This was Seth.

“Those bow-wows?” he asked. “You ought to put a muzzle on them.”

That was all it took for one of the men to shove Seth into the ball retrieval. He came back swinging.

As I sprang up to play peacemaker, I could see BJ lumbering out from behind the bar. It appeared he had a Louisville Slugger in his hand. This had all the makings of an ugly incident-a banner headline across tomorrow’s Littleton Journal.

“Hey fellas,” I said. “This is a bowling alley.”

“Thanks, asshole,” the bigger one muttered without actually looking at me. “I thought it was the public library.”

Seth had awkwardly swung his ball in the direction of the bigger man’s head and badly missed. His momentum had carried him sideways into the scoring table. It occurred to me that five or six beers had probably taken their toll on Seth’s general equilibrium. Bowling ball or no bowling ball, he was a sitting duck.

The man smashed Seth in the side of the face. Seth went down hard. A woman screamed from somewhere in the alley-probably not one of the women who’d sent these two idiots out to defend her honor.

I managed to grab the closer one’s arm-he might’ve been physically less imposing than his friend, but I still felt a generous amount of muscle beneath his bowling shirt.

He jerked around to confront me, his right hand back and balled into a fist. I felt a crackling jolt of adrenaline, similar to the effect I used to get from the stepped-on coke I’d begun inhaling during my last excruciating days in New York. I ducked as his fist skittered over my left ear. Everyone seemed to be surging to our alley, mostly just to gawk, but some of them looking as if they had an old-fashioned barroom brawl in mind.

Crack!

BJ’s baseball bat slammed down on the scoring table, sending one and a half Miller High Lifes flying into the air.

A generous amount landed on the seriously pissed-off man I was holding on to for dear life.

Some of it got in his eyes; he cursed, squinted, then covered his face with his free hand. I used his momentary blindness to trap him in a semblance of a bear hug-more Yogi Bear than grizzly.

Seth had made it back to an upright position, frozen in a boxing stance of dubious merit. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.

Maybe for the man holding the baseball bat over his head.

“You don’t want to be doing that here,” BJ said in a remarkably calm voice.

No one ventured a counter-opinion, including the man I was hugging like a long-lost friend.

I smelled a mixture of sweat and aftershave. I slowly let go. Aside from stepping back and flashing me a halfway murderous look, he made no effort to resume hostilities.

Seth was still bobbing and weaving.

“He was woofing at my girl,” Seth’s attacker said, obviously feeling a need to explain. It might’ve been his appearance-Jerry Springer miscreant, “Why I Can’t Stop Beating People Up”-a mostly shaven head with a Judas Priest tattoo garishly displayed on his right forearm.

“He was just woofing,” I said. “Honestly. That’s him. He gets boisterous.”

Seth didn’t look appreciative of my effort to defend him. It was possible he didn’t know what boisterous meant and was wondering if I was accusing him of something embarrassing.

“There you go,” BJ said, still holding the forty-ounce bat at chest level. “No harm, no foul,” switching sports in an effort to reach for the appropriate idiom. “I think you tough guys should call it a night.”

I believed his tough guys comment was sarcastic.

“Hey,” Sam said, “why don’t we all shake hands?”

He was trying to be civilized about it; maybe after we all made up, he was going to try to sell them some life insurance.

“C’mon,” he said, seemingly undeterred that no one had taken him up on his suggestion. “What do you say?”

Not much. The guy who’d punched Seth in the face snorted derisively, turned his back, and simply strolled away.

Sam flushed and turned to the other guy, tendering his slightly wilting olive branch. Still no takers. The guy shook his head as if Sam were a moron child, then followed his buddy down the lane.

It was about then that I saw him.

I was watching the two guys make their way down the alley, to collect the ladies Seth had grievously offended, I suppose. A few men patted them on the shoulders, whispered words of encouragement at their retreating backs.

I knew one of them.

The last time I saw this person, he was holding a plumbing tool in his hand. Or not a plumbing tool. Maybe just something to punch a hole in the wall and pry off a phone-jack cover. Staring at me with those muted features, as if he’d somehow missed his final trimester as a fetus. I could swear he was smiling.

I felt slightly nauseated.

I didn’t step forward, or step back, or yell police.

I turned to Seth as if eliciting silent support. When I turned back, the plumber was gone.

I know. It sounds as if I were hallucinating.

I wasn’t.

He was there, then he wasn’t there, just long enough to smile in my direction and disappear.

I hustled over to a table where two middle-aged couples in matching bowling shirts were snacking on greasy fries and chili dogs.

“The guy who was just standing here-did you see where he went?” I asked them.

They looked wary. Also confused. What guy who was just where, their faces said.

“Who?” One of the women finally asked.

“The man who was standing by your table…”

“You mean the man you were fighting with?” the woman said. “He’s over there.”

“No. Not him. The guy who whispered something to him when he walked by.”

“Whispered something to who?” one of the men asked. He looked kind of eager for me to take BJ’s suggestion and leave the bowling alley. Or at least leave them alone.

“Look, I’m a reporter for the paper here… I just want to know who that guy…”

“We don’t know what guy you’re talking about.” The woman again, looking almost sorry for me.

I stopped, scanned the alley. Most people had resumed bowling after the night’s entertainment break, something they would talk to their coworkers about over morning coffee. And then he picked up a bowling ball and…

I dashed into the men’s bathroom. A high school kid was busy admiring his tongue ring in the mirror. That’s it.

When I finally made it outside, the plumber wasn’t there, either.

Just the remnants of my bowling team.

Seth was telling Sam and Marv how he was going to get even with the pussy who’d sucker-punched him in the face.

Just you wait, he promised. It’s a done deal.

SIXTEEN

After my story about the moving homecoming of Lowell Beaumont passed muster, after it earned me a verbal hug from he-who-must-be-pleased, not to mention scattered praise from the peanut gallery of copy-desk drudges, I did it again.

I wrote a piece about an American soldier of fortune who sold his services to the highest bidder-including a Taliban warlord-leaving him in the awkward position of battling his own countrymen.

The piece was alarming, dramatic, and even sad.

It just wasn’t in any way, shape, or form true.

I’d never met this soldier of fortune.

He was an amalgam of different people I’d talked to, read about, or possibly dreamed up.

No matter.

It went over like a charm.

Other pieces followed, one after another, a dizzying anthology of truly creative writing.

A group of out-of-work Hollywood actors who loaned themselves out to the Russian mob for various cons, impersonating everyone from computer-parts salespeople to temple cantors.