--Yes.

--No.

--Yes.

Geezer runs his index finger over the derringer in his pocket, tracing the swirls engraved on the stubby barrel.

--What's your name?

Paul flips him off.

--None of your f.u.c.king business.

Geezer closes his eyes, snaps the grabber open and closed a couple times, and opens his eyes.

--Kid, let me tell you, under normal circ.u.mstances, I wouldn't be going through all this just to get my hands on one measly half kilo of meth. Under normal circ.u.mstances, someone steals from me, I'd just have them knocked unconscious and dragged out by the quarry and their legs or an arm laid across the train tracks and to h.e.l.l with the half kilo.

He sighs.

--But these are not normal circ.u.mstances. In these circ.u.mstances, you s.h.i.ts got my lab busted. In these circ.u.mstances, the new lab these muchachos were supposed to have up and running here is not up and running. In these circ.u.mstances, I now have a serious f.u.c.king problem as far as what kind of cash I have on hand to pay people over in Oakland who want to be paid when they want to be paid and don't give f.u.c.k all what my circ.u.mstances are.

He takes out the derringer.

--All of which is a long way of saying if you want to keep your arms and legs attached to your body you better tell me where my meth is.

Paul puts a hand under his shirt, touches the cigarette burns, thinks about why he puts those burns there, remembers what every single one stands for.

And finds that he isn't afraid at all.

He points at the derringer.

--That your d.i.c.k in your hands there, fata.s.s?

George slaps Paul's calf with the back of his hand.

--Cool it, man.

--You cool it, man, I got this.

--No you don't, no you don't, just tell him.

--I'm not telling him s.h.i.t.

He points at George's head, points at Hector.

--He f.u.c.ked you guys up, I'm not telling him s.h.i.t.

George stands.

--Yeah we're f.u.c.ked up, so stop being a d.i.c.k and tell him where it is!

Paul sticks his face in George's.

--I'm not being a d.i.c.k. These guys are the d.i.c.ks!

--You're being a d.i.c.k!

--f.u.c.k you!

--f.u.c.k you, d.i.c.k.

--Paul! Paul!

Paul looks at Hector.

--What?

--George itsh righsh, you're being a d.i.c.k.

--No, I'm f.u.c.king not!

George shoves him.

--Andy's f.u.c.ked up! My brother is all f.u.c.ked up and he needs help and he, he, and you f.u.c.ked up! I told you to leave that s.h.i.t alone! Now stop being a d.i.c.k! Give them the meth! Tell them where it is! Tell them, you d.i.c.k! Tell them!

Something jumps in Paul's face. Something under the skin.

He looks at the fat guy.

--You hurt Andy?

Geezer looks at Fernando.

--Andy?

--The little kid.

Geezer looks at Paul.

--Yeah, we hurt him.

--You.

Paul looks at the floor. The thing under his skin jumps a couple times, stops. The pressure builds behind his eyes. He holds it in, waits for the spike, but it doesn't come.

He looks up.

--Man, I am so p.i.s.sed at you.

Geezer nods.

--Then I guess we can start talking now.

[image]

Her connection in the pharmacy leaves the door unlocked when he takes his break, and Amy goes in like she belongs there. She walks among the shelves with a clipboard, fills a doctor's order for erythromycin, then heads out of the antibiotics and around the steel shelves to the opiates.

She takes the huge family size bulk shopping bottle of Vicodin from the shelf, shakes ten into her palm, and replaces the bottle. She drops the pills into a Ziploc bag she pulls from her bra. Seals the bag, lifts her skirt and tucks it inside her panties. She does the same with the codeine, taking twenty instead of just ten. She looks at the Percocet and Percodan.

Percs are getting way popular. Used to be all Valium and Quaaludes and Dexedrine. n.o.body wanted anything else because n.o.body knew about anything else. Now pretty much anyone who's had their wisdom teeth out or gone on a diet or had a few st.i.tches just whines and the doctor writes them a script for some new pharm. It's all good for business, but d.a.m.n it's a pain keeping everything in stock.

She gets down the bottle of Percocet and shakes thirty into her last baggie. The pills nest in the crotch of the big white granny undies, and she walks straight out of the pharmacy and into the nearest ladies' room. In a stall, she fiddles with a seat cover dispenser, tugging down the tops of the tissue doughnuts. Then she pulls the baggies one by one from her underwear and shoves them behind the covers and smoothes them back into place. The top one is all wrinkled and bunched. She pulls it out along with three or four more and flushes them away. Now the dispenser looks perfect. The pills will be safe until she comes back for them at the end of her shift. f.u.c.k of a lot better than walking around with panties full of contraband. And with all the times the lockers in the nurses' changing room get broken into, there's no way she's leaving them in there. Ladies' can is the best place by far.

She washes her hands and exits.

She drops the erythromycin at the nurses' station on her floor, tells them she's taking her break, and rides the elevator to the bas.e.m.e.nt cafeteria. She gets a cup of coffee, looks at a doughnut, remembers having to cover her tummy in front of Jeff and grabs a banana instead.

The cafeteria's almost empty. Just a few graveyarders like her, and a handful of family members doing all night death watches on their loved ones.

Whole hospital is depressing as h.e.l.l.

At least she got out of pediatrics.

Seemed like a good idea. Thought being around the kids would make the day go quicker. Doesn't have any of her own, but she really digs kids. And they are fun to be around when it's just a checkup or something.

But kids that are sick? Really sick?

That's the worst.

Some mommy getting word that little Brianna has advanced stage lymphoma and is gonna die in about two months if they start chemo right away? Watching a scene like that, having some doctor expect her to pick up the pieces after he's dropped the news and gone on to his next patient? That is not life affirming at all. That is not what she had in mind.

Head trauma is a walk in the park after that.

In head trauma you see what's coming from a mile away. Pediatrics was like getting a fresh lesson in the f.u.c.kedupness of G.o.d on an hourly basis.

The f.u.c.kedupness of G.o.d. Defined in her own life as Geezer thinking she's dealing crank. She puts her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.

Jeff may or may not be able to convince Geezer she's cool. If he can't, he'll be worthless. Nice guy, cute, but not tough. Not tough enough for Geezer. Couple of her old men would be up for it. But calling any of them means opening the door to all kinds of s.h.i.t. Call one of those guys to take care of something like this and they're gonna be expecting a lot back. End up playing house with one of those Neanderthals, riding b.i.t.c.h on the back of his hog, handing over the cash from her business. No f.u.c.king way.

Should get a gun.

A gun. s.h.i.t.

If only. If only Bob wasn't such a d.i.c.k. She could call him. He'd take care of it. One way or another, he'd make sure she was safe.

Or maybe not. There was a time he'd have dealt with it in no uncertain terms at all. But that was a while back. And even if he hadn't put all that away, he still might not help her. Not after the c.r.a.p with George.

When he found out George was hanging around her place all the time, he flipped. I know what's going on here, Amy. I know what your business is. Can't go into the Rodeo for a beer without someone asking me to get them hooked up with you. I know you're dealing. I don't know what it is, I don't care what it is. But I can't believe, I cannot believe that you'd let children, your nephews, be around that c.r.a.p. They're kids, they don't know any better unless they're told. I tell them, I tell them to stay away, that's just gonna make them come around more. So you tell them. Tell them they are not welcome. Do it. You don't do it, I hear they're coming around, and I will drop a dime on you, Amy. Sister or not, my kids are more important to me than you are. Make them go away. Do it tomorrow.

Nothing to do at that point but run George off. Start a fight with the kid and p.i.s.s him off.

Jesus, if Bob had known the kid was running her s.h.i.t around for her.

Would have disowned her for sure. Christ, would have pulled one of their dad's moves and beaten the c.r.a.p out of her.

--Amy.

She looks up.

--Hey, Bob.

[image]

The car's still not there.

Paul tries to remember the last time he saw it.

This morning? No, it's almost morning now. Not this morning, yesterday morning, when they went down to Galaxy? Was it there? No. s.h.i.t. OK, think. Was it there when they snuck out of George's bedroom window and got the bikes and rode over to the house?

He thinks about the house.

Hector and George all beat to h.e.l.l. That fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d sitting on the couch, too fat to even get up, just sitting there sweating. Fernando staying on the other side of the room, not speaking unless spoken to. Ramon. f.u.c.king bada.s.s Ramon. Out cold. All that blood.

Andy.

Wouldn't let him see Andy. George is scared bad. f.u.c.k kind of shape is Andy in if he's so worried about him? Hurting Andy? Who? What the f.u.c.k? What do you get out of hurting a little kid?

What do you get out of touching a kid?

--Comb on, Cheney. Whud duh fug?

He shrugs Timo's hand off his shoulder.

--Don't touch me.

--I'lb touge youd id I wad.

Paul looks at Timo's swollen nose, the b.l.o.o.d.y clogs of toilet paper sticking out of his nostrils. Don't even have to hit the thing, just slap it and he'll go down on his knees.

He turns back to his house, the mystery of the missing car.

--Just keep your hands to yourself.

Timo stuffs one of the TP plugs deeper into his nose.

--Jud ged uz in duh house.

--Shut up and I'll get us in.