Brian Keene - Terminal

“Oh… I don’t have a brother.”

“Shut up, John…” Sherm warned.

Wallace opened the shoe box. Two pistols lay inside.

“These here are Smith & Wesson .357s. You can load a .38 special or .357 magnum round in them. Depending on what you’re using them for, I’d go with the magnum round. Shoot a guy in the back of the head with that, and the motherfucker’s spine will come out his nose and shit. Ain’t no safety on these; they’re revolvers, so don’t shoot your dick off if you’re sagging. They’ve got an exposed hammer, so you can thumb it back for a real easy shot. Two hundred. Cash up front. No checks or credit cards accepted.”

“What about ammunition?” I asked.

He grinned. “I look like Walmart to you, dog? Any store like that will have ammo. Ain’t you got hunting stores out there in Hanover—all them crazy redneck motherfuckers running around shooting at deer and rabbits and shit?”

“Squeal like a pig, boy,” Kelvin drawled.

“Yeah, we do. We’ve got all kinds of places to buy ammo. I’m just a little low on cash right now, is all.”

“Come on, Wallace,” Sherm urged, “hook us up, man. All the business I’ve given you, why you want to do us like that? Shit, I’ve practically paid for your last year’s rent!”

He grinned, considered it, then shrugged. “A’ight, but only because you’re a good customer, Sherm, and because I like your boy Tommy here. Those are six-shooters. They’re fully loaded. You all can keep what’s in ’em. You need more than that, though, it’ll cost you extra.”

“No, twelve rounds should be all right,” I said. “Hopefully, we won’t have to fire them at all.”

“These are just insurance,” Sherm explained.

“Whatever, dog. Like I said, I don’t want to know. Less I know the better. Just make damn sure you understand the drill. You didn’t get them from me and I never heard of any of you. The serial numbers have been filed down, and I wiped the prints off before I put them in the box. They all yours now.”

I handed him the money and he handed me the box. For one crazy instant, I wanted to reach out and snatch the money back from him, tell him that I’d changed my mind and it was all just a terrible mistake. But I didn’t. Instead, I accepted the box. It was heavier than I’d thought it would be.

Wallace counted the money, folded it, and stuffed the wad into his pocket.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“A’ight, Wallace, we out.” Sherm rapped fists with him and turned to leave. “I’ll catch you next week, yo.”

“Later, Holmes.”

He turned to me, presented his fist, and I rapped it.

“You’re okay, Tommy. For real. It was cool doing business with you. Come on back again sometime and we’ll chill. Maybe play some chess and shit. You play chess?”

“Yeah—a little. Learned it when I spent a weekend in County for unpaid speeding tickets.”

“There ya go. Jailhouse chess—the same thing I play. We cool then. Later, dog.”

“Thanks.”

I trailed along behind Sherm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John stop. Saw him turn to the three of them. Saw him smile. Saw his hand wave slowly. Saw his mouth open and say…

“Later my niggaz. Peace out.”

I froze, cringing at what I’d just heard.

Wincing, Sherm whipped around. Still smiling, John turned toward us, saw the horrified expression on our faces, and stopped.

“What? What are you guys looking at? What did I do wrong?”

“Say what?” Markus spat. His face was ashen. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Wallace took a step forward. “Somebody please tell me that this stupid motherfucker did not just drop the N-bomb.”

“You’re damn straight he did,” Kelvin growled. He reached inside his baggy pants pocket, and I saw him clench something. I knew what it was before he pulled it out. Without thinking, I ripped the lid off the box and reached inside.

“Hold up!” Sherm stepped between us, hands outstretched. “Just hold up a fucking minute. Let’s not do something stupid, ya’ll.”

“Stupid? STUPID?” Wallace pulled a gun of his own. “You hear what that racist piece of shit said? How’d you like it if we called you a honky or a wigger? Get your skinny Irish ass out of the way, Sherm!”

John was terrified. “I’m s-sorry, you guys! I didn’t think it was a big deal. You call each other that all the time on the radio. I was just being friendly.”

“Oh what, so now you Eminem, you punk-ass bitch?” Kelvin stalked toward him, pistol in hand. I don’t know what kind it was, but it was big, bigger than the one I was holding.

“Wallace”—Sherm placed his hand on the man’s chest—“he’s retarded, man. Slow. He don’t know what he’s saying. He’s got like a fourth-grade reading level and shit. Let’s just let it drop, okay? You and me are cool, and you seen for yourself that Tommy is cool, right? Do you really think we’d bring a fucking Klansman around?”

Seething, Wallace glanced from Markus and Kelvin, pointing their guns at John and me, and then to me, pointing my gun at Kelvin. He looked down at Sherm’s hand, and Sherm pulled it away. Slowly, his scowl vanished and Wallace actually grinned.

“Look’s like we got us a Mexican standoff, boys. Chill out, ya’ll.”

Kelvin didn’t move. “You heard what this punk-ass, motherfucking, cocksucking wigger said.”

“And I said chill the fuck out, goddamn it. You step the fuck off right now, Kelvin, or I’ll bust a cap in your ass instead. Don’t you go forgetting who’s in charge here. I’m the one that’s deep in this street. You work for me.”

Shaking, Kelvin’s eyes never left John’s. Only his nostrils twitched, flaring in the dim light. He seemed frozen with rage.

Wallace glanced at Sherm.

“Don’t bring that motherfucker back here, Sherm,” he warned. “Not ever. If Kelvin and Markus don’t kill him, I damn sure will. I don’t want to see him in my hood again. Not anywhere near here.”

“I hear you, man. Don’t sweat it, Wallace. You won’t be seeing him again, I swear. You know my word’s good. We cool?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and spat on the cracked pavement. “We cool.”

“Better hope I don’t see you on the streets,” Kelvin threatened John a final time. “If I do, that’s it for your ass!”

They stood down, lowering their pistols. All three men were shaking with rage. I lowered my own gun, and it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten to cock the hammer.

Ouch! Cut it out, Sherm!”

John took one hand off the wheel and rubbed the knot on his head.

“Why’d you hit me, dammit?”

“Because you’re a dumb ass,” Sherm shouted, leaning forward to smack him again.

“Ouch! Knock it the fuck off, Sherm. You’re gonna make me wreck.”

I’d sat quietly, simmering. Finally, I could keep my mouth shut no more.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘Later my niggaz’? The fuck is that? You actually said that shit. What the hell were you thinking? Why not just go down there dressed in a fucking white sheet and burn a cross in their yard while you were at it?”

“You know I ain’t like that, Tommy. I ain’t no racist. I said niggaz, not niggers. There’s a difference. They say it in the songs all the time. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

I was so angry I couldn’t even respond.

Sherm smacked him again. “We told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Why couldn’t you just do that?”

John pouted. “I was just trying to be friendly. That’s all. I like black people and they seemed like cool guys to hang out with. Remember when I was going out with Rhonda? She was black, and I never said anything wrong to her. I didn’t mean to offend nobody. Honest!”