Uncle Dust

by Rob Pierce

  “To leave us?”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking of my dad. It makes sense to leave bastards. That ain’t all, but…”

  Jeremy stared at me. I’d said too much, but now I had to talk about something. Something in a different direction. “Maybe there’s people like us,” I said, tried to say it right, “and we can’t stay with people like them.”

  “People like them?”

  “Lotta assholes out there.”

  Jeremy smirked. I smiled at him over my scotch, took another drink. He whispered, “I think I hear mom. And she doesn’t like it when you drink too much.”

  “Nobody does,” I said, but he’d already run down the hall to his room.

  ***

  The door opened. I’d been warned, so I looked up. Theresa looked down, and, unlike Jeremy, she must have heard the music before she entered: she didn’t look surprised.

  “You didn’t say when you’d be back. So I guess you’re right on time.”

  That was how I saw it, but she was being sarcastic and would have got pissed off if I agreed. “I’d have been here sooner but I got shot.”

  “What?” She stepped in front of the couch quickly and leaned down toward me. “Where?”

  “It’s a shoulder wound, nothing serious, but it hurts like hell. Just keep the scotch coming.”

  “Shit, you got shot? How?”

  I shook my head, mumbled, “Jeremy’s in back.” She was kneeling right in front of me, her mouth close enough to kiss and my body felt nothing but a part of me wanted to fuck her. “Bad luck,” I said, and drank left-handed.

  Theresa got up. “This isn’t fair.” She walked into the kitchen, came back with a glass of red wine and sat beside me. “You do a lot of shit, Dust.”

  “I fuck people up. Sometimes I get paid for it.” I laughed. Theresa glared. “You think you wanted me to come back sooner. I tried to come back later. To keep you away from shit. But I’m not that good. I can’t keep away from you.”

  “Yeah.” She pushed my hand away and took a drink of her wine, rested the glass on the arm of the couch. She moved her body in that direction, away from me. “You’re close to me and Jeremy. You can’t be getting shot.”

  “It was a combination of things that won’t happen again.”

  “You gonna get a job that’s legal?”

  “I owe a guy a little work. After that, I don’t work for no one but me.”

  Theresa stood. “And you do what? Somethin safe, like rob banks?”

  I sat up straight on the couch. “Nothin that ever got me shot.”

  “And you’ll stay with me forever, and we’ll never talk about what you do.”

  “Not the details. I won’t let them hurt you.”

  “Until you get busted or killed.” She finished her wine, walked into the kitchen and poured another.

  “I never been busted doing this. And I only got shot cuz of this other work. I know how to do what I do.” Walk away when anything weird happens. Be the customer who can’t wait in line any longer. Don’t do a damned thing around a nervous security guard and a crazy customer.

  “Jeremy needs a reliable father figure.”

  “Jeremy needs a man who puts his balls on the line. You want someone who doesn’t, they’re easy to find.”

  Theresa sat on a kitchen stool and drank. I stayed on the couch. She wasn’t telling me to fuck off and until she did, I wasn’t leaving.

  ***

  I waited a week before I called Rico. Until I was strong enough to work, he didn’t need to know I existed. I didn’t mention the bullet or Carver, said I was ready for the post-Super Bowl work.

  “You look tired.” Rico swatted my right shoulder. I saw the blow coming, forced my wince into a tight-mouth grin. “Party too much on your vacation?”

  “Only last night,” I said. “The vacation was no vacation.”

  “But you did what you went to do?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re back?”

  “Gimme the list. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Rico pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Eager to work. That’s good. Cuz Super Bowl welshers—they’re special.” He unfolded it and handed it to me. “Look at some of those numbers.”

  It was a page of five-digit debts. “Who the fuck gave this kind of credit?”

  Rico shook his head. “A lotta assholes know each other.”

  “And they keep their jobs?”

  Rico held his coffee cup halfway between the table and his mouth. “After this I guarantee there’s job openings. You lookin for work?”

  “Nah, nah. These bookies gotta be morons.”

  “They’re thinkin they’ll collect then they’ll be heroes. Then they don’t know how.”

  “So I get hired.”

  “And the cost comes outa their cut. Maybe the cost is low enough they still make a profit.” Rico shrugged. “I don’t look at the books.”

  “But you know who’s there one day and isn’t the next.”

  “Yeah, well,” Rico laughed, “some a these idiots are fucked.”

  I looked again at the paper Rico handed me. “This ain’t one day’s work.”

  Rico drank coffee, set down the cup. “That might be a week. I don’t fuckin know. But what you get today, call me today. I collect tonight. Call me by six.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” That didn’t even require a nod, sure as hell didn’t merit a smile. There was too much money involved. I pocketed the list, finished my coffee, stood and walked away.

  ***

  The amounts of money I was carrying were crazy. I collected more from one of these idiot Super Bowl bets than if I robbed a small bank. I knew Tenny made a lot more money than I did; now I knew the rush of taking that much money from one man. All the work had been done before me, I was just the collector. Why did this feel so good?

  I wasn’t dumb enough to ever cross Tenny, but I saw why he did what he did. Gambling was like a series of robberies where the victims agreed in advance. Sometimes they changed their minds and didn’t want to pay, and that’s where I came in. But the odds were always in Tenny’s favor, and people were so desperate to gamble that they took those odds.

  I met Rico at the end of the day. It was seven o’clock, dark, in a restaurant parking lot. I stood outside the back of my car with my pistol under my coat. I watched Rico park. He walked up to me alone and I popped open the trunk, handed him the shoe box full of money. “I need more boxes.”

  “Buy more shoes. You think Tenny fucking cares?”

  “I don’t need more shoes. I got a pair.”

  “You’re a fuckin idiot, Dust.” Rico walked away. “Get whatever fucking boxes you want. Oh, but I wanna talk to you. Soon. I gotta talk to Tenny first.”

  Now I had to shop in the morning for something that was packaged in something at least as big as a shoe box. Fuck, all I ever bought was coffee and booze. And Rico wanted to talk about something, which meant Tenny had another job for me, and I wouldn’t want it but the money would be good. I hated working for Tenny.

  ***

  These guys I collected from never said yes they owed the money and they’d pay it. Only, maybe there was a misunderstanding but they thought they could get the cash somewhere.

  I didn’t know how strong my right arm was so I hit mostly with my left, and I kept an eleven-inch leather sap inside my coat; that’s what I used when my right hand came out. Shut up and give me the money. Most of them paid real fast, before I swung. Some of them thought they were too important and stained their own carpets. I had long days to work. And I was hurting or scaring everyone I saw. Motherfuckers pissed me off when they wasted my time.

  I drove back to the apartment, no music in the car. I wanted silence, room for madness, room for facing whatever I was about to do. I hated it when people didn’t just deal with their problems.

  It wasn’t that late but the only lights on in the apartment were in back, the bedrooms. The living room was dark and empty. I opened a beer
and sat on the couch.

  I sat there and drank and tried to blame Tenny, but that was a hate I could do nothing about. I could go out and maybe find Olive, but I wasn’t mad at her either. I had a couple weeks with Tenny then I’d be back on my own. I drank and leaned back on the couch. I didn’t try to wake Theresa, but she was bound to hear me. I waited and I drank. If she didn’t join me soon, she wouldn’t join me at all. I’d make it back to her, at some point, somehow.

  I woke on the couch, back tight and head tighter. The room was dark but I figured it was morning, just fucking early. I flipped my phone open: five-thirty. Too early to wake Theresa but not too late to join her. I left my jacket on the couch and walked down the hall with my gun in my hand—couldn’t leave it out where the kid might stumble across it. Or Theresa. She found it, she’d kill me.

  Mostly still asleep, I wobbled toward the bedroom. Mostly still drunk, too. She wouldn’t want to hear me when I entered. I’d play the silent drunk if I could.

  My gunless hand turned the doorknob and pushed the door into the room, quiet as a break-in. Her hair was all I could see of her—she lay on the bed face down, covered by blankets. I wanted her but I couldn’t really see her, she could have been anyone. I really wanted anyone.

  I took the gun with me after shutting the door, set it under my side of the bed, slid my pants to the floor and crawled in beside her. She didn’t move and I didn’t touch her, just lay on my side and hoped I’d sleep. I also hoped she’d wake, but only if she’d wake up and want me. There isn’t much point to some hopes.

  I lay there and she lay there. Sleep wouldn’t come easy. I put an arm around her waist, took gentle hold of one hip. I could get relaxed and sleep, but she had to help me out. The problem was, she had to wake up on her own. I’d try to make that a little easier for her.

  I eased my leg against hers, rolled so my thigh rested on hers. My hand on her hip moved a little, brushed her up and down.

  Her hand clamped down on my wrist. “Knock it off.” She said it into the pillow but she was clear enough.

  I pulled back my hand, rolled onto my back.

  She turned toward me, didn’t open her eyes. “You are so fucked up.” She turned back to the pillow, and she looked as still as when I first lay down, like she never woke up at all. I looked at the ceiling a second but it was a blur, so I closed my eyes and wondered what else I could be.

  ***

  Jack Harvey owned a restaurant that opened for lunch but not for breakfast. Rico said he should be home, and Rico was usually right about these things. Sometimes a guy left for work early and I had to go to the second address, but most people stuck pretty tight to their schedules. I looked through the gate down the long driveway. The garage door was up. A Porsche was inside. The house was nice but no mansion, and his driveway was gated but there was sidewalk between the gate and the street. I parked my car so it blocked his exit.

  I walked around the gate and up the rock path to the front of the house. The grass was mowed low, the flowers looked nice. I got to the door and rang the bell. I wore a suit because I’d spend my day in nice neighborhoods, meeting nice people, and I had to look like them to get their doors answered. I heard footsteps.

  “Yes?” said a voice from behind the door.

  “I’m here for Jack Harvey. That you?”

  “If this is a solicitation, I’m not interested.”

  “The bookie you owe works for my boss. Open the door, Mister Harvey.”

  I gave him a couple seconds but he didn’t answer. “What’s the Porsche worth?” I said.

  “The Porsche?”

  “Open the door or I go to the garage and set that car on fire.”

  His footsteps charged away from the door. I walked back to my car and waited for the Porsche to reach the gate.

  It didn’t take long. It stopped a few feet short. It was gray, and it looked built to race, but my car blocked its path. Harvey hollered from his seat, “What do you want?”

  I stepped to the gate and grabbed it with both hands, spoke only as loud as I felt necessary. “What I came for. Or what I came for and the car. Up to you.”

  I knew he didn’t understand why I’d destroy a car that was worth more than what he owed. It scared him, that was all that mattered.

  “Maybe I do owe some money. Let me check my records.”

  “We go back to the house, and you pay me everything.”

  Harvey nodded, alert now, like he’d just had an idea. “Let’s go back to the house.”

  The weird thing about these Super Bowl welshers—they all had the money. They didn’t want to give it up, but they weren’t like the guys I dealt with in December. Some of those guys bet a couple hundred then didn’t have it. And they had to come up with it fast, because that shit doubled weekly, and if you can’t get two hundred in a week how you gonna get sixteen hundred in a month? Those down and out guys probably stole from the people who loved them, just to keep the numbers down. These Super Bowl motherfuckers though—every one had a nice house and car, and every one had this fucked up attitude like he’d take care of the bet when he felt like it. After a day of hitting these stupid fucks until they paid, when I should have been resting my way back to health, I was tired.

  ***

  I threatened their cars all day. Much faster and less tiring than threatening the people who owned them. I still hit a few people—I don’t know how people can make that much money and stay that stupid—but it was nothing like the day before. They feared for their cars more than they feared for themselves. I’m a guy, I should have known that. I guess I’m used to dealing with guys who have worse cars.

  They reminded me of something my dad said about my mom. “You couldn’t get her to say yes to anything. I take her to the market, she says maybe someone wants some apricots. I say you want apricots, we get apricots. She says well maybe someone would like them. I say, you want them? And it goes in circles. Then she leaves me because I don’t give her what she wants. Jesus. Fucking apricots.”

  ***

  The little tavern was dark and busy. Rico wasn’t there yet so I ordered a beer at the bar and found a table in the back facing the door.

  It was easy to see him when he walked in. He took up a lot of space and he cleared more. Something about Rico made people move away. Hands at his sides like he was wearing a holster, he looked around until he saw me. He walked to the bar, got a draft and a shot and lumbered to my table.

  “You look tired.” I watched him sit down.

  “I look better than you.” Rico smiled. He still looked tired, but when he flashed his teeth he looked like a tired wolf. “Anyway,” he raised his glass and I raised my bottle and we drank. “I got news.”

  “News,” I said.

  “Your work’s appreciated. But you gotta be careful when you’re not workin. Someone at the game store called the cops on someone matching your description. Now, we happened to hear about the call and there won’t be any trouble.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “But that’s only the first favor. Stay clear of that place a while, til this Super Bowl work’s done.”

  “And?”

  “Tenny knows where this dwarf lives, both him and his partner.” Rico took a long drink from his beer. “Don’t go near the motherfucker yet.”

  I nodded again. Rico was my friend, but what he’d just said was a threat, and I wasn’t stupid enough to challenge him.

  ***

  I’d been careless. If Evil called the cops he hadn’t raped any kids. Maybe Davis was the guilty one and Evil didn’t know. Or maybe it was Davis who called. Too much to think about at the end of a drunken work night. This was weekend material.

  I got home, too tired to think. Hell, too tired to drink. Theresa was asleep in bed. I passed out next to her. She punched my arm a couple times in the night, which probably meant I was snoring, but might have meant I was an asshole. Whatever it was, I went back to sleep.

  I woke up alone and went out collecting. When I was
done I met with Rico, gave him the money, didn’t talk about Davis or the dwarf. Tenny did me a favor. That meant he’d want more from me later. Tenny was subtle for a motherfucker.

  I got home and there was Theresa, pissed at me when I walked in the door. She barely glanced at me, and that was enough to give it away.

  “Look,” I said, “if it pisses you off when I come home, I’ll stop coming home.”

  “And go where?”

  “There’s places that let you have a room if you give em some money.”

  Theresa shook her head. “I don’t believe you’re goin to no motel.”

  “If you don’t want me here, I stay where I stay.”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes. I’d opened a beer, hadn’t taken a sip yet. I handed it to her. “Drink that for me, wouldja? I don’t do open containers.”

  I turned back to the door with the rest of the six pack, sensed something and dropped. The bottle I’d given her hit the door hard, right above my head. Beer fell in my hair and on my clothes and mostly on the carpet. I let it spill, walked around the bottle and out the door.

  ***

  I was in my car and off the block before I called Olive. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message and drove to The Wheel. She wasn’t behind the bar. I drank. This was looking like a night for the ages.

  I staggered out of there at closing, wandered toward where I thought I’d parked. It was pretty clear I shouldn’t drive, but I had to sleep somewhere. Hell, I had to at least know where my car was. It was within a couple blocks of the bar, if I could only remember what street. And the rest of that six pack was in my trunk, if I could find somewhere to drink it.

  Empty sidewalk, not a lot of cars on the street. I saw mine a block away. Driving would be stupid, but if I slept in it I’d get busted for something. I got behind the wheel and started the engine, drove as slow and straight as I could.

  I didn’t know where I was going, tried to remember where a motel was. I got off the main drag quick, held the wheel like an enemy’s throat, tried to keep the gas steady and looked at the speedometer a lot.

  I drove because the woman who probably loved me sent me out. And because the woman who wanted me wasn’t around. I was okay with both those things, but I didn’t have another woman in local driving distance. Theresa messed up my usual setup. There should have been a string of women who might take me for a night. Whatever else this thing with Theresa was, it was bad business.