Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

“This is theft,” the man said, standing upright. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

Broadway Joe began shouting from the kitchen.

“You’re fucking A he’s gonna pay for it, man. He’s gonna burn for it.”

Hicks called Marge into the bathroom, gave her the key to the fat man’s handcuffs, and told her to unlock them. He stood in the doorway holding the thirty-eight in his right hand, with his left hand grasping his right wrist.

Marge knelt where she could not see the man’s face and worked the key in the lock until the manacles uncoupled. Hicks sent the man sprawling against the toilet bowl again, slid his pistol across the bathroom tiles toward Marge, and went after him. He forced the man’s arms downward behind the bowl and secured the handcuffs over his wrists below the porcelained pipe that joined it to the wall.

He picked up the handgun and then unbuckled the man’s belt and lowered his trousers so that he appeared to be relieving himself.

“You’re gonna end up in a bag, fool,” the man said.

“If that’s the case,” Hicks said, “I better ice you fellas.”

The man shook his head.

“That wouldn’t help.”

Hicks laughed.

“You think it wouldn’t help, huh?”

“What did you get for this run, Hicks? A few grand? We’ll double it. It’s our smack, for Christ’s sake.”

“Maybe you ought to,” Marge said. Hicks did not look at her. “Maybe you should let them have it,” she said. “It’s not worth it.”

“This is an intelligent young lady,” the man on the toilet bowl said. He stared at Marge in a sort of passion; his brown eyes were moist. “Hicks, you hear what she says? She doesn’t want to die.”

Hicks walked out of the bathroom. In a moment, Marge followed.

“Listen,” the man on the toilet bowl called. “She wants to hand it over. He won’t let her.”

“You stupid cocksucker,” Broadway Joe called from the kitchen. “You know what you’re gonna get?”

Hicks walked into the kitchen, bent over Broadway Joe, and clubbed him twice across the face with the butt of the thirty-eight.

“You’re not gettin’ any cherry,” Broadway Joe said softly, and fainted.

“I just can’t leave him alone,” Hicks said. “I love him.”

They went into the bedroom and closed the door.

“Let’s give it to them,” Marge said tearfully. “I’ll take the loss. I’ll pay you anyway.”

“Take all your letters,” Hicks told her. “Take anything that can indicate where you might go. Don’t forget anything.” He touched her arm. “And make it quick.”

“Let’s give it to them.” Marge said.

“They’re not as reasonable as you. They’ll kill us any way.”

He went back into the living room and stood by the window. “Hurry up, Marge.”

Marge took up a leather portfolio and began shoving things into it.

Letters from Converse, lists of toll telephone calls, whatever came to mind and hand. She was not really concentrating well. Janey had come back up the back steps and was watching her through the glass doors.

When she had taken everything she could think of, she went into the living room for a quick last look and quite suddenly began to gag. It took her a moment and a few deep breaths to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she told Hicks.

“You’re not ready for this,” Hicks said.

She went back to the bedroom, let Janey inside, and led her by the hand past the open bathroom door. She kept herself between Janey and the doorway but Janey peeked round her and saw the bearded man on the toilet.

“Kiss your ass goodbye, cunt,” the bearded man said.

Marge did not look at him.

Hicks put the taped chain and the pistols he had acquired into his AWOL bag and led them into the hallway. They went down the two flights slowly, Marge pushing Janey before her. When Hicks opened the street door, the sunlight bathing the white and pastel buildings of the block made the world seem abnormally bright.

He stood for a moment peering outside.

“Where’s your car?” he asked her.

“Beside the house. On the left.”

“Get in it and start it up.”

Marge led Janey to the car and turned the key. When the engine turned over, he came quickly down the front steps and climbed in beside them. They pulled out of the driveway and turned left toward the Bay.

“To the bank,” Hicks said.

IT WAS A DIRT ROAD WINDING OVER BLACK CANYON. Above them were fields of blazing stars and on some of the curves Marge caught a glimpse of moonlight on rolling surf. The wind tasted of jasmine. On the far side of the canyon, at an uncertain distance, were colored lights which grew in number and brightness toward the horizon.

They climbed in low gear, Hicks driving, the Ford straining into each rise.

“O.K.?” Hicks asked her. She had been weeping quietly since nightfall.

“I should have brought her. She must be terrified.”

“You did the right thing. June is really special with kids and she’s a great hassler.”

They had left Janey in Mountain View, at June and Owen’s. The idea was that June would deliver her to Marge’s father at the first discreet opportunity.

“I mean do you know what she’s gone through today?”

“I was there.”

On the next curve she strained to see the ocean, her hand covering her mouth. “I was a kid once,” Hicks said. “I had days like that.” She turned to him with a scornful smile. They could hardly see each other in the darkness.

“Not like that.”

“Worse. Wait till I tell you the story of my life. You’ll eat your heart out.”

“How’d you turn out?” she asked after a while.

“Well, your husband says I’m a psychopath.”

Marge shivered and said nothing. “You think he’s probably right?”

“It’s a very imprecise term.”

It seemed to her that he was laughing but she could not be sure. After another twisting mile, he pulled to the side of the dirt road and turned off his lights.

“There’s somebody there.”

“Where?”

“Where we’re going.”

She put her head out the window and when she had listened for a moment she imagined that she could hear voices and faint music.

He started the engine again and they climbed for several hundred yards without lights. When he pulled over he got out of the car and tapped on the door for Marge to follow.

The moon had come over the crest of the hills, a full hysterical shaman’s moon that illuminated the canyon to half its depth. In its light, they slid down the dry scaly shoulder of the road, Hicks going before. There was a gate almost covered in brush at the end of a half-hidden fire trail; Hicks swung it open and they went carefully over an iron cattle grid and followed the trail downward. They could hear the music clearly now — “Credence Clearwater”— and the voices under it. When the side ended they heard the voices alone and it seemed to Marge that there was something wrong about the sound of them, some strangeness or absence of inflection, that did not suit the party music. Around the next hump of mesquite they came in sight of a building, its windows lit by firelight.

Hicks stopped her with a hand against her breast.

“I know who it is.”

He stood watching the house as though he were trying to make up his mind. “Hide,” he said. She looked into the shadowy brush. “Hide where?” Shadows moved against the lighted windows; Marge felt cold. She stayed where she was, waiting for him to direct her. But he kept looking down at the house.

“Belay that Come on with me.”

She followed him into a dirt yard littered with tire tubes and car parts. A number of vehicles were parked in the darkness behind the house but they could not see how many.