Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– 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.

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 louvers 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.