The Shotgun Rule Part 19

Still, he did give a good back rub. And he's a great kisser. And when she pa.s.sed out he didn't even try to fingerbang her or anything.

So he's not on the serious maybe list, but he's not on the no f.u.c.king way list either.

She adjusts a bra strap, moves the cat so he hides the tummy she started getting in the last two years.

--Whites OK?

She pulls a baggie from under the chair's seat cus.h.i.+on.

Jeff sucks the roach dead.

--If that's what you got. What I could really go for is some crank.

--Don't got it.

--Not a little? Just a quarter for an old friend?

She leans back, deep inside the chair, her face disappearing in the shadows.

--I don't f.u.c.k with that s.h.i.+t. You know that.

--It's cool. I'm sorry. Just asking. No biggie.

--Why would you even ask that s.h.i.+t?

--No reason, just thought you might have changed the menu.

--Why? Where'd that idea come from? You ever hear me say anything about crank other than it's a s.h.i.+tty high? I don't deal in s.h.i.+tty highs. I'm a specialist, man. Pharmaceuticals. A little acid maybe. None of that cheap bathtub, do it yourself nose Drano.

--Got it, got it. I was out of line asking. Just.

--What?

--Nothing.

--Bulls.h.i.+t. Nothing. My a.s.s. What?

Jeff opens and closes the roach clip, runs his fingers over the fluffy white and black feathers that hang from it on a suede cord.

--It's nothing. No big deal. Just something I heard.

She leans forward, the cat jumps from her lap and scoots under the couch.

--You heard what?

Jeff stands, gets a Camel from his pocket.

--Those whites handy?

Amy unfolds her legs, sticks them out of the chair, looks up at him through dirty blonde bangs, the same shade as her nephews'. She holds out a hand.

--Jeff, come here, baby.

He steps closer, offers her the roach clip.

She takes the clip from him, drops it on the floor and holds his hand.

--Baby, how long we know each other?

He fiddles with his unlit cigarette.

--Long time.

She runs her thumb across the back of his hand, ma.s.sages an old white scar that covers an entire knuckle.

--Since we were kids. When did you and my brother first start hanging out? What were you, like, thirteen? I would have been nine. That's, what, over twenty years, man? That's crazy. You ever think you'd know anybody more than twenty years?

Jeff puts the cigarette away and takes her hand between both of his.

--Baby, I never thought I'd be twenty. Trips me out all the time.

She swings a foot back and forth, the basket chair rocks slightly.

--Being over thirty just blows my mind. And the way things change. Like the s.h.i.+t Bob was into when I was, like, the good little sister. And now look at him, and look at me. A trip. And like you and Bob were best friends and I was just his kid sister and now you guys don't ever see each other and me and you have been friends for a long time. Weird how that s.h.i.+t happens.

Jeff pulls lightly on her hand, adding to the chair's motion, rocking her.

--I like that part, baby. A lot of it, getting older, most of it is a drag, but I like being closer with you.

She holds his hands tightly, pulls, drawing herself closer to him.

--Well, I tell ya what, baby, you want us to be close, you want to ever have a chance of getting closer, you ever want to score another pill off me ever, you need to tell me where you got the f.u.c.king idea I might be holding crank.

She frees her hand from his and swings away, dropping her feet to the floor, halting the chair.

--Now, Jeff.

He looks at the floor, shakes his head, takes out the cigarette and lights it.

--Nice, Amy, nice way to be with a friend.

--Right now, you're barely a customer. You want to be my friend again, do something to show me that you are.

Jeff nudges the beanbag with his boot.

--f.u.c.king.

--Jeff.

--Yeah, I heard you. Just, look, don't make a big deal out of this.

--Jeff.

He kicks the beanbag.

--Geezer. OK? Geezer said something about you and that he thought you were maybe dealing a little crank.

She points a chipped red fingernail at him.

--You f.u.c.ker.

--Hey!

--You weren't gonna tell me. You knew that, and you weren't gonna warn me.

--That's not.

--You came in here. Um, shucks, got any crank? Wait a minute...

--Whoa, Amy.

--You. Are you here for him? Did he send you over here too?

--No. No way. No f.u.c.king way. You know me better than that.

--Do I?

She stands, the top of her head at his chin, a finger in his face.

--OK. OK. You tell, him, that fat f.u.c.king slob, you tell him no f.u.c.king way. I am not dealing crank. No. You tell him, tell him to stay away from me. Tell him, he comes around here, he comes, I see him on my lawn, tell him I'm calling every old man I ever had. Tell him I'm gonna have every biker in the Tri Valley on his a.s.s. Tell him to stay away. Tell him to leave me alone, just leave me alone.

Jeff tries to touch her face, to wipe away some of the tears pouring over her cheeks.

She jerks away, stomps her foot, exhales and drops back into her chair. Head hanging, arms and legs limp.

--Geezer.

She pulls her legs up into the chair and wraps her arms around them.

--Oh f.u.c.k. Ohf.u.c.kohf.u.c.kohf.u.c.k.

[image]

--Let me borrow a s.h.i.+rt.

George looks down into the drawer of carefully folded concert Ts. He's standing in his underwear, his arms held away from his sides so he won't start sweating again.

--Why?

Paul pulls off his own s.h.i.+rt.

--Got bean dip all over mine.

George takes out a Stones s.h.i.+rt from their "Face Dances" gig at the Cow Palace.

--So go home and get one.

Paul lies back down on the sleeping bag spread on the floor.

--f.u.c.king never mind.

George puts on the Stones T.

--Dude, don't be a girl, borrowing my clothes all the time. Go get a clean s.h.i.+rt.

--Don't be a rag, f.u.c.king lend me one.

George closes the drawer.

--No way, you get bean dip on your own s.h.i.+rts, not on mine.

--Yeah, now who's the girl?

He gets up and goes to the dresser and opens the drawer.

--Look at this, man, you wash these things in Woolite or what?

--f.u.c.k you.

--They're just s.h.i.+rts, man. You wear them, that's what they're for.

--It's a collection, OK? It's a collection of s.h.i.+rts from concerts I've gone to and paid money for the s.h.i.+rts and taken good care of them because I want to keep them around and wear them. You five finger discount every concert s.h.i.+rt you ever had. No wonder you don't give a f.u.c.k if they get thrashed.

Paul takes a step back.

--Whoa. Sorry. Didn't realize I was talking to your dad here.

George pulls on his favorite cutoffs.

--f.u.c.k you, man.

He grabs his smokes and lighter and shades and walks out.

--Do whatever you want, take whatever you want.

Paul stands alone in the room.

f.u.c.king George. No joke, the guy can get like infected with his dad sometimes. Not that that should be a big deal. They all make jokes about how uptight Mr. Whelan is, but he's far and away the coolest dad any of them know. George doesn't know how good he has it, how easy.