The Shotgun Rule Part 12

Andy is on the floor, half of the curtain draped over his legs.

--You OK?

Andy looks at him, a little blood on his lower lip from where his teeth sliced it when his face hit the floor.

--Yeah, thanks, f.a.g.

--It wasn't me, it was Paul.

Paul punches George in the back of his leg.

--f.u.c.k off.

George kicks at him.

--Stop being a d.i.c.k all the time for a change.

Hector heads for the gla.s.s door.

--If he's OK, tell him to let us the f.u.c.k in.

George adjusts his grip, pulls himself up a little higher.

--You cool to let us in?

Andy is getting off the floor, looking at the hole in his s.h.i.+rt.

--I'll be there in a sec.

Still inspecting the hole, he opens the bathroom door and Fernando is standing there and he punches Andy in the face and starts kicking him when he hits the floor while George screams and tries to claw his way through the window that's far too small.

Things That Look Different but Are the Same Geezer untwists the neck of the paper bag and looks inside.

There's a word for this. The moment he sees the jewelry he knows there's a word for what has happened and what will happen as a result.

--Un something.

Jeff blinks.

--What?

--An un word. Un something. When there's just no f.u.c.king excuse whatsoever for it. The kind of thing you cut people's eyes out for.

Jeff runs a hand down the length of his ponytail.

--Unconscionable?

Geezer looks up from the bag.

--That's it. Unconscionable. That for which you cut some f.u.c.ker's eyes out.

He rubs his nose.

--Kids?

--Yeah. Teenagers anyway.

--The ones you got crawling around your trailer all the time?

--Yeah.

--One of them knows somebody or something. What's the deal on that?

--One of them, he.

--One of them he, what?

Jeff looks at the bullfighter in black velvet hung over Geezer's head.

--He was running Amy Whelan's s.h.i.+t for a while.

Geezer upends the bag in his lap. He picks out an engagement ring he doesn't remember being with the rest of the jewelry when he told the spics they could keep it.

Amy Whelan.

Could have swore she was clear on the concept. Went over there and made a point of showing her that Oakland holds this town, that as far as that's concerned, he's Oakland's hand here. Showed her how the Oakland boys handle s.h.i.+t. Thought she was clear. Should have known better. Doesn't matter how together a person seems, how well they got their priorities in line, they start seeing drug money roll across their table and they get greedy and stupid. The two being pretty f.u.c.king much...f.u.c.k.

--The word?

Jeff s.h.i.+fts from foot to foot.

--The word?

--When two things mean the same thing? Two words got the same meaning. Not when they're spelled the same but mean different things, the opposite of that.

--Synonymous.

Geezer rubs at the small stone in the engagement ring.

--That's it. Synonymous. When two things look different, but they're the same.

Greed and stupidity. Synonymous. Amy Whelan's done gone and got greedy. Got stupid. Got some kids involved in his s.h.i.+t. f.u.c.king up s.h.i.+t for everyone. Upsetting his personal applecart, creating friction with Oakland, interfering with supply and demand. The supply of cash that Oakland demands for staying out of his a.s.s.

Unconscionable b.i.t.c.h.

--Where they now?

--My place.

--This all they got?

--One of the guys, this kid Paul, the big one who's over there the most, he said he might have something else.

Geezer runs his palm over the slick nylon of his s.h.i.+ny gold sweat suit.

--More jewelry?

--No. I don't think so.

--Guns? He pick up a couple pieces somewhere?

--Maybe. Sounds more like he got his hands on someone's stash. A bag of c.o.ke or something.

Geezer wraps his fingers around the handle of his grabber, squeezing, making the plastic claw at the end of the aluminum pole into a fist.

--Yeah. c.o.ke. Crank, maybe?

--Um, I don't. You know, that's your thing, man. I don't know where they'd get crank that didn't come from you.

--Said one of 'em works for Amy Whelan?

--Used to.

--So maybe she wants to get some new business going?

--I don't think so, man. I mean, everyone knows that's your deal. No one's gonna mess with you, Geez.

--Sure. Of course. Kid got his hands on a couple eight b.a.l.l.s, wants to move one of them.

--Yeah, probably.

--OK, look into that.

Geezer scoops the jewelry out of his lap and back into the bag and sets it next to him on the black leather couch.

--How much they want?

Jeff looks at the bullfighter again, looks at the gilded plaster sconces that bracket it dripping plastic grapes.

He shrugs.

--s.h.i.+t, Geez, they're kids, you know? They'll take whatever you give and be happy with it.

Geezer smiles, leans back, the couch creaks as his fat rearranges.

--And you, you gonna be happy with whatever you can get?

--I'm just doin' them a solid. s.h.i.+t ain't mine, they just brought it to me.

Geezer looks him over.

Loser. Guy should have it stapled to his head. Stapled to his head. Could you do that? Probably not with a regular stapler. A contractor's stapler, a big industrial one that would go in the bone, the kind they use to staple into concrete and s.h.i.+t. Use one of those, you could staple a dead cat to a guy's head and it'd stick. Or a live cat. Or a weasel. Staple a live weasel by its tail and watch and see what it does. Or one of them...long and wormy...like a weasel, but?

--Like a weasel, but different?

--Um.

--Long and skinny and furry, a rodent, but it hunts other rodents.

--A ferret.

Geezer closes his eyes and laughs.

--Yeah. That's it. Ferret. A ferret by the tail. That'd be something.

He laughs until he coughs.

Jeff takes a step closer.

--You OK?

Geezer waves him off. Choking, he reaches over his stomach for the gla.s.s of juice on the coffee table, squeezing the grabber's handle, the claw closing around the gla.s.s.

He brings it close, removes the gla.s.s from the claw and takes a sip.

--Pluck your eye out with this thing. Best five bucks I ever spent.

He puts the grabber back in its place.

--So, you're just selling the s.h.i.+t for them, getting nothing out of it?

--Well, I get, you know, twenty percent. A couple bucks. Who can't use a few bucks?

Geezer nods, runs his fingertip around the Looney Tunes characters enameled on the side of the gla.s.s he got from Burger King. This loser. Had some moves back when. Now look at him. Security guard. Good for opening a lock and turning his back every now and then. Good for giving the Seville a tune up and detailing the mags. That's it. Should have cut him loose years ago. What you get for being sentimental, you get dead weight like Jeff Loller on your back.

Still, Amy Whelan's punks trust him.

He rolls his bulk forward, reaches between the black leather sofa cus.h.i.+ons and pulls out a thick roll of bills.

--Two hundred.

Jeff wraps his arms around his torso, the cold air blasted into the trailer by the swamp cooler starting to raise gooseflesh.

--Two. Um.

--That's not what you were looking for? For the kids who'll take anything?

Jeff shakes his head.