Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

Geezer leans forward, sweat rolling all over him.

– ’Nando, help me up.

Fernando comes over and Geezer grabs his hand and pulls himself off the couch.

– Don’t talk to your aunt ?

– No. I. She got mad at me.

– Amy Whelan is your aunt ?

– What?

He steps closer, huge and sweaty, his face red in a way that a face shouldn’t be.

– Are you telling me that cunt is your aunt?

– She.

– Your name, what’s your goddamn name?

– George.

Geezer lurches at George, squeezing the grabber’s handle, the claw snapping open and closed in front of his eyes.

– Your last fucking name! Your dad’s fucking name!

George flinches from the grasping plastic finger in his face.

– Whelan. Like my aunt. Whelan. My dad’s name is Bob Whelan.

The grabber goes limp in Geezer’s hand.

– Fuck me. Jesus, fuck me hard.

Bob Whelan pushes through the swinging doors of the Rodeo Club and looks at the empty pool table.

Someone stands up from behind the bar, a case of Hamms in his hands.

– Closed. Closed till eight AM.

– Don’t need a drink.

– Pisser’s for customers. Come back in a couple hours.

Bob walks toward the bar.

– Don’t need the pisser, Crawford.

The bartender squints.

– Bob?

– Hey.

Crawford puts the case of beer on the bar, wipes his hands on his shirtfront.

– Since when you a morning drinker?

Bob leans against the bar.

– Since about never.

Crawford takes a Tiparillo from a box on the register and clamps the white stem between his teeth.

– Good thing. Lose the license if I served ya at this hour.

– Like I said, not a problem.

Crawford lights the thin cigar and blows smoke.

– How you been?

– Can’t complain.

– Nobody’d listen if you did.

Bob fingers a mark on the bar, initials carved deep in the wood: PWW.

– No reason they should.

Crawford points at the initials.

– Your old man, right?

– Yeah.

– Yours are around here someplace, yeah?

Bob points down the bar.

– Over there.

Crawford smokes.

– Know what, I think I could use a little hair of the dog. Care to join me? As my guest?

Bob looks over his shoulder at the near darkness beyond the windows. He thinks about the last time he had a drink at this hour.

– I’d drink a beer.

Crawford pulls two cans of Hamm’s from the case, cracks them open and sets one in front of Bob.

– Mud in your eye.

They drink.

– So, Bob Whelan, what’s on your mind?

– Jeff Loller still come by?

– Hell yeah.

– Last night? This morning maybe?

Crawford adjusts the class ring on his left hand. The year on the ring the same as on the one Whelan is wearing.

– Bob, when’s the last time I saw you in here?

– While back.

– Jeff’s here about every night.

– OK.

– All I’m saying, man, whatever your business is these days, it’s not mine. And I don’t want it to be. Times have changed and I don’t mess in nobody else’s business ever.

– Not asking you to, just asking if you’ve seen him last night or this morning.

– And I’m giving you your answer.

Bob nods.

– OK.

Crawford tilts his can of beer to his lips and drains it.

– Anything else?

Bob is drifting down the bar, he stops and looks at some more recent marks in the rail.

– Say, you remember that time?

Crawford crushes his can and frowns.

Bob knocks on the bar with his class ring.

– You remember. That guy who tried to take your head off with the pool cue? The one who’d played guard for Amador High. He was trying to set up shop in here, wanted to peddle his stuff out of your john. You didn’t want him around. Always felt bad about coming at him from behind. Seemed the only thing to do. Way everyone was sitting around watching him beat on you. But you ended up coming out of it OK. After I took care of him. Remember that?

Crawford wipes a spot on the bar that doesn’t need to be wiped.

– Jeff ain’t been in.

Bob sets his mostly full can on the bar.

– Thanks. Tell him I’m looking if he stops by.

Crawford talks to his back as he heads for the door.

– That wasn’t right of you, Bob, bringing up ancient history. I paid my dues already.

– Yeah. I know.

He goes out into the morning and leans against the side of his truck and tries to spit the taste of warm beer out of his mouth.

Inside, Crawford picks up Bob’s abandoned beer and finishes it, looking at the triple initials carved in the oak: BW/JL/G.

He thinks about calling Geezer to tell him that Bob Whelan’s poking around for Jeff Loller, but decides he’s better off minding his own fucking business than getting messed up with those three madmen again.

Geezer looks at Fernando.

– Bob Whelan’s kids? You got your shit, you got my shit mixed up with Bob Whelan’s kids?

Fernando shrugs.

– Their dad’s a construction worker or something, so what?

Geezer spits.

– You fucking retard. You retarded spic.

He looks at George.

– Spic thinks your dad is a construction worker.

George wipes his nose.

– He is.

Geezer points at him with the grabber.

– Yeah, that’s right, loser Goddamn construction worker. Could have been a winner. Could have, Jesus, gives me…word? When your heart beats too fast? Palpitations. Gives me palpitations thinking about it, what we could have had.

A thick throbbing vein splits his forehead in two.

– Could have had it all. ’Stead I got spic retards doing business for me and most of the money flying away over the hill into Oakland.

He jabs the grabber in George’s direction.

– Your dad had kept his shit together, we could have had the whole fucking town.

– Geezer!

Geezer stops. Looks at Fernando. Points at Jeff, standing by the open front door.

– Thought you said the door was locked.

Jeff takes a step into the room, leaving the door open.

– What the hell are you doing, man?

– The hell are you doing, Jeff?

– I was cruising past. I saw your car.

Geezer lowers the grabber.

– And you just ask yourself in?

Jeff points at George and Hector.

– Jesus, Geezer.

– Close the door. Lock the door.

Jeff shakes his head.

– No. I. No way, man.

Geezer squints.

– What?

– No way, man. I’m.

He points.

– Those are kids, man. Kids. I mean, to hell with them being Bob’s kids. They’re kids period. You can’t.

Geezer nods.

– Jeff, close the door, man. Yeah, they’re kids. You think I did this shit to them? You’ve seen my place. Who loves kids? Who loves kids? I love kids. This shit? Who else is in the room, Jeff?

He points at Fernando.

– You see who else is in the room and, seeing him in here, you assume, you make the assumption that I would do this?

– Man, don’t.

– Wait. You wait. I’ve been accused, of hurting kids I’ve been accused. What other…the word? Shit. The word when you have no other choice, it’s the only path you have?

– Recourse?

Geezer scratches his calf with the grabber.

– That’s it. Recourse. Being accused, I have no recourse but to defend myself. Fernando, close the door, will you.

Fernando takes a step toward the door, toward Jeff.

Jeff shows him the ten inch crescent wrench he took from the Harley’s tool kit.