I took a deep breath and approached.
“Hey guys,” I said, straining for both calm and volume, “what’s the hubbub?”
My teammates stiffened and slowly turned to face me.
That’s when I saw the new girl. They had formed a circle around her. Two of them held her arms behind her back. None of them could meet my gaze.
But she did, with eyes darker than the shadows around us. They were windows into a soul that wasn’t the least bit scared, which was a hell of a lot more than I could say for myself.
Stink took a step toward me.
“Beat it,” he said. Now his voice was steady, eerily flat.
I looked at the new girl. She glared at me silently.
“This is my job,” I said, inching forward. “Y’all really need to leave.”
“Soon,” Stink said, in that same odd tone. “I’m getting information.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?” I asked, moving closer.
“You don’t think she knew about Tet, Ronnie? You don’t think they all knew? Oh, they knew, every one of ’em. They knew, and they laughed. They loved it.” He turned back to her. “Didn’t you?”
Stink reached into his back pocket for . . . I didn’t wait to find out.
I was too scared. The fear of playing the odds outweighed the fear of action. So I rushed him, and swung my left arm under his armpit, grabbing his elbow. I hooked my other arm over his wrist, forming a sloppily executed arm bar.
Then, I pulled.
Stink screamed bloody murder. He sounded like a wild animal. The others loosened their grip on the girl, probably from shock more than anything.
“Sheep,” she said, spitting at their feet as she pushed them off.
I shoved Stink farther down the hallway and the others backed away. Their eyes leapt from Stink to me, as they tried to decide what to do.
“Get outta here before you get me fired,” I yelled back at them, as I barreled Stink through the doors. He went stumbling onto the sidewalk, but he didn’t fall. His friends’ eyes, however, dropped to the ground as they followed him out.
“I hope this bitch is worth the trouble you just put on yourself,” Stink sneered, then added, “goddamn traitor.”
His threats were a relief—I was glad to hear the harshness return to his voice. The way he’d been talking all calm and cold really freaked me out.
The exit doors swung shut, and I was alone with the new girl.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
I took a step toward her, and—WHAM—she punched me in the face.
“Jesus!” I yelled, backing off.
“Jesus,” she mumbled, looking down at her hand as if she didn’t recognize it.
She rushed through the exit doors like a shot. I posted my hand on the wall and shook my head until the stars in my vision cleared. I couldn’t believe how hard she hit. If I wasn’t bleeding, I was lucky.
She’s obviously psycho, I told myself as I rubbed my face. You did what you could, but she’s not your problem, Ronnie. This is not your problem—
I scoffed at myself for being a chump as I followed her into the night.
I found her lighting a cigarette under the awning of the bakery next door. Her zippo sparked, but wouldn’t catch. Her hand was shaking badly.
“Hey,” I called to her.
She jumped, startled. I raised my hands in surrender.
“I come in peace. Relax.”
I took the matchbook from my pocket. She eyed it skeptically for a moment, and then yanked it from my hand.
“Sorry for decking you,” she said. The cigarette swayed between her lips.
“Forget it,” I shrugged. “That’s what I get for tryin’ to help.”
“Yeah,” she nodded, “it usually is.”
She struck a match, and it lit up her face like an amber spotlight. Her eyes were gleaming arches that curved and then sharpened, like an infinity symbol. They weren’t slanted, like all those John Wayne movies said they would be—they were full and all encompassing. Her eyebrows and jawline and cheekbones arched in strong, serious angles. But her lips were soft, and her nose was round as a pebble at the bottom of a lake. I’d describe that nose as adorable if I hadn’t just been sucker-punched by its owner.
But cheap shot or not, I took the cigarette she offered.
“You’re Milo’s buddy,” she said. She spoke in statements, not questions.
“Ronnie Bingham. I live across the street from you.”
“Hana Hitchens,” she said, offering her hand.
We shook. I smoked and tried not to cough.
“Your brother died last year in Ong Thanh,” she said, exhaling.
“Yeah.”
“You guys were disc jockeys or something.”
“We were gonna be,” I said.
“Trippy,” she mused. “Your voice isn’t exactly made for radio.”
“Whadda ya mean,” I asked, forcibly making my voice even raspier than usual.
She smiled, but didn’t laugh.
“He was the real DJ,” I corrected, “Bad Bruce. I was just his sidekick. He wanted me to do the weather report, traffic, stuff like that.”
“Bad Bruce, and . . .”
“Raspy Ronnie,” I smiled. “What else?”
She finally laughed. It was a soft laugh, gentler than the rest of her.
“I know,” I said, laughing too. “I was just a tagalong. But he could have been the next Wolfman Jack if—yeah, whatever. He didn’t live long enough to be much more than a record collector.”
“But hey,” she said, “I bet he had some cool fuckin’ records.”
“The coolest.”
She smiled at that, and exhaled.
“So,” I said, changing the subject, “what was goin’ on back there?”
“Stupid shit,” she scoffed. “Your pals were sitting behind me and talking through the whole movie. I finally told them to shut up, then the ugly one called me a gook and started kicking my seat. So when the movie ended, I turned around and poured my soda into his lap.”
I coughed up sour smoke. I tried to imagine the scene.
“Are all you rednecks delusional?” she went on. “They acted like throwing a soda on that limp dick was part of the Tet Offensive!”