Bradley Denton - Blackburn

Heather looked from Blackburn to Roy-Boy. "You guys know each other?"

"We're in the same business," Roy-Boy said. He turned on his bar stool so that his knee touched Heather's thigh.

Blackburn's teeth clenched. The sharp scent of Roy-Boy's deodorant soap was cutting through the other smells.

"Really?" Heather said. "What do you do?"

"We sell discount merchandise," Roy-Boy said. "We're competitors, actually."

Heather looked concerned. "Does that mean you don't like each other?"

"No," Roy-Boy said. "In fact, we can help each other."

"I'm thinking of getting into another line of work," Blackburn said. But if he stopped stealing, he would have to take a job at yet another fast-food restaurant. It was the only legal work he was qualified to do. He had fried burgers or chicken, or stuffed burritos, in every city he had ever stayed in more than a few days. He was sick of it.

"I'd be sorry if you did that, Alan," Roy-Boy said.

Blackburn looked at Heather. "Did you tell him my name?" He realized after he said it that it sounded like an accusation. The beer had made him stupid.

"No," Heather said, frowning. "Why would I? You know each other, right?"

"We've never exchanged names," Roy-Boy told her, "but I got curious and asked around about him. Has he told you he's a guitar player? He plays a left-handed Telecaster."

Heather's frown vanished. "You in a band?" she asked Blackburn.

"No," he said. "I mean, not right now."

"He was in three bands at once when he lived in Austin," Roy-Boy said. "He even played with Stevie Ray a couple of times."

Heather was gazing at Blackburn. "Why'd you quit?"

"No money in it," he said.

Roy-Boy got off the bar stool. "That reminds me," he said. "I have some work to catch up on." He dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar. "Next round's on me."

"Oh, that's sweet," Heather said.

"Yeah," Blackburn said.

Roy-Boy clapped Blackburn on the shoulder. "Happy to do it," he said. "Us old guys got to stick together." He headed for the door.

Blackburn imagined making Roy-Boy eat his own eyes.

"Bye, Steve!" Heather called. Then she grinned at Blackburn. "How old are you, anyway?"

Blackburn sat down on the empty stool. It was warm from Roy-Boy, so he stood up again.

"Twenty-seven," he said. "How about you?"

Heather raised her beer mug. "Twenty-one, of course. You don't think I'd come into a bar if I wasn't, do you?"

"Guess not."

"I'd love to hear you play sometime."

Blackburn's tongue tasted like soap. "I don't have a guitar now," he said.

Heather shrugged. "Okay, I'll play for you instead. You like flute music?"

"You bet," Blackburn said. The back of his neck tingled, and he turned.

Roy-Boy was standing outside, looking in through the cluster of neon signs in the front window. He pointed his finger at Blackburn and waggled his thumb.

"So, you want to have another beer?" Heather asked. "Or would you like to hear some flute?"

Blackburn turned back to her. "Flute," he said.

They stood to leave. Roy-Boy was gone from the window. Blackburn left the five-dollar bill on the bar.

In the morning Blackburn awoke with Heather's rump against his belly. Since the end of his marriage, it was rare that he spent an entire night with a woman, and even rarer that he let it happen at his place. But as he and Heather had left The Hoot, she had said that her apartment was off-limits for sex because her roommate was a born-again Christian. So they had decided to put off the flute recital, and Blackburn had taken Heather to his studio crackerbox in the Heights. After a few hours they had fallen asleep together.

He slid out of bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't flush, because he didn't want to wake Heather. When he came out, he saw that she had rolled onto her back. Her mouth was open, and strands of her hair were stuck to her face. She wasn't a beauty, as Dolores had been, but she was fun. Blackburn didn't remember ever having laughed in bed before.

He dressed and went out. His plan was to bring Heather a surprise for breakfast. In the night, she had told him a story about a Rice fraternity that had been getting noise complaints from the sorority next door. One morning the sorority women had received a box of donuts from the fraternity, along with a note saying that the donuts were the men's response to the complaints. The women had eaten the donuts for breakfast and then had received another delivery from the fraternity. It was a photograph of all seventy-two men in their dining room, each one naked except for the donut on his penis. Heather thought the story was hilarious, so Blackburn wanted to have a box of donuts waiting for her when she awoke.

The sun had risen, but the air had the sting of a winter night. Blackburn hadn't thought Houston ever got so cold. He breathed deep, and the chill cut into his throat. When he exhaled, his breath was white. He hurried across the parking lot to the Duster, hoping it would start. Its windows were opaque with frost. Blackburn didn't have an ice scraper, but maybe the defroster would do. He unlocked the driver's door and got inside, letting the door slam shut after him. The interior smelled of deodorant soap.

Roy-Boy was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing the black sweatsuit again. The sweatshirt's hood was up over his head, and his hands were inside the pouch.

"Morning, Musician," he said, peering out from the hood. "Happy Pearl Harbor Day."

Blackburn was annoyed. "Get out," he said, "and don't come near me again. If you do, you won't do anything else."

"Now, come on," Roy-Boy said. "You're a moral guy, and I haven't done anything to you. You wouldn't whack me for looking at you wrong, would you?"

"You broke into my car," Blackburn said. "In Texas, it's legal to shoot people who break into your car."

"But I didn't break in. This door was unlocked."

"Doesn't matter. You didn't have my permission to enter. So I can shoot you."

"But you don't have your gun."

"I can get it."

Roy-Boy took his hands from his sweatshirt pouch. His right hand held a.22-caliber revolver. "You can try," he said.

Blackburn saw that the.22 was a cheap piece of crap. But at this range, it could kill him just as dead as a.357.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Right now, to get warm," Roy-Boy said. "Then I want to talk a little. Let's drive, and crank the heater."

Blackburn put the key into the ignition. The Duster whined for a while, then started. The engine sputtered, and the car shook.

"Sounds like ice in the fuel line," Roy-Boy said. "Put a can of Heet in the tank. If you can find it in this city." He opened his door. "Hang on and I'll scrape your windows." He got out, leaving the door open.

Blackburn considered trying to run him over, but decided against it. A bullet might make it through the windshield. So he waited while Roy-Boy scraped. Roy-Boy's scraper was a long, pointed shard of glass with white cloth tape wrapped around one end. Roy-Boy had pulled it from his sweatshirt pouch. He was scraping with his left hand. His right hand, with the pistol, was in the pouch. Blackburn could see the muzzle straining against the fabric. It was pointing at him.

When the windows were clear, Roy-Boy got back inside and closed the door. He licked ice crystals from the glass shard, then replaced it in his pouch and looked at Blackburn. "What're you waiting for?" he asked. He pulled out the.22.

Blackburn drove onto the street and headed for I-10. He would wait for his chance. It would come. It always did.

"So, how was she?" Roy-Boy asked as the Duster entered the freeway.

"Fine."

"I'm glad. I was afraid I'd ruined things for you at The Hoot, so I tried to fix them before I left. Guess I did. What're you gonna do with her now?"