--I use my flame sword.

--I find its gay.

Andy starts dropping the geodesic dice back in the little leather bag he keeps them in.

--When do we meet Jeff?

His head stuck out the window so he can smoke, George holds up a couple fingers.

--Two. He'll drive us over to check out the house.

Paul crowds next to him at the window and takes the smoke from his hand.

--We should just hit it tonight.

--Let's take a look first. Could be a dog or it could have an alarm or some s.h.i.t. You know how to do anything with an alarm? Cuz I sure as s.h.i.t don't.

--But if it's cool, we should rob it tonight.

--The guy wants to pay us to do this s.h.i.t, man. Let's be cool.

Hector squeezes next to them and takes the smoke.

--Yeah, let's do it when he says. Two bills for that s.h.i.t we had. I want more of that.

George gets his cigarette back, takes the last drag and flicks the b.u.t.t, the cherry trailing over the neighbor's fence.

--That's the point, man. If he can do this, tell us what houses have good s.h.i.t, and he'll buy it from us? I don't want to f.u.c.k it up. Jeff says the guy says it'll be empty tomorrow night. We'll just take a look tonight. Make sure it's not too sketchy.

Behind them, Andy's eyes scan the dungeon he designed earlier in the day, mentally crossing off the rooms the guys have already traversed, the hazards survived, the riches plundered. More monsters and fewer traps next time. The guys like fighting more than they like figuring things out.

The Sketchy House Hector hears the screams from the side of the house.

He wraps the chain around his hand and punches the plate gla.s.s door. It shatters, shards raking his forearm. He reaches down and flips the lock and pulls his arm out. He yanks on the handle and the door jams against the length of 1x2 he's forgotten about.

He throws rabbit punches at the gla.s.s, widening the hole.

The screams stop.

Someone is coming into the livingroom.

--Yo, Hector.

He stops punching the gla.s.s, stands there staring at Timo.

--Hector, I ever tell you what a piece of a.s.s your little sister is?

Hector hits the gla.s.s again, spattering it with his own blood.

Timo is laughing.

--Keep coming, I want to talk to you about her. You pop her cherry yet? Or your old man beat you to it? Hope not, I'm looking forward to that s.h.i.t. So far all she gives up is t.i.t, but I'll be in her p.u.s.s.y in a week.

Hector kicks the gla.s.s, the hole is almost big enough to get through now.

Timo points at something.

--Hey, yo, what's that?

Hector sees the reflection in a hanging shard of gla.s.s just before Ramon limps up behind him and cracks him in the back of his head with his crutch.

The Rule of Shotgun The pickup starts.

Jeff rolls out of the trailer park and pulls up at the QuickStop gas pumps. The gas is eight cents cheaper in the middle of town, away from the freeway entrance, but the guys here know him and won't give him s.h.i.t when he leaves the engine running while the gas pumps. Let it die and it may never start again. He puts five bucks in the tank and heads out, a tallboy in a brown bag between his thighs.

A little breeze blows through the open windows and cools off the cab. f.u.c.king Security Eye and their polyester uniforms. Couldn't they at least throw down for something made with a blend, something that might breathe a little? He uses his left hand to undo the b.u.t.tons all the way down his front, exposing his sweat stained T.

He swigs the beer.

Should be at home. Sitting on the porch, finishing the rebuild on that carburetor. Should be getting the Harley back together so he can ride and not have to worry about the pickup starting, not have to worry about if he's gonna have to take the bus. Instead, gotta pick up the kids.

d.a.m.n it, Geezer. Fat slob doesn't have enough guys around he can get to rob his houses for him, has to get these kids involved?

Oh well, not like he can really do anything about it. Gonna tell Geezer how to do his business? Gonna tell the kids to knock this s.h.i.t off and tuck in their shirts and go to cla.s.s? Geezer's gonna do what he wants. The kids are gonna do what they want. Everybody's gonna do what they want, just like they always do. Everybody's gonna do this s.h.i.t, no reason why he shouldn't help out here and there and make a few bucks himself.

But s.h.i.t, gotta be tonight? Really want to get the Harley on its feet.

He pulls the pickup to the curb, finishes the last of the beer and drops the bag and the can out the window and lights a smoke.

Little f.u.c.kers best not be late.

--Hey, littering makes the Indian cry. Don't you watch TV? Ain't you seen the Indian cry when people litter?

The pickup lurches as Andy and Hector climb into the bed.

George strolls up, bends over and picks up the beer can.

--Crying Indians, man, that's no joke.

He holds out the can.

Jeff takes it from him.

--You guys high again?

--The word is still.

--Yeah, well you're still a punka.s.s without a car. So get your a.s.s in and let's go.

George sees Paul about to pull open the pa.s.senger door.

--Shotgun!

Paul flips him off.

--f.u.c.k you, I called it on the way over here.

--You can't call shotgun until you see the car.

--Since when?

--Forever, man, that's always been a rule. No early shotguns.

--It's a gay rule.

George comes around the truck.

--Hector, what's the shotgun rule?

Hector sits on top of the wheel well.

--Got to see the vehicle in question, man.

George reaches in the back of the truck and pokes his brother.

--Andy?

Andy is on his back, looking at the sky.

--It's the rule. The only rule standing between us and the savages. It keeps the forces of chaos at bay. Scorn not the rule.

Paul starts to climb in the cab.

--f.u.c.k chaos. I called this s.h.i.t right after we climbed out the window. You can see the street from your window. You look, you can see your window through the trees. I called shotgun when we could see the truck.

George blocks him.

--You can see it. But did you see it?

--Man, are you splitting hairs with me on calling shotgun?

--Hey, you heard Andy, man. Chaos. You want to risk chaos?

Paul moves George's arm from his way and gets in the truck.

--Dude, I'll take my f.u.c.king chances.

Jeff looks at both of them.

--You ladies settled? Got that one all worked out? I just want to know so I can keep track of the gas I'm burning here so I know what to charge your a.s.ses for the taxi service.

Paul closes the door.

--Shotgun. It's a complicated issue.

George boosts himself into the bed of the truck and stands behind the cab and slaps the roof.

--We ride!

Jeff drops the empty beer can back in the street and pulls away.

--f.u.c.king kids.

Andy raises his arm, pointing at the stars.

Calling out.

--Daring chaos by breaking the eternal rule of shotgun, they set out on their journey.

On the dark street off North L, Jeff drives the truck past the house, letting the kids get a good look. It's just another c.r.a.ppy house in another run down neighborhood. A couple lights are on. There's a streetlamp out front. Second time around the block Jeff dumps all the kids except George at the corner. George lies on his back in the bed of the pickup with the pellet gun Jeff dug out from behind the seats. He pumps it until it won't pump anymore. Jeff stops below the streetlamp, and George draws a bead the way his dad taught him years ago when they shot his grandpa's old .22 in the fields beyond the 580. The gun pops and the lamp goes black and Jeff pulls away as gla.s.s showers the street. They pick up the guys and go home.

[image]

Why doesn't he come home?

He stays out all the time. But tonight of all nights, why doesn't he come home?

Kyle Cheney sits in the livingroom, his back to the front door, TV tuned to NBC. The Tonight Show was on when he nodded off, but now it's only a cloud of static. All the lights are off. The scene is set. But his son won't come home.

He's at George and Andy's.

Where else would he be.

That's where they always end up. He watched them exit the trailer park, weaving their bikes back up the street, knowing where their next stop would be. After they disappeared he let himself go back to the QuickStop, ignoring the pints and half pints behind the cash register this time, going to the back where the proper bottles are. And then discovering he was 27 cents short. Having to dig through the change in the loan a cent on the counter. Sweaty, counting pennies out of the green plastic dish, the look from the Middle Easterner behind the counter.

Then heading for home and realizing he couldn't park the car in front of the house. If there was any chance of the boy coming home before midnight it would be ruined if he thought his father was there.

Parking the car two blocks away. Walking with the bottle in a brown paper bag, cradling it in the crook of his arm so it would be less visible.

People, nosy people, b.u.t.ting in.

Waiting. Sitting on the kitchen counter, peeking out the window, waiting. Waiting doesn't work. And it'd be worse if Paul found him like that, desperate like that. He got cleaned up, took a shower. Ate a Hungry Man. A few bites, anyway. Thought he should get the car, decided not to.

Maybe Paul will look out a window over there, late, see the car missing, wonder what's wrong, come looking for his father. Like any son would.

He needs not to be desperate when that happens. In control. Relaxed. In the livingroom, watching TV, back to the door, not concerned.

Don't let him know anything. Not until he goes to the bathroom and opens the toilet and sees the note. Then he'll be scared. Then he'll have to listen to what his father has to say.