Glory Lane Page 3

  “All right. I couldn’t make you leave anyway.”

  “Sure you could. Just say ‘leave, Seeth.”

  “All right. Leave, Seeth.”

  “No way. Not when I’m having such a good time. How about those Cokes?”

  “How about them?” Kerwin sounded resigned.

  Seeth dug in a pocket. “If you don’t mind, man, I’m a little short.”

  Shaking his head, Kerwin fumbled out a couple of crumpled bills. “And this time bring me back the change.”

  “Hey, I may be an anarchist but I’m no thief.”

  “Then don’t be a forgetful anarchist either, okay? I need the gas money.”

  “Relax. I’m your original returnoid.” He spun and headed for the snack bar, leaving Kerwin to jot down a few final notes.

  Poor old Kerwin, Seeth mused as he took the steps two at a time. He was almost human. And the boy could talk. Definitely some brain up there hiding in the solid bone. It just wasn’t connected to eyes and ears. As he approached the snack bar he glanced around, but his original tormentor had long since departed. Sadly, so had the two waitresses. The assistant manager was cleaning up.

  “Hey, where’s the good-looking one?”

  The guy eyed him distastefully. “Nancy’s gone home.”

  “Nancy? You mean her name’s really Nancy? I thought that was a dead moniker, like Ethel. Two Cokes, please.” He pushed the two bills across the countertop. “I mean, can you imagine a pair of proud parents in their early twenties standing in an observation room looking into a hospital nursery at this little wrinkled pink thing and saying, ‘Let’s call her Ethel’?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not married myself.” The night manager turned his back on Seeth as he drew the drinks.

  No, and if you were you wouldn’t tell me, Seeth thought bitterly, because you’re afraid I might sneak up on your house in the middle of the night and torch the place.

  “She work here every night?”

  “Off and on.”

  Yeah, I didn’t think you’d tell me that, either, nerdo. He smiled as he swept up his change. There was almost a buck. He debated whether or not to keep it and decided to split it down the middle. Not that he really needed the forty cents but it was a matter of principle. He wouldn’t want Kerwin to get the right idea.

  His friend didn’t comment as he pocketed the three coins. He didn’t come here often enough to know the price of a Coke or anything else.

  Seeth hung around a little longer, but the joy of bugging the older student waned as Kerwin fielded his comments calmly and politely. What the hell, you couldn’t get him upset. Self-control. Seeth always tried rattling him and only rarely succeeded. He could “accidentally” have tipped his drink all over Kerwin’s neat, meticulously arranged notes, but that might’ve prompted something stronger than just angry words even from someone as even-tempered as the sociology student.

  Anyway, the fun was in upsetting him emotionally, not physically.

  He bade farewell with a last comment concerning his parents that added just a hint of color to Kerwin’s face. It was still early. Maybe he could find Midge and Dreko and the three of them could take Dreko’s car and go cruising down the Interstate and moon some tourists. If not, well, there was always the Hole and a good morning’s sleep. With any luck he wouldn’t wake up again until the sun was going down tomorrow night.

  Nothing wrong with living like a troglodyte, he told himself. He didn’t get a tan, but he wouldn’t get skin cancer, either. Besides, pale skin looked better against the blacks and purples he favored. Made it easier to gross someone out with the occasional, minor self-inflicted wound, too. Red showed up much better against white skin than beige.

  He was almost out the door when he noticed the bowler working lane thirty-six, the last one, the one next to the painted concrete-block wall. Nothing special about him. Just another guy. Not much bigger than Seeth himself. Brown Levis, long-sleeved shirt. That was a little odd. It was plenty warm in the Bowlarama even this late at night, but lots of people were easily chilled.

  The man had a seven-ten spare to pick up. The toughest shot in the game, or at least it was insofar as Seeth knew anything about the game. He didn’t exactly follow the professional averages, though one time he and some friends had spent three hours watching a national bowling match—only to find it numbed their brains as thoroughly as any drugs.

  He wasn’t really watching the man at all and he just sort of caught the throw out of the corner of his eye. What made him halt was not the fact that the guy picked up the spare, but the way he did it.

  He tossed the ball down the right side of the lane and it rolled straight and true for the ten pin, knocking it nob over tail. The ball then vanished from sight, back in the pickup area. At which point Seeth stopped as sharply as if he’d walked into a wall of inch-thick safety glass. The ball popped back out from the grasp of the automatic return, hovered above the wood like a mongoose taking a bead on a cobra, turned ninety degrees to its right and clobbered the seven pin.

  All right.

  2

  His first thought was that something weird had happened with the automatic return to throw the ball back out onto the alley. He was still dealing with the realm of the possible. But if the ball had been kicked or bounced back out it should have come rolling back up the lane. It most definitely should not have bounced back out, halted, then pivoted and rolled decisively to its right. You could do that in a Saturday morning cartoon, but you couldn’t do it with a fifteen-pound bowling ball.

  Seeth just slowly turned around and stood motionless, watching, holding the last of his cola in one fist. The man bowled again but the miracle shot wasn’t repeated. Every­thing else he threw looked normal. He was running up a good score but not an exceptional one.

  Just when he was starting to wonder if he was beginning to hallucinate a little early tonight, Seeth saw the guy throw a strike. Not a normal strike, where the ball hits to the left or right of the head pin or even straight on the head pin itself, but one where the ball went down the right side of the alley, halted almost three feet from the pin, jumped sideways into the center of the pins and commenced to transcribe an outward flowing spiral until the last pin had been flattened. Whereupon the ball then leisurely spun over to the rightside gutter and slid out of sight back among the auto-pickup.

  An inside-out strike. An utterly impossible sight. He fully expected the ball to levitate on its way back to its owner. But the guy just waited calmly like everybody else, sipping at his Bud while he waited for the automatic return to shoot the orb back to him. Which it did.

  So, okay. One defiance of nature’s laws was a coinci­dence. Two of a completely different nature suggested something else. Not that it mattered to Seeth, he wasn’t the would-be scientist here. Let Kerwin make something out of it.

  The older man looked up in surprise. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  “So what brought you back? The pleasure of my company?”

  “Yeah, sure, I just can’t pull myself away from the insights of Beaver Cleaver’s clone.” He turned and ges­tured subtly. “See that guy over there on the end?”

  Kerwin turned to look. Most of the alleys in between were empty now and he could see the man clearly. “What about him?”

  “Might be an interesting footnote for your paper.”

  “Why?” He squinted. “I didn’t see anything unusual about him.”

  “Maybe not him, but he’s got some interesting shots.”

  “Sorry. I’m into watching people who aren’t bowling. This just happens to be a bowling alley.”

  “And this guy just happens to be contra-Newton. I don’t mean fig. I saw him throw the ball, have it stop dead and then accelerate perpendicular to the lane. Maybe you can make that work on paper but not with a bowling ball.”

  “That’s real amusing.” Kerwin made it sound like a curse as he turned back to his clipboard, checking. “I’ll be done her
e in a minute and you can stay ‘til they turn out the lights.”

  “Look, man, I’m serious. Just watch the guy, will you? I saw him do it twice. The second time was even weirder than the first. Maybe he’s some kind of electronics expert or something and he’s trying out some kind of new remote control on the ball—though I didn’t see him push any buttons or give any verbal orders or anything. Maybe he’s gonna go pro and cheat. Or maybe he’s just developed a couple of shots that contravene all the known laws of thermodynamics.”

  Kerwin frowned at him. “What do you know about thermodynamics?”

  “Remind me to tell you about the date I had last week, but for right now let’s just watch this guy, huh? Isn’t that what you’re into, observing?”

  “All right. But only because it’s the first time I can remember you asking me for anything besides money.”

  So they watched while the man threw shot after shot, leisurely and calmly doing all the things bowlers normally do. None of them were miracle shots.

  “Right, so I’m going over the edge,” said Seeth, won­dering if he really was. “But I saw him do those shots, I really did!”

  Kerwin didn’t look over at him. “I don’t know about what you saw or didn’t see, but you were right about one thing. He’s unusual.”

  Now it was Seeth’s turn to be confused. He didn’t like being confused. “What are you talking about, man? He hasn’t thrown anything but regular stuff since I told you about him. I’ve been watching too.”

  “You’re correct. All of his shots have been normal. However, something else is not.”

  Seeth stared at the bowler, watching as he tossed a simple two-pin spare pickup. “Like what? He’s not doing anything.”

  “Watch him. Watch his hands right when he gets ready to release the ball.”

  Quietly Seeth did exactly as ordered, trying to find something unusual in the man’s release. A hidden switch or something. The guy took his three steps and flung the ball, watched as it rolled down the lane to knock down half the pins. Then he turned to take another methodical sip of beer while waiting for the automatic to return the ball.

  A contemplative Seeth muttered softly. “Far out. The guy’s got six fingers on his right hand.”

  Kerwin responded with a slow shake of his head. “No. Seven.”

  “Cute. I wonder how he does it? What about his left hand?”

  “That’s even funnier,” said Kerwin. “It’s normal. Seven fingers on the right hand, five on the left. I wonder if he’s got seven toes.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he’s messed up somewhere else, too.”

  Kerwin made a face. “You’re sick.”

  “Maybe, but there’s nothing I can do about it because I’m fifty years short of qualifying for Medicare and they’ll be broke by the time I qualify anyway. I never saw a guy with seven fingers before. I knew a gal once who had a cat had seven toes on a front paw and six on a back.”

  “People aren’t cats. Sometimes they’re born with two heads or no fingers, but you don’t get extra ones. They’re not just ossified offshoots, either. I can see them working. They’re functional.”

  “So what happened to this guy? I mean, is he a by­product of the H-bomb or something, like Mothra? Or did he hit up Chippendale’s emporium for a couple of extra digits?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not the only one. The dude could have thirty fingers on one hand. That wouldn’t explain how he man­aged the two shots I saw.”

  “I’m beginning to think you saw what you say you saw. Wish I’d seen them.”

  “I wish you had, too. So what do we do about it?”

  Kerwin shrugged. “I dunno. It’s not a crime to have seven fingers on one hand.” The Bowlarama was all but deserted now. The night crew was cleaning up the first eighteen lanes. He checked his watch. “We’ve got to be out of here in fifteen minutes. They’re getting ready to close.”

  “What about plastic man over there?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “So ask him.”

  “Ask him what? He’s probably sensitive about the de­formity. The guy can have as many fingers as he wants. It’s nobody else’s business.”

  “Some scientist. Where’s your sense of curiosity? Think Hillary would’ve climbed Everest if it had been five thousand feet lower? What’s he going to do if you ask him about it—punch you out?”

  “So you ask him, you’re so curious.”

  Seeth straightened. “Hey, you’re the male Margaret Mead, not me, Jack. I’ll hold your Coke.”

  “I’m through with my Coke. I’m through with tonight, too.” Kerwin started to rise, then suddenly sat back down and bent over his notes. “Take a look at these,” he said under his breath.

  “What, are you whacko?” Seeth sounded as if his friend’s sanity was no longer in question. “I’m not inter­ested in your stupid notes.”

  Kerwin reached up to grab the smaller man’s jacket and pull him close. “Just pretend,” he whispered tightly.

  Seeth lowered his voice appropriately, his eyes darting around like a cat sure there were mice about. “A new game, right? So what’s it called?”

  “It’s called don’t attract attention to yourself.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s my whole reason for being.” He stepped back and shrugged off Kerwin’s hand, thrust­ing both hands into the air. “See, I love attracting atten­tion! I...” He caught sight of the thing that had caused Kerwin to turn back to his notes with single-minded intentness.

  The pair who’d entered via the back door might have been off-duty football players. Not for the university. Maybe for the Dallas Cowboys. Offensive linemen, and not for the power company. Both wore identical, trim brown suits. Their faces looked soft, almost puffy, but their shoulders were wide enough to skateboard on.

  What had caught Kerwin’s attention, however, was not their size but their expressions. The way their eyes moved, the set of their jaws. Put eyes and mouths and attitudes together and they spelled C-O-P. Seeth abruptly developed an intense interest in Kerwin’s notes.

  “Shit,” he muttered, “I’m holding.”

  “Holding? You are crazy.” Kerwin glanced anxiously at the two men as they came down the steps leading to the lanes. “Holding what?”

  “What do you think, man.” Seeth’s face was shoved up close to Kerwin’s. “U.S. Mail?” He looked around wildly. “I’ve got to get to the John.” He started to move, then hesitated. There was fear in his expression. “I can’t. They’re liable to stop me.” He started fumbling in his pockets. “Here, you take the stuff.”

  “What, are you nuts?” Kerwin pushed him away. “I’m not having anything to do with anything you’ve got in your pockets, whether it’s smokable, drinkable, or breathable!”

  “Calm down, man! It’s all right, it’s all right. See?”

  The two new arrivals were ignoring everyone else in the Bowlarama, including the two quietly arguing young men nearby. They were heading for lane thirty-six. The bowler with the extra grip didn’t see them coming. He was stand­ing by the return waiting for his ball and concentrating on the seven pin still standing subsequent to his last throw.

  One of the cops put a paw on the man’s shoulder and spun him around. The bowler’s eyes got real wide, wide enough for Kerwin and Seeth to see his reaction clearly. They stared at each other, bowler and much bigger man. Then the bowler cautiously reached down to recover the ball. The other cop blocked any retreat.

  The bowler looked exactly like someone on a TV show hunting for a place to hide. Since this was real life, no mysterious pathways suddenly appeared in the middle of the floor or the concrete wall. The cops each took an arm and started hustling him up the steps, just sort of urging him along, though Kerwin hadn’t the slightest doubt they could carry him if it proved necessary.

  “Hey, that ain’t right,” Seeth said suddenly.

  “That isn’t right.” Kerwin wasn’t so preoccupied he couldn’t correct his companion.


  “I mean, they didn’t talk to him or nothing. They just grabbed him.”

  “Maybe he’s been arrested before and they all know each other.” He turned back to his notes. “In any case, it’s none of our business.”

  “Typical yuppie. Mouth off about truth and justice, but when it comes down to it what you really want is not to have to get involved.”

  “You don’t either. Sit down.”

  “No way, man. This stinks.” His eyes glittered in the light from the batteries of overhead fluorescents. “Be­sides, this is the first interesting thing I’ve seen all night.”

  “Stay out of it, Seeth.”

  The younger man had already slipped out of reach. “How can I stay out of it? I’ve spent the whole night trying to get into it.”

  Kerwin glanced nervously around the alley. Only half a dozen die-hards remained. The nearest was ten lanes away. So far, none of them had taken any notice of the largely silent drama that was playing itself out on lane thirty-six.

  The two cops were so big they would have overlooked Seeth if he hadn’t stepped directly in their path. The extra-digited bowler looked at him too, both arms wrapped tightly around his bowling ball. It glowed slightly, Seeth noted. Obviously a custom job.

  “Hi guys. What’s on the program for tonight? Too late to hand out jaywalking tickets?”

  The cops exchanged a glance, then simultaneously stared down at the pint-sized human blocking their path. Their silence convinced Seeth his first impressions were correct. Something was definitely unkosher here.

  Instead of saying, “Get out of the way, punk,” they tried to sidestep around him.

  “You guys don’t talk much, do you?” Seeth easily darted sideways to confront them a second time. “C’mon, I’ve got all night. What’s going on here?” He eyed the bowler. “Hey, Jack, what’s the story, huh? What’re they leaning on you for?”

  The bowler was either too preoccupied or too terrified to reply. His captors hustled him sideways between two rows of seats, heading for the next aisle over. Seeth stayed where he was, letting them think he wasn’t going to interfere again, before clearing seats and rows to block them yet a third time. He’d already determined he could run circles around them if he needed to.