The Storm Giants

by Pearce Hansen

  She looked sad. “You’re not the only one who turns away though. I choose my painting over my family often enough.”

  “Your art is important,” Everett said. “People will look at your paintings long after we’re gone. You and Raymond are the ones who’ll be remembered.”

  “I unpacked my bags, Everett,” Kerri said. “But we need to talk soon.”

  Down by the river, Raymond shrieked as Rolly kicked up the front of his chair in a wheelie and spun the chair fast as a gyroscope.

  “Don’t give up on me yet, okay?” he said.

  “You’ve got a few more shots left. We still have time.”

  They entered the house. Kerri’s latest canvas was off the easel leaning against the wall. It had been slashed repeatedly by something sharp, destroyed.

  She said, “I’m going to douse it with gasoline and burn it.”

  “That’s gallery money down the drain. What will you do instead?”

  She pulled a cloth off the canvas currently on the easel. It was a painting of Everett, except . . . He was smiling, a wide goofy mastiff grin threatening to split his face in half. The Everett in the painting seemed to look him right in the eyes. It wasn’t near as ugly as his reflection in the mirror.

  Kerri said, “I’ve done dozens of sketches of you since we’ve been together. I had to do them from memory, you hating cameras so much. I had to hide them from you like dirty secrets. This is my new project. I’m going to paint it openly. You’ll see me doing it. You’ll take it and like it.”

  They stood side by side watching Raymond and Rolly continue the grand tour. Raymond sat on Rolly’s lap as the wheelchair pumped along the access paths.

  Everett’s eyes lit on the snack truck, and his eyes narrowed as he realized the unfinished business it represented. The light bulb went on over his head, hot and bright.

  “Share, dammit,” Kerri said. “Just this once, let me in.”

  Everett gestured at the truck. “Have some more loot to stash.”

  “How much this time?”

  “At least seven figures. Plus some change.”

  “One more trophy,” she said. “It’ll never be spent, or see the light of day again. It’ll just molder in the ground like the rest of your East Bay blood money.” She snorted. “You didn’t need to tell me where it all was stashed, before. I knew every spot as soon as you buried it. As if I would have touched it even if you didn’t come home.”

  Everett shook his head, impatient. “Doesn’t matter. Have to get the truck to its rightful owner. Someone that can help us.”

  “Who? How?”

  “Guy named Phil. He might have the muscle to oust the storm giants. Well, muzzle them for good at least. He’s a total mind fucker.” Everett searched for the words. “Every session with Phil, I’ll be like a man on the operating table holding a gun to the doctor performing neurosurgery on me.”

  “Everett, that sounds awful. He’s a man to fear. Not someone to voluntarily visit.”

  “Of course I’m afraid of Phil. I’ll just have to stay on my toes and not turn my back. Unless you want to try some kind of couple’s counseling with him?”

  She looked embarrassed. Everett nodded. “You’re not the fixer upper, Kerri.”

  He was guilty of liking Phil. When he drove through the phishermen’s gate it would be openly, with respect. He’d have to defend himself against Phil’s efforts to brainwash him into his little crusade, but never say never. It’d be interesting to have as dangerous a friend as Phil.

  The fun and games with the phishermen could wait. It was Christmas Eve and Everett was safe in the magic circle among his people. Rolly was at hand and tomorrow Raymond would tear into his Christmas presents. Everett realized he was happy.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Everything’s going to be better than right.”

  And Kerri knew that was true, because Everett would make sure of it.

  THE END

  A disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between actual people and events, and the people and events in this story, is coincidental.

  Pearce Hansen is an East Bay native who writes about what he knows: the streets of Oakland and her sister cities where he grew up. His work inspired by his experiences on those blocks, Pearce has been writing 18 years with over 100 publications including three novels, one short story collection (Gun Sex), six anthology inclusions and three screenplays. The Storm Giants is his third novel to date after Street Raised and Stagger Bay. Pearce resides up on the Lost Coast behind the Redwood Curtain, chilling it with his wife Pia.