Finton Moon (33 page)

“Ah, b'y.” Skeet clapped a friendly, big hand on Finton's back, leading him down the lane. “What's life without a little adventure?”

Bilch's was about a mile from Moon's Lane walking along the dusty shoulder of the road. By day, the Bilches ran a convenience store, where they sold every item known to Darwin—from shampoo, Corn Flakes, and hockey tape to Campbell's soup, ABC detergent, and louse combs. There wasn't much that Mudder Bilch didn't carry in her store, which was sometimes tended to by one of the younger Bilches. The father spent his time either watching TV or up in the woods, far from the prying eyes of the welfare officers. He had a bad back whenever they were around, but most times he was the picture of good health.

In reality, the snack bar was the rectangular west wing of a mediumsized, tumbledown bungalow a mile down the road from Moon's Lane. Aside from the dire need of a new paint job and the stench of manure from the fenced-in, chestnut horse in the side yard, the exterior was passable. But the insides fell a few shades below respectable.

As he pushed open the door and made the bell ring, Finton stood in the doorway, one foot inside and the other on the step. Already, those wood-paneled walls were closing in on him. Blue cigarette smoke hung over every piece of furniture and drifted above each head. A pinball machine was pressed against the back wall, with a large deep freeze to its right and a jukebox—blaring “Tin Man”—to its right. To Finton's left as he entered was a long, wooden countertop laid with a strip of red-and-black checkered linoleum. On the near edge of the counter sat a bubble gum machine, two-thirds filled with balls of various colours, the red ones being the most entrancing to Finton. Behind the counter, in front of a Coca-cola sign, Mudder Bilch leaned forward, hands clasped, watching Bernard Crowley and Willie Dredge play pool. Beside her, her son Chosey—a freckled, thirteen-year-old boy with the mind of a toddler—sat on a stool, scratching his head and squinting with puzzlement at the entertainment before him.

“Mom,” he was saying in a graveled voice that sounded like a cat in heat. “When are these people goin' home?”

“Don't be so foolish, Chosey. These people gives us money so they can play our games. Why would you want them to go home?”

“I don't like 'em,” he said, swiping at an imaginary fly on his cheek. “'cept that one over there.” He nodded towards Millie Griffin, with short brown hair and freckles, drinking a Mountain Dew and smiling as she leaned against the deep freeze and watched Morgan play pinball. “I likes Milliegriffin,” Chosey said. Despite feeling that he'd entered a madhouse, Finton sensed an innocence in Chosey that was rare in Darwin, at least among teenagers.

The main attraction was the hulking pool table, which consumed nearly one-third of the room. More than a dozen patrons milled about—drinking, talking, playing or watching—and he recognized some of them: Morgan Battenhatch playing pinball, shaking her rear end to the music and tapping the corner of the machine to make the silver balls do her bidding. Alicia Dredge watched her brother Willie line up his next shot, a worried expression on her face.

He glanced towards the only vacant space, near the back of the room, where a thick brown curtain separated the business side of the bungalow from the residential side. Finton wondered what was behind the famous curtain—definitely not the Wizard of Oz, but something more troubling. He heard rumours about the Bilches—how, at all hours, strange noises came from behind that curtain; how the youngsters were often brutalized by their father; how the small horse was brought in at night to sleep on the pool table. He couldn't quite picture any of it and, for that, he was glad.

Drawing a deep breath, Finton tried to quiet the warnings in his head as he timidly stepped forward into “that den of iniquity.”

And then he saw Bernard Crowley with a cue stick.

“Well, look who's here.” Bernard didn't move except to lift his gaze.

“Hey, Bernard.” Finton nodded unsteadily.

“Don't worry about him,” Skeet murmured. “We're just here to shoot stick.”

“Mommy let you out tonight, did she?” Bernard had a cigarette stuck in his mouth and was bent over the side railing of the pool table. In his denim jacket, black t-shirt, and tight blue jeans, with his hair slicked back, he was a skinnier version of the Fonz. He sunk his shot, then looked up at Finton, who turned his back to his nemesis and went straight to the counter.

“Orange Crush,” Finton said.

Mudder Bilch sized him up. “Haven't seen you in here before—not at night anyways.”

“I knows you,” said Chosey. “Do you know me?”

He shook his head and said “thank you” as she handed him the warm bottle—making him think the electrical cord joining the fridge to the outlet in the wall was a ruse—and he turned to assess his best chances for survival. His instinct was to huddle with Alicia, but she appeared more nervous than him—all the more reason to join her. He glanced towards Morgan, who was surrounded by horny teenage boys and a couple of girls, including Millie Griffin, all watching her slay the pinball dragon with quarters and a lot of shimmying and swearing. The bells on the machine rang out so prolifically that he assumed her quest was successful. It was the first time in a while he'd seen her anywhere but in her bedroom, and she appeared relaxed and enjoying herself.

Although he knew them all on sight, they were mostly strangers. Except for Skeet, Alicia, and Chosey, just about everyone there was older than him.

The next song that came on the jukebox was weird—he'd heard it only once before, in Morgan's bedroom—something about “heat whispered trees” and “two spirits dancing so strange”—and he figured she'd already put coins in the machine.

As he sidled close to Alicia, Orange Crush clutched in his sweaty palm, he could feel Bernard glare at him, grinning. But Finton ignored him and nudged Alicia. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She smiled, barely removing her gaze from the game.

“Good game?”

“Not so much.”

“Bernard's beating your brother, eh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Bad for me.”

“Why bad for you?”

She overlapped her top lip with her bottom one, then smacked both lips together. “They're playing for me.”

Finton scrunched his eyes together. “You mean Willie's your proxy in the game?”

“No.” She shook her head somberly, hair swaying before her eyes. “He ran out of money and Bernard gave him double or nothing—if Crowley wins, he gets to take me out.”

“On a date?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening, lips drawn tight.

“That's kind of sick.”

Alicia didn't answer, just focused on the game.

“How much money does he owe?” Finton asked.

“Twenty-four bucks,” Alicia said. “Dad'll kill him if he doesn't win it back.”

“Don't you get a say?”

Skeet suddenly moved in behind them and punched Finton's arm. “See? Not such a bad place, is it?” He tilted his Coca-cola bottle upwards and took a long, gurgling draught. When he'd emptied the bottle, he smacked his lips and patted his stomach, belching so loud he momentarily drowned out the jukebox.

Finton shook his head in disgust.

“I get a say.” Alicia winced as Willie missed an easy shot to a corner pocket. “But Willie don't have all that money. If he don't pay up, Bernard and his buddies are gonna beat the shit out of 'im.”

“You're kidding,” Skeet interjected, now fully engaged in the conversation.

“Nope.” Bernard suddenly stood upright, jamming the cue stick between his legs and stroking it up and down. “Couple more shots, and Miss Dredge and me are gonna get it fuckin' on!” He whipped around, bent over the table and, without hardly drawing a breath, he called his next shot—“combination, four off the nine, into the side”—and pointed to the pocket. Boom. Just like that. One ball left.

“Wait a minute,” said Skeet. “This is not right.”

“They're treating you like a piece of meat,” said Finton. “Speak up for yourself.”

“Too late.” Alicia raised a hand to her mouth as if to chew her fingernails.

“It's not too late,” he said, although something in her demeanour made him question whether she was really convinced. She seemed more interested in Bernard and, in particular, the way his backside filled out his jeans, than in how her brother was faring. Maybe she wasn't so dead set against the idea of going out with Bernard after all.

“Yer in the way, faggot.” Bernard squeezed between the table and Finton, leaning in for his last shot, an easy pick: the three ball into the corner. Even Finton, who'd never played pool in his life, could have made that shot. He closed his eyes.
Don't make the shot
, he thought.
Don't make the shot.
He heard the clink of cue ball against three ball—a quick kiss, and it was done. The soft roll along the green felt tabletop lasted only a moment. There was a sickening clunk as the last ball dropped.

He opened his eyes as Bernard Crowley let out a whoop and celebrated with a pump of the cue stick. Bernard looked at Alicia, almost apologetically, then grinned at Willie and shrugged. “Better luck next time, Dredge.”

He reached for Alicia's arm. She jerked back, but he moved quickly and pulled her towards him. He pressed his body against hers and whispered in her ear, causing her to slap his face and try to push him away.

Without thinking, Finton wedged himself between Alicia and Bernard, surprising all three of them and spilling some of his soft drink. “You don't have to go with him, Alicia,” he said.

Skeet's eyes opened wide. “Fuck,” he said, shaking his head. “This is not good.”

Finton turned to Alicia. “Get out,” he said. “Go home.”

“She's mine,” Bernard said as he tugged on her arm. “I won her fair and square.” Again she yanked her arm away, but he grabbed it once more. Finton clamped a hand down on Bernard's wrist and split them apart, then gave Bernard a small shove, which made the Crowley boy snarl, “Back off.”

“I don't like it either,” Willie said, scratching one of his large ears. “But he did win, fair and square, like she said.”

“Well, aren't you the man?” Skeet said sarcastically.

Suddenly, the jukebox went quiet. The pinball machine paused. The shouting fell silent. Finton laid down his Crush.

Willie sneezed and wiped his nose in his sleeve. “Not your problem, Stuckey. Stay out of it.”

“Finton?” a female voice called from the far left corner.
Morgan.
He cringed as she made her way through the small crowd, pushed Alicia aside and stood beside him. Alicia quickly edged her way back in, however, and maneuvered her way in front of Morgan. “What the hell are you doin' here?”

Here it comes
, thought Finton. Gettin' dragged by the collar out of Bilch's snack bar—the new Moon family tradition. But that wasn't Morgan's style. Not at all.

“This arsehole giving you a problem?” She glared at Willie.

“Hey—watch it!” said Alicia. “That arsehole's my brother.”

“Not him,” said Finton, and he nodded towards Bernard. “This arsehole.” He paused, partly for a reaction, partly to give himself time to think. He truly didn't know what he was going to do. But he had to come up with something fast because Bernard already looked as if he had run out of patience, throwing the cue stick aside and raising his fists.

“Alicia, leave.” Finton nodded towards the door.

“This isn't your business, Finton. You should go.” Even as she said it—despite her obvious anger—she fought back tears. The way she looked at him said she was grateful he'd stepped in. Unlike her dumb brother, at least he hadn't abandoned her.

Bernard grabbed the front of Finton's shirt. “I've been wanting to pound the shit out of you for a long time, faggot.” Instantly, Skeet grabbed Bernard's wrist and wrenched it away.

“Outside!” Mudder Dredge yelled. “Don't want no blood on these floors. Take it outdoors, or I'll call the cops.”

“Fine.” Bernard pounded a fist into his open hand. “Outside is what I had in mind anyway.”

But taking matters outside didn't resemble Finton's wishes at all. Bernard led the way, pulling open the door and making the bell ring. Finton thought, with little satisfaction, that an angel had just gotten its wings. The uproar from the mob was nearly deafening as he found himself being propelled towards the exit, despite the fact he had no intention of fighting.

There were two suped-up cars—a blue Charger and a yellow Javelin—in the small, dirt driveway. The two antagonists were thrust together, while the throng of spectators squeezed itself between the two vehicles. Although Alicia remained near Finton, clutching his right arm, and Bernard's cronies, Cocky Munro and the redheaded King twins, retained a close proximity to their hero, most of the ones Finton knew had been pushed to the perimeter. From near the back of the crowd, Skeet shouted, “Leave 'im alone, Crowley!” Morgan jumped up on the Javelin, flexing her bare arms and shadow boxing. In her denim short-shorts and tight, yellow t-shirt, she looked like one of the girls from Clancy's
Hot Rod
magazine covers. “Uppercut, Finton. Your best goddamn friend—uppercut!”

He'd never given anyone an uppercut before and, furthermore, didn't know how to, even if he'd been so inclined. He supposed that if a fight were to happen, Bernard would just beat him up with any combination of two or three punches. It might only take one, of course, and that in itself would be merciful.

Across the road and away to the south, the dying sun had set the ocean ablaze. Even the trees seemed draped in an orange veil that grew denser as the sun sank behind the mountains. Finton lifted his eyes as the sun's last rays painted his skin. The fading heat infiltrated his pores and seeped into his soul. A voice from somewhere said,
Don't be afraid
.