The Shotgun Rule

by Charlie Huston

  – See, what you have here is mostly shit. The silver, the fourteen carat gold stuff, it’s crap. The twenty four carat chains and these ones here, these two are platinum, these are worth something. The diamonds and the pearls, I don’t know. Could be something, could be crap. Problem is, pawnshops are full of this shit. They buy it because it has intrinsic value and it takes up no space. Way better than a TV or some stereo or some shit like that, but still they got tons of it and it’s a buyers’ market so you get, maybe, I don’t know, ten percent of value. If you’re lucky. So, you know that, you’ve hocked shit before. But, also, most places, you walk in with a handful of gold and silver chains and they don’t want to fuck with them. A couple at a time, even from kids like you, that’s whatever, no big deal, but a handful of hot jewelry, that’s a no no. Whatever you guys have heard, seen on Baretta or Hill Street Blues, whatever, pawnshops aren’t all fences. Not professionals anyway. And the ones that are, go in with something like this, all in a pile like this, next time the owner gets in trouble with the cops you’re gonna be one of the guys he snitches.

  Sitting on the filthy carpet, his back against the wood paneling, just underneath an Easy Rider calendar, Andy blinks when he hears the word snitch.

  Paul is perched on the fold down kitchen table, having cleared space in the mess of magazines, used paper plates and assorted scraps of the cars out front.

  He sips his own warm beer.

  – OK, but it’s worth something, right? It’s got to be worth something.

  Jeff looks at the kids.

  How’d he end up with this crew hanging around? Wouldn’t have happened if George hadn’t been delivering pills for his aunt last summer. First time Bob Whelan’s kid showed up on his porch with a baggie of ludes, he just about shit his pants.

  Truth is, if he hadn’t been tripping three days straight and desperate to crash, he never would have let the kid in the front door. Not that there’s anything especially wrong with scoring off a high school kid, just, you know, Bob Whelan’s son? That’s begging for trouble. But, man, he’d needed those ludes something desperate. Turned out the kid’s mellow as hell. Totally solid. No chance that kid’s gonna lose his cool and say the wrong thing around his dad, let him know what he’s up to. Bob probably wouldn’t mind the kids over here, but he’d flip if he knew about the pills. Found out Jeff scored off his son, it would not be pretty at all.

  Yeah, George is definitely a chip off the old fucking block. But he doesn’t have a clue what his dad was like back then.

  ’64 to ’68, they had themselves a time. Might still be having a time if Bob had handled things a little different. Well, that was then. Dude turned grim after he had the second kid and took the job at the quarry. For awhile he was still looking to party on a Friday night, blow a joint, go down to the Rodeo Club have a couple drinks and some beers. Then he stopped coming in at all.

  Now? Say hi when they cross paths at the gas station or something, but haven’t hung out for years. Too much baggage. Too much water under the bridge. Something like that.

  But blood is blood. Whatever went down, whatever trip Bob got into with grinding the 9 to 5, his kids haven’t bought in. Close your eyes around George, sometimes you’d swear you were hearing Bob talk. Got that thing, that easy mellow, makes people listen to what he has to say, makes people trust him. Fucking gift, that is.

  And once he got his foot in the door, the others just seemed to squeeze in after him.

  His brother is just a total spaz. Where that weedy little braniac came from is a mystery. Couldn’t be more different from Bob. Cindy, she was a smart girl, a real bookworm, but hard to see a chick that hot having a kid that geeky. He is a trip. Picked up that copy of The Tao of Physics and whipped right through it. Took Jeff the better part of a year to read that.

  Hector’s cool, too. Knows more about rock and roll than any other Mexican. Tried to bring some of that punk shit in here and play it, turn him on. Fuck that. Loud and hard is loud and hard, but you got to know how to play your fucking instruments, sing a little, man.

  They’re all OK kids. Why shouldn’t they hang here, play his albums, have a place to bring a chick every now and then? Long as they sometimes bring their own bottle or a couple Js, it’s no big deal.

  Paul’s the one spends the most time here.

  Cuts classes so he can come around and work out with the DP weight bench on the porch. Hangs around and passes tools while Jeff tries to get the 240Z running. Hell, come home from the Club some nights, find the kid crashed on the shredded vinyl easy chair out front. Middle of last winter the first time it happened.

  Came home drunk as hell, weaving the pickup all over the road, ran over that old bitch’s toy fence across the way. The chick he was with screamed when she saw Paul on the porch. Sweatshirt and a patched Levi’s jacket, arms wrapped around himself, hands stuffed in his armpits, curled up and passed out in the chair. Tried to slap him awake and send him home, but he was out. Chick felt sorry for the kid, made Jeff bring his ass inside. Next day he woke up around two, chick was gone along with twenty two bucks from his wallet; Paul was outside pulling weeds. Next time it happened he wasn’t passed out, just asleep. Kicked him in the foot, asked him if he wanted to crash inside. Kid said he was cool on the porch if it was OK. Told him to get his ass inside. Found a sleeping bag and put him on the floor. Kid’s wearing one of Jeff’s Harley caps right fucking now. Weird. Kind of like having a little brother when you never had one your whole life. ’Cept he’s not. Just some kid needs a place to hang and get out of his own house. And, shit, who the fuck doesn’t know what that’s like?

  He finishes his beer and balances the empty can on top of the overflow erupting from the garbage bag under the sink.

  He looks at George, over there leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

  – How’s your dad?

  George shrugs.

  – He’s cool.

  – That right? Your old man’s cool? He get to be cool all of a sudden?

  George scratches his armpit.

  – He’s fine. You know, work. Whatever.

  – Your mom?

  – Same.

  – Uh huh.

  Andy’s still picking fuzz from the carpet.

  – That right about your folks, that’s what they’re up to, working?

  Andy rolls his head back.

  – Yeah, you know. Work. Dad’s doing stuff in the yard. Tearing it up. Mom wants a rock garden.

  – Rock garden.

  Jeff thinks about their mom. Cindy Hunt. She’d been a piece of ass. One of those smart hot chicks. Did they make out that one time? Shit, can’t remember if that was her or that other chick. Rock garden. What the fuck happens to people?

  Hector is flipping through his albums.

  – Your pop, what’s he, still at the quarry?

  Hector keeps looking for something recorded later than ’75.

  – Disability.

  – How’d that happen?

  Hector flips past Grand Funk Railroad and Jefferson Airplane and The Average White Band.

  – Had a front loader drop a couple tons of gravel on his leg and got put on disability.

  – What’s he doin’ now?

  Hector pushes the stack of records back together with a thump.

  – Sitting around taking painkillers and drinking wine.

  – There’s worse things.

  – If you say so.

  – I say so.

  He pokes Paul in the shoulder.

  – What about your dad, what’s up with him?

  Paul plucks at the pull tab on top of his can, playing the “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” guitar riff.

  – I’uh nuh.

  – He’s still teaching, right?

  Paul twists the pull tab back and forth, trying to tear it free.

  – Hey, man, wake up. He teaching, yeah?

  Paul wrenches the tab loose.

  – Yeah, whatever, he’s teachin’, what the fuck, that’s what he doe
s.

  Jeff picks up the wad of chains.

  – So, safe to say none of your folks know about this shit.

  Nothing.

  – Safe to say they’d be pretty pissed, they ever found out.

  Nothing, all of them just watching the floor, waiting.

  He hefts the knot of chains a couple times on the palm of his hand. He thinks about his shitty minimum wage job with Security Eye and the cash he just dropped on a rebuild kit for the Harley’s carburetor. He thinks about if Bob heard he helped his kids hock some hot jewelry.

  – Yeah, they’d be pissed. And if I get involved in trying to move this shit, they’ll be more pissed at me. And the cops, they’d be really pissed at me and hit me with receiving and possession of stolen shit and contributing to the delinquency of minors and all that crap.

  Paul puts down his empty can and grabs at the chains.

  – So fuck it, we’ll get rid of it ourselves.

  Jeff pulls his hand back, still full of gold and silver.

  – Get rid of it yourselves. This much shit, get busted is what you’ll get.

  He puts the chains on the counter, out of Paul’s reach.

  – I know a guy. He moves stuff sometimes. Buys shit. I look at this, I think I can get him to come up with a hundred, maybe. I’ll take twenty percent for setting it up, leaves you with twenty bucks each.

  – Fuck, man. It’s got to be worth more than that.

  Jeff shrugs.

  – Hey, it probably is to the right people. You know who that is? Cuz I sure as shit don’t. Who I know is a guy who knows those people. And his price, what he’ll pay is, I think, a C note. I mean, look, you’re always gonna be disappointed with what you get. You know that. First eight track player or whatever you ever boosted, bet you walked into the hock in Hayward expecting fifty bucks. Lucky if you got five. Lucky if the guy didn’t laugh at you and tell you to fuck off with that shit. If everybody got rich at being a thief, that’s all there’d be in the world. It’s never gonna be as much as you want it to be. Snatch the Hope Diamond, know what you’re gonna get? Less than you believed was possible. So look, I don’t want to fuck with you guys. I’m just telling you, I think I can walk out that door, be back in about half an hour with a hundred bucks. That’s no shit, that’s not a bad deal. Your aunt, ask her, she’ll tell you it’s not a bad deal. Right now, what you got is a worthless pile of shit that you don’t know what to do with them all together and all they’re gonna get you is busted. You can piece them out for the next couple months and take the bus back and forth to Hayward and end up making maybe a hundred and fifty. Sounds like a drag to me. Or we can Monty Hall this thing right now and take what’s in the envelope. Which I’m pretty sure will be a hundred. Less my twenty.

  George shoves himself away from the wall.

  – We’ll take it.

  Jeff opens a drawer, digs out a crumpled brown paper lunch sack, shakes it out and drops the jewelry inside.

  – You gonna hang here?

  Paul shrugs.

  – If it’s cool.

  – Yeah. Like I said, maybe half an hour.

  George works his Marlboros out of his hip pocket.

  – What about work?

  – I’ll be late. Fuck do you care? There’s beer in the fridge. Make sure you leave me a few. And don’t run the fan, the PG amp;E bills are killing me. If it’s too fucking hot in here hang on the porch. Just keep the beers down so I don’t catch shit from the hag across the way.

  He goes on the porch and out from under the awning and gets pelted by the high Valley sun. August in this town. A month of limitless blue sky over brown hills with never a breeze or a cloud. He looks at the pieces of carburetor. That’ll have to wait till tomorrow now. But he’s gonna make it worth his while.

  He climbs into the pickup.

  – Hey, Jeff.

  Paul is coming down the porch steps.

  – Hang up a sec.

  Jeff cranks down both windows, trying to get some air to move through the cab.

  – What?

  – This guy you’re going to see?

  – Yeah?

  – He handle other stuff?

  – Like what?

  – Like whatever. I might have some other shit.

  – You guys on a crime spree? Gonna hit a bank?

  – No. Other stuff. Like shit, you know.

  Jeff adjusts himself on the hot black fabric of the pickup’s bench seat.

  – Like? What? Like shit?

  – Yeah. You know. Maybe. I might be able to. Maybe. Get some stuff.

  – Pot?

  – Other stuff.

  Jeff tugs a heavy ring of keys out of his pocket.

  – Could be. You want me to?

  – No. Don’t. I could have something. Or not. So, just to maybe know if there’s someplace to take it. Maybe.

  Jeff slides a key in the ignition.

  – Sure. I’ll see what I can find out.

  – Cool. Thanks, man. Thanks for taking care of this for us.

  – Sure. No problem. So go inside and crack another beer. I’ll be right back.

  He watches Paul go inside the trailer, leaving the front door open.

  He has to tease the pickup to get it to start up, pump the gas pedal four or five times so it’s on the edge of flooding, then hit the ignition and let the fucker wahwahwahwah till you’d swear it’s never gonna catch, and then it does. He revs it, black smoke coughing out the exhaust, and yanks the gearshift into reverse. It bitches and grinds, but it goes. He pulls out, then jams it into first and starts down the gravel drive, first gear whining all the way. Second is shot and it’ll stall if he tries to drive this slow in third. He could give a damn about the park speed limit, but the property manager’s been up his ass about the late rent on the lot and he doesn’t want to give him any excuses to come around being a dick.

  The drive curves to the right. His own trailer is well out of view when he pulls up in front of a shiny new double just a couple slots from the rear exit to the park. A swing set and a litter of kid’s toys on the small sod lawn. A line of pinwheels shaped like sunflowers borders a short flagstone path that leads to the bottom of a carpeted porch that’s stocked with a gas grill and a set of iron lawn furniture.

  He takes the bag of jewelry from the seat and climbs out, the cab door grinding shut as he slams it. He could have walked over here. But he doesn’t want the kids to know how close the guy lives. Better they think he has to take a little trip to get this done. Expend a little elbow grease. Especially as he’s pretty damn sure he can pull down a hundred and fifty for this stuff.

  Not that he’s ripping the kids off. He’ll pocket fifty on his own, plus another twenty. That’s less than fifty percent. That’s what a fence gets. And he’s the one acting as the fence here. Try explaining that to the kids, they wouldn’t buy it. End up trying to unload it themselves and they’d wind up getting taken. Worse, they’d end up getting busted. See what Bob would think of that. This way is better. Take care of it himself, take care of the kids so they don’t get screwed over.

  He goes up the steps. This should be easy as hell. Geezer’s always in the market for shit like this, and whatever pills or acid Paul’s maybe got his hands on.

  Just that there’s no reason at all to mention Geezer’s name to the kids. For that matter, there’s no reason to say anything to Geezer about George and Andy being Bob Whelan’s boys.

  The Sketchy House

  Andy doesn’t like to go in. The Arroyos’ was one thing. His bike was in there. But mostly, when they do this kind of thing, he stays outside and watches the street, keeps an eye on the bikes. He gets panicky inside the house. Short of breath. Once, he passed out and Paul had to throw him over his shoulder and carry him out.

  He just doesn’t like going in.

  But that bathroom window Hector found. That tiny fucking bathroom window. He’s the only one who can fit through it.

  So he watches as Paul wiggles the last of the glass l
ouvers out of its slot and passes it to George, who stacks it neatly with the others on the ground.

  George looks at Andy, bends and laces his fingers together and holds them down low.

  – Let’s go, little brother.

  Andy stares at the window.

  Paul gives him a shove.

  – Get in there, man.

  George straightens and puts his hand on Paul’s chest.

  – Dude, just chill. He’s scared.

  – Fag should be scared. He passes out in there before he lets us in, who’s gonna carry him out?

  Andy jumps up and grabs the bottom of the windowsill and tries to pull himself up. Hector grabs the bottoms of his feet and lifts him.

  – Got it?

  Andy heaves his upper body through the window.

  – Got it.

  His favorite T, the one with the dragon silk screened on the back, snags on one of the empty louver brackets and starts to tear.

  – Hang on.

  Hector stops lifting.

  – What?

  – My shirt. Unsnag my fucking shirt.

  Paul grabs his calves and starts to shove.

  – Fuck the shirt, get in there.

  The shirt rips a little more. Andy grabs the window frame to keep himself from being pushed inside any farther.

  – Fuck you. It’s my favorite shirt.

  Paul pushes harder.

  – You can get a new shirt. Get in there.

  The fingers of Andy’s right hand slip off the window ledge and he flails his arm, grabbing the shower curtain. Two of the curtain rings pop loose. His upper body hangs in the air.

  – Fucking stop it, I’m gonna fall and rip the shirt. Unsnag it.

  Paul starts to push again.

  – Fuck the shirt.

  George grabs his brother’s ankles and tries to pull him back.

  – Stop being a dick, unsnag his shirt.

  – I’m not being a dick, he’s being a pussy.

  Hector jumps up, grabs the corner of the window frame with one hand, wall walks two steps, reaches in and unsnags Andy’s shirt with his middle finger before dropping back down.

  – Fags.

  Paul and George let go of Andy’s legs and he falls headfirst, the curtain rings popping off the metal rod, a stack of titty magazines on the back of the toilet slapping to the floor. He puts his arm out and jerks the last few rings free, the bar coming down with them, crashing down into the chipped tub and ringing off the cracked wall tiles.