off visions of the open J to find Super Mario standing in front of him. Super Mario: an old lapsed regular from the game.
“Hey there,” Shane says. He puts out his hand and they do the slap and bump. “I thought you died and went to Oakland.”
“No, worse. I got a job.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. No more Tuesday Friday for me.”
“Well you know where we are.”
“Yeah and it kills me.” Mario’s a pure shooter, with short fast legs and an unorthodox quick release.
“This your gym?”
Mario nods, sneering as if he’s caught a noxious scent. “Last man standing. I was here when it was Mike’s and then my new job is right around the corner. So here I am today. With the other digerati.”
“Some big dudes here too.”
“Yeah.” Mario leans in. “Weird place,” he hisses. “Geeks, hulks, and fags, with a few gangsters thrown in. Came out the other night and the car next to mine, Frank’s giving Frank the business.”
“You could still come up Saturdays.”
“Don’t talk to me about Saturdays.”
“Yeah, huh.”
They’re blocking the throughway and have to step aside for a very well-dressed man with a huge watch sparkling on his wrist. The guy smells expensive and seems to spend an extra second taking in Shane and company, but when Shane frowns at him the expensive guy just smiles and nods pleasantly, slipping past them. The problem with these people is that they’re mostly too damn nice.
“You here a lot?” Shane says.
“Some.”
“So you ever see Sam? The kid?”
Mario smiles. “Yeah, I see him all the time. Bunch of the guys used to come here, but him and me the only ones left.”
Bingo. Shane looks around for Jimmy, but his brother’s nowhere to be seen.
“We’re looking for him,” Shane says. He’s about to explain but stops himself, leaves it at that. Mario nods, as if looking for Sam is an acceptable something to do.
“Usually he’s here a ton, one of those gym rats.” Mario’s thinking. “But not lately. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“We’ll get his number from the gym.”
Mario shrugs, as if he doubts it. “The thing is,” Mario says, “I’m pretty sure he lives around here. Told me about this game one time, somewhere close. It’s funny, I see him all the time but the kid never talks. We talk, it’s usually me asking him about you guys, what’s going on at the Firehouse.”
“Sure,” Shane says. “That other game he talked about, you remember where it was?”
“Oh yeah.” Mario smiles, happy to be of help. “Rec Center. Potrero Hill.”
5
T HEY DRIVE OUT of Multimedia Gulch and stop at a metal-grated corner store to ask directions. On the other side of the street, a few doors down, four young Latinos are hanging out in trouble wear, leaning against one another, moving in small concentric circles. The store blares opera music from a speaker mounted above the door, a loud fuzzy tenor bellowing Italian through the streets for his lost or slutty love. Inside, behind the speaker, the store is relatively quiet as Shane buys a sweet iced tea and Jimmy makes tiny conversation with the Asian man behind the counter.
“Potrero Hill Rec Center,” Jimmy repeats. The man shakes his head. “Rhode Island Street.” The man shrugs. All the streets up here are named after states, and something about that makes it impossible to remember the order. What’s the difference between Wisconsin, Connecticut, Arkansas, Rhode Island?
Jimmy taps the counter, studies the man to see if he’s lying. “Big opera fan, huh?”
“Ah, you know, these guys out there?” The storekeep points one finger past them to the street. “They no good. Used to hang out in front the store all day. Block the door, bad business.” He gives a yellow smile. “But they hate this fucking music. Now they stay away.” He bobs his big head and laughs. Shane picks a direction and sticks with it, passing a line of brand new construction, flimsy live/work lofts for sale at
“Hey there,” Shane says. He puts out his hand and they do the slap and bump. “I thought you died and went to Oakland.”
“No, worse. I got a job.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. No more Tuesday Friday for me.”
“Well you know where we are.”
“Yeah and it kills me.” Mario’s a pure shooter, with short fast legs and an unorthodox quick release.
“This your gym?”
Mario nods, sneering as if he’s caught a noxious scent. “Last man standing. I was here when it was Mike’s and then my new job is right around the corner. So here I am today. With the other digerati.”
“Some big dudes here too.”
“Yeah.” Mario leans in. “Weird place,” he hisses. “Geeks, hulks, and fags, with a few gangsters thrown in. Came out the other night and the car next to mine, Frank’s giving Frank the business.”
“You could still come up Saturdays.”
“Don’t talk to me about Saturdays.”
“Yeah, huh.”
They’re blocking the throughway and have to step aside for a very well-dressed man with a huge watch sparkling on his wrist. The guy smells expensive and seems to spend an extra second taking in Shane and company, but when Shane frowns at him the expensive guy just smiles and nods pleasantly, slipping past them. The problem with these people is that they’re mostly too damn nice.
“You here a lot?” Shane says.
“Some.”
“So you ever see Sam? The kid?”
Mario smiles. “Yeah, I see him all the time. Bunch of the guys used to come here, but him and me the only ones left.”
Bingo. Shane looks around for Jimmy, but his brother’s nowhere to be seen.
“We’re looking for him,” Shane says. He’s about to explain but stops himself, leaves it at that. Mario nods, as if looking for Sam is an acceptable something to do.
“Usually he’s here a ton, one of those gym rats.” Mario’s thinking. “But not lately. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“We’ll get his number from the gym.”
Mario shrugs, as if he doubts it. “The thing is,” Mario says, “I’m pretty sure he lives around here. Told me about this game one time, somewhere close. It’s funny, I see him all the time but the kid never talks. We talk, it’s usually me asking him about you guys, what’s going on at the Firehouse.”
“Sure,” Shane says. “That other game he talked about, you remember where it was?”
“Oh yeah.” Mario smiles, happy to be of help. “Rec Center. Potrero Hill.”
5
T HEY DRIVE OUT of Multimedia Gulch and stop at a metal-grated corner store to ask directions. On the other side of the street, a few doors down, four young Latinos are hanging out in trouble wear, leaning against one another, moving in small concentric circles. The store blares opera music from a speaker mounted above the door, a loud fuzzy tenor bellowing Italian through the streets for his lost or slutty love. Inside, behind the speaker, the store is relatively quiet as Shane buys a sweet iced tea and Jimmy makes tiny conversation with the Asian man behind the counter.
“Potrero Hill Rec Center,” Jimmy repeats. The man shakes his head. “Rhode Island Street.” The man shrugs. All the streets up here are named after states, and something about that makes it impossible to remember the order. What’s the difference between Wisconsin, Connecticut, Arkansas, Rhode Island?
Jimmy taps the counter, studies the man to see if he’s lying. “Big opera fan, huh?”
“Ah, you know, these guys out there?” The storekeep points one finger past them to the street. “They no good. Used to hang out in front the store all day. Block the door, bad business.” He gives a yellow smile. “But they hate this fucking music. Now they stay away.” He bobs his big head and laughs. Shane picks a direction and sticks with it, passing a line of brand new construction, flimsy live/work lofts for sale at
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