The Shotgun Rule Part 28

Trudy scoops up her purse.

--That your old man?

--Brother.

--No kidding? Married?

--Yeah.

--Too bad. I love that hardcase cowboy thing.

Amy drops into her chair.

--Help yourself. I've had enough to last a lifetime.

[image]

Jeff rolls the Harley to the QuickStop lot. The teenage son of the owner is out front. He nods at Jeff then goes back to wiping down the gas pumps with a soapy rag.

Jeff straddles the bike, pulls in the clutch, twists the throttle a couple times, then jumps off the seat and brings his weight down on the kickstart. The bike pops once.

The kid looks up from the pumps and watches as Jeff adjusts a screw on the side of the carburetor, brings the clutch in again, and comes back down on the kick. He has to hammer the b.i.t.c.h about a half dozen times before it catches. The kid gives him a double thumbs up as Jeff twists the throttle and the Sportster roars.

He brings it back down to an idle, leans the bike on its kickstand, and walks inside the store with the kid following him. He waits at the counter while the kid circles around and grabs a pack of Camels from the rack and hands it to him. Jeff pa.s.ses him a couple bucks, peels off the cellophane, lights a smoke and walks out. The kid dumps the change in the loan a cent.

Outside, Jeff swings his leg over the seat and tucks his ponytail down the back of his T. He left his goggles in the trailer, but there's a pair of geeky safety gla.s.ses in the little tool kit on the bike. He slips them on. Finds the packet of whites in his pocket and crunches one between his teeth.

He guns the throttle out of the lot, taking the Harley around the long curve of the entrance ramp that dumps him on the 580 West. The bike runs smooth and he opens it up, the cherry getting blown off the cigarette between his lips. Within a quarter mile the sweat that's been caking him all day and all night is drying. The early morning air is almost cool.

Take it up the road and back a couple times. Let the b.i.t.c.h clear her throat. Then hit the street and find the d.a.m.n kids.

See what the f.u.c.king problem is.

[image]

Geezer is playing with the pencil, drawing it out of Ramon's thigh and wiggling it back in, stirring it around, watching the kids across the room try to keep from looking, try to keep from puking.

--You need to leave my brother alone, Geezer.

--What?

Fernando holds up a finger.

--He gets out of line, talks a lot of s.h.i.+t like he learned in the joint, I get it. Pendejo motherf.u.c.ker drives me crazy. But you got to stop now with that s.h.i.+t.

Geezer leaves the tip of his index finger on the end of the pencil.

--You were gonna take care of it, 'Nando? Your brother was mouthing off to me, getting all macho in front of a room of people I'm trying to make an impression on, were you gonna shut him up for me?

Fernando's eyes are on his brother's face; the waxy, sweaty skin, the lids that flutter open from time to time, revealing gla.s.sy eyes.

--Sure, sure, man, some things you have to take care of, OK. But you gotta stop with the, with that thing you're doing with the pencil. You can't do that kind of s.h.i.+t in front of me and expect me. Family, you know? There's things, a way things have to be taken care of. Something like that, you can't do that and expect me to. I have responsibilities. So, please, I'm asking you. Please stop that.

Geezer s.h.i.+fts on the couch, moving his arms to pull the material of his sweat soaked sweat suit from his skin.

--That was, that must have been hard. To ask me that. Say please to me. Humble yourself like that. I know that flies right in the face of the way you people are raised. Want you to know I appreciate that. So.

He pulls the b.l.o.o.d.y pencil out of Ramon's leg and drops it on the man's lap.

--There you go.

He pats Ramon's shoulder.

--That make you happy?

Fernando's looking at the pencil covered in his brother's blood.

--Sure, Geezer, sure.

--Got something to say?

--No, I'm done.

--No, I mean something you ought to say? A little gracias maybe?

Fernando looks from the pencil to Geezer's sweaty face.

--Si, Geez. Gracias, man. Muchas gracias, man.

[image]

We have to talk.

That's what the note says. We have to talk. Like something from an After School Special or some public service Just Say No commercial. Found a pound of crystal meth in the toilet and he leaves a f.u.c.king note. Some dad. Some man.

Paul puts the lid back on top of the tank.

--Whud wuz dat?

--A note.

--Frub hoob?

--My dad.

--So wherdz da meth?

--My dad did something with it.

--Whud? Lide da cobz? He tabe id do da fugging cobz?

--Mellow out, man. Be quiet.

--Whyd da fug shud I bellow oud man? Da methz nod hered!

--Because my dad's pa.s.sed out on the livingroom floor.

Timo points at the bathroom window they s.h.i.+mmied through to get into the house.

--Howd da fug do youd dow whered hed idz?

--Cuz the bathroom smells like brandy and puke.

He bangs his fist against his forehead. What the f.u.c.k! Leaving the drugs in the toilet. Know dad's a weaka.s.s, can't flush a toilet right. Know he's always poking around in there.

r.e.t.a.r.d! G.o.dd.a.m.n r.e.t.a.r.d! Leaving it in there!

Timo grabs the doork.n.o.b.

--Ledz wagge hib ub.

Paul pushes the door closed.

--No way, man. You stay in here, stay in here. I'll wake him up. He wants. He wants to talk to me. He.

--Whad da fug, Cheney, youd fugging crying?

--f.u.c.k you.

--Fug me? Fug youd, youd crying fugging poozzy!

He puts his hand in Paul's chest, shoving him against the door.

--Fugging poozy. Alld youd guyz itz fugging poozzies!

Paul thinks about how Hector holds his fire until the last possible second, how he wears that blank peon look hicks expect from a Chicano, then unloads on their skulls. He thinks about George's mellow, how deep it is, how the only thing that can make George lose his cool is someone telling him what to do. He thinks about Andy, that faraway place he goes to inside, the way his eyes just blank out and you can't get a rise out of him no matter how much you f.u.c.k with him. He thinks about how they're depending on him, leaning on him not to f.u.c.k up, to just come over here and get the meth and get back as fast as he can. How they need him to keep his s.h.i.+t together.

Timo shoves him.

--Ged da fug oud ov da way, poozzy!

He pushes Timo back into the wall, the towel bar snapping in two as they slam into it.

--Isaiddon'ttouchmeyouf.a.ggotspicmotherf.u.c.kersonofab.i.t.c.hf.u.c.kings.h.i.+tf.u.c.ker!

Timo bounces off the wall, grunts, blows one of the TP wads from his nose and forces Paul back into the hollow core door.

--Fugging poozie! Fugging pendejo, mudderfugger!

The latch pops and the jamb is peeled from the frame and the door splinters open as Timo slams Paul into it again and they both fall into the hallway.

Paul hits the floor hard, Timo landing on top of him. The wind is smashed from his lungs and he gasps.

Timo is crawling on top of him, trying to pin his arms to the floor with his knees.

--Poozies, fugging up ourd s.h.i.+d! Fugged up all ourd s.h.i.+d!

Paul brings his arms up and crosses them over his face. Timo grabs his wrists and twists and brings them to the floor and gets his knees planted on his elbows and pops a fist into Paul's neck.

--Fug you ub, fugger!

Paul twists, tries to squirm loose, tries to open his lungs, but Timo is planted on his chest, unmoving.

Timo c.o.c.ks his fist.

--See howd you lide a broden nodez, poozy!

The empty half gallon brandy bottle smashes against the back of Timo's head and he goes limp, flopping forward, blood dripping from his open nostril onto Paul's s.h.i.+rt.

--Leave my son alone!

His dad still has a grip on the bottle's handle, a jagged rim of gla.s.s attached to it.

--Get off my son!

Shrieking, kicking Timo.

Paul pulls himself from under Timo's weight, crawling down the hall, back toward the livingroom, toward the front door.

Behind him, his dad throws the handle at Timo and kicks his inert body.

--He's my son! You can't have him! He's my son! He's mine!

Paul stops, mouth stretched, trying to find some air.

--Paul? Paul? Are you OK, son? Did he hurt you?

He tries to stand up. Can't. Crawls again.

His dad is coming down the hall.

--It's OK now, Paul, you don't have to run, I'm here, it's OK. You're safe.

His lungs start to work again, he breathes, puts his hand on the wall, starts to get his feet under him.

--Don't get up, son. It's OK, I've got you.

He's almost up. Get up and get out, that's all he has to do.