Richard Bachman - Blaze

“If you’re gonna pull a snatch, you got to snatch a baby,” George said. “A baby can’t ID you, so you can return it alive. It can’t fuck you up by trying to escape or sending out notes or some shit. All a baby can do is lie there. It don’t even know it’s been snatched.”

They had been in the shack, sitting in front of the TV and drinking beer.

“How much do you think they’d be good for?” Blaze asked.

“Enough so you’d never have to spend another winter day freezing your ass off selling fake magazine subscriptions or collecting for the Red Cross,” George said. “How’s that sound?”

“But how much would you ask?”

“Two million,” George said. “One for you and one for me. Why be greedy?”

“Greedies get caught,” Blaze said.

“Greedies get caught,” George agreed. “That’s what I taught you. But what’s the workman worthy of, Blaze-a-rino? What’d I teach you about that?”

“His hire,” Blaze said.

“That’s right,” George said, and hit his beer. “The workman’s worthy of his fucking hire.”

So here he was, driving back to the miserable shack where he and George had been living since drifting north from Boston, actually planning to go through with it. He thought he would be caught, but — two million dollars! You could go someplace and never be cold again. And if they caught you? The worst they could do would be put you in jail for life.

And if that happened, you’d still never be cold again.

When the stolen Ford was back in the shed, he remembered to brush the tracks away. That would make George happy.

He made himself a couple of hamburgers for his lunch.

“You really going through with it?” George asked from the other room.

“You lyin down, George?”

“No, standin on my head and jerkin off. I asked you a question.”

“I’m gonna try. Will you help me?”

George sighed. “I guess I’ll have to. I’m stuck with you now. But Blaze?”

“What, George?”

“Only ask for a million. Greedies get caught.”

“Okay, only a million. You want a hamburger?”

No answer. George was dead again.

HE WAS GETTING ready to do the kidnapping that night, the sooner the better. George stopped him.

“What are you up to, dinkleballs?”

Blaze had been getting ready to go start the Ford. Now he stopped. “Gettin ready to do it, George.”

“Do what?”

“Snatch the kid.”

George laughed.

“What you laughin at, George?” As if I don’t know, he thought.

“You.”

“Why?”

“How are you gonna snatch him? Tell me that.”

Blaze frowned. It turned his face, already ugly, into the face of a troll. “The way we planned it, I guess. Out’n his room.”

“Which room?”

“Well—”

“How are you gonna get in?”

He remembered that part. “One of the upstairs windows. They got those simple catches on em. You saw that, George. When we was bein the lectric company. Remember?”

“Got a ladder?”

“Well—”

“When you get the kid, where you gonna put him?”

“In the car, George.”

“Oh my fuckin word.” George only said this when he had bottomed out and was at a loss for all other expression.

“George—”

“I know you’re gonna put him in the fuckin car, I never thought you were gonna carry him home pigga-back. I meant when you get him back here. What are you gonna do then? Where you gonna put him?”

Blaze thought about the shack. He looked around. “Well—”

“What about didies? What about bottles? And baby food! Or did you think he was gonna have a hamburger and a bottle of beer for his fuckin dinner?”

“Well—”

“Shut up! You say that one more time and I’m gonna puke!”

Blaze sat down in a kitchen chair with his head down. His face was hot.

“And turn off the shit-kicking music! That woman sounds like she’s about to fly up her own cunt!”

“Okay, George.”

Blaze turned off the radio. The TV, an old Jap thing George picked up at a yard sale, was busted.

“George?”

No answer.

“George, come on, don’t go away. I’m sorry.” He could hear how scared he was. Almost blubbing.

“Okay,” George said, just when Blaze was about to give up. “Here’s what you have to do. You have to pull a little score. Not a big one. Just a little one. That mom-n-pop where we used to stop for suds off Route 1 would probably be okay.”

“Yeah?”

“You still got the Colt?”

“Under the bed, in a shoebox.”

“Use that. And wear a stocking over your face. Otherwise the guy who works nights will recognize you.”

“Yeah.”

“Go in Saturday night, at closing. Say, ten minutes of one. They don’t take checks, so you ought to get two, three hundred bucks.”

“Sure! That’s great!”

“Blaze, there’s one more thing.”

“What, George?”

“Take the bullets out of the gun, okay?”

“Sure, George, I know that, it’s how we roll.”

“It’s how we roll, right. Hit the guy if you have to, but make sure it doesn’t get to no more than page three in State and Local when it makes the paper.”

“Right.”

“You’re an asshole, Blaze. You know that, right? You’re never gonna bring this off. Maybe it’d be better if you got caught on the little one.”

“I won’t, George.”

No answer.

“George?”

No answer. Blaze got up and turned on the radio. At supper he forgot and set two places.

CLAYTON BLAISDELL, JR., was born in Freeport, Maine. His mother was hit by a truck three years later while crossing Main Street with a bag of groceries. She was killed instantly. The driver was drunk and driving without a license. In court he said he was sorry. He cried. He said he would go back to AA. The judge fined him and gave him sixty days. Little Clay got Life with Father, who knew plenty about drinking and nothing about AA. Clayton Senior worked for Superior Mills in Topsham, where he ran the picker and sorter. Co-workers claimed to have seen him do this job sober upon occasion.

Clay could already read when he started the first grade, and grasped the concept of two apples plus three apples with no trouble. He was big for his size even then, and although Freeport was a tough town, he had no trouble on the playground even though he was rarely seen there without a book in his hand or tucked under his arm. His father was bigger, however, and the other kids always found it interesting to see what would be bandaged and what would be bruised when Clay Blaisdell came to school on Mondays.

“It will be a miracle if he gets his size without being badly hurt or killed,” Sarah Jolison remarked one day in the teachers’ room.

The miracle didn’t happen. One hungover Saturday morning when not much was doing, Clayton Senior staggered out of the bedroom in the second-floor apartment he and his son shared while Clay was sitting crosslegged on the living room floor, watching cartoons and eating Apple Jacks. “How many times have I told you not to eat that shit in here?” Senior inquired of Junior, then picked him up and threw him downstairs. Clay landed on his head.

His father went down, got him, toted him upstairs, and threw him down again. The first time, Clay remained conscious. The second time, the lights went out. His father went down, got him, toted him upstairs, and looked him over. “Fakin sonofabitch,” he said, and threw him down again.

“There,” he told the limp huddle at the foot of the stairs that was his now comatose son. “Maybe you’ll think twice before you tote that fucking shit into the living room again.”