Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– Uh huh. OK.

Bob looks at him.

– So you gonna go find the guys or what?

The cop underlines something on his notepad.

Bob remembers how the fucker put a hand on the back of his neck and slammed his head against the door as he put him in the back of the car the last time he was ever cuffed. How he laughed about it.

– Tell you, Bob, I’ll head over to the park, take a look around, try to get over there before it gets too crowded, but what the fuck do you expect me to find? Think some coons from Alameda are gonna hang around after they did something like that to some white kids and one of our Mexicans?

Bob stands up.

– That’s bullshit, man. Did you see my kids?

– Easy, Bob.

– They. George’s hand is all fucked up. Andy.

He looks in his coffee cup.

– He’s a mess. He. Fucking do something.

The cop closes his notebook.

– Bob, I appreciate your kids getting hurt. I can only imagine. But, honestly, you should not be acting all outraged citizen with me.

– What the hell is that?

– Just saying, if you had boys that weren’t out scoring acid in parking lots at two in the morning you wouldn’t have a problem like this.

– Don’t fucking.

– Can it, Bob. You use that kind of language again, I don’t care what’s up with your family, I’m gonna remind you what it’s like to get booked.

He taps his index finger on Bob’s chest.

– Want to take a ride? Try on some bracelets again? One of those orange jumpsuits? It’s the weekend. Take you in now, no one gonna see you till Monday. Don’t got no friends at the station anymore, Bob. Those days are over. Your money’s no good over there now.

He shakes his head.

– Reformed punk or not, you’re still a punk. You got punk kids that hang out with punk friends and what they got was in the cards for a long time. So you just calm down and take a seat so you can be sure to be here if they need you. Yeah?

Bob looks down, takes a seat.

– Sure. Sorry.

– Yeah.

He tugs at his belt, shifts his holster.

– It’s a busy morning. There’s stuff going on. Got half the force and emergency services at that fire over by Junction. Another fucking crank lab. Town this size, we got two crank labs going at the same time. Damn drug war here. Me, I say we got guys like you to thank for that. So, when I get the chance, I’ll take a look at May Nissen. When the kids are feeling a little better, someone’ll get descriptions of the black guys and their car. And then we’ll decide if we’re gonna do anything about your kids being out after curfew looking to score. OK?

– Sure.

– Best to the family, Bob. They’re in my prayers.

Bob watches him leave, remembering the times they shook hands, the folded bills passing between their palms, and then goes to find George to tell him again what to say.

That night, in the ICU, he has to stop walking when he comes in and sees Andy, his head and face buried in bandages, his mom sitting next to him. He has to stop and remind himself where he is. When it is.

He remembers the way it was before. The bags of Colombian Gold shoved inside plaster lawn gnomes and jockeys and Christs, coming across the border at Tijuana, driving nonstop back up here, swapping shifts at the wheel with Jeff, chewing whites and drinking warm beer and shots of mescal the whole way. Dumping the shit at Geezer’s, the fat boy weighing and bagging and pinching off shit on the side that they never even fucked with him about because there was so much goddamn money.

The parties.

People cramming the house, spilling into the yard and the street, the cops closing their fists around the hundreds he slipped them and closing off the block with sawhorses. Football games at midnight in the middle of the street, high as hell. Cindy on the lawn, dropping the strap of her halter to nurse George while she tried to help Amy deal with her latest loser boyfriend. Cindy, just the best looking lady on the scene, baby or no baby. The best woman in town, and his pick of any others he wanted.

Always action at the house.

People coming by, scoring dime bags and quarters, shooting the shit as they rolled up a joint to smoke before they hit the road. Cash piling up. Until you spent it. Just blowing it like the fucking wind.

And the fights.

Guys saying they got shorted, getting in your face, learning the lesson that you don’t talk to Bob Whelan that way. Not in his house. Not nowhere. Dealers from the central valley trying to bring their Mexican Brown in from Tracy. Busting in the front door of their pad and running riot, swinging the bat, busting the place to shit, setting it all on fire and watching them run.

The changes.

Geezer showing them numbers and talking about smack and coke and speed. Talking about profit margins. Like it was supposed to be a business. Like it was supposed to be something where you punch a clock. Like he loved it for more than the fun and the freedom and the fights. Like he loved anything more than getting fucked up and fucking and blood on his knuckles.

And then the Angels.

Seeing them down at the Rodeo Club. Dealing their shit in the lot. Eyeballing him and Jeff and Geez. The Angels letting them know they knew whose town it was, and they didn’t give a fuck. Sending a message about changing times.

And then showing the Angels they were wrong. Giving that parking lot a coat of red paint.

And Andy.

Walking into that hospital room the same night, seeing that thing they took out of his wife. And realizing he did love something more than all that other shit.

Fucking family man.

Who could have seen that coming?

The ride out to Oakland with Jeff and Geezer.

Carrying the bloody colors he’d stripped from the Angels after he beat them down. After Jeff dragged him off and kept him from killing them all. Walking into their clubhouse and laying the colors at the feet of their president. Telling them he was done. The town was theirs. Telling them they’d never hear his name again. Taking the beating their warlord put on him in retribution. What it took from him, what it took to keep from rising up each time he was knocked down, what it took to keep from doing what came so natural. What it took to kill that thing inside.

And how killing it hasn’t protected anyone.

He stands in the doorway now and she turns and looks at him.

He remembers his wife by the side of the incubator. How she turned and looked at him then. What she told him he needed to do to keep her. How he turned and walked out of the room and did it.

She doesn’t tell him what he has to do this time. He’s already on his way.

The double is almost a triple by the time Amy heads for home.

She stops at the AM/PM on the corner of Rincon and Sunset and grabs a couple packs of cigarettes, a two liter of Diet Pepsi, and four Cocktail in a Can 7 amp;7s. Except they call them 77’s on the can because of lawsuits and shit.

Some asshole has blocked half her driveway with his Seville and she has to drive over the corner of the lawn to park her car. Saturday night and there’s no curb space on the whole block because somebody’s having a lawn party a few houses down. She leans against the fender of her Mustang and listens to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” coming from the stereo they’ve got set up on the porch over there. She thinks about joining the party. Couple of her customers live down there. She can see a few Harleys at the curb. But then she gets another whiff of herself.