Take it up the road and back a couple times. Let the bitch clear her throat. Then hit the street and find the damn kids.
See what the fucking problem is.
Geezer is playing with the pencil, drawing it out of Ramon’s thigh and wiggling it back in, stirring it around, watching the kids across the room try to keep from looking, try to keep from puking.
– You need to leave my brother alone, Geezer.
– What?
Fernando holds up a finger.
– He gets out of line, talks a lot of shit like he learned in the joint, I get it. Pendejo motherfucker drives me crazy. But you got to stop now with that shit.
Geezer leaves the tip of his index finger on the end of the pencil.
– You were gonna take care of it, ’Nando? Your brother was mouthing off to me, getting all macho in front of a room of people I’m trying to make an impression on, were you gonna shut him up for me?
Fernando’s eyes are on his brother’s face; the waxy, sweaty skin, the lids that flutter open from time to time, revealing glassy eyes.
– Sure, sure, man, some things you have to take care of, OK. But you gotta stop with the, with that thing you’re doing with the pencil. You can’t do that kind of shit in front of me and expect me. Family, you know? There’s things, a way things have to be taken care of. Something like that, you can’t do that and expect me to. I have responsibilities. So, please, I’m asking you. Please stop that.
Geezer shifts on the couch, moving his arms to pull the material of his sweat soaked sweat suit from his skin.
– That was, that must have been hard. To ask me that. Say please to me. Humble yourself like that. I know that flies right in the face of the way you people are raised. Want you to know I appreciate that. So.
He pulls the bloody pencil out of Ramon’s leg and drops it on the man’s lap.
– There you go.
He pats Ramon’s shoulder.
– That make you happy?
Fernando’s looking at the pencil covered in his brother’s blood.
– Sure, Geezer, sure.
– Got something to say?
– No, I’m done.
– No, I mean something you ought to say? A little gracias maybe?
Fernando looks from the pencil to Geezer’s sweaty face.
– Si, Geez. Gracias, man. Muchas gracias, man.
We have to talk.
That’s what the note says. We have to talk. Like something from an After School Special or some public service Just Say No commercial. Found a pound of crystal meth in the toilet and he leaves a fucking note. Some dad. Some man.
Paul puts the lid back on top of the tank.
– Whud wuz dat?
– A note.
– Frub hoob?
– My dad.
– So wherdz da meth?
– My dad did something with it.
– Whud? Lide da cobz? He tabe id do da fugging cobz?
– Mellow out, man. Be quiet.
– Whyd da fug shud I bellow oud man? Da methz nod hered!
– Because my dad’s passed out on the livingroom floor.
Timo points at the bathroom window they shimmied through to get into the house.
– Howd da fug do youd dow whered hed idz?
– Cuz the bathroom smells like brandy and puke.
He bangs his fist against his forehead. What the fuck! Leaving the drugs in the toilet. Know dad’s a weakass, can’t flush a toilet right. Know he’s always poking around in there.
Retard! Goddamn retard! Leaving it in there!
Timo grabs the doorknob.
– Ledz wagge hib ub.
Paul pushes the door closed.
– No way, man. You stay in here, stay in here. I’ll wake him up. He wants. He wants to talk to me. He.
– Whad da fug, Cheney, youd fugging crying?
– Fuck you.
– Fug me? Fug youd, youd crying fugging poozzy!
He puts his hand in Paul’s chest, shoving him against the door.
– Fugging poozy. Alld youd guyz itz fugging poozzies!
Paul thinks about how Hector holds his fire until the last possible second, how he wears that blank peon look hicks expect from a Chicano, then unloads on their skulls. He thinks about George’s mellow, how deep it is, how the only thing that can make George lose his cool is someone telling him what to do. He thinks about Andy, that faraway place he goes to inside, the way his eyes just blank out and you can’t get a rise out of him no matter how much you fuck with him. He thinks about how they’re depending on him, leaning on him not to fuck up, to just come over here and get the meth and get back as fast as he can. How they need him to keep his shit together.
Timo shoves him.
– Ged da fug oud ov da way, poozzy!
He pushes Timo back into the wall, the towel bar snapping in two as they slam into it.
– Isaiddon’ttouchmeyoufaggotspicmotherfuckersonofabitchfuckingshitfucker!
Timo bounces off the wall, grunts, blows one of the TP wads from his nose and forces Paul back into the hollow core door.
– Fugging poozie! Fugging pendejo, mudderfugger!
The latch pops and the jamb is peeled from the frame and the door splinters open as Timo slams Paul into it again and they both fall into the hallway.
Paul hits the floor hard, Timo landing on top of him. The wind is smashed from his lungs and he gasps.
Timo is crawling on top of him, trying to pin his arms to the floor with his knees.
– Poozies, fugging up ourd shid! Fugged up all ourd shid!
Paul brings his arms up and crosses them over his face. Timo grabs his wrists and twists and brings them to the floor and gets his knees planted on his elbows and pops a fist into Paul’s neck.
– Fug you ub, fugger!
Paul twists, tries to squirm loose, tries to open his lungs, but Timo is planted on his chest, unmoving.
Timo cocks his fist.
– See howd you lide a broden nodez, poozy!
The empty half gallon brandy bottle smashes against the back of Timo’s head and he goes limp, flopping forward, blood dripping from his open nostril onto Paul’s shirt.
– Leave my son alone!
His dad still has a grip on the bottle’s handle, a jagged rim of glass attached to it.
– Get off my son!
Shrieking, kicking Timo.
Paul pulls himself from under Timo’s weight, crawling down the hall, back toward the livingroom, toward the front door.
Behind him, his dad throws the handle at Timo and kicks his inert body.
– He’s my son! You can’t have him! He’s my son! He’s mine!
Paul stops, mouth stretched, trying to find some air.
– Paul? Paul? Are you OK, son? Did he hurt you?
He tries to stand up. Can’t. Crawls again.
His dad is coming down the hall.
– It’s OK now, Paul, you don’t have to run, I’m here, it’s OK. You’re safe.
His lungs start to work again, he breathes, puts his hand on the wall, starts to get his feet under him.
– Don’t get up, son. It’s OK, I’ve got you.
He’s almost up. Get up and get out, that’s all he has to do.
He dad puts his hand on his back.
The spike drives up from under his lip. Up, scraping the roots of his teeth, through his nose and his sinuses, splits the space between his eyes, buries itself in his brain.
– I’m here now.
Paul throws up. Falls back to his knees. Makes a noise that hurts the inside of his head. Pants. Curls up in a ball.
– I got you, son. I got you.
His dad sits on the floor, strokes his back.
– Just us here, no one to hurt you. Just you and me, son.
He lifts Paul’s head and scoots so it rests on his lap.
– There you are, there you are. Look at you. Look at you. Who could hurt you like that? Who would do that? Look at you. You’re jus
t a little boy. Who could hurt you like that?
He wipes at the tears on his son’s face.
– Here we are. Just like we used to be, huh? Here we are. Close again, close again.
He rubs his son’s chest.
– Here we are.
Paul makes a sound, knowing it will hurt.
– No, Daddy.
What the hell is Geezer’s car doing here?
Jeff takes the Harley past the house, easy on the throttle so he doesn’t rattle any windows.
Looks just like it did last night. Streetlamp’s still dark from that pellet George put through it. Dart’s still in the driveway. Only real difference is a big one. Geezer’s car at the damn curb.
He turns the corner and cruises around the block.
Thinking.
Paul wanting to talk to him on the side about some kind of drug deal. Geezer getting uptight when he saw the jewelry the guys had. Getting even more uptight when Jeff mentioned there might be a side deal to be done. Geezer getting pissed about Amy, thinking she’s stepped into his crank market. Setting up a soft gig for the guys. A cherry house waiting to be hit. Waiting to be hit because his go to gang of house breakers, the Arroyos, just took a heavy bust. Paper said it was a drug bust.
Crank lab.
– Awww shiiiiiiiiit, maaaaaan!
Jeff’s not home.
Bob kicks through the weeds at the back of the trailer, squeezing past the rusted fenders, old tires, and cases of empty beer bottles Jeff’s yet to redeem. He stands on a rain warped industrial cable spool and looks through the window into the livingroom. Nothing but mess. He hops down and goes back to the front and bangs on the door again. Still no answer.
Almost five in the AM and Jeff Loller not at home. Doesn’t mean anything. Could be with a chick somewhere. Could be finishing up a graveyard shift at whatever crap job he’s holding down these days.
He looks at the cars in front of the porch.
Man’s still got the same taste in cars. Cheap.
He looks around the trailer park, doesn’t see any early rising retirees peeking from their kitchen windows. He jiggles the door, feels the give it has within the frame. Slam his shoulder into it and the lock will pop right open.
Breaking and entering.
That alone could be enough to bring him a world of shit.
He turns and walks off the porch and gets in his truck.
Too early for the Rodeo to be open, but someone should be there mopping up. Wouldn’t be the first time Jeff slept on the pool table.
He drives out of the park, heading downtown.
– Where you think your friend is?
– I don’t know.
– I know that. I know that, sitting there on the floor, you don’t know where he is. I’m asking where you think he is. Because I don’t expect you to be psychic, a mind reader, right?
George keeps his eyes on the carpet, locked on the spot between his feet.
– I don’t know. Getting your stuff.
– Better be.
– Can I see my brother?
– No.
George looks up. No one’s moving much.
Geezer just sits on the couch sweating and wiping and drinking glasses of water and bitching about how hot the house is.
Fernando watches his unconscious brother and fetches the water for Geezer, going back and forth from the kitchen.
Hector’s sitting there. Just sitting and staring at Ramon and wincing when he swallows his own blood.
Ramon breathes and that’s about it.
On TV, when they say someone’s in shock, they usually sit there with their eyes open and mumble shit about how they can’t believe what happened or how it wasn’t their fault or some shit. But this is probably what it’s really like. Just sitting there all pale and bleeding and sweating and shivering.
Kinda like how Andy looked. But that was hours ago.
– What are you staring at?
George realizes he’s staring at Geezer. He looks back at the carpet.
– Nothing.
– Uh huh.
They sit there.
– Hey. George.
– Yeah?
– Amy ever tell you about the time I went over there?
– Huh?
– The cunt who caused all this trouble, she ever tell you what I told her? When she was fucking up your life by getting you to steal my meth, she ever tell you what you were getting into?
George looks up again.
– Amy?
– Kid’s a genius. Yeah, her. She ever?
– She? Tell us what?
– I take it back, kid’s a retard.
– She didn’t. I haven’t. I don’t even talk to my aunt anymore.
Geezer looks at his watch.
He looks back at the kid.
– What?
– I don’t talk to my aunt.
– What?
– We had a fight. I don’t talk to her.
Geezer shifts so he can scratch his butt.
– What was that, kid? George? What was that?
– Said I don’t talk to my aunt. We had a fight.
Geezer leans forward, sweat rolling all over him.
– ’Nando, help me up.
Fernando comes over and Geezer grabs his hand and pulls himself off the couch.
– Don’t talk to your aunt?
– No. I. She got mad at me.
– Amy Whelan is your aunt?
– What?
He steps closer, huge and sweaty, his face red in a way that a face shouldn’t be.
– Are you telling me that cunt is your aunt?
– She.
– Your name, what’s your goddamn name?
– George.
Geezer lurches at George, squeezing the grabber’s handle, the claw snapping open and closed in front of his eyes.
– Your last fucking name! Your dad’s fucking name!
George flinches from the grasping plastic finger in his face.
– Whelan. Like my aunt. Whelan. My dad’s name is Bob Whelan.
The grabber goes limp in Geezer’s hand.
– Fuck me. Jesus, fuck me hard.
Bob Whelan pushes through the swinging doors of the Rodeo Club and looks at the empty pool table.
Someone stands up from behind the bar, a case of Hamms in his hands.
– Closed. Closed till eight AM.
– Don’t need a drink.
– Pisser’s for customers. Come back in a couple hours.
Bob walks toward the bar.
– Don’t need the pisser, Crawford.
The bartender squints.
– Bob?
– Hey.
Crawford puts the case of beer on the bar, wipes his hands on his shirtfront.
– 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.
– Nobody’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 H
amm’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?
– Hell yeah.
– Last night? This morning maybe?
Crawford adjusts the class 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 nobody 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 class 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.
The Shotgun Rule Page 17