The Shotgun Rule

by Charlie Huston

Fernando pulls the gun from George’s hands and rolls off and flips over just in time to see the little Whelan kid put his foot in the middle of Ramon’s back and twist an iron bar and pull it from the hole in the back of his brother’s head, something heavy and red dragging at the end of it.

  Andy stumbles backward as the rebar jerks free from Ramon’s skull. Everything is working pretty much the way he thought it would. He turns, but Fernando isn’t on top of his brother anymore. So that was a miscalculation. One of the risks of entering a situation that is inherently chaotic. He watches Fernando point the derringer at him. He looks at the two barrels, and watches the hammer snap down. And nothing happens. And he knows this is not random chance, remembering the sound of the gunshot he heard, he knows this is a product of order, of things working as they should. And he moves to maintain this order.

  The kid is coming at him. He’s running, hefting the iron bar, raising it above his head. Fernando pulls the trigger again. But the hammer isn’t back and the gun doesn’t go off again. He pulls the hammer back as the kid gets closer and pulls the trigger and the gun still doesn’t go off. And he realizes that you must have to pull it back further to fire the second barrel. And then the kid is in front of him and the iron bar hits his hand and shatters the bones and the gun is gone and the kid is raising his bloody weapon over his head.

  It looks different, which is obvious, but it also feels different, which is less obvious. When the chunk of concrete at the end of the bar crushes Fernando’s face, it both looks and feels different from when it crushed the back of Ramon’s head. Less resistance. More blood.

  Coming onto the porch, dragging Timo Arroyo behind him, Bob stares through the open front door and watches as his young son brings the bar down. His strange and incomprehensible boy. The boy he changed everything for, the boy he has nothing in common with, nothing to share with, killing a man twice his size.

  He watches the teenager next to him watch his brother murdered.

  He takes him by the throat and squeezes, and slams him into the side of the house.

  – Keep your fucking mouth shut.

  He releases him.

  – Run.

  Timo doesn’t move.

  Bob slaps him.

  – Run.

  Timo runs.

  And Bob Whelan walks into the house and he gets the boys on their feet and makes them help Andy out to the 4×4 and he finds the Coleman fuel in the garage and he spills it over the blood and the bodies and he sets it all on fire, burning the house the boys came to rob.

  Part Three

  A Normal Life

  The phone rings.

  – Hello. Yes? Hello.

  – Cindy.

  – Yes. Yes, what is it, what?

  – Cin, it’s Amy.

  – Amy. What? Amy, Bob’s.

  She remembers what Amy’s job is.

  – Amy, why are you calling?

  – It’s OK, honey, it’s OK. They’re here at the hospital, but they’re OK.

  – Oh, oh.

  – Sweety, listen to me, don’t jump in a car. Wait for.

  – Are they, what’s wrong with?

  – Honey, listen, don’t drive yourself. You have no idea how many parents kill themselves rushing to the hospital. Get a neighbor to. Cin? Are you there? Cindy?

  The phone dangles from its cord. Cindy Whelan is already outside getting into her car.

  Bob knows the cop.

  The cop that comes to the emergency room to file a report when he shows up with four beaten boys, Bob’s ridden in the back of his car. Old timer. One of the ones who knew him when.

  – What’s the word, Bob?

  – Same shit, different generation.

  – What’d they get into?

  – My oldest, George, tells me they scored some acid from some guys that were hanging around the bowling alley.

  – Acid dealers are over at the Doughnut Wheel.

  – Older guys, from over the hill, they all had Raiders gear.

  – Black guys.

  – Yeah.

  – Probably from Alameda.

  – Don’t know.

  – So?

  Bob takes a sip from his coffee cup and looks down the hall to see if his sister is coming back with any news. Hector’s mom and little sister are still sitting across the room, heads bowed, rosary beads passing through their fingers. No sign of the kid’s dad or brothers.

  – George said it was just plain blotter paper, no acid on it. They got pissed. Rode around looking for the guys’ car and found them getting drunk in May Nissen Park. Started talking shit and saying they wanted their money back.

  – The Cheney kid, right? Fucker’s got a mouth on him.

  – I don’t know.

  – Yeah, I’ve had him in the car. He likes to mouth off.

  – Well, whatever it was, these dealers beat the hell out of them.

  – And you?

  – George called from a pay phone and I went and got them and brought them here.

  – They didn’t call us.

  – In a fight with some guys that ripped them off on a drug deal, they didn’t call the cops.

  – Uh huh. OK.

  Bob looks at him.

  – So you gonna go find the guys or what?

  The cop underlines something on his notepad.

  Bob remembers how the fucker put a hand on the back of his neck and slammed his head against the door as he put him in the back of the car the last time he was ever cuffed. How he laughed about it.

  – Tell you, Bob, I’ll head over to the park, take a look around, try to get over there before it gets too crowded, but what the fuck do you expect me to find? Think some coons from Alameda are gonna hang around after they did something like that to some white kids and one of our Mexicans?

  Bob stands up.

  – That’s bullshit, man. Did you see my kids?

  – Easy, Bob.

  – They. George’s hand is all fucked up. Andy.

  He looks in his coffee cup.

  – He’s a mess. He. Fucking do something.

  The cop closes his notebook.

  – Bob, I appreciate your kids getting hurt. I can only imagine. But, honestly, you should not be acting all outraged citizen with me.

  – What the hell is that?

  – Just saying, if you had boys that weren’t out scoring acid in parking lots at two in the morning you wouldn’t have a problem like this.

  – Don’t fucking.

  – Can it, Bob. You use that kind of language again, I don’t care what’s up with your family, I’m gonna remind you what it’s like to get booked.

  He taps his index finger on Bob’s chest.

  – Want to take a ride? Try on some bracelets again? One of those orange jumpsuits? It’s the weekend. Take you in now, no one gonna see you till Monday. Don’t got no friends at the station anymore, Bob. Those days are over. Your money’s no good over there now.

  He shakes his head.

  – Reformed punk or not, you’re still a punk. You got punk kids that hang out with punk friends and what they got was in the cards for a long time. So you just calm down and take a seat so you can be sure to be here if they need you. Yeah?

  Bob looks down, takes a seat.

  – Sure. Sorry.

  – Yeah.

  He tugs at his belt, shifts his holster.

  – It’s a busy morning. There’s stuff going on. Got half the force and emergency services at that fire over by Junction. Another fucking crank lab. Town this size, we got two crank labs going at the same time. Damn drug war here. Me, I say we got guys like you to thank for that. So, when I get the chance, I’ll take a look at May Nissen. When the kids are feeling a little better, someone’ll get descriptions of the black guys and their car. And then we’ll decide if we’re gonna do anything about your kids being out after curfew looking to score. OK?

  – Sure.

  – Best to the family, Bob. They’re in my prayers.

  Bob watches hi
m leave, remembering the times they shook hands, the folded bills passing between their palms, and then goes to find George to tell him again what to say.

  That night, in the ICU, he has to stop walking when he comes in and sees Andy, his head and face buried in bandages, his mom sitting next to him. He has to stop and remind himself where he is. When it is.

  He remembers the way it was before. The bags of Colombian Gold shoved inside plaster lawn gnomes and jockeys and Christs, coming across the border at Tijuana, driving nonstop back up here, swapping shifts at the wheel with Jeff, chewing whites and drinking warm beer and shots of mescal the whole way. Dumping the shit at Geezer’s, the fat boy weighing and bagging and pinching off shit on the side that they never even fucked with him about because there was so much goddamn money.

  The parties.

  People cramming the house, spilling into the yard and the street, the cops closing their fists around the hundreds he slipped them and closing off the block with sawhorses. Football games at midnight in the middle of the street, high as hell. Cindy on the lawn, dropping the strap of her halter to nurse George while she tried to help Amy deal with her latest loser boyfriend. Cindy, just the best looking lady on the scene, baby or no baby. The best woman in town, and his pick of any others he wanted.

  Always action at the house.

  People coming by, scoring dime bags and quarters, shooting the shit as they rolled up a joint to smoke before they hit the road. Cash piling up. Until you spent it. Just blowing it like the fucking wind.

  And the fights.

  Guys saying they got shorted, getting in your face, learning the lesson that you don’t talk to Bob Whelan that way. Not in his house. Not nowhere. Dealers from the central valley trying to bring their Mexican Brown in from Tracy. Busting in the front door of their pad and running riot, swinging the bat, busting the place to shit, setting it all on fire and watching them run.

  The changes.

  Geezer showing them numbers and talking about smack and coke and speed. Talking about profit margins. Like it was supposed to be a business. Like it was supposed to be something where you punch a clock. Like he loved it for more than the fun and the freedom and the fights. Like he loved anything more than getting fucked up and fucking and blood on his knuckles.

  And then the Angels.

  Seeing them down at the Rodeo Club. Dealing their shit in the lot. Eyeballing him and Jeff and Geez. The Angels letting them know they knew whose town it was, and they didn’t give a fuck. Sending a message about changing times.

  And then showing the Angels they were wrong. Giving that parking lot a coat of red paint.

  And Andy.

  Walking into that hospital room the same night, seeing that thing they took out of his wife. And realizing he did love something more than all that other shit.

  Fucking family man.

  Who could have seen that coming?

  The ride out to Oakland with Jeff and Geezer.

  Carrying the bloody colors he’d stripped from the Angels after he beat them down. After Jeff dragged him off and kept him from killing them all. Walking into their clubhouse and laying the colors at the feet of their president. Telling them he was done. The town was theirs. Telling them they’d never hear his name again. Taking the beating their warlord put on him in retribution. What it took from him, what it took to keep from rising up each time he was knocked down, what it took to keep from doing what came so natural. What it took to kill that thing inside.

  And how killing it hasn’t protected anyone.

  He stands in the doorway now and she turns and looks at him.

  He remembers his wife by the side of the incubator. How she turned and looked at him then. What she told him he needed to do to keep her. How he turned and walked out of the room and did it.

  She doesn’t tell him what he has to do this time. He’s already on his way.

  To Dress and to Butcher

  The double is almost a triple by the time Amy heads for home.

  She stops at the AM/PM on the corner of Rincon and Sunset and grabs a couple packs of cigarettes, a two liter of Diet Pepsi, and four Cocktail in a Can 7 amp;7s. Except they call them 77’s on the can because of lawsuits and shit.

  Some asshole has blocked half her driveway with his Seville and she has to drive over the corner of the lawn to park her car. Saturday night and there’s no curb space on the whole block because somebody’s having a lawn party a few houses down. She leans against the fender of her Mustang and listens to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” coming from the stereo they’ve got set up on the porch over there. She thinks about joining the party. Couple of her customers live down there. She can see a few Harleys at the curb. But then she gets another whiff of herself.

  Shower.

  Nothing before a shower. And once she has a shower she won’t be going anywhere but her chair and she won’t be doing anything but drinking a couple 77’s and dropping a lude and crashing.

  She takes another look at the Seville, almost rakes her key across the door to teach the asshole a lesson, but doesn’t have the energy to get that angry.

  She’s been angry all day. Angry and scared.

  Poor Andy.

  He had the look. When they called her down to Emergency and she saw him on the gurney, thought that was it. But that was just the start. Bob grabbing her and telling her to keep an eye on George and Hector and Paul, not to let them talk to anyone. Bob, up to something, sure as shit. And that can’t be anything but bad news.

  Having to sit with Cindy while he dealt with the cop. The doctor explaining to her what a burr hole is and how they were going to have to drill a few in Andy’s skull if they were going to have any chance of taking the pressure off his brain. Got to give it to the girl, she took it. Signed the form just like that and cried her tears and went to see how they were doing with George’s stitches and his thumb.

  She unlocks the front door, blocking it with her foot so the cat can’t get out, dumps her purse and the AM/PM bag on the couch and goes down the hall dropping her clothes and the baggies of pills on the floor behind her. In the shower, she finds some dry specks of blood on her forearm and scrubs them away. She toys with the loofah but doesn’t have the energy to use it. Shampooing takes it all out of her.

  Out of the shower, she grabs an ankle length red cotton nightgown from the back of the door and drops it over her body and folds her hair inside a towel turban. She looks at the AC, but the heat is finally breaking so she leaves it off and goes around opening windows and the sliding glass door, pulling the screen door closed so the cat stays in. A couple oscillating fans get the air moving around.

  She passes through the kitchen long enough to open a can of cat food and fill a glass with ice. The cat runs in and starts eating. She scratches it behind the ears with her bare toes, then goes and grabs her grocery bag off the floor, hits the play button on her turntable, and settles into the basket chair.

  She closes her eyes and listens to the music.

  Joni Mitchell always works. Hardly ever take Blue off the turntable unless there’s company.

  Her eyes still closed, she reaches inside the bag and takes out one of the 77’s, opens it and pours it in the cold glass. She takes a sip. The cat lands in her lap and nuzzles till it finds its spot. She keeps her eyes closed, too tired to lift her lids.

  Those kids.

  What the hell did those kids get into? What kind of shit did they fall into for Bob to be lying to a cop? Jesus, he gets caught in a lie to a cop, he’ll never get right again.

  Those kids.

  Doctors won’t know what the deal with Andy is for at least a couple days. If the sweetheart makes it he may never be a super genius again. George should be OK, but he was as freaked as she’s ever seen anyone, until they stuck a needle in his arm and settled him down. ER doctors took one look at Hector’s face and started calling around to USF and Stanford, looking for a plastic surgeon who could do the stitching without turning him into a freak. And Paul. Just sitting th
ere, staring at the wall, not talking to anyone except when they asked him where his dad was and he said he didn’t want to see his dad. No problem there, the man still hadn’t showed up by the time she left.

  Whole town coming apart at the seams today. Boys beat, mutilated. Bob up to some shit. Fire on the edge of town, some drug thing gone wrong. Reporters from the Tribune and the Times and even the Oakland papers coming around when the bodies came in. Asking questions about the local dealers. Shit. It’s like signs and portents. Everything telling her it’s time to cut her losses and get the hell out of the game. Sell off the shit she brought out tonight and just wash her hands. No reason she can’t make do on her salary. The Mustang is paid for. The time share she can unload.

  The cat jumps down from her lap.

  She realizes she can’t feel the breeze from the fans. She opens her eyes.

  Geezer points the kitchen knife at her.

  – Fans all you got, you got no AC?

  Her drink spills in her lap.

  – I’m not dealing crank, Geezer. I told Jeff. I don’t know who you’ve been talking with.

  Geezer laughs.

  – Jeff. Yeah, Jeff. Forgot about him. Funny.

  – I told him.

  – Amy, you remember when I came over? Made the special trip over here to talk to you. Remember?

  She doesn’t say anything.

  – That guy you had hanging around, your boyfriend or whatever, the one with the lip on him, had so much to say. What was his name?

  Amy wonders if her cat ran away when Geezer came in through the screen door.

  – Eddie.

  Geezer shifts the knife in his hand.

  – Yeah, Eddie. His nipples ever grow back?

  – I. I never sold any meth. Ever. I do my thing.

  – What’s that look like when it heals, a man with no nipples? Hey, could you have sewed them back on if I hadn’t dropped ’em down the garbage disposal?

  – Never, Geezer. Not a single gram. I swear. I don’t even do the stuff myself. I don’t even like selling my pills to your customers.