Funeral for a Dog: A Novel by Thomas Pletzinger Read Free Book Online Page B

say, wimp, pussy, come on! I say to Yo-Yo, come on. I drive past Yo-Yo with the ball through my legs, seven nothing. Yo-Yo grins at me and throws the ball at my knees. I catch it and am about to drive past him on the right, I think, today the thorn is coming out, tonight these two will carry my sofa out of the Lorimer Street apartment, they don’t look like movers for nothing. I see them carrying the boxes of books, the records, and for a brief moment I know I’m going to win, but on the very next offensive possession Yo-Yo’s hand comes down past the ball on my arm. I miss my shot, I shout, that’s a foul, asshole, and Yo-Yo snags the ball from the backboard. Ref didn’t see it, says referee Eduardo, and Yo-Yo keeps the ball, streetball, white boy. Yo-Yo can jump, Yo-Yo weighs ten kilos more than I do, all in the upper arms. At nine in the morning Yo-Yo throws his T-shirt on the ground and boxes me out so I tear my pants and my knee on the asphalt. Eduardo calls fouls that aren’t fouls, Eduardo rolls a joint and smokes, traveling, he says, as I make a clean drive past Yo-Yo. Yo-Yo has a good inside game and pushes me under the basket with his broad back, Yo-Yo dunks on me, Yo-Yo is fast, Yo-Yo makes a midrange shot, and now Eduardo is shouting “in your face” and “pussy” and “yo mama.” Seven to five, then seven to nine. I roll up my sleeves, I gasp for breath, I’ve used up my vocabulary and my strength, because for weeks I’ve been preoccupied with other things. I feel my twisted ankle, there’s a hole in my shooting hand, and when two other people are making the rules, you’re outnumbered. Once again the calculation is off. Good work, Svensson, I think, as Yo-Yo leaves me in the dust and the ball rattles through the chain net, seven to eleven, it’s over. Larry Bird’s a bitch, shouts Eduardo, your girl is a bitch. She is not, little man, I say, I don’t care about Larry Bird and I don’t care about basketball, but don’t talk about Tuuli, man, don’t talk about Tuuli! My knee is bleeding, Yo-Yo puts his T-shirt back on, and Eduardo takes the money from under the milk container. I take one of Tuuli’s cigarettes out of my jacket and offer one to Eduardo and Yo-Yo. Eduardo gives me a light and my money. Keep it, white boy, he says, you look like you need it. And what now? What now? I limp to the hole in the fence, nothing can come of this, I think, enough is enough, and Eduardo calls after me, the rules of streetball, brother.
    Because I forgot Lua, I go back to Grace’s apartment. At the bakery where I was kneeling a short while ago, I buy coffee and croissants, and because in the West Village there are convenience stores everywhere and Grace meant the vodka and not the milk, I buy a bag of ice cubes and walk up to the fourth floor. Breakfast, I say when Grace opens the door, and give her the coffee and croissants. Lua wakes up and barks, I stand soaked with sweat and still covered in blood in front of Grace. I hold the dripping bag of ice cubes behind my back. You’re weird, she says, and climbs back into bed. I hop in the shower, that’s enough, I think under the cold water, things can’t go on like this, and because I’m now faster than I was two hours ago, I mix two martinis in water glasses and, wearing Grace’s purple bathrobe, go back to the bedroom, where she’s still lying on her side. I can pick up where I left off. I let a drop of condensation drip from the glass onto Grace’s hip and kiss her on all seventeen characters one after another. At the thirteenth she wakes up, or at the thirteenth she reveals that she’s already awake, and when she takes the glass and drinks, a shiver runs over her skin, as if we’d stopped and turned back time. Grace puts her glass on the windowsill next to the bed, then mine too, forces me directly onto my back, or I let her force me. And because we’re playing by other rules here and now, she at first keeps her mouth off my cock and takes a