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Zellman and Jordan joined us, shoes on, and walked to put their balls on the ball holder.
Zellman came back, dropping into the scorekeeper seat. “This is kinda a cool place to work. Their offices are on the other side, I’m assuming?” He glanced over his shoulder, stilling. “And, dude, why’s your boss staring at us?”
Jordan was just sitting on the seats opposite us when he heard Zellman’s question. He went rigid looking, too. “What the fuck?”
Cross stood up, the first to bowl. “Has he asked you about your dad?”
I shook my head. “Not after the first day.”
“What the fuck?” From Jordan again.
“That’s messed up.” Zellman stood up.
All the guys were standing, all staring at Brock with varying expressions. Jordan looked ready to rip his head off. Zellman was frowning. Cross was staring back steadily, calm-like. Noting the other guys’ reactions, Cross was the first to break. He went to bowl, leaving one pin standing.
Zellman groaned, sitting back down. “Are you kidding me? Of course, Cross is an ace bowler.”
He put in the score, waiting as Cross cleared the last pin. Another growl from Zellman.
Jordan eased back his attitude, shooting Zellman a grin and going up. He was next in line. He got seven, and only hit one of the three pins on his next roll. It was my turn after that. I had a weird wrist action, so I got six and picked up three of my last four.
Zellman got a gutter ball in the first try.
Both Cross and Jordan snorted, heads hanging down.
Zellman shook his head. “Not a fucking word, assholes.” He grabbed his ball as soon as it cleared the holder and got five pins on the second attempt. More grumbling as he went back to his seat.
As bowling went, I was guessing we were fairly lame.
We bowled. We sat. We joked.
Contrary to how much Zellman liked bowling, he was horrible at it. Cross and Jordan were tied. I was behind them, but a good distance better than Zellman’s score. He was really, really bad. But after the first few throws, Zellman headed back out to the vehicle. He came in with beverages, handing them to each of us. The initial plan had been that only Jordan would drink. It was his night. We’d watch over him, but spend our time bowling and having fun. Even through the griping, Zellman was having a great time, so Cross said he’d be sober cab and the rest of us could indulge.
So we did. I hadn’t intended to drink, but changed my mind.
After our second game, most people had left. Trundle came over and he started to bowl with us. When Zellman sniffed his drink, Trundle winked at him. “Don’t tell the boss.”
Jordan scowled at him. “You’re not driving, are you? That shit’s not funny.”
His head came up, the wink gone. “Uh, no. I’m not bad, but Brock’ll give me a ride.”
Brock. We were back to him.
We’d forgotten about him.
Jordan was the one who looked. “He’s gone.”
Trundle said, “He’s in the back. He stays while most of the customers are here, in case anything pops off, but you guys are the last ones left, so he headed back in. He does paperwork.”
Cross asked, “Does he work every night?”
“Most, but Gramps covers some of the other nights. Bonbon used to be in charge of the evening shifts, since she’s too nuts for the day stuff and all. She took off, though, so Brock’s been covering for her.”
Zellman grunted. “Guy’s a workaholic.”
“Well, he’s the owner.”
“Wait. What?” From me.
Trundle nodded at me, picking up his ball. We all had one last turn to go, and he stepped toward the lane. “Yeah. He’s the owner.”
“I thought Gramps and Bonnie owned it all?”
He shook his head, coming back after his turn. He hit four, then got the rest of his pins. “Nah. I mean, Hawk said something how they used to be the owners. Brock took over a few years back.”
“Does he have a hard-on for Bren or something?” Jordan was looking behind us.
Brock had come back out, heading for us. He stopped, his hand raised. “Finish up! It’s time to go.”
I stood for my last turn, and yeah, I was buzzed. Nicely buzzed.
I grinned at Cross, who saw my look and instantly started laughing. “Bren’s drunk.”
Zellman and Jordan shared a look.
Zellman thrust a fist in the air. “Yes.” He turned to Trundle. “Bren never drinks.”
“It’s because it’s Halloween and I’m pretending to be a college student.”
Trundle snickered. “I’m off to finish up. It was nice meeting you guys. Don’t be strangers.” He waved, taking off for a back door.
Jordan was frowning at the scoreboard. “Who won?”
Cross went next, got a strike. Second strike. Third strike. “I did.”
Jordan growled. “Not cool, but fitting. You’re the DD.”
Zellman picked up his ball. “I’m hungry.”
Cross was putting his and my ball away. He went up, waiting for us by the tables that we needed to pass for the door. “Is there a place open twenty-four-seven?”
