gun, Dennis.”

”He had a steak knife. He had fists. . .”

Andrew shakes his head. ”Adam didn't think he'd hit me.”

”Adam . . .” Dennis rolls his eyes. Putting audible quotes around the name, he says: ”And what if 'Adam' was wrong?”

”Then Seferis would have protected me.”

”Seferis . . . you really are a mental case, you know that? That guy was right. And you know what the worst part of it is? It's not going to make any difference. Do you really think that guy is going to stop hitting his kid just because you said 'Shame on you'?”

”It's more likely than if I'd said nothing,” Andrew argues. But he looks unhappy, as if he fears Dennis may be right.

”Nah,” says Dennis. ”Nah, he's not going to change.”

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