Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

Geezer points the grabber at him.

– Sit back down, ’Nando.

Fernando is staring at his brother.

– You know, ese, that’s some of the smartest shit I ever heard come from you.

Geezer lowers the grabber and points the gun.

– Sit down, ’Nando.

Fernando sits.

Ramon holds up the pencil.

– How about that, boss?

He taps the pencil against his chest.

– First, I got your point.

He waves the pencil at the guys and his brother.

– Now, I’m making a point of my own.

– You’re an asshole, Ramon. A jailbird asshole and you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Ramon looks at the pencil.

– Check it out, it’s a Number 2.

He taps the tip against his thigh.

– Think you filled in the bubble completely?

– A fucking beaner spic wetback asshole.

– Ooooooh, that’s a lot of racial stuff. That’s a lot of, get this one, racial epithets.

– You fuck your mother.

– Man, you ever seen my mother? You ever saw her, you wouldn’t talk like that. My mother is one mean ugly bitch.

Fernando snaps his fingers.

– Don’t talk like that, ese.

– You know what I can’t figure out, bro?

Fernando shakes his head.

– What?

Ramon holds up a hand, four fingers in the air.

– Me and you and Hector and Whelan over there, all four of us sitting and being scared of boss here, and him holding that gun that only shoots two bullets.

Geezer licks his lips, gestures with the grabber, pointing it in the air.

– OK, OK, you got a point about the witnesses thing, Ramon. And I’ll admit, all things being the same, I’d be trying to figure out how to deal with that issue. But we’re kind of beyond that now. We’re at a point of shit being so fucked up that we can just forget about what happens with the cops. Right now, getting that half kilo so we can hand it to Oakland and keep them happy is a more pressing problem. Most of all, before we worry about the cops, we got to worry about them.

He points the grabber at George and Hector.

– And what we’re gonna do when psycho Bob Whelan shows up looking for them.

Ramon shakes the pencil from side to side.

– Oakland. Whelan’s dad. These things, they sound like your problems. Bro and me, we got to worry ’bout how you’re not mentioning lawyers anymore. We got to worry ’bout getting out of town, it looks like. These kids, looks like they got to worry ’bout getting from this house alive.

He taps the pencil against his forehead.

– All of us, we got conflicting agendas, ese. ’Cept one thing. The four of us, we all got one thing in common.

He leans back and crosses his arms.

– None of us like you.

– You are so fucking dead, Ramon.

– See what I mean, guys. Ese, vato Hector, Whelan, let’s rush him, eh? Tell you what, if it means this fat pendejo cocksucker dies, I’ll go first, I’ll take one of those bullets.

The crate shatters under Fernando’s ass and Geezer jumps and the gun goes off.

George and Hector, still holding hands, squeeze, and their knuckles go white.

Fernando scrambles up, a big splinter jutting from his right buttock.

Ramon looks at the bullet hole in the plaster two feet from his head.

– I know your vocabulary sucks, boss, how’s your math?

It’s no real surprise that his dad can’t tie a knot worth shit.

Once he starts twisting his wrists back and forth, once his dad isn’t touching him and the pain stops and he can move, pulling his hands and feet free is pretty easy.

Mr. Whelan has his dad shoved into a corner, holding him by the throat.

– Youyouyouyouyoufucker! My kids! Where?

Paul gets up and goes to the dining room table and picks up one of the big hardbound computer textbooks and comes back and hits Mr. Whelan in the back of the head with it and Mr. Whelan hunches over and Paul hits him again and he falls on the floor and his dad slides to his knees coughing.

Paul drops the book.

– Sorry, Mr. Whelan. You can’t hurt my dad like that.

Mr. Whelan doesn’t move.

Paul finds his clothes in the garbage bag under the kitchen sink and puts them on, but his boots aren’t in there and he has to go back to the livingroom to find them.

– Paul.

– Yhuh huh.

– Thank you.

– Hunh uh.

He puts on his socks and his boots.

– We’re going to have to, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, son, but we’re going to have to leave town. I know that’s going to be hard for you. You have friends here, a school. But it will be hard for me, too. And sometimes a change is good for everybody.

Paul gets up and adjusts his shirt and brushes back his hair.

– Hunh uh.

Mr. Cheney pushes himself up the wall, pulling his robe closed.

– So let’s not put it off. Let’s dive in. You go start packing a bag and I’ll get some things together that we need. And, it won’t be all bad, we’ll be on the road for a bit. I can teach you to drive.

Paul looks around and sees what he wants and picks up the bag of crank.

– I know how to drive, Dad.

His father comes toward him.

– Well, I guess that doesn’t really come as a surprise. But you can always use practice. And I’d like to see your traffic safety skills before I feel comfortable about you driving on your own. Why don’t we, let’s get some things together, and we can get started. I’ll drive the first leg and then you can take over and we’ll see how you do. How’s that sound?

Paul looks at his father.

– I got to go somewhere.

Mr. Cheney reaches for him.

– No, Paul, I’m going to have to put my foot down here. I’m not letting you get in any more trouble. It is time for you to listen to your father and do what he tells you.

Paul steps away from the outstretched hand.

– I got to go, Dad, my friends are in trouble. I got to help them.

He starts for the door.

Mr. Cheney rushes around him and blocks the hall.

– No, Paul. No. I appreciate you wanting to help your friends, but this is not the time.

– Get out of my way, Dad.

– Don’t speak to me in that tone.

– Get out of the way.

– Paul.

Paul shoves his father out of the way and walks past him.

– Leave me alone.

Mr. Cheney comes after him, grabbing at the back of his shirt.

– Paul, Paul, you have to listen to me, son. There’s things. You don’t really understand things. Me. I’m your father and you don’t even understand me.

Paul turns, knocking the hands away.

– Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me. I want you to leave me alone. Just leave me alone.

– I. I. Leave you. I. Paul. I. Leave you? Paul, I. I, don’t. You, can’t you try, try to understand? I. I love you. I’ve always loved you. You. You are what I. I just love you so much and I don’t understand why, why you can’t see that. Why you won’t see that? Paul, listen, I, I can make you happy, I can make you so happy. I can make you, you can love me, you can. You do. I know you do. I can feel it. I can. You just don’t know how much you love me. And I love you so much.

Paul slaps his father.

– Be quiet, Dad.

– I love you.

He slaps him again.

– Just be quiet.

– I do, I do, I love you.

– Dad, listen to me.

His dad listens, a hand on his burning cheek.

– Yes, son?

Paul spits in his face.

– I don’t love you, Dad. I never loved you. Ever.

He turns and pulls the door open.

– Go away, Dad. Run away. You’re in a lot of trouble, so run away. If you don’t, I’m gonna kill you or something when I come home.