The Shotgun Rule Part 30

--p.i.s.ser's for customers. Come back in a couple hours.

Bob walks toward the bar.

--Don't need the p.i.s.ser, Crawford.

The bartender squints.

--Bob?

--Hey.

Crawford puts the case of beer on the bar, wipes his hands on his s.h.i.+rtfront.

--Since when you a morning drinker?

Bob leans against the bar.

--Since about never.

Crawford takes a Tiparillo from a box on the register and clamps the white stem between his teeth.

--Good thing. Lose the license if I served ya at this hour.

--Like I said, not a problem.

Crawford lights the thin cigar and blows smoke.

--How you been?

--Can't complain.

--n.o.body'd listen if you did.

Bob fingers a mark on the bar, initials carved deep in the wood: PWW.

--No reason they should.

Crawford points at the initials.

--Your old man, right?

--Yeah.

--Yours are around here someplace, yeah?

Bob points down the bar.

--Over there.

Crawford smokes.

--Know what, I think I could use a little hair of the dog. Care to join me? As my guest?

Bob looks over his shoulder at the near darkness beyond the windows. He thinks about the last time he had a drink at this hour.

--I'd drink a beer.

Crawford pulls two cans of Hamm's from the case, cracks them open and sets one in front of Bob.

--Mud in your eye.

They drink.

--So, Bob Whelan, what's on your mind?

--Jeff Loller still come by?

--h.e.l.l yeah.

--Last night? This morning maybe?

Crawford adjusts the cla.s.s ring on his left hand. The year on the ring the same as on the one Whelan is wearing.

--Bob, when's the last time I saw you in here?

--While back.

--Jeff's here about every night.

--OK.

--All I'm saying, man, whatever your business is these days, it's not mine. And I don't want it to be. Times have changed and I don't mess in n.o.body else's business ever.

--Not asking you to, just asking if you've seen him last night or this morning.

--And I'm giving you your answer.

Bob nods.

--OK.

Crawford tilts his can of beer to his lips and drains it.

--Anything else?

Bob is drifting down the bar, he stops and looks at some more recent marks in the rail.

--Say, you remember that time?

Crawford crushes his can and frowns.

Bob knocks on the bar with his cla.s.s ring.

--You remember. That guy who tried to take your head off with the pool cue? The one who'd played guard for Amador High. He was trying to set up shop in here, wanted to peddle his stuff out of your john. You didn't want him around. Always felt bad about coming at him from behind. Seemed the only thing to do. Way everyone was sitting around watching him beat on you. But you ended up coming out of it OK. After I took care of him. Remember that?

Crawford wipes a spot on the bar that doesn't need to be wiped.

--Jeff ain't been in.

Bob sets his mostly full can on the bar.

--Thanks. Tell him I'm looking if he stops by.

Crawford talks to his back as he heads for the door.

--That wasn't right of you, Bob, bringing up ancient history. I paid my dues already.

--Yeah. I know.

He goes out into the morning and leans against the side of his truck and tries to spit the taste of warm beer out of his mouth.

Inside, Crawford picks up Bob's abandoned beer and finishes it, looking at the triple initials carved in the oak: BW/JL/G.

He thinks about calling Geezer to tell him that Bob Whelan's poking around for Jeff Loller, but decides he's better off minding his own f.u.c.king business than getting messed up with those three madmen again.

[image]

Geezer looks at Fernando.

--Bob Whelan's kids? You got your s.h.i.+t, you got my s.h.i.+t mixed up with Bob Whelan's kids?

Fernando shrugs.

--Their dad's a construction worker or something, so what?

Geezer spits.

--You f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.d. You r.e.t.a.r.ded spic.

He looks at George.

--Spic thinks your dad is a construction worker.

George wipes his nose.

--He is.

Geezer points at him with the grabber.

--Yeah, that's right, loser G.o.dd.a.m.n construction worker. Could have been a winner. Could have, Jesus, gives me...word? When your heart beats too fast? Palpitations. Gives me palpitations thinking about it, what we could have had.

A thick throbbing vein splits his forehead in two.

--Could have had it all. 'Stead I got spic r.e.t.a.r.ds doing business for me and most of the money flying away over the hill into Oakland.

He jabs the grabber in George's direction.

--Your dad had kept his s.h.i.+t together, we could have had the whole f.u.c.king town.

--Geezer!

Geezer stops. Looks at Fernando. Points at Jeff, standing by the open front door.

--Thought you said the door was locked.

Jeff takes a step into the room, leaving the door open.

--What the h.e.l.l are you doing, man?

--The h.e.l.l are you doing, Jeff?

--I was cruising past. I saw your car.

Geezer lowers the grabber.

--And you just ask yourself in?

Jeff points at George and Hector.

--Jesus, Geezer.

--Close the door. Lock the door.

Jeff shakes his head.

--No. I. No way, man.

Geezer squints.

--What?

--No way, man. I'm.

He points.

--Those are kids, man. Kids. I mean, to h.e.l.l with them being Bob's kids. They're kids period. You can't.