Jeff shakes his head.
– C’mon, one of these won’t do shit for me.
– That all I got left.
Andy takes both of his from his pocket.
– Here.
Jeff nods.
– Cool. More like it.
He pops two of the pills in his mouth and washes them down with the dregs of the beer he takes from Paul.
– Hey, man, I was drinking that.
– No, man, you were finished with that.
Hector is taking the needle from the album on the turntable.
Jeff taps him on the shoulder.
– Any chance you could put on something mellow? Some old man music for a change?
Hector brushes back his demolished mohawk.
– You got some Carpenters in here?
– Fuck you. Put on some Marshall Tucker or something. Just give me a break for about five minutes, then I’ll be out of your guys’ hair and you can burn the place down.
He plops onto the bench seat torn from a ’55 Bel Air.
– So anyone want to ask how it went? Now you’re all wasted you no longer got the head for business? The big deal no longer bears the same interest for you?
George busts out a smoke and offers one to Jeff.
– There a problem?
Jeff lights up.
– A problem? Well, could be there was a problem. Could be I didn’t get the price we were talking about.
Paul comes out of the kitchen.
– What the fuck? That’s bullshit, man. That was a discount price. That was like a sweet deal for doing it bulk or wholesale or whatever. Don’t tell me you took this guy’s bullshit price, man.
Jeff wags his head.
– Hey, man, sometimes it’s a matter of what the market will bear. Just got to take what you can get.
– Fuck! Fuck, man! Fuck!
Paul stomps out to the porch and kicks something.
Jeff leans forward on his seat and looks out the door.
– Don’t be screwing with my tools and shit out there.
Paul kicks something else.
– I’m not screwing with your tools and shit.
He comes back in and takes one of George’s cigarettes.
– I’m not screwing with any of your shit.
Hector has dropped Searchin’ for a Rainbow on the turntable, shaking his head the whole time.
– How bad we get screwed?
Jeff reaches in his hip pocket and pulls out some bills and counts.
– Well, let’s see. Got twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, aaand, ho, what’s this? Hundred. Hundred twenty, hundred forty, sixty, eighty. Looks like two hundred to me. Who knows how to say thank you? Who can say thank you, Jeff?
Andy puts the garbage sack back under the sink.
– Thank you, Jeff.
George, Paul, and Hector all drop their heads.
Paul nudges George.
– What’s it like having a fag brother?
– Man, I don’t have a brother.
Jeff waves the money.
– Fuck them, Andy. Manners are worth their weight in gold. Come over here and get your cut first.
Andy brushes between his brother and Paul.
– Fuck you guys, manners are worth their weight in gold.
Jeff peels off a couple bills.
– Forty bucks for the kid with some manners.
George tosses his butt in the sink and runs the tap over it.
– Forty?
Paul points at the money.
– Should be forty five, man.
Jeff holds a couple bills up between his fingers.
– Two, minus forty for me, equals one sixty. Equals forty each for you guys.
– Forty for you?
– That’s twenty percent.
Hector stands up.
– Said twenty bucks, man.
– Said twenty percent, holmes.
– Don’t holmes me, man. You ain’t no vato.
– Well you ain’t, neither.
George comes out of the kitchen.
– Cool it, Hector, he didn’t mean anything.
– Sure, sure, I know, but I don’t need that shit. Get enough of that shit out there, don’t need it from my friends.
Jeff puts out his hand.
– Hector, my man, it’s cool. Didn’t mean anything at all. You’re right, it’s all friends here. Be cool.
Hector takes his hand and they shake down, sliding their palms up, down, across, locking fingers and snapping them loose.
– I know, man. It’s cool. We’re cool.
– Alright then.
Jeff leans back.
– So, twenty percent. You guys tell me that’s not what I said, it’s not what I said.
Andy shakes his head.
– No, it’s what you said. Twenty percent.
He looks at the others.
– It’s really what he said.
Paul lifts his arms.
– Hey, man, who’s gonna argue with the human computer. Fagmo says it was twenty percent, that’s what it is. Let’s just get to the cash and go hit the QuickStop for a bottle of Jack.
Jeff splits the money.
– And you guys gotta give the truck a push.
George takes his cash.
– How’d you get the price up?
– Started high, you know. Truth is, guy bit on my price so fast, I was probably asking too low. Looks like you guys got a better eye for this shit than I thought.
He gets up.
– Matter of fact, guy I was dealing with, he’s looking for more of the same.
He heads for the bedroom.
– But he wants to get his hands on it fast. Has some deal of his own going.
Paul looks at the others and sticks his thumbs in the air, yelling down the hallway.
– How fast?
Jeff pops his head out of the bedroom.
– Fast. Couple days at the most. As much as you can get. Gold, silver, jewels, platinum. Coins. Whatever you can get your hands on, he’ll take it.
George waves Paul down.
– Hey, man, that’s cool and all, but we kind of lucked into this shit. Wouldn’t know where to start actually finding the right houses for good stuff.
– Not a problem.
Jeff comes back down the hall, cracked black leather boots draped by the cuffs of indigo polyester slacks with a baby blue stripe down the side, tattooed arms hidden in the sleeves of a matching shirt with the Security Eye patch on the shoulder.
– He’s got a house he says is prime.
The Sketchy House
Paul freezes, and watches George’s legs as he’s jerked into the bathroom, his jeans catching, pulled low, deep gouges being cut into his thighs.
He grabs his friend’s ankles and digs his heels into the dirt.
– Let go! Let the fuck go! I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t let go!
George is howling, blood running down his legs.
– Paul! Paul! Letmegoletmego! Fucking Andy is! Letmego!
There’s a sound like a piece of firewood hitting a gourd.
George’s legs stop kicking.
Paul freezes.
His friend’s legs are yanked from his hands, disappearing into the window and leaving behind a scrap of bloody denim and a single tennis shoe that falls to the ground.
Fernando’s face appears in the window.
– You coming in, Cheney?
Paul runs.
He runs and boosts himself over the fence and lands in the front yard and runs some more and keeps running.
Nothing Like His Father
Mr. Cheney ducks low behind his steering wheel when the boys come out of the trailer park pushing a pickup. It jerks and a huge cloud of black smoke spits out of the tailpipe and the boys and the truck leap forward a few yards. Paul jumps in and slides behind the wheel as the driver gets out and heads into the store.
Good Lord, Jeff Loller.
How long has Paul been hanging
around that overgrown delinquent?
Would barely know the man if Loller hadn’t taken one of his intro computer classes last year. Didn’t last. Once he realized they wouldn’t be sitting around playing Tetris and Flight Simulator he dropped out. Before that he was just a vaguely familiar face. Memorable in high school mostly because he was one of Bob Whelan’s cronies. By the time he’d come back from college and moved into the house down from Bob’s, Loller had faded entirely from his memory. Until he’d slouched into class looking much the same as he had eighteen years before.
And now Loller is buying liquor for his son.
The appeal for Paul is pretty clear. Loller is much like any number of the boyfriends his mother’s friends dragged through the house when he was small. Nothing like his father. Long hair. A motorcycle. Aimless. A bad cliché.
He watches his son in the other man’s truck, revving the engine to keep it from dying. Does he know how to drive it? Of course he does. He smokes and drinks and takes drugs and steals things and has sex; of course he knows how to drive. Did Loller teach him? The thought.
Jeff comes out of the store with a brown paper bag. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink from the bottle inside, then hands it to George and gets back in his truck, Paul jumping out the other side.
After he’s driven off and the boys have left with their bottle, Kyle waits several minutes, then runs across the street for his brandy. Just for a little relief.
– If you guys are gonna stay over tonight you can help with those rocks on Sunday.
Paul turns from the sink where he’s washing his hands with a gritty bar of Lava.
– What if we’re not staying over the whole weekend?
Mr. Whelan pops the tab on a can of Oly and pours it into one of the beer mugs he keeps in the freezer during the summer.
– Paul, if you manage to get through the weekend without spending a night here or eating at least one meal in my house, I will apologize on Monday for having made you shovel rocks. But until that jury is in, the cost of a hot and a cot is you lend a hand. Got it?
Hector takes his turn at the sink.
– I got it, Mr. Whelan.
Sitting at the kitchen table with his beer, George and Andy’s dad looks at Paul.
– You got it?
Paul wipes his hands on a dish towel and hands it to Hector.
– Yeah, no problem. Sir.
– Can that sir crap.
– Yes. Sir.
Mr. Whelan is bent over, unlacing his boots.
– You still planning on joining the Army, Paul?
– Yep.
– That smartass crap will not float. I didn’t serve myself, but I can tell you right now, that crap will sink like a turd made out of brick. And drag you with it.
Paul laughs.
– Yes, sir.
Mr. Whelan leans back and crosses his legs, flexing his toes in his filthy socks.
– See, if this was the Army and I was your sergeant, I’d be busy slapping you down and watching you do about five hundred pushups before I sent you down the hall to clean my toilet so my wife doesn’t have to do it this week.
He leans forward and tugs the back of his wife’s tanktop.
– How ’bout that, you like to have this punk clean the bathrooms for you this week?
She looks from the giant bowl of fruit salad she’s making.
– It’d be a nice change of pace from the messing up he does in there.
Andy comes in from the bathroom.
His mom squints at him.
– You feeling alright?
He shrugs.
– Sure, fine.
His mom puts the back of her hand on his forehead.
– You feel a little hot.
– It’s like a hundred degrees out. Everything’s hot.
– Well, drink something cold. Drink some Kool-Aid.
He gets the jug from the fridge.
Hector grabs two glasses from the cupboard.
– Let me get some of that.
Bob Whelan drinks his beer and watches the boys jostle around the kitchen, enjoying the noise and the roughhousing.
George comes in, hair wet from the shower. He takes the Kool-Aid jug from his brother and starts drinking directly from the spout.
His mom throws her hands in the air.
– Hey. Hey!
He stops drinking and wipes his lips and looks at his mom.
– What?
– A glass? Is it so much trouble to open the cupboard and take out a glass and use it?
– I’m just having a quick drink, why get a glass dirty?
His dad knocks the bottom of his mug on the table.
– Don’t talk back to your mom. You want a drink, you use a glass.
– Fine. Whatever. I’m not even really thirsty.
He opens the fridge door and puts the jug back and stands looking at the contents of the shelves.
His mom swings a towel at him.
– The door. You’re using energy. What’s in there isn’t gonna change. And I’m making dinner right now.
– I’m just seeing if there’s anything.
Mr. Whelan reaches with his foot and pushes the door closed.
– There’s plenty. But your mom said she’s making dinner and I’m paying the PG amp;E bills, so don’t stand with the door open. Got it?
George moves closer to his mom and looks at what she’s doing.
– Fruit salad?
– And sandwiches. It’s too hot to cook.
Bob snaps his fingers; three sharp shots.
– Hey, I said, got it?
George faces his dad.
– Yeah, I got it. Don’t stand with the door open. It wastes energy and energy costs money. I got it. You’ve said it a million times.
– So if you don’t want to hear it, stop doing it. Got it?
– Got it. Got it.
– You keep going with that attitude, Paul and Hector are gonna be heading for home and me and you are gonna be outside shoveling rocks right now. You got that?
George looks his dad in the eye.
– Yes. I got it. I’m sorry.
His dad points at his mom.
George looks at her.
– Sorry, Mom, didn’t mean to be a smartass.
She nudges him with an elbow and smiles.
– Mustard?
– Please.
She looks at her husband.
– Lettuce and tomato?
– The works, please. Thanks.
She cuts a cheese sandwich in half from corner to corner the way Andy likes it, puts extra mayo on Paul’s ham sandwich, and pickles on Hector’s, and brings it all to the table.
The boys scrape chairs and grab sandwiches and fistfuls of chips and start eating, pausing between bites just long enough to breathe and to wipe their mouths with paper napkins.
Bob bites into his sub and nods at his wife.
– S’good, babe. Thanks.
Hector bobs his head while he chews.
– Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Whelan.
Andy picks grapes from his fruit salad and pops them in his mouth one by one.
– Good salad, Mom.
George and Paul grunt through their stuffed mouths.
Bob takes a long swallow of beer and listens to the boys argue about a band called Rainbow and whether its lead singer should be allowed anywhere near Black Sabbath.
This had never been the plan.
Being a family man, having a wife and kids, let alone playing troop leader to a couple strays like Paul and Hector, had never been in the cards at all. He’d had other things on his mind altogether. And a wife like Cindy? How the hell did he manage that? Her plan, her parents’ plan anyway, had been Stanford. Hell, they’d never have crossed paths if she hadn’t started tutoring Amy. That hadn’t happened, Amy never would have brought her to that party, he never would have ended up making out with her, never would have gotten her pregnant with George, never would have gotten married. An
d all the rest that came after.
Cindy’d be living in a big house over in Blackhawk or something. Lawyer husband and a housekeeper and a BMW and the country club and all that shit. Well, they could have had that stuff. Don’t have to be a lawyer to get money. Just need to have the want.
Bob thinks about the kinds of things a man can do to make money if he has the want. And he looks at his sons.
He watches George laugh and spray some chips out of his mouth and clean them from the tabletop and say excuse me. He watches the way Andy and Hector and Paul all watch him, take their cue from him. The leader of the pack. But not taking advantage of it, not lording it over his pals. Kid could be something special, just needs to put some elbow grease into it. So many things come easy to the boy, he thinks that’s the way it’s always gonna be. Bob knows that feeling. And it didn’t matter how hard his pop tried to slap it into him, he had to learn different on his own.
Cindy scoops some more fruit salad into Andy’s bowl. He picks through it, eating first the grapes and then the oranges and then the bananas and then the apples, leaving the little slivers of strawberry for last.
Bob shakes his head.
Where did he come from? And how in God’s name did he survive in the first place? Six weeks early. Could rest on the palm of your hand. Doctors telling them not to get their hopes up. Telling them that if he made it he might not be normal. Shit, they were right about that one. Normal is the last thing his youngest turned out to be.
Nine days out of ten it’s more fun to butt heads with George than it is to try and figure what the hell Andy is talking about. Pick him up from school on a rain day, he’s chattering about some theory of how the universe is all made of empty space, how everything solid is mostly just air. Or not even air. Made of just nothing. Made of the chance that something might be in all the nothing. Or some shit like that. A little kid with stuff like that in his head. Still, it’s better than when he starts in on Dungeons amp; Dragons. Might as well be speaking in tongues.
Man, if the apple’s ever fallen farther from the tree, he’d like to know about it. Still, college. Two years early and all expenses paid. His son. If that doesn’t make it all seem worthwhile, nothing else will.
He finishes the last bite of his sandwich, crumples his napkin and drops it on the plate and leans back in his chair. Cindy reaches over and kneads the back of his neck, and he runs his fingers over her bare forearm.
The Shotgun Rule Page 10