“Those are gonna go straight to your breadbasket.” Tony Bennett had materialized beside him, spiffy as a dime.
Loomis felt the bolt of his hypothalamus. His bloodstream flushed with epinephrine. His soft muscles clenched. His plaqued heart thudded. A million years ago, or even, like, ten, he would have done something useful with all these panic hormones — fought, or more likely fled. But he was a modern domesticated human, a suburban kvetcher unversed in the protocols of genuine danger.
Scarface appeared on the other side of Loomis and set a paw on his trembling shoulder. “This is what I’m wondering, friend: if my wife, God rest her soul, if she came back from shopping—”
“Please don’t touch me without my permission,” Loomis managed.
“She finally gets everything unloaded,” Scarface said, unperturbed, “but here I come, Big Mister Hubby Man, and I see something I don’t approve of on that kitchen island. Does this give me the right to...”
“Demean,” Tony Bennett said.
“Right.”
“Insult.”
“Sure.”
“Hector.”
“Listen to this guy. Friggin’ Roget.”
“Is this about the Greek yogurt?”
Tony Bennett reached into his hip pocket and left his hand there. “Yeah, let’s address the yogurt thing.”
They were standing side by side, a brief, miserable chorus line.
“I have a right to know how my money’s being spent,” Loomis said.
“You don’t trust your wife?” Scarface made his tongue go tut. “The mother of your children?” He said something in Italian, and they both laughed.
“What do you want me to say? That I’m a tyrant? Okay, I’m a tyrant.”
“We don’t want you to say anything,” Tony Bennett said. “That’s the goal we’re pursuing here.”
Loomis needed to shut up. He knew that. But the portion of his brain responsible for shutting up had lost function. “A buck seventy-nine for a single yogurt,” he said slowly. “Eight fucking ounces. How is that in any way reasonable? They put a little pod of strawberry jam next to the yogurt, like it’s so fucking sacred it requires its own habitat, like American consumers are so stupid as to think, ‘Wow, in Greece they’re sophisticated about their yogurt! They don’t put fruit at the bottom! No, Greeks assemble each yogurt themselves, as in the days of the ancient Athenian democracy, when Plato sat upon the steps of the Parthenon and stirred a brace of fresh berries into his single-serving portion!’ ”
His interrogators said nothing. What could they say? Loomis had dazzled them into silence.
“You really think like this?” Scarface asked finally.
Tony Bennett turned to face Loomis. His breath smelled of sirloin and Altoids. “Do you work hard, Mr. Loomis?”
“I do,” Loomis said, though he wanted to say something a bit more elastic, something like Define hard. Because the truth is he had offered a single good idea early in his tenure, a phrase uttered in jest at the end of a brainstorm, which had become a slogan, then a logo, then a campaign. He was a one-hit wonder. He was Men Without Hats. Did Men Without Hats work hard? Define hard.
“So this hard work,” Scarface said, “it entitles you to a certain respect, am I correct?”
Loomis nodded wearily.
“And your wife, as the primary caretaker for your children, she works hard too, right?”
“I respect my wife,” Loomis said.
“Your behavior,” Tony Bennett said.
“Not respectful,” Scarface said.
“Because respectful would be to thank her for going shopping.”
“Give her a kiss. Say, Thanks, honey.”
“Then later, if you got a problem, away from the kids.”
“You find a nice way.”
“You don’t jump down her throat about the yogurt, the applesauce.”
“That fucking applesauce!” Loomis barked. “You tell me, you guys are so reasonable, does it make sense to put an ounce of fruit-based paste into a brightly colored polyurethane pouch with a screw top, a pouch no doubt assembled by underaged slaves on the outskirts of some toxic Asian megalopolis—”
Scarface nudged Loomis. He gestured with his chin toward Tony Bennett, who brushed open his coat to reveal an elaborate holster, out of which peeked the black butt of a pistol.
Loomis’s knees went to jelly. He tried to take a step and stumbled, and his brow struck something.
“You got a decision to make,” Tony Bennett said from somewhere up above. “We don’t want to have to keep doing this. It’s not to our liking.”
“A decision,” Loomis said woozily. Then he was on the ground next to the dumpster, and his ribs hurt.
Now many things were happening simultaneously, and Loomis was struggling to process each of them. Scarface stood over him, looking spooked. The scar itself — and this made no sense — seemed to be peeling off at one end. The red Scion was parked across the street, and a figure stepped out of it and began twirling a baton. Someone was yelling at a much higher, feminine pitch. Loomis could feel an itchy trickling down his cheek. It was unclear how much time had passed.
The scene began to resolve: The guy from the red Scion was Bobito. He was working a pair of nunchucks (not a baton!) and instructing Tony Bennett to “Step off.” Tony Bennett appeared unsure what to do. With some difficulty, he removed the gun from his holster, which brought Bobito up short. Scarface had his hands out, palms up. This was all taking place behind a Dunkin’ Donuts, in what one might call a low-traffic asphalt area.
Then a fourth figure became visible: his daughter Izzy in orange soccer shorts and shin guards; Izzy, who had inherited his big dumb nose — he felt terrible about it — what in God’s name had he ensnared her in? She was marching toward Scarface and Tony Bennett from behind, at such an angle that she couldn’t see the basic standoff scenario. “I told you guys, no being rough!” she yelled. Then, catching sight of the weapons, she shrieked: “Omigod-omigod-omigod!”
Loomis concurred. He did not ponder why his daughter had been shouting at Scarface and Tony Bennett. He did not think about anything but Izzy, who was still wearing her cleats, which he’d expressly told her not to do because nongrass surfaces wore the plastic down, but what did it matter, what did any of it matter? She was his baby girl, his number one; he had caught her at birth, her tender bluish body coated in hot slop. He rose up and staggered toward her, right through the line of fire. He was going to possibly die a hero, and this felt, for a gorgeous fraction of a second, true and good. He lunged and knocked Izzy to the ground and lay on top of her like a soggy rug, bellowing, “Please don’t shoot oh god she’s my baby daughter please don’t shoot I beg you oh god I’m begging.”
This went on for a while.
Scarface gestured toward Bobito. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Mr. Loomis’s personal security detail is who I am, bitch.”
Loomis was too terrified to mention that this was not technically true.
“Drop the Chink sticks,” Tony Bennett said. He was trying to sound tough, but his voice strained for the effect, and Loomis, cowering below him, could see his hands trembling, as if the gun clasped between them weighed next to nothing.
“You first,” Bobito said.
“Please do it,” Loomis whimpered. “Please, Bobito. Please please.”
Bobito sneered and dropped the nunchucks. “For the girl.”
Tony Bennett had just lowered his weapon when a siren sounded. Suddenly all three men were yelling shit and fuck and glaring at Loomis as if this were all his fault. Bobito tossed his nunchucks in the dumpster. To Tony Bennett he said, “Ditch the piece, dammit.”