Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– Yeah. I’ll go.

– Look, Bob. I.

He puts his hand between the closing doors and they bounce open.

– Yeah?

– I. Just I got this thing going on. And.

– What?

– Nothing.

He glances at the woman, she doesn’t look up.

– Something you need help with?

– Just my own problems. You got enough right now.

The doors try to close again and he blocks them.

– Ames. You need help, you call me.

– Yeah?

– Yeah. Just, just right now I got to deal with the boys. But you call tomorrow.

– OK, yeah, maybe I will. OK.

He pulls his arm back.

– Yeah, call. Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out.

The doors close.

Amy walks back to the station, waves at Trudy.

– Sorry. Take an hour. I’ll be fine.

Trudy scoops up her purse.

– That your old man?

– Brother.

– No kidding? Married?

– Yeah.

– Too bad. I love that hardcase cowboy thing.

Amy drops into her chair.

– Help yourself. I’ve had enough to last a lifetime.

Jeff rolls the Harley to the QuickStop lot. The teenage son of the owner is out front. He nods at Jeff then goes back to wiping down the gas pumps with a soapy rag.

Jeff straddles the bike, pulls in the clutch, twists the throttle a couple times, then jumps off the seat and brings his weight down on the kickstart. The bike pops once.

The kid looks up from the pumps and watches as Jeff adjusts a screw on the side of the carburetor, brings the clutch in again, and comes back down on the kick. He has to hammer the bitch about a half dozen times before it catches. The kid gives him a double thumbs up as Jeff twists the throttle and the Sportster roars.

He brings it back down to an idle, leans the bike on its kickstand, and walks inside the store with the kid following him. He waits at the counter while the kid circles around and grabs a pack of Camels from the rack and hands it to him. Jeff passes him a couple bucks, peels off the cellophane, lights a smoke and walks out. The kid dumps the change in the loan a cent.

Outside, Jeff swings his leg over the seat and tucks his ponytail down the back of his T. He left his goggles in the trailer, but there’s a pair of geeky safety glasses in the little tool kit on the bike. He slips them on. Finds the packet of whites in his pocket and crunches one between his teeth.

He guns the throttle out of the lot, taking the Harley around the long curve of the entrance ramp that dumps him on the 580 West. The bike runs smooth and he opens it up, the cherry getting blown off the cigarette between his lips. Within a quarter mile the sweat that’s been caking him all day and all night is drying. The early morning air is almost cool.

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.