David Alan Dedin
Red Eyes
Sixteen
Red Eyes
2006
The tattooed Latino was the first to sing: “A call, Bob-Bob-Bob…If ya’ hit and ran!”
He was joined by two other gang-bangers, in red & white striped shirts, singing in Beach Boys harmony: “Bob-Bob-Bob…If ya’ hit and ran!”
The trio became a chorus, like a 1960s boy band:
“Cuz’ Bob’s your ma-aa-an! If ya’ hit and ra-aa-an!
Yes, Bob’s your ma-aa-an!
If you’re locked up and you’re swollen,
Butt-fucked while you’re blowin’
Bob’s your man!
Bob-Bob, Bob-Bob’s your man!”
Lightning flashed in the airplane’s windows, as the lawyer’s cheesy commercial played on twelve in-flight TV screens, six on either side of the long passenger cabin. The plane was surprisingly full for a red-eye, though the turbulent weather meant no one could sleep – with red eyes now replaced by tight, white knuckles. As heavy rain pelted the fuselage, the televisions shook in synchronized vibration, singing felons undaunted –
“Went to a dance, lookin’ for romance…the bitch said NO, but I had to take a chance, Bob’s your man – Bob, Bob, Bob-Bob’s your man…”
“A-A-A-Alan?” Stephanie stuttered, her voice thick with anxiety. “Are we g-g-gonna’ crash?”
Alan looked at the girl who was buckled into the seat next to him. “No, Steph – we’re fine. It’s just a little turbulence.”
As if on cue the plane shook suddenly, causing people to gasp. More lightning flashed in the windows. A deep clap of thunder crackled throughout the cabin, as the intercom popped on with a resonant ding. The pilot’s voice was soothing:
“Attention ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, we’ve encountered a small pocket of turbulence. Please know, this is normal for this time of year – though I will ask you to keep your seat belts fastened as we pass through the system. We’ll be through this weather in just a few minutes. Thank you.”
Ding.
“See?” Alan said reassuringly. “This is completely normal.”
“But why did we have to leave tonight?” Steph asked nervously. “Why couldn’t we wait for Nana to come in the morning?” Rain strafed the window beside her as the girl waited for an answer. Alan took her hand and smiled.
“Your Grandma sounded worried yesterday, and I know she wants to see you as soon as possible. I called her before we left. She’ll be waiting for us at the airport.”
CRACK – KA BOOM!
Another clap of thunder slammed the cabin, enough to flicker the lights. Passengers gasped with the vibrating airframe, and the in-flight televisions sputtered with song & static:
“…I fucked Betty Sue, I fucked Betty Lou-BZZZT, I fucked BZZZT-Lou, but I-BZZZT-it wouldn’t do-BZZT-BZZT-BZZZZZZT!” – flash!
The screens all died at once.
Ding!
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid this weather is a little thicker than we thought. We’ve radioed the tower, and they’ve given us permission to climb above the system. Give us a few minutes, and we’ll be out of this shortly. Thank you.”
Ding!
Stephanie tightened her grip on Alan’s hand.
More lightning flashed as the powerful Turbofans throttled up. The cabin gently banked upward, as flight attendants – carefully holding the seats for support – moved down the aisle with white plastic bags, gathering loose items as quickly as possible. The storm was getting worse. The windows looked like strobe lights now, with a steady barrage of electrostatic white. The howling rain was almost stronger then the engines’ roar, and the entire fuselage shook with a low – but growing – rumble. Alan was starting to feel worried, himself.
“Alan, I’m sc-c-c-cared,” Stephanie said.
“We’ll be okay, Steph. This happens more often than you’d think.”
“W-w-what do you mean?”
“Planes in bad weather,” he reassured her. “They go through it all the time.”
“Do they ever c-c-crash?”
“Never,” Alan said firmly. “They’re designed for things like this. An aircraft is built with multiple redundant systems, and if one system fails, there are always two more that take its place.”
More thunder, more lightning, the engines screamed with thrust.
“You m-m-mean a system could f-f-fail?”
“Yes, it could, but that’s not the point.” Alan paused on realizing this might not be the best thing to say. “What I mean is, there’s always a backup – and even the engines are tested to fly in rain, wind, hail” –
CRACK!
A violent percussion of thunder slammed the plane, causing it to tilt slightly to the side. As Stephanie’s eyes were fixed on Alan’s, she couldn’t see the sudden burst of orange – when lightning hit the starboard engine, knocking its turbine from alignment. Alan’s eyes widened as the machine suddenly expelled a comet’s tail of fire, its inner components now grinding against their housing. Forcing a smile, he calmly reached across the girl and shut the window shade, as they were sitting above the wing.
KA BOOM!
Without warning, the plane briefly lost lift. Loose drinks, magazines, and purses went flying, as flight attendants nearly hit the ceiling. The passengers screamed.
Ding!
“Ladies and gentlemen, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed, we’ve had a little complication.”
Alan could feel the aircraft leveling, then shudder in descent. The right-side windows had started to glow orange. He could hear grinding metal from behind Stephanie’s shade, as the Turbofan was clearly still running – but destroying itself from within.
The pilot continued:
“We’ve lost our starboard engine, but hey – we’ve still got the left one! And if any of you have read Michael Crichton’s Airframe, you know that all a plane needs is one engine to fly – though we are going to make an emergency landing.” The pilot chuckled. “Don’t worry, folks. It’s not time to panic – yet.”
Ding!
Thunder, lightning, rain, fire.
A chill ran up Alan’s spine – Why would a pilot say THAT?
“A-A-A-A-Al-l-l-a-a-a-n-n-n-n…?”
“Now Stephanie, listen” – he took the girl’s hand and looked her squarely in the eyes. “The pilot’s right. I know the book he’s talking about. These planes are built to fly through any weather, and even if they’re hit by lightning, they can still keep flying. Do you understand me?”
“B-b-b-but the pilot sounds f-f-f-unny!”
“He’s just trying to keep everyone calm, that’s all.”
“B-b-b-but what if something hap-p-p-pens to him-m-m-m?”
“Then the plane will fly itself,” Alan assured her. “I’m serious. These planes are literally designed to fly automatically, even if the pilot becomes disabled.”
He looked at the cabin nervously. The shaking fuselage was growing worse, and carry-on compartments were popping open, dumping baggage onto passengers. All of the starboard windows were now bright orange, and the descent was clearly growing steeper. Alan didn’t even realize he was talking when he said –
“Hell Steph, with all the redundant systems, the only way a plane could possibly crash is if its pilot were” –
CRACK!
The passengers screamed.
PING! PING! PING! went airframe bolts, as the cabin pitched downward, sending a drink cart sailing up the aisle; it slammed into the cockpit door, hard enough to force it open. Alan could see the pilots now. They were passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth, as the Boeing’s instruments – stall! stall! stall! – flashed red in warning:
Terrain, Terrain … Pull UP.
Terrain, Terrain … Pull UP.
Unbuckling their seatbelts, Alan yanked Stephanie into the aisle – “FOLLOW ME!”
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” the young girl screamed, as the cabin lost pressure, debris filling the air. Passengers wailed when the electricity failed completely, and Alan and Stephanie became black silhouettes against a background of fiery windows and shrieking hands grasping at air, like Dante’s damned souls of hell.
Climbing the steepening pitch towards the plane’s aft section, Alan glanced quickly to port side – where the aircraft’s windows were nearly level with downtown skyscrapers. It wasn’t Peoria – the flight hadn’t been long enough – but it was some type of large metropolis, with tall buildings, lots of lights & neon, and many, many people. The wing clipped a radio antenna before he could look away.
“GO TO THE TAIL!” Alan shouted, pushing Stephanie up and forward. “IT’S THE SAFEST PLACE TO BE IN A CRASH!”
“ALAAAAAAANNNNN!”
CRUNCH!
His casted arm outstretched for the young girl, Alan watched in horror as the aft section ripped away from the airframe, sending the tail – and Stephanie with it – spinning into the darkness of night. The plane’s pitch steepened to a sickening 70 degrees, and Alan was thrown down the cabin’s center aisle, sliding all the way to the cockpit.
The last thing he saw before impact was a lobby full of screaming hotel guests, as the aircraft hit the ground and exploded.
* * * * *
BEEP!
BEEP!
BEEP!
Alan gasped when ice water splashed his face.
Stephanie stood above him, an empty golden bucket in her hands – “Get up.” She was fully dressed. He gulped for air as she slammed the container onto the Rococo nightstand, and watched her storm from his bedroom.
He looked down at his body. The satin sheets were soaked, and he couldn’t tell where the ice water stopped and the piss began. He was still in yesterday’s clothes – somewhat – and his head was pounding, like the first time he’d gotten hammered on red wine. He looked at the clock – 8:45am – and the numbers rolled up and down, in time with his nausea. It took a few moments to find his way out of the sleigh bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the window’s beams of sunlight, he could now make out the general shapes around him. Bed. Nightstand. Gatorade bottles. Trash can –
Trash can!
Moments later, even in the sunlight, all Alan could see was puke.
* * * * *
“It’s – a – beautiful – morn’in,” Stephanie grumbled from the sofa when Alan emerged from the large guest bathroom, after a long, hot shower. His appearance was meticulous – clean, starched, scented – and he carried his boots into the great room, stopping on noticing the shattered whiskey bottle on the kitchen floor. It was crawling with ants.
“Watch where you step, Munson,” the girl mumbled through a mouthful of Lucky Charms. She was watching the Today Show, while eating a bowl of cereal. She didn’t look up.
“You all packed?” Alan asked, setting his boots on the counter. He opened the pantry to retrieve a broom and dustpan, then carefully gathered the glass & critters – and dumped them into the trash – creesh.
“You all sober?” Stephanie asked bluntly.
Alan hesitated at the question but decided to ignore it. Placing the stopper in the drain, he filled the kitchen sink with hot water, adding a healthy serving of lavender Pine Sol – glug, glug. The young girl watched him grab a mop and ring it out in the sink. He began to clean the roseate tile floor, washing away the sticky mess and drunk bugs.
“My mom used to do that too,” Stephanie said from the couch. “Clean things up right away, the morning after a blackout. It was like watching a killer wipe down a crime scene, after waking up with a bloody knife in her hand.”
“I didn’t wake up with a knife,” he said dismissively.
Setting her bowl on the coffee table, Steph shot him a glance before changing the channel. “She did that too,” she told him. “She always wore red.”
Alan stopped mopping. He was wearing a starched red shirt.
“She used to say that wearing a red shirt offset the redness in her face,” Stephanie told him. “I suppose it does to a point” – she looked up – “but I can still see the alcoholism in your face. You look puffy, like William Shatner.”
“I’m not William Shatner.”
“Really?” the girl scoffed. “Then I have a bigger dick than you. And I should know, because you were playing with yourself after you passed out. I had to close your door.”
Narrowing his eyes, Alan rang out the mop and replaced it into the cupboard, wet. He noticed that Steph had made coffee for herself, so he poured himself a cup – and quietly wished that she wasn’t in the room, so he could soften this conversation with hair of the dog. He carried both coffee and boots to the loveseat next to the couch. He sat with the girl, glancing at his watch. They had to leave within the hour. Pulling on his Wescos, he began to lace them up. Steph watched him carefully –
“Do you even remember what you did to me yesterday?” she asked.
Alan froze. He did have a memory yes, though until this point, he’d hoped it was a dream.
“You fuckin’ came at me with a fireplace poker,” she told him.
He winced, but didn’t look up.
“Can you remember doing that?” she pressed.
He had his answer ready. “Actually, Steph, there are times when adults have a lot of stress in their lives, and for those with” –
“DON’T!” the young girl snapped. “Don’t even start a sentence that way! You sound like my mom did, in the car before we got hit! She always made excuses for” –
“For those of us with addiction problems,” – he cut her off, raising his voice – “we lean on that addiction to get us through the stress.” He finished lacing, then grabbed the remote and shut the TV. He stared at her quietly. His breath tasted sour, despite having brushed his teeth.
“And yes, you’re right. I do have a problem with alcohol. I’m not going to deny that.”
Silence.
Sometimes the best way to stop a conversation cold is to admit your addiction or mental illness up front, which catches the other person off guard. You can only do this once, however…
Alan sipped his coffee as a few minutes passed.
“Stephanie, I’m very sorry for what happened yesterday. My behavior was unacceptable, and for that, I do apologize.”
“Were you drunk when you got back from the lawyer?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, very.”
“You drove that way?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know you were drunk when you were driving?”
“I did.”
“Then, why did you drive like that?”
“Because I’ve done it so many times before, I knew I could get away with it.”
“Alan,” Steph said softly, the coffee in her cup now cold. “I don’t want you to die like my mom did.”
“I’m not going to, Steph. Blacking out yesterday made me realize I need to get help.”
And admitting you’re seeking help up front will shut the conversation down completely.
The young girl’s eyes were shiny, now. Glancing at his watch, Alan took it home:
“Steph, we need to go. Your grandma’s plane lands in less than an hour. We can talk about this another time, okay?”
She nodded.
One beat, two beats…
“You all packed?”
She nodded again.
“Then get your stuff. And you’re a big girl, so let’s keep this conversation between ourselves, like adults. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The two stood up, and Alan gathered the cereal bowl and coffee cups. As Stephanie ran to the bedroom, Alan noticed the fireplace poker was leaning on the sofa where she had been sitting, hidden between the armrest and baroque end tables, almost like a weapon – ready if needed.
“What are you gonna’ do with all this money?” she called from the bedroom.
Alan froze. “Don’t touch that, Steph. I need to give it to Patrick’s lawyer!”
“Weren’t you supposed to do that yesterday?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t get in your room.”
“Think he’ll notice if I take a pack of hundreds?”
“Steph, leave it be. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”
“Fine…”
He carried the dishes to the kitchen, then washed four ibuprofens down with a swallow of cold coffee, rinsing the cup in the sink. When he turned around, he found the young girl waiting behind, holding a suitcase with her carry-on bag over a shoulder. She smiled slightly, but her voice was sad –
“Can we keep talking?” she asked. “I mean, after I go home?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Like, not every day but…maybe I could email you? And you could email me? Maybe we could talk on the phone every now and then?”
“I’d like that, Steph…but let’s talk about it in the car. We really need to go.” He tossed her the keys. “You drive.”
“Wait…seriously?”
He nodded. “Go start it. And get the air conditioner running.” He watched her smile, then run through the living room, and out the front door.
His eyes narrowed as soon as she was gone.
As an engine started in the driveway, Alan darted into Patrick’s bedroom – where the three suitcases were lined up, in front of the bed. He threw the one with photos onto the mattress, opening it. He rifled through the pictures on top, then pushed it aside, quickly searching the two suitcases with cash. A frown crossed his face when he pushed those aside, as well.
Steph honked in the driveway.
Alan glanced at his watch before leaving the cases on the bed, making sure the bedroom was closed when he left. He grabbed his keys and messenger bag, heading out the front door.
Where the fuck did that little bitch put the dashboard cam photo?
* * * * *
“I’ll bet this brings back memories,” Audrey said cheerfully, opening her Checker’s menu and perusing the burgers. The old woman sat across the booth from Alan and Stephanie, smiling as the waitress stepped away, having just taken their drink order.
“Yes, but, it’s changed a lot over the years,” Alan admitted, settling back into the seat and looking across the spacious dining room. The Vegas location had been built fairly recently, and though he could still see similar design elements to Peoria’s old restaurant, Checker’s as a chain had grown over twenty years; the place looked different, more family-friendly. “And the music’s not the same.” Eiffel 65’s I’m Blue played softly in the background above them –
“It feels…homogenized.”
“What do you mean?” Audrey asked.
“Well, the bricks aren’t the same color for one,” Alan told her. “Back in the nineties they used to be red, but now they’re more of a reddish-salmon color. The place looks lighter. It’s not as gritty.”
“Moe’s family feed bag,” Steph said, reading the menu.
“And it’s lost its ambiance,” Alan continued. “I mean, it’s lost the look that it used to have. Back when Gwen and I worked here, Checker’s felt almost gritty – like you were eating in a repurposed fire station. Red bricks, tile floors, those great big ceiling fans…”
“And don’t forget the plants,” Stephanie added, putting her hands together like a flying bug with wings. “Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!”
Audrey smiled sadly. “Yes, Stephanie…I remember the story about the cicadas.”
“Gwen told you about that?” Alan looked surprised. The three moved their menus when the server brought drinks – “I’ll give you folks a few minutes to decide.”
“Mom told us about everything,” Steph said as the waitress left.
Alan stirred uncomfortably. “Everything?”
“Loose lips sink ships,” Audrey told him, closing her menu. “And my daughter, in her frequent inebriation, sunk many.”
“How much did she tell you?” Alan asked carefully.
“Enough,” Audrey said. “The theft, the pranks, and most importantly, the Phantom.”
“Audrey, listen…we were young, we were stupid…we didn’t think about the consequences…”
“You’re lucky people didn’t have cell phones,” Stephanie told him. “Most phones have cameras now.” She opened her own and showed Alan a photo she’d taken. “See?”
Alan’s heart shot to his throat. It was a picture of him, passed out drunk in bed. The sheets were wet, but Steph hadn’t thrown the ice water yet.
“What’s that, dear?” Audrey asked.
“Here. See for yourself.” As Alan gasped, Steph adjusted the photo before passing the phone to her grandmother. Audrey took the phone and gasped herself. “Alan! Is that?” –
“Audrey, please…I can explain” –
“…a candelabra on the toilet?”
Steph grinned devilishly when the old woman held up the photo of the gilded bathroom. Alan’s heart slowed, but his face got hot.
“I wish you could see the house, Nana. Patrick’s a big ole’ queen!”
“Language!” Audrey scolded.
Clearing his throat, Alan repeated his question. “Audrey, again…exactly how much did Gwen tell you about what happened at Checker’s?”
The old woman sighed, melancholy on her face. “Enough to let me know that the time she spent with you and Patrick – and the time spent with you, Alan – was the best time of her life. I don’t approve of what you did of course, but I’d be the pot calling the kettle black if I pretended that I was a saint at Guinevere’s age. I wasn’t, not by any means.” She chuckled. “Of course, I didn’t steal from a restaurant, but I did have my moments.”
“She got knocked up,” Steph blurted. “That’s why she and Papa got married.”
“Stephanie!” the old woman shushed.
“Hey – I just said you were pregnant,” Steph said. “I didn’t say where you were parked when it happened.” She looked at Alan and mouthed, Detweiller Park!
“That’s quite enough of that,” Audrey warned her granddaughter, before finishing her thought with Alan. “As I said, working with you and Patrick was the best time of Guinevere’s life – and she never forgot it, even after you all drifted apart and went your separate ways. Everyone needs a few adventures in life, especially when you’re young and not quite ready for the responsibilities of adulthood” – Audrey reached across the table and took Alan’s hand –
“…and you gave my daughter that adventure, and I will never forget that, Alan.”
Silence.
“Audrey, I” –
“And I’m glad you were able to give our Stephanie a little adventure, though it was a bit more bumpy than I’d hoped.” The old woman’s eyes grew shiny. “And I hope that in a way, getting to spend time with Stephanie has allowed you to remember my own, dear Guinevere…and the precious time that God allowed you to spend with her.”
Alan’s eyes were glazed, now. “It did, Audrey. More than you know.”
“I’m glad,” the old woman said softly.
The server appeared at the table –
“Folks, forgive me for saying so, but our burgers are just incredible. They’re great for lunch and they come with fries. And for the little lady?” – the waitress chuckled – “Well, I’ll bet you’d really like those tasty chicken fingers, wouldn’t you?”
Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take the cicada sandwich, but make sure the bugs are well done. I don’t want it to squirt yellow when I bite into it.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss?”
“Stephanie!” Audrey scolded again. “Don’t tease the waitress like that. Everyone knows that cicadas are best on salads, because they crunch like croutons.” She looked at the server. “That’s what I’ll have. The cicada salad, please.”
The waitress stepped back. “Err…do you folks need a few more minutes?”
Alan glanced at his watch. “Actually, no…these two need to catch a plane, so we really should order now.” He smiled at Audrey, who was dabbing her eyes –
“And we don’t want to run out of time.”
* * * * *
“A call, Bob-Bob-Bob…If ya’ hit and ran!”
“Bob-Bob-Bob…If ya’ hit and ran!”
The naked Latinos sang in Beach Boys harmony, as they merrily soaped their torsos, tats, and taints while singing together within the long, communal – and surprisingly acoustic – jail shower. A uniformed officer watched from behind plexiglass as the three lathered up like a porno filmed in prison, their eyes squarely focused on the mariquita in the corner – who cowered in their glare, washing himself as quickly as possible.
Prisoners were only allowed three showers per week, and though the experience was harrowing, Patrick wasn’t about to sacrifice hygiene for privacy, even if it meant hearing inmates jerk off behind him. The cheap smell of Axe mixed with the hot water’s steam, as the three gang-bangers – like a family packed for a hotel stay – had brought their own toiletries from the facility’s commissary, while Patrick was reduced to using the harsh white soap provided for those who hadn’t been expecting an extended stay.
Closing his eyes as tightly as possible, Patrick washed his legs, feet and toes, then stood naked in the water spray to rinse himself off. Once finished, he ignored the Latinos’ cat calls while he dried himself with a towel – “Voy a poner mi verga hasta por el culo, saldra de tu boca, sissy boy!” – then wrapped the white terrycloth around his waist, with flip-flops on his feet.
“Wrap it up!” the guard shouted as a second officer appeared in the doorway. The two watched the inmates leave single file, with Patrick at the end of the line. They stopped him before he could follow –
“Not you, buddy,” the new guard informed him. “You have a visitor – follow me.”
Clad only in a towel, Patrick was led down a long, cinder-block corridor, then through a locked checkpoint, where a gate buzzed open to reveal a smaller cement hallway, lined with doors. The guard took Patrick to the first door on the left, buzzed it open, and allowed the prisoner to enter. Patrick then heard another buzzer in the hallway, followed by laughter – and the sound of a familiar voice, along with wing-tipped footsteps.
Cash was pressed into the guard’s hand as Bob Gross – in a blue shirt and tie today – stepped into the room, where Patrick stood alone, next to a table and two chairs. Gross smiled widely until the guard shut the door; the moment they were alone, the lawyer grabbed Patrick by the throat and slammed him against the wall. His towel fell off. Getting in his face, Bob grabbed Patrick by the genitals –
“Do I look like an idiot to you? Do I look like a guy you want to be fucking over?!”
“Bob, what the hell?” Patrick gasped, trying to breathe.
“Where…the fuck…is my money?” Gross demanded. “You think you’re gonna’ take it and run, you little shit? I don’t know if you realize this buddy, but you’re not exactly in a good place to bargain here!” Patrick could smell liquor on his breath.
“Bob, I” –
“All it takes is one little phone call, you cocksucker! Let the police know where you’ve been staying…let the Feds know that there’s more going on than just a little Bingo skim!” Bob squeezed harder. “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY MONEY?”
“A-A-Alan’s got it! A-A-Alan’s supposed to bring it to your office!” Patrick flailed against the wall, trying to stop the lawyer’s grip on his windpipe. He could barely talk – “B-B-Bob, I can’t b-b-breathe!”
With his fist still clenched around Patrick’s balls, Bob released his client’s neck. “Alan?” Gross repeated, as something popped into his head “You mean Alan Lavinski?”
Gasping for air, Patrick’s hands grabbed Gross’s own, below his waist. “Yes!” – Patrick wheezed – “Alan is…staying at…the house right now. He was supposed…to bring the suitcases to your office…yesterday!”
The client fell to the floor when Bob released him completely, wiping his palm on the fallen towel. Gross thought about yesterday – Maria blocked out ninety minutes for Alan Lavinski, but the asshole never told me who he was. His face grew red in anger.
“Are you saying…that Alan…never came?” Patrick gasped. Bob could tell that he was terrified.
“No, he came to the office all right.” Gross stepped back and straightened his tie. He looked at Patrick – naked, in fetal position – before knocking on the door three times, causing the guard to open it. Bob crossed the threshold and paused, turning back to Patrick –
“But it’s clearly my turn to pay him a visit.”
The lawyer vanished before Patrick could reply, the door locking closed behind him. Pulling his back against the cold concrete wall, Patrick covered himself with the damp towel and buried his head in his hands.
Outside the room, Gross pressed an additional roll of bills into the guard’s hand – while the three gang members from the shower waited, their towels barely hiding their hard lessons underneath. Bob’s eyes shrank into slits –
“Take your time, boys…I’ve paid for the afternoon.”