John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

“Finally, some information I can use,” Thomas called back, and proceeded toward the rear of the house.

“Hey, bro!” Ernie hollered after him. “Grab me a drink while you’re back there, would ya?”

Thomas reached the door leading out onto the back porch and stepped outside. In slightly more hospitable conditions, the porch would’ve been considered prime real estate at a party like this, and therefore full of people. Tonight it had been drizzling intermittently, however, and the uncovered deck was vacant. He looked around briefly and had turned to head back inside when he heard a noise—a cracking sound, like a hammer striking plastic—coming from the backyard below. He walked to the railing and looked down into the yard. Devon was standing in the grass with a golf driver in his hands, the shaft of the club resting against his right shoulder. Scattered at his feet were several balls. Two metal buckets stood half empty beside him. At the sound of Thomas’s footsteps on the porch above him, he looked up. “Tommy boy, is that you?”

”Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Devon smiled up at him, shielding his eyes against the glare of the porch light. “I’m practicing. Grab yourself a club out of the bag there and come hit a few.”

Thomas walked down the short set of steps and joined him on the lawn. His friend’s hair was soaked and dripping, and Devon raked it back from his face absently as Thomas selected a driver from the bag, set one of the balls on a tee, and lined up his club. The house, prestigiously situated atop the very hill that provided the residents of Overlook Drive that much-coveted overlook experience, gave way to a backyard that sloped sharply down and away. About two hundred yards to the south, the open grass ended where a thick patch of woods began. Thomas pulled the driver up and back, locked his eyes on his target, and swung hard. He was much more used to swinging a baseball bat than a golf club, and although his stroke connected soundly, the small white orb sliced wickedly to the left and landed out of sight deep in the spread of trees below them.

“Nice slice, T,” Devon remarked. He removed a tee from his right pocket, planted it into the soft earth, squared his shoulders, and swung with the practiced form of someone who may well have spent more than a few nights in this very spot pounding balls deep into his own backyard and the forest beyond. Thomas watched the ball sail through the night sky. It seemed to hang in the darkness for longer than simple physics and the gravitational pull of the earth should allow, and then disappeared into the canopy of foliage, whooshing through leaves and cracking into a few branches along the way. About a half mile south of them, a stretch of Main Street was illuminated in the pale yellow cast of streetlights. The distant buzz of passing motorists ascended the hill and reached their ears like excited children returning from play.

“You ever pound one all the way out to Main Street?” he asked.

“Nah,” Devon said. “That sucker’s about a thousand yards from here. Tiger Woods couldn’t hit one out to Main Street from this place. But I do try.”

To illustrate, he set up another ball and smashed it deep into the woods. Thomas hit another one himself, although this time he got on top of the ball a little too much and punched it straight and low along the ground. It hit a tree trunk at the far end of the yard and bounced halfway back to them.

“You need some practice, my friend,” Devon observed.

“Indeed.”

The two of them spent the next fifteen minutes hitting balls into the woods. The rain had stopped, at least for the time being, and the only sounds were the thumping music and laughter coming from the house behind them and the crack of the club heads striking dimpled plastic.

“You know your house is getting totally trashed right now, don’t you?” Thomas asked after a while.

Devon only shrugged. “Wouldn’t be a good party unless it did.”

“You ever worry about your neighbors ratting you out to your folks when they return?”

“Hey, it’s one of the costs of them going on vacation,” he said. “My folks know there’s gonna be a party while they’re gone. Besides, this year I’ve got a new arrangement with the neighbors.”

“What’s that?” Thomas teed up another ball and sliced it deep into the canopy below them. He was getting better at it already—just had to straighten out his swing a little, that was all.

“It’s understood that nobody here drives home drunk, and the neighbors pretty much leave us alone—maybe turn the volume on their TV up a little bit tonight if the music gets too loud.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you manage to hold up your end of the bargain?”

“Everyone comes and leaves either on foot or by cab. No exceptions. I presume, by the way, that your cheap ass traveled by foot.”

“I like to walk.”

“Right. Anyway, you know Frank Dashel, who lives four houses down from me?”

“No.”

“Well, he operates a tow truck company. He’s got one of his rigs sitting in his driveway tonight, all set to haul off any miscellaneous parked vehicles within a half-mile radius. Either you park in your own driveway or you get towed tonight. All the neighbors have been duly notified.” He dug into his pocket for another tee. “Actually, they love the idea.”

“So, you’ve got your own hired gun.”

“I didn’t have to hire him. Towing teenagers’ cars is a lucrative endeavor. Nobody wants to get the parents involved, everyone wants their ride back, and best of all, they almost always pay cash.”

“Any guilt about having your friends’ cars towed?” Thomas asked.

“Very few people actually get towed,” he said. “They know the rules. No one drives home drunk, and that way everyone makes it home alive. If they do end up getting towed, it’s the direct consequence of a personal choice. I really have nothing to do with it.”

“Your conscience is clean then.”

“It’s the only way to go.”

“Any visits from the cops?” he asked.

“Mike Stoddard lives in that ugly blue house across the street. Sheriff’s deputy. We also have an understanding.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” Thomas pegged another grounder across the grass.

“Nice shot, Jack Nicklaus.”

“Who?”

Devon shook his head. “Dude, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m just misunderstood, that’s all. Most geniuses are.”

“And a few morons, as well, I’ve noticed.”

Thomas shook his head. For a while longer, they continued to take turns driving golf balls into the darkness.

“So your parents are pretty cool about you throwing a party like this while they’re away?” Thomas asked. He was thinking about his own rather uptight father and how he’d probably have a massive coronary if his son ever invited half of the high school student body to their house for booze and fajitas, the evening culminating in a line of kids puking into the toilet.

“Of course not,” Devon said. “But honestly, T, what are they gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Ground you? Beat you to within an inch of your life?”

Devon shook his head. “Corporal punishment came to a screeching halt last year when I finally became big enough to fight back—and did.”

“I was only kidding,” Thomas remarked.

“Well, I’m not.” Thwack! Devon punched another shot into the evening sky and marked its progress until it disappeared into the vegetation.

“You don’t care much for your parents, do you?” Thomas asked.

“No, I don’t,” Devon replied.

“Why is that?”

Devon raked his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “The simplest reason, I suppose,” he began, “is that I no longer respect them.”