Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– Fuck me.

– Where are they?

– There’s one right there, man.

– Yeah, I see him. What’s wrong with him?

– He’s the puta bitch that fucked up my car.

– OK. So what’s wrong with him?

– I hit him a couple times.

Geezer tilts his head to get a better look at Hector’s face.

– Kid’s got, what, cuts on his face? What’re those?

– Cuts.

– From what?

– Piece of chain.

Geezer looks where Fernando is pointing. Uses the grabber to pick up the bloody chain from the floor.

– You hit him a couple times with this?

– Once, just once.

– Kid’s been hit a lot of a fuck more than once. Kid’s missing teeth. He’s been…word? When you get attacked by a wild animal, a bear, what it does to you?

– Como?

– What’s the word for that?

– I don’t fucking know, man.

Ramon shifts on his crutch.

– Maul. You get mauled by a bear.

Geezer drops the chain.

– That’s it, kid’s been mauled.

He looks at Fernando.

– You hit him once and mauled him like this? Remind me never to let you hit me.

Ramon pokes Hector with the rubber tip of his crutch.

– I mauled him.

Geezer pulls at the brim of his black and yellow Caterpillar hat.

– What’d he do?

– Screamed a little. Cried a lot.

– No, what’d he do that you mauled him?

Ramon pivots on his crutch and hobbles to the couch.

– Nothing. Just wanted to see what that chain’d do to his face.

Geezer watches him lower himself to the couch and stretch out his gun shot leg.

He points at Hector.

– Well, guess we know now what happens you whip some kid’s face with a piece of chain. He gets all fucked up. Might want to call a medical journal or some shit, make a report, get yourself nominated for the fucking Pulitzer.

Ramon smiles.

– Nobel.

– What?

– Nobel Prize. Pulitzer, they only give that for writing stuff.

– Well, when they start giving a Nobel Prize for fucking kids up with chains you’ll be a pioneer in the field, won’t you?

Ramon stares.

Geezer pushes up the brim of his hat, looks at Fernando.

– ’Nando, your little brother vying for top psycho in the room honors? He trying to freak me out, put me off my game?

Fernando puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

– He’s cool, Geezer. Just likes to show off a little.

– Got some macho in him, eh?

– Sure, like all of us, right?

Geezer smiles.

– Never met a Mexican worth a damn who didn’t have some macho to him.

– Sure, that’s just how we are.

He looks at Ramon.

– Right, little brother?

Ramon leans back.

– Sure, ese, just me and my macho showing off.

Geezer nods at Fernando, chins waggling.

– Good enough. Where’s the other ones?

Fernando points at the hallway.

– Bathroom.

– El baño, eh?

– Right. The bathroom.

– Show me.

Fernando walks around Geezer and down the hall, ignoring the slit-eyed wink Ramon throws him from the couch.

Geezer follows him into the master bedroom, waving the grabber at Timo on the floor.

– Jesus, everybody in this place take a beating?

Timo stays on his back, pinching his nostrils gently, trying to stop the blood that keeps dripping from his swollen nose.

– I dinn’t tate no beadin’ froh nodbody.

Fernando puts his hand on the bathroom doorknob.

– He fell down.

Geezer laughs.

– Fell down on a pile of fists it looks like.

Timo looks away.

– I fell ond duh grounb libe ebberbody dubs.

– Sure, sure thing, amigo. Whatever you say.

He faces the door.

– Alright, ’Nando, open up.

Fernando opens the bathroom door.

George looks up at them, his little brother’s head in his lap.

– My brother. My brother. He’s hurt. I think he’s hurt real bad. Help my brother. Please help my brother.

Geezer fills the doorway and peers down at Andy’s bruised face and turned up eyes.

– Damn, now that’s comatose if I ever saw it.

– Whas the matter? Whas that?

– Nothing.

– Whas that thm?

– Yeah.

– Whut time’s’t?

– It’s late. Go back to sleep.

– Where?

– I’m gonna go give them a little talk.

– Done be too hrd. Th’r hum. L’thm go t’bed.

– Don’t worry.

– Talk in the muhrn’n ’bou’t.

– Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.

– Hokay.

Bob Whelan watches his wife tuck her face back into her pillow and close her eyes and drop back to sleep. Still naked, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed. He uses the toilet in the hall instead of the one in their room, not wanting to wake her again.

She’s tired. Up first thing in the morning, on her feet all day behind that cash register at the Safeway, back here to straighten up the house and get things ready for dinner.

She tried to stay up when they finished screwing around and realized the boys hadn’t come home, made it till a little after midnight, but couldn’t hang in there. Even after she conked out she was restless as hell. Well, she’ll sleep OK now.

He flushes and puts on his jeans and goes to the front door and out onto the porch. Whatever the sound was, it wasn’t the boys. But he knew that already. He knows exactly what they sound like sneaking in and out of the house. He walks to the foot of the driveway and stands there and looks up and down the street.

Goddamn kids.

Got no problem with them running around and getting in a little trouble. Learn more about life that way than by sitting around inside watching TV like so many other kids. Get in a few fights, that’s how you learn to stick up for yourself. Get the crap beat out of you, that’s how you learn what sticking up for yourself can cost you. Do a little drinking and smoking, that’s how you learn how much you can handle. Take a ride in the back of a police car, that’s how you learn the consequences of trying to get away with too much.

And that’s probably how they’ll be coming home. If he’s lucky the cops will drive them right up to the door. If he’s not lucky he’ll be getting a call from the jail on North L telling him to come get his boys that got picked up at some house party where the parents are out of town and their kids got their hands on a keg and a few bottles of Cuervo or something.

The more things change.

If it was just him, he’d wait for the call and let them stay the whole night in jail, pick them up tomorrow afternoon after the yard is rototilled, bring them home and put them to work on the rock pile right away. That’s how his pop would have handled it. Hell, that’s how he did handle it.

He scratches his stomach, his index finger running along the ridge of scar at the bottom of his rib cage. Truth be told, his pop handled it a hell of a lot harder.

Paul, he knows about that kind of thing. Seen those cigarette burns on his stomach. Only one place you get marks like those.

He takes a few steps into the street, looks down the block at the dark front of the Cheney house. Man, sometimes, see that little prick out there watering his lawn, like to stroll over and give him a good one. See how he likes it. Don’t even say anything, just walk up to him and put him on his ass.

A kid gets knocked around a little by his dad? Well, shit like that happens, nobody ever said life was fair. But cigarette burns? No way to explain that. Just that Kyle Cheney is a little prick. Probably ran his wife off by being a little prick. Now he probably blames his kid for her smashing up her car and dying, takes it out on him.