Page 36 of A Handsome Devil

Denmark pouted under the mask. “Okay. If it’s a difference between living and dying.”

“It is,” said Truman.

When we arrived at the school, we could see the basketball court from the car. About eight guys wearing baggy hoodies and pants sliding down over their asses bounced around the court, an oldfangled type with a brick backdrop. These rude dudes all wore expensive sneakers they probably stole from stores and shades that must’ve made it harder to see the ball. Yelling joyously, they shoved and elbowed each other to get at the ball.

I said, “I’ll play ball with them. I look the most like them.”

“Me too!” protested Denmark.

“Okay. Let’s go ask to join. Then Truman and Gunning? You stick all of us up.”

But we didn’t need to go that far. When my road dog and I approached the court, Denmark shouted, “Les Moore? We heard you’re an amazing baller. We want to see with our own eyes.”

Giggling hysterically, the players stopped playing and approached us. “You serious?” “Les is the best!” “No one tops Les.” Les himself yelled, “Dood! I’m gonna crush you!”

That’s how we figured out who he was. Much younger than we’d envisioned, Les was the goofiest, most pleasant homie. Spiked hair obviously bleached blond, his shirtless, untoned torso revealed wall-to-wall ink. Ridiculous and crude drawings, words like MOORE, Shaolin, Wobbly, and Goon. Cartoons of Winnie-the-Pooh, sharks, and what looked like mushrooms in birdcages. “Oh yeah?” he yelled, and shot the ball directly at Denmark. Denmark, to his credit, caught it like the speed of light.

“Oh yeah!” Groover asserted, and shot it directly back to Les.

Les giggled, looked to his teammates for agreement, and bellowed, “It’s on!”

We leaped right in. Our tighter jeans gave us a leg up, although Les’ team didn’t play by any rules. These guys were intent on knocking us over and we spent most of the time dodging them. I kept looking back to see where Truman and Gunning were headed, but they’d vanished. A few of the guys took granny shots to make buckets, uncaring which side of the court they were on. The fun and competition seemed to be the important thing.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” everyone bawled at each other, confusion reigning. I got the ball a couple of times and was allowed to make some rim shots. Denmark actually sank a few.

Then Les got the ball.

It seemed like everyone held back to let him race forward for a rim shot. Guys danced on their tiptoes in anticipation, clearly sucking up to Les. “Go for it, Les!” “You got this!” “You don’t miss!”

When Les reached for the sky to drop the ball, I saw his phone in a holster on his belt. When Gunning and Truman arrived to stick everyone up, I’d grab that phone. But my chance came much sooner.

Deciding to be even cooler, if that was possible, Les slam-dunked the ball and hung off the rim. If I whipped his phone off him right then, his cohorts would rush me.

But as Les whooped and hollered his success, the most unexpected thing happened. Bricks that formed the midcentury backboard began to crumble. Inch-long chunks of cement mortar showered down onto the court.

“Les! Watch out!” someone shouted.

But Les’s goofy grin threatened to split his face in two. Interested in watching only his adoring audience, he didn’t even let go when the hoop itself gave way a few inches. Now entire bricks shattered onto the court, flooding like a waterfall. Being so short, Les’s Dior shoes dangled in the air as he cried out,

“I did it! I aced the game!”

With that, the wall came crashing down.

The dopey grin vanished beneath a barrage of faded garnet bricks.

Most guys stood with their mouths open. Les’ limbs wriggled like a vat of vipers as he clutched the rim and subsequent backboard that smashed him even deeper into the blacktop. Within a couple of seconds, all you could see was his hand on the rim, the rest of him layered in bricks. I rushed forward as if to help, tossing bricks right and left. Denmark did too, but I was the one who snatched the phone and yanked Les’ keys from his pocket, tucking them inside my waistband.

“Let’s get outta here!” I hissed.

And we ran.

None of Les’ friends made a move to uncover him.

By the time we zipped by Les’ Beemer in the parking lot, Truman and Gunning were coming forward with their pieces. As I opened the driver’s door, I shouted, “Let’s get Erin and get the fuck outta here!”

Truman said, “I think I know where to go.”

He briefly showed me his phone. Erin had texted him a photo of a pill bottle. I grinned my reassurance at my lover as a few henchmen started pounding their way toward us. I peeled out to the sounds of Nickelback blaring from Les’ speakers.