The Shotgun Rule Part 10

Jeff puts the smoke back in his face.

--'S no problem. What up with you guys?

Paul stands at the foot of the steps leading to the porch, the guys are still straddling their bikes, looking at rocks, trees, weeds. He pulls out a Marlboro.

--Kinda wanted to talk.

--Yeah?

--Yeah.

Jeff goes back to work on the carburetor, dipping a rag into an old baby food jar full of gasoline and using it to clean a residue of black carbon from inside the carburetor.

--What about?

--Some s.h.i.+t.

Jeff cleans. The guys stand around.

Paul takes a step up.

--Jeff?

--I'm still here.

--Yeah. Could we maybe talk about it inside?

Jeff rubs his wrist against his chin, takes the smoke from his mouth and tosses it in the dry weeds.

--Look, guys, I got to be at work in a couple hours and I want to get this thing back together so I can ride. Sick of the d.a.m.n bus. Something's up, get to it.

Still straddling his bike, Andy waddles forward and steps on the smoldering b.u.t.t before it can ignite the oil soaked weeds around the cars.

He looks at Jeff.

--We stole some stuff and we want to know if you can hock it for us.

Jeff gets up, wipes his hands on the a.s.s of his jeans, opens the front door and points inside.

--Everybody out of the f.u.c.king water.

[image]

By sitting on the kitchen counter and leaning his face against the far end of the window over the sink, Mr. Cheney can see all the way down the street to the front of the Whelan house.

He's watching when Hector rides up, that disturbing wedge of hair jutting up from his head. He'd been such a sweet quiet boy when his family moved into the neighborhood. The first Mexican family on the block. Well, the only one actually.

He reaches for the brandy and tips more into his coffee cup, no longer bothering to mark the label or put the bottle back in the cupboard after each drink. It's nearly empty now, so why bother? A quick run to the Liquor Barn and he'll have a full one. Or maybe not, a drive into Pleasanton seems rather far. The Safeway is closer. Except that Cindy Whelan will be working there. Well, a few groceries to surround the bottle then, just to keep her minding her own business.

Oh nonsense!

Dave's Liquors is right next door to the Safeway, if he's going to drive to the shopping center he can just go to Dave's. To h.e.l.l if anyone sees him going in there twice in one week. Three times? h.e.l.l with it anyway. And he can get a pint at Dave's, something for the glove box as well as the bottle for the house.

He empties the last of the brandy and leans his forehead against the window as the boys tumble out of the garage, laughing.

They're high. Christ, they're stoned out of their minds. He saw enough of it. From Paul's mom. Woman could barely get up in the morning without smoking a joint.

His son is reeling around the driveway, mouth open, too far away for his father to hear the sound of his laughter.

Mr. Cheney remembers when he could make his son laugh like that. The boy was so ticklish. Under his arms. Tickle him under his arms and he would kick and scream, tears running. Not any more. Now he has to get stoned to have a laugh.

d.a.m.n that woman.

If only she had left sooner. If she had taken her drugs and her rock and roll and her Disarm Now posters and gotten the h.e.l.l out of here sooner. Maybe it's not kind to say, but if only she had died sooner, maybe then his son wouldn't be the mess he is today.

But that will be changing soon. Paul may ignore him, ignore his attempts to communicate and to return their relations.h.i.+p to what it once was, but he will have to listen when confronted with the contents of that bag.

He's not a stupid man, after all. Top of his cla.s.s. He knows amphetamine when he sees it. And he knows enough about his son's history with the Arroyos to see that the bag is somehow connected to their arrests. Paul will have to listen to him in the face of that knowledge.

Not that he wants to threaten the boy. Not that he'll handle it that way. A conversation is all it will take. A conversation explaining that he doesn't want to see his son getting into trouble that he can't get out of.

And what's he asking for anyway? Nothing. Just to be included. Just for them to spend time together. Just for his son to be available to him.

He brings the cup to his lips, but it's empty again.

He looks at his watch. His first cla.s.s begins in two hours. A quick trip to Dave's and then out to the campus will take half an hour. That gives him another ninety minutes to watch his son. Mr. Marinovic stops his car in front of the boys and says something. He watches as the old man drives off and Paul and George run across the street and out of his view. And he's still there, face pressed to the gla.s.s, five minutes later when they run back into the Whelans' garage followed by Hector and Andy.

By the time they're on their bikes and riding down the street hurling insults at one another, he's called the school and told them he's too sick to come in today and is crouched low in the driver's seat of his car.

He drives around the block, going the opposite direction from the boys, and rounds the corner in time to see them taking their bikes across the field where the old elementary school used to be. He ignores the stop sign at the end of the block and turns onto Murrieta in front of a speeding station wagon with fake wood paneling on the side, forcing the other car to hit its brakes, the driver leaning on his horn.

As he takes a left on Portola, the boys have broken from the field and are skidding from the sidewalk into the QuickStop lot and on under the sign for the trailer park. He parks in the Orchard Hardware lot across the street and waits.

Baking in the sun that pounds through the winds.h.i.+eld, looking at the liquor display in the QuickStop window.

The Little Brothers You Never Had Jeff takes another sip of lukewarm beer, looking at the pile of jewelry on his counter, teasing one of the chains loose from the tangle.

--See, what you have here is mostly s.h.i.+t. The silver, the fourteen carat gold stuff, it's c.r.a.p. The twenty four carat chains and these ones here, these two are platinum, these are worth something. The diamonds and the pearls, I don't know. Could be something, could be c.r.a.p. Problem is, p.a.w.nshops are full of this s.h.i.+t. They buy it because it has intrinsic value and it takes up no s.p.a.ce. Way better than a TV or some stereo or some s.h.i.+t like that, but still they got tons of it and it's a buyers' market so you get, maybe, I don't know, ten percent of value. If you're lucky. So, you know that, you've hocked s.h.i.+t before. But, also, most places, you walk in with a handful of gold and silver chains and they don't want to f.u.c.k with them. A couple at a time, even from kids like you, that's whatever, no big deal, but a handful of hot jewelry, that's a no no. Whatever you guys have heard, seen on Baretta or Hill Street Blues, whatever, p.a.w.nshops aren't all fences. Not professionals anyway. And the ones that are, go in with something like this, all in a pile like this, next time the owner gets in trouble with the cops you're gonna be one of the guys he snitches.

Sitting on the filthy carpet, his back against the wood paneling, just underneath an Easy Rider calendar, Andy blinks when he hears the word snitch.

Paul is perched on the fold down kitchen table, having cleared s.p.a.ce in the mess of magazines, used paper plates and a.s.sorted sc.r.a.ps of the cars out front.

He sips his own warm beer.

--OK, but it's worth something, right? It's got to be worth something.

Jeff looks at the kids.

How'd he end up with this crew hanging around? Wouldn't have happened if George hadn't been delivering pills for his aunt last summer. First time Bob Whelan's kid showed up on his porch with a baggie of ludes, he just about s.h.i.+t his pants.

Truth is, if he hadn't been tripping three days straight and desperate to crash, he never would have let the kid in the front door. Not that there's anything especially wrong with scoring off a high school kid, just, you know, Bob Whelan's son? That's begging for trouble. But, man, he'd needed those ludes something desperate. Turned out the kid's mellow as h.e.l.l. Totally solid. No chance that kid's gonna lose his cool and say the wrong thing around his dad, let him know what he's up to. Bob probably wouldn't mind the kids over here, but he'd flip if he knew about the pills. Found out Jeff scored off his son, it would not be pretty at all.

Yeah, George is definitely a chip off the old f.u.c.king block. But he doesn't have a clue what his dad was like back then.

'64 to '68, they had themselves a time. Might still be having a time if Bob had handled things a little different. Well, that was then. Dude turned grim after he had the second kid and took the job at the quarry. For awhile he was still looking to party on a Friday night, blow a joint, go down to the Rodeo Club have a couple drinks and some beers. Then he stopped coming in at all.

Now? Say hi when they cross paths at the gas station or something, but haven't hung out for years. Too much baggage. Too much water under the bridge. Something like that.

But blood is blood. Whatever went down, whatever trip Bob got into with grinding the 9 to 5, his kids haven't bought in. Close your eyes around George, sometimes you'd swear you were hearing Bob talk. Got that thing, that easy mellow, makes people listen to what he has to say, makes people trust him. f.u.c.king gift, that is.

And once he got his foot in the door, the others just seemed to squeeze in after him.

His brother is just a total spaz. Where that weedy little braniac came from is a mystery. Couldn't be more different from Bob. Cindy, she was a smart girl, a real bookworm, but hard to see a chick that hot having a kid that geeky. He is a trip. Picked up that copy of The Tao of Physics and whipped right through it. Took Jeff the better part of a year to read that.

Hector's cool, too. Knows more about rock and roll than any other Mexican. Tried to bring some of that punk s.h.i.+t in here and play it, turn him on. f.u.c.k that. Loud and hard is loud and hard, but you got to know how to play your f.u.c.king instruments, sing a little, man.

They're all OK kids. Why shouldn't they hang here, play his alb.u.ms, have a place to bring a chick every now and then? Long as they sometimes bring their own bottle or a couple Js, it's no big deal.

Paul's the one spends the most time here.

Cuts cla.s.ses so he can come around and work out with the DP weight bench on the porch. Hangs around and pa.s.ses tools while Jeff tries to get the 240Z running. h.e.l.l, come home from the Club some nights, find the kid crashed on the shredded vinyl easy chair out front. Middle of last winter the first time it happened.

Came home drunk as h.e.l.l, weaving the pickup all over the road, ran over that old b.i.t.c.h's toy fence across the way. The chick he was with screamed when she saw Paul on the porch. Sweats.h.i.+rt and a patched Levi's jacket, arms wrapped around himself, hands stuffed in his armpits, curled up and pa.s.sed out in the chair. Tried to slap him awake and send him home, but he was out. Chick felt sorry for the kid, made Jeff bring his a.s.s inside. Next day he woke up around two, chick was gone along with twenty two bucks from his wallet; Paul was outside pulling weeds. Next time it happened he wasn't pa.s.sed out, just asleep. Kicked him in the foot, asked him if he wanted to crash inside. Kid said he was cool on the porch if it was OK. Told him to get his a.s.s inside. Found a sleeping bag and put him on the floor. Kid's wearing one of Jeff's Harley caps right f.u.c.king now. Weird. Kind of like having a little brother when you never had one your whole life. 'Cept he's not. Just some kid needs a place to hang and get out of his own house. And, s.h.i.+t, who the f.u.c.k doesn't know what that's like?

He finishes his beer and balances the empty can on top of the overflow erupting from the garbage bag under the sink.

He looks at George, over there leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

--How's your dad?

George shrugs.

--He's cool.

--That right? Your old man's cool? He get to be cool all of a sudden?

George scratches his armpit.

--He's fine. You know, work. Whatever.

--Your mom?

--Same.

--Uh huh.

Andy's still picking fuzz from the carpet.

--That right about your folks, that's what they're up to, working?

Andy rolls his head back.

--Yeah, you know. Work. Dad's doing stuff in the yard. Tearing it up. Mom wants a rock garden.

--Rock garden.

Jeff thinks about their mom. Cindy Hunt. She'd been a piece of a.s.s. One of those smart hot chicks. Did they make out that one time? s.h.i.+t, can't remember if that was her or that other chick. Rock garden. What the f.u.c.k happens to people?

Hector is flipping through his alb.u.ms.

--Your pop, what's he, still at the quarry?

Hector keeps looking for something recorded later than '75.

--Disability.

--How'd that happen?

Hector flips past Grand Funk Railroad and Jefferson Airplane and The Average White Band.

--Had a front loader drop a couple tons of gravel on his leg and got put on disability.

--What's he doin' now?

Hector pushes the stack of records back together with a thump.

--Sitting around taking painkillers and drinking wine.

--There's worse things.

--If you say so.

--I say so.

He pokes Paul in the shoulder.

--What about your dad, what's up with him?

Paul plucks at the pull tab on top of his can, playing the "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" guitar riff.

--I'uh nuh.

--He's still teaching, right?

Paul twists the pull tab back and forth, trying to tear it free.

--Hey, man, wake up. He teaching, yeah?