--And you guys gotta give the truck a push.

George takes his cash.

--How'd you get the price up?

--Started high, you know. Truth is, guy bit on my price so fast, I was probably asking too low. Looks like you guys got a better eye for this s.h.i.t than I thought.

He gets up.

--Matter of fact, guy I was dealing with, he's looking for more of the same.

He heads for the bedroom.

--But he wants to get his hands on it fast. Has some deal of his own going.

Paul looks at the others and sticks his thumbs in the air, yelling down the hallway.

--How fast?

Jeff pops his head out of the bedroom.

--Fast. Couple days at the most. As much as you can get. Gold, silver, jewels, platinum. Coins. Whatever you can get your hands on, he'll take it.

George waves Paul down.

--Hey, man, that's cool and all, but we kind of lucked into this s.h.i.t. Wouldn't know where to start actually finding the right houses for good stuff.

--Not a problem.

Jeff comes back down the hall, cracked black leather boots draped by the cuffs of indigo polyester slacks with a baby blue stripe down the side, tattooed arms hidden in the sleeves of a matching shirt with the Security Eye patch on the shoulder.

--He's got a house he says is prime.

The Sketchy House Paul freezes, and watches George's legs as he's jerked into the bathroom, his jeans catching, pulled low, deep gouges being cut into his thighs.

He grabs his friend's ankles and digs his heels into the dirt.

--Let go! Let the f.u.c.k go! I'll f.u.c.king kill you if you don't let go!

George is howling, blood running down his legs.

--Paul! Paul! Letmegoletmego! f.u.c.king Andy is! Letmego!

There's a sound like a piece of firewood hitting a gourd.

George's legs stop kicking.

Paul freezes.

His friend's legs are yanked from his hands, disappearing into the window and leaving behind a sc.r.a.p of b.l.o.o.d.y denim and a single tennis shoe that falls to the ground.

Fernando's face appears in the window.

--You coming in, Cheney?

Paul runs.

He runs and boosts himself over the fence and lands in the front yard and runs some more and keeps running.

Nothing Like His Father Mr. Cheney ducks low behind his steering wheel when the boys come out of the trailer park pushing a pickup. It jerks and a huge cloud of black smoke spits out of the tailpipe and the boys and the truck leap forward a few yards. Paul jumps in and slides behind the wheel as the driver gets out and heads into the store.

Good Lord, Jeff Loller.

How long has Paul been hanging around that overgrown delinquent?

Would barely know the man if Loller hadn't taken one of his intro computer cla.s.ses last year. Didn't last. Once he realized they wouldn't be sitting around playing Tetris and Flight Simulator he dropped out. Before that he was just a vaguely familiar face. Memorable in high school mostly because he was one of Bob Whelan's cronies. By the time he'd come back from college and moved into the house down from Bob's, Loller had faded entirely from his memory. Until he'd slouched into cla.s.s looking much the same as he had eighteen years before.

And now Loller is buying liquor for his son.

The appeal for Paul is pretty clear. Loller is much like any number of the boyfriends his mother's friends dragged through the house when he was small. Nothing like his father. Long hair. A motorcycle. Aimless. A bad cliche.

He watches his son in the other man's truck, revving the engine to keep it from dying. Does he know how to drive it? Of course he does. He smokes and drinks and takes drugs and steals things and has s.e.x; of course he knows how to drive. Did Loller teach him? The thought.

Jeff comes out of the store with a brown paper bag. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink from the bottle inside, then hands it to George and gets back in his truck, Paul jumping out the other side.

After he's driven off and the boys have left with their bottle, Kyle waits several minutes, then runs across the street for his brandy. Just for a little relief.

[image]

--If you guys are gonna stay over tonight you can help with those rocks on Sunday.

Paul turns from the sink where he's washing his hands with a gritty bar of Lava.

--What if we're not staying over the whole weekend?

Mr. Whelan pops the tab on a can of Oly and pours it into one of the beer mugs he keeps in the freezer during the summer.

--Paul, if you manage to get through the weekend without spending a night here or eating at least one meal in my house, I will apologize on Monday for having made you shovel rocks. But until that jury is in, the cost of a hot and a cot is you lend a hand. Got it?

Hector takes his turn at the sink.

--I got it, Mr. Whelan.

Sitting at the kitchen table with his beer, George and Andy's dad looks at Paul.

--You got it?

Paul wipes his hands on a dish towel and hands it to Hector.

--Yeah, no problem. Sir.

--Can that sir c.r.a.p.

--Yes. Sir.

Mr. Whelan is bent over, unlacing his boots.

--You still planning on joining the Army, Paul?

--Yep.

--That smarta.s.s c.r.a.p will not float. I didn't serve myself, but I can tell you right now, that c.r.a.p will sink like a t.u.r.d made out of brick. And drag you with it.

Paul laughs.

--Yes, sir.

Mr. Whelan leans back and crosses his legs, flexing his toes in his filthy socks.

--See, if this was the Army and I was your sergeant, I'd be busy slapping you down and watching you do about five hundred pushups before I sent you down the hall to clean my toilet so my wife doesn't have to do it this week.

He leans forward and tugs the back of his wife's tanktop.

--How 'bout that, you like to have this punk clean the bathrooms for you this week?

She looks from the giant bowl of fruit salad she's making.

--It'd be a nice change of pace from the messing up he does in there.

Andy comes in from the bathroom.

His mom squints at him.

--You feeling alright?

He shrugs.

--Sure, fine.

His mom puts the back of her hand on his forehead.

--You feel a little hot.

--It's like a hundred degrees out. Everything's hot.

--Well, drink something cold. Drink some Kool-Aid.

He gets the jug from the fridge.

Hector grabs two gla.s.ses from the cupboard.

--Let me get some of that.

Bob Whelan drinks his beer and watches the boys jostle around the kitchen, enjoying the noise and the roughhousing.

George comes in, hair wet from the shower. He takes the Kool-Aid jug from his brother and starts drinking directly from the spout.

His mom throws her hands in the air.

--Hey. Hey!

He stops drinking and wipes his lips and looks at his mom.

--What?

--A gla.s.s? Is it so much trouble to open the cupboard and take out a gla.s.s and use it?

--I'm just having a quick drink, why get a gla.s.s dirty?

His dad knocks the bottom of his mug on the table.

--Don't talk back to your mom. You want a drink, you use a gla.s.s.

--Fine. Whatever. I'm not even really thirsty.

He opens the fridge door and puts the jug back and stands looking at the contents of the shelves.

His mom swings a towel at him.

--The door. You're using energy. What's in there isn't gonna change. And I'm making dinner right now.

--I'm just seeing if there's anything.

Mr. Whelan reaches with his foot and pushes the door closed.

--There's plenty. But your mom said she's making dinner and I'm paying the PG&E bills, so don't stand with the door open. Got it?

George moves closer to his mom and looks at what she's doing.

--Fruit salad?

--And sandwiches. It's too hot to cook.

Bob snaps his fingers; three sharp shots.

--Hey, I said, got it?

George faces his dad.