‘So what’s your point?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just saying you had the talent, and talent like that doesn’t just go away. . . . Hey, I heard the Cyclones have tryouts out in Coney Island sometimes. Why don’t you go down there and show your stuff? They got big-league scouts can sign you up.’

  ‘Why would they sign me?’

  ‘What do you mean? T o pitch.’

  ‘I can’t pitch anymore.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Shaking his head, Ryan stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and wiped the crumbs off the counter into his hand.

  ‘What do they always say?’ Rocco said. ‘You gotta be in it to win it. How do you know you can’t pitch till you try? Those injuries heal. You can come back if you want to, if you put your head into it.’

  ‘Okay, let’s drop it.’

  ‘You’re better than that fucking Jake Thomas. The only thing he ever had on you is he’s half-spook. You got the black blood in you, you’re gonna make it in sports. Look at his father. The guy’s built like a gorilla. It’s in their fuckin’ blood, I’m telling ya. They lived in the jungles, running around, throwing fuckin’ spears; of course they can throw fuckin’ baseballs. But they can’t throw footballs. That’s how come you never seen a black quarterback win the Super Bowl.’

  ‘How many beers you have tonight?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think you’re hiding it? You think I can’t tell?’

  ‘I had one - with dinner.’ ‘Yeah, more like ten with no dinner.’

  Ryan took out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He put one in his mouth and lit it with the burner on the stove.

  ‘So you gonna go to those fuckin’ Coney Island tryouts or what?’ Rocco said.

  ‘My baseball career’s over,’ Ryan said. ‘Just get that into your fuckin’ head, all right?’

  ‘You never used to be a quitter. You used to have fight.’

  Ryan finished a long drag on the cigarette, looking away.

  ‘Look at you,’ Rocco went on. ‘Smoking like a fuckin’ chimney, listening to that goddamn rap music all the time. Can’t you just dress normal, tie the laces on your goddamn sneakers? Wh o woulda thought my own son would turn nigger?’

  ‘Watch it.’

  ‘Look in the mirror.You’re fuckin’ white!’

  Rose-Marie entered the kitchen.

  ‘What’re you two fighting about now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Your son’s a quitter,’ Rocco said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Ryan said.

  ‘He could pitch for the Mets if he wanted to, but he just wants to paint houses and pretend he’s a nigger. The kid’s a fuckin’ loser.’

  ‘Look who’s calling me a loser,’ Ryan said, ‘a fucking fifty-seven-year-old plumber who gets drunk every night like a bum.’

  ‘Hey!’ Rocco stood up, like he was about to go after Ryan.

  ‘Were you drinking?’ Rose-Marie asked Rocco, sounding concerned.

  Rocco pointed his index finger at Ryan. ‘You better fuckin’ watch it, you little piece of shit!’

  ‘Both of you, stop it,’ Rose-Marie said. ‘Just stop it!’

  ‘Kid’s got no fuckin’ respect,’ Rocco said.

  ‘You said you were gonna stop drinking,’ Rose-Marie said.

  ‘I wasn’t fuckin’ drinking,’ Rocco said. ‘You gonna listen to him?’

  Ryan put his cigarette out in the sink and left the kitchen, hearing his father screaming, ‘Who you callin’ a liar, huh? Wh o you callin’ a fuckin’ liar?’

  Ryan went to his room, locked the door, and cranked Mobb Deep’s ‘Bitch Ass Nigga,’ just to piss his father off.

  Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, Ryan took out his cell phone. He changed the ringer setting to vibrate and kept the phone in his hand so he wouldn’t miss Christina’s call.

  After about fifteen minutes, Ryan lowered the music and called Christina, again getting her voice mail. He clicked off without leaving a message and decided enough was enough. Christina had left the party with Jake over four hours ago, and that was plenty of time to break up. Either they were fucking or something else had gone wrong. Maybe she walked home alone and got mugged or raped.

  He dialed her home number, not realizing that he’d done it until her father answered.

  ‘What?’ Al Mercado said.

  ‘Hey, it’s Ryan. Is Christina there?

  ’ ‘She’s upstairs with Jake.’

  A sharp pain ripped through Ryan’s stomach.

  After a couple of seconds Al said, ‘Hello?

  ’ ‘Can I talk to her?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Wait till tomorrow, will ya?

  ’ ‘D’you know what they’re doing up there?

  ’ ‘What?’

  ‘I really need to talk to her. It’s important.

  ’ ‘I’m sure it’s not that important. Call tomorrow.

  ’ ‘But—’

  Al hung up.

  ‘Damn it,’ Ryan said, clicking off.

  Ryan pressed TALK again, redialing, but when Al barked, ‘What?’ Ryan disconnected.

  Ryan closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to control himself. He wanted to call again and keep calling, but he didn’t want to do anything stupid. She was probably in her room breaking up with Jake and nothing had gone wrong. At least she was safe - she hadn’t been attacked or anything.

  Ryan turned the stereo back up and sat at the edge of his bed, his legs bopping up and down hyperactively, out of synch with the beat of Cam’ron’s ‘Lord You Know.’

  Someone started banging on his door. ‘Hey!’ Rocco said. ‘Turn that shit down! Hey, you hear me?’ Ryan made the music even louder, drowning out his father’s voice and the banging.

  For the next hour or so Ryan killed time listening to gangsta rap, smoking cigarettes, and surfing the Net. He went onto rapboard.com and skimmed a thread a poster caller ‘Flava4U’ had started, accusing Eminen of being a racist. Flava had been posting the same crap for months, and Ryan didn’t even bother responding. On the AOL rap and hip-hop board, there was a very long thread about the latest rumors about the 50 cent/Ja Rule rivalry. Ryan typed a long post about how the rivalry was a lot of commercial BS, that the two guys were probably best friends, and people should forget about it already and move on. He read part of another thread - somebody was dissing Usher and Beyonce for selling out to white suburbia - and then he checked out the BET message board where people were posting lists of the best lyricists of all time. The usuals - Tupac, Jay-Z, Eminem, Nas - were mentioned, but Ryan typed in, ‘What about Canibus? What about Murs?’ Then he skimmed another long thread discussing the latest rumor about who’d killed Jam Master Jay, including some nonsense about how the CIA had done it. Every few minutes, as Ryan mindlessly read more posts, he checked his cell phone for messages in case the ringer wasn’t working or something, but Christina wasn’t getting in touch.

  At 11:41 Ryan got offline and took a shower. He scrubbed himself hard, trying to get all the paint off his body. As he massaged soap into his balls, he remembered how he’d come prematurely with Christina - again. Although she’d said she understood, maybe she thought the problem would go on forever, that they’d never be able to have good sex, and this drove her back to Jake.

  Or maybe it was all about money.

  Ryan remembered Christina in the car, suggesting that she sell her engagement ring so that Ryan could use the money to start his painting business. Christina always seemed concerned about Ryan’s future, and didn’t seem to believe in him. If she married Jake she’d have millions of dollars, fancy houses, cars, expensive clothes, jewelry, and everything else she wanted. But with Ryan, especially if his business didn’t work out, life would always be a struggle. They’d have to scrounge for money for rent and bills, and they might never be able to afford a house or take vacations or buy the things she wanted. Maybe she thought that a guy like Jake Thomas was too good a thing to give up.

  With soap still covering most of his body, Ryan got out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then went to his bedroom. To hell with it - he’d just go over to her place and see what was going on. Then, pulling on his jeans, he changed his mind. If he barged into her house like a psycho she’d never forgive him.

  Ryan took off the jeans and put on sweats and a T-shirt and lay in bed with his eyes closed. He wasn’t tired at all, and his mind was still spinning. He went downstairs to the living room and watched TV. His parents had gone to bed, and the house was dark except for the TV light. He channel-surfed mindlessly for a while, then stopped on Jay Leno. He felt like somebody was playing a sick joke on him, because Jake was sitting there next to Jay in some expensive suit and shiny shoes. It must’ve been a repeat, but what were the odds of this show playing tonight?

  Jake was telling Jay some long story about something that had happened on his flight to LA. Ryan didn’t think it was funny, but Jay and the audience were cracking up. Jake’s fake smile and cockiness, the way he was acting like he was Jay’s best friend, made Ryan nauseous, and he had to change the channel.

  It was past midnight now - too late to call Christina again. Somehow seeing Jake acting like a jerk on TV had made Ryan feel better about everything. Jake was an asshole, and Christina knew it. She complained about him all the time, talking about how she felt like an idiot for getting engaged to him, and there was no way she’d ever stay with him. Sure, the thought of being married to a multimillionaire famous baseball player had to be tempting, but she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Ryan in the first place if money were so important to her.

  Ryan was glad that he’d restrained himself, that he’d left only one message on Christina’s cell, and that he hadn’t gone over there. He was also glad that her cell phone had been off so she wouldn’t see any missed calls on her display and know how many times he’d tried to contact her. In the morning she’d probably call him and apologize for not getting in touch. She’d explain how Jake had broken down crying when she dumped him and how she felt like she had to stay with him until he was in shape to go home. And she’d say that she’d shut her phone off only because she didn’t want to cause any big scene. Christina was always like that - caring about other people’s feelings. Then Christina would say that Jake was officially out of the picture, and she was ready to spend the rest of her life with Ryan. Ryan would make a reservation for next Friday night at her favorite restaurant - Luna in Little Italy. He’d hold her hands and lean over the table, then look into her eyes and say, ‘There’s something I have to ask you.’ She’d say, ‘What?’ and then he’d get on one knee, in the middle of the restaurant with everybody looking at them, and she’d start trembling. Then he’d pop the question and she’d say, ‘Yes, yes, of course!’ and she’d be smiling, the happiest girl alive.

  Ryan flicked off the TV and went back up to his room. He stirred for a long time, unable to get comfortable.

  Around two in the morning, he fell asleep.

  Nine

  Ryan was jolted awake by his alarm clock at the usual time - 8:25. After putting on basketball pants and an old Ronnie Lott jersey, he went downstairs. His mother was in the kitchen, having coffee, watching Good Day New York on the little set on the table.

  ‘Morning,’ Ryan said.

  Rose-Marie didn’t answer right away, then said, ‘Oh, good morning,’ distracted, her gaze focused away from the TV, toward her mug of coffee, or at something near it.

  ‘So what happened last night?

  ’ ‘What?’ Rose-Marie said, lost.

  ‘With Dad . . . after I went upstairs. Did he calm down?

  ’ ‘Oh, everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  Ryan could tell that Rose-Marie was lying.

  ‘Did he hit you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Ma.

  ’ ‘He didn’t hit me - I swear. Why don’t you take some leftover lasagna for lunch? There’s a whole tray of it in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m gonna call his sponsor today,’ Ryan said.

  ‘What good’s that gonna do?

  ’ ‘What’s his name . . . Joe? No, Jim . . .

  ’ ‘Don’t call anybody.

  ’ ‘I’m not gonna let him hurt you again.

  ’ ‘Promise me you won’t call anybody. That’ll only make things worse.’

  ‘All right, whatever . . . but I’m not gonna let him hurt you again - I promise you that.’

  Ryan kissed his mother on the forehead, then said, ‘See ya,’ and left the kitchen.

  It was a perfect morning - probably fifty degrees, without a0020cloud in the sky. Ryan walked up the block toward where he’d parked his car yesterday evening, around the corner on Flatlands. There was a small crowd of about twenty people in front of Jake’s house. Passing the WELCOME HOME JAKE, OUR HERO banner, Ryan didn’t feel the slightest pang of bitterness or jealousy. Who cared if Jake Thomas had a great baseball career and was loved by everybody? Ryan had Christina, and that was all that really mattered.

  In his car, before he pulled out, Ryan put his cell phone earpiece in, and then, as he drove, he called Christina. A few seconds later her voice mail answered, but this wasn’t unusual. She usually had her phone off in the morning, and she and Ryan talked to each other at some point later on, after she arrived at work.

  Ryan clicked off without leaving a message. He double-parked in front of the deli on Flatlands, then went inside and ordered his black coffee with four sugars and ham-and-egg on a roll.

  At the counter, Andre said to him, ‘You were at the party yesterday, man?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I got Jake Thomas’s autograph,’ Andre bragged, ‘right on the barrel of my bat - Louisville Slugger. Gonna put that shit away in a case - shit’s gonna be worth money someday, yo.’ He gave Ryan his change from a five. ‘But, you know, man, he wasn’t like what I thought.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Ryan said. ‘Why’s that?

  ’ ‘Dunno, man. I mean, you’d think some big-time baseball player’s gonna be all into himself and shit, but he was like a normal, regular guy, know what I’m sayin’? I mean, you can talk to him and shit.’

  Ryan didn’t want to tell Andre that he had the totally wrong impression of Jake, that Jake was a big time dick and nothing like the great guy he pretended to be in public. If Andre wanted to go through his life thinking Jake was some big hero, why bust his bubble?

  ‘Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,’ Ryan said.

  Driving toward Mill Basin, with the front windows open all the way, letting in the cool ocean air, Ryan’s phone started ringing. The display read, CHRISSY.

  ‘Hey,’ Ryan said into the phone, but there was no one there. Figuring the call had been lost, Ryan called her back but got her voice mail. He tried a few more times, continuing to get her voice mail, and he figured she was probably on the bus, in an area where she couldn’t get service. He figured she’d call him again when she got to work, probably in another ten minutes or so.

  In a parking space on Whitman Drive, Ryan ate his breakfast, imagining seeing Christina later. It would be so different with Jake out of the picture. All the tension would be gone, and Ryan could make love to her, really make love to her for the first time. They could do it slow and relaxed, looking into each other’s eyes, with no pressure, knowing that they were in love and would be together forever, and that nothing could ever tear them apart.

  ‘What you doin’ in outer space, man?’ Carlos said.

  Ryan turned and saw Carlos looking into the car, smiling.

  ‘How’s it goin’?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘All right, man. Yo, I brought that ball in my trunk for you to get signed. You’re gonna hook me up, right?’

  Ryan doubted that Jake would want to do him any favors, but he didn’t want to let Carlos and the other guys down. He figured he could get his mother to ask Jake’s mother to have Jake sign the stuff. As long as Jake didn’t think it had anything to do with Ryan he’d do it.

  ‘No problem, man,’ Ryan said.

  ‘That’s cool, yo,’ Carlos said. ‘I’m gonna owe you one now. Gettin’ Jake Thomas’s autograph on a baseball - my little cousin’s gonna think I’m a superhero.’

  Carlos went into the house. Before Ryan left the car, he called Christina at work.

  ‘Hi, Allison, how’s it going? Is Christina there?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Ryan,’ Allison, the receptionist, said. ‘Nope, she’s not here yet.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Ryan said. ‘Can you tell her to call me when she gets in?’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  As Ryan went into the house, he was getting the feeling that something wasn’t right, but he tried not to pay any attention to it.

  He changed into his painting clothes upstairs, then joined Carlos and Franky in the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, so how was it?’ Franky asked.

  ‘Pretty good,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I read in the paper they had a lot of people there, huh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I shoulda gone,’ Franky said, ‘but I don’t like that crowd shit.

  I get claustrophobic, you know?’

  ‘So you hang out with Jake Thomas last night or what?’ Carlos asked.

  ‘Little bit,’ Ryan said.

  ‘He say he gonna come play for the Yanks next year?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hey, you see him on Leno last night?’ Franky asked.

  ‘Yeah, I did catch some of that,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Shit cracked me up,’ Franky said. ‘You know, he had a good personality on TV. I bet he could make it in movies if he wanted to. He ever talk about doing anything like that?’

  ‘Not to me,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Yeah, I could see him up there on the screen,’ Franky said. ‘He’s a good actor, you know? Ever see him in that Pizza Hut commercial?’

  ‘Where the girl orders the pizza and J.T. is standin’ there behind the counter,’ Carlos said.

  ‘And that girl gets that look on her face, like, “Holy shit.” ‘

  ‘And J.T. is just standing there, actin’ like it’s no big deal.’