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“She’s my friend. I couldn’t lay a hand on her.”
“Are you sure?” George asked through narrowed eyes. “I mean, she’s pretty. A guy’d have to be made of stone to say no to Lorraine.”
“Not this guy,” Marty retorted. “Now let’s get back to the plan, O.K.? It’s all gonna be an act, so don’t worry about it. Just remember that at nine o’clock you’ll be strolling through the parking lot and you’ll see us…” He gulped, went on. “You’ll see us struggling in the car. As soon as that happens, you run over, grab the door, yank it open, and say what?”
George opened his lips but no words emerged.
“You’re gonna have to be more forceful than that, George,” Marty murmured.
“I can’t think—”
“Damn it, you shouldn’t even have to think. Here you are face to face with a guy who’s pawing the girl you love. It should be automatic.”
“Yeah…You’re right.”
“Deliver the line, George.”
His jaw working fiercely, exaggeratedly, rather like an old-time vaudeville villain, George spat the line: “Uh…Hey you! Get your damn hands off her!” Then, his expression reverting to type, he asked in a soft voice: “You really think I should swear?”
“Yes, definitely,” Marty nodded. “Then you hit me in the stomach, I go down for the count and you and Lorraine live happily ever after.”
“You make it sound so easy,” George smiled. “I wish I wasn’t so scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll hit you hard and it’ll hurt. And that’ll make you so angry, you’ll slug me back.”
Marty laughed. “Believe me, George, you can hit me as hard as you want and I won’t hit back.”
“Maybe she’ll think it’s a put-up job.”
“That’s why you have to make it look convincing. You have to really hit me. Now give it a shot.”
“O.K.”
As Marty stood still, George took a deep breath and threw a punch at Marty’s gut. It looked like someone swatting a fly.
“No, George,” Marty corrected. “Put some confidence behind that punch. Some emotion. Some anger. Come on. You can do it.”
George threw another punch, slightly better than the first but only marginally so. He seemed satisfied with it, though, particularly with the solid sound it made.
“How was that?” he said. “Pretty good, huh?”
“Well, I guess it’ll have to do,” Marty shrugged. “I’ll tell you what—practice on this.”
He hung the duffel bag on the clothesline T-bar, stepped back and blasted it with a powerful uppercut. The bag recoiled nearly a foot.
“Work on something like that,” he said.
“Sure,” George nodded.
He heaved a punch at the bag, then another. They weren’t championship punches but Marty noted with some satisfaction that at least he was learning to enjoy it.
“Anger,” he prodded. “Anger.”
“Right!” George growled. “Anger!”