Karen: I spent about seven hours with Foley.
Her Dad: Don't tell me everything.
Karen: Don't worry. Do you understand our taking a timeout?
Her Dad: The way you tell it, yeah.
Karen: There was no time limit specified.
Her Dad: But now you're back in play, out of time-outs.
Karen: I guess so.
Her Dad: You have to do better than that. You have to accept the fact.
Karen: Okay.
Her Dad: What are your options?
Karen: If I find him? Place him under arrest.
Her Dad: What else? What if he tries to get away? What if he pulls a gun on you?
Karen: He doesn't have a gun.
Her Dad: You want to do this or not?
Karen: I'm sorry.
Her Dad: What if he resists arrest, tries to get away, puts you in a position where you're trained to use your gun? Could you doit?
Karen: I don't think so.
Her Dad: What if he wants you to take off with him?
Karen: I wouldn't go. I told him that.
Her Dad: Would you let him get away?
Karen: No.
Her Dad: Then you'd have to shoot him, wouldn't you?
Karen: I don't know.
Her Dad: Would he shoot you, if he had to?
Karen: I don't know.
Her Dad: He told you he's not going back.
Karen: Yes.
Her Dad: So whose choice is it, really, if you have to shoot him?
Karen: Is that supposed to make it easier?
Her Dad: Why did you join the marshals?
Karen: Not to shoot people.
Her Dad: No, but the possibility is a fact you have to abide by. Can you do it?
During the afternoon Karen stayed in and watched a movie on television she had seen at least a couple of times before, Repo Man, because Harry Dean Stanton was in it and he reminded her of Foley. Not his looks-they didn't look anything alike-his manner: both real guys who seemed tired of who they were, but couldn't do anything about it.
Stuck, putting up with their lives the way people find themselves in jobs they care nothing about, but in time have nowhere else to go. She wondered if Foley ever had goals. Or if his idea of living was anything more than lying around the house, watching movies.
Buddy said he was going out, see if there were any whores around, maybe bring one up to his room. Foley imagined some poor girl standing in the snow in her white boots, bare thighs and a ratty fur jacket, shivering, getting hit by slush as cars went by; but doubted she'd be there in real life. He wished Buddy luck and pressed buttons on the TV remote until he found a movie. Repo Man, a winner he'd seen a few times before. Old Harry Dean Stanton getting the short end as usual.
Fun to watch, though. This was the one, they open the trunk of the car and you see a strange glow. Like in Kiss Me Deadly, the strange glow in the case inside the locker, and they used it again in Pulp Fiction.
Mysterious glow movies-some kind of radioactive material, but what it's doing there is never explained; if it was, Foley missed it. He liked this kind of movie. You could think about it after, when you had nothing to do, try to figure out what the movie was about.
TWENTY-TWO
Aurice would get up from the table and walk along the apron of the stage yelling at one of the fighters, telling him, "Stick and jab, stick and jab." Not in the way of the audience, the ring up on the stage, but it was annoying and Glenn wished he'd shut the fuck up.
Maurice would come back to the table and Kenneth would leave, go up on the side of the stage where guys were hanging out, big black guys, and Kenneth would hang with them between bouts, Kenneth dosed on speed and doing all the talking. Glenn had never seen so many big black guys in one place who weren't wearing football or basketball uniforms. Outside of him and White Boy Bob there were maybe five or six other white people in the whole theater. The waitress would bring a round and White Boy would throw his beer down in three or four swigs, give Glenn's shoulder a jab and tell him to come on, drink up, "You drink like a girl," and look to see if there were any other morons around thought he was funny. The black guys and their women at tables close by only stared, tolerating him because of Maurice.
Where movie seats used to be were rows of round nightclub tables: a row of them on each of four levels rising a step at a time up through the theater to the bar: a long one, and dark up there away from the ring lights. People hung out in the open spaces at both ends of the bar.
Behind the bar was the aisle that crossed the theater from side to side, a stairway at one end that went down to the rest rooms. Beyond this area was the outer lobby with a small bar over to one side.
A fighter from one of the Kronk boxing clubs was announced, rap music came booming out of speakers and a procession of handlers and hangers-on appeared out of a door on the side aisle. Now women crowded in from the audience, jiving, waving as the fighter finally appeared to mount the stage and climb into the ring in red and gold to fight four rounds for two hundred bucks, the gold tassels on his high red shoes jumping now as the fighter worked his shoulders with quick jabs, shuffling around his side of the ring. Watching from the other side a white kid from out of town or some Mexican lad trying to look cool, unimpressed, would weave and do some footwork in his plain black shoes to be doing something, waiting for the rap show to end and the ref in his bow tie and latex gloves to motion them to the center of the ring.
Ever since they got here Glenn had been trying to think of a way to get the car keys from White Boy-Glenn listening to him and Kenneth talking about last night, grinning at each other, saying tomorrow, man, tomorrow was payday, talking about hitting Ripley's house. Glenn would listen to the two morons and watch Maurice bopping around from table to table giving brothers the brother handshake, touch fists in their ritual ways, Maurice the hipster, a dude black felt cap set on his head just right, and shades.
"Maintaining a low profile," Maurice told him.
"No do-rag. The fights, I'm all the way low profile."
They had come here in the Lincoln Town Car, White Boy driving, so White Boy had the keys.
Glenn had gone downstairs to the men's and neither of the morons was sent along to keep an eye on him; so he was pretty sure he could slip out of here, cross Woodward Avenue to where the Town Car was parked and if he had the keys, shit, he'd be out of here, on his way to California. He had boosted the car off a lot in West Palm: decided on the Lincoln-parked right in front, ready to go-and while the parking attendant was busy moving cars around, Glenn ducked in the shack and got the Lincoln keys off the board-he knew keys-then waited for the right moment to slip in behind the wheel and take off. He'd brought his tools along that day, not sure what method he'd use to pick up a car, and the tools were now in the trunk of the Lincoln, the car waiting for him right across the street. But White Boy had the fucking keys in his pocket.
Getting in the car wasn't the problem, it was unlocked. When they got here White Boy didn't know where the button was to lock the doors, so Glenn said, "Here, I'll do it," standing outside the car, the driver-side door open. White Boy walked away and Glenn reached in as though to press the lock button, saw the three of them already crossing the street to the theater, and all he did was close the door. He hoped to God if the doors were unlocked the glove compartment would be too, so he could get in there and pop the switch to open the trunk. Get out his tools, use the slap hammer to yank the ignition and he was off! White Boy could keep the keys. But if the glove box was locked, he was fucked. He'd have to find something to pry it open. But if he took too long-even if he could pop the trunk-Maurice would send the morons looking for him.