Six Bad Things (31 page)

—Bathroom’s down there.

Sid looks down the hallway, the open door of a bathroom visible at its end. A closed door on its right, Hitler’s barking coming from behind it. He looks at me.

—Well, go on, man.

He looks at Rolf, then turns and walks into the bathroom and closes the door, his movements as stiff and unnatural as a robot. But he’s not afraid. He’s excited; charged with violence.

I look around the living room. Electric blue velvet couch against the left wall, matching love seat against the right, a deco coffee table between them, wood floors partially covered by a fake Moroccan rug, fireplace in the far wall, entertainment center next to it, two floor lamps with colored scarves draped over them. On the walls, framed movie posters for
I Want to Live
and Betty Page’s
Variatease,
along with a print of Klimt’s
The Kiss.
Billie Holiday is singing “Good Morning Heartache” on the stereo. Sandy is clearly going for a 1940s Hollywood-starlet bungalow kind of thing.

She goes to the coffee table and finds her pack of Camel Ultra Lights among a jumble of binge trash. Two overflowing ashtrays, a mirror smeared with white residue, crumpled squares of magazine paper, three empty Veuve bottles, a colored pot box like the ones we found at Tim’s, a loaded bong, and three Bic lighters. She drags hard on her cigarette.

—So you get some rest?

There’s a doorway covered by a beaded curtain next to the love seat. I’m guessing that’s the kitchen. Terry is in there, listening. I light one of my own smokes and bob my head up and down.

—Oh, yeah, I’m good to go. But, man, was I wasted.

—Yeah, me too.

I drop a spent match into one of the ashtrays and point at all the gear.

—Not too much to keep going.

—Yeah, yeah, well, me and T got started and then he, you know, and the guy, my boss, Terry, came around so we.

—Kept the party going.

—Yeah, yeah, but yeah, I’m ready to crash.

The toilet flushes and Sid comes back into the room. Sandy jams her smoke out in an ashtray and starts for the front door. I sit on the couch, Rolf drops down next to me, and Sid moves over by the fireplace. Sandy stops.

—So, you guys need to, like, go wait in the car now.

—They’re gonna stay here, OK?

She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

—Motherfucker.

—It’s cool, Sandy.

—Fucking, what is this, Wade?

—It’s cool, baby. These guys are just helping me find Tim and they need to hear what your guy has to say.

—This is so uncool and you know it is.

—Baby, the guy, he wanted a grand, right?

I take my money out of my pocket. After T shopped for me, after paying Sandy last night, and after partying my ass off, I’m down to about fourteen hundred. I count off a thousand.

—Tell him he can have it. All he has to do is walk out here and talk to us.

She looks at the money.

—This is wrong, this is so.

—Baby, take the money and go talk to the guy.

The index and middle fingers of her right hand are scissoring against each other and she’s shaking her head.

—Please. Don’t.

I push the money to the edge of the coffee table.

—I’m sorry, baby. But this is the way it’s gonna be. These guys have to stay. So take the money and go talk to your guy and make him understand. Take the money, baby.

She rubs her forehead.

—Shit.

She steps to the table, scoops up the money, and pushes through the curtain, the strings of beads swinging and clicking behind her.

She’s afraid.

And she should be.

We are violent men.

TERRY’S BEEN spending a lot of time in the gym and the tanning salon. I can tell because of the way his tailored black slacks stretch to cover his thighs, and because his light blue silk shirt with the white French cuffs and collar is hanging open so we can all look at his washboard stomach. He’s completed the look with high-gloss blond hair, sculpted straight back from his forehead, black loafers with no socks, and a Rolex. Terry may be a pot dealer, but he clearly has higher aspirations.

He sashays into the room, his arm draped over Sandy’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers dipped inside her kimono, grazing the top of her left breast. He reclines with Sandy on the love seat across from us.

—Get me a smoke, babe.

She leans forward, gets one of the Newports from the coffee table, hands it to him, and lights it.

—Thanks.

He puts his arm back around her and draws her close until her head is on his shoulder. He looks at Sid by the fireplace and then at me.

—You Wade?

—Yeah.

—I’m Terry.

He waves his cig in Sid’s direction.

—Want to tell your friend there to sit down?

—Why?

—Because he’s making me a little uptight and if he doesn’t sit I’m gonna walk out of the room and you can fuck off.

Sid doesn’t move, but Rolf looks at me.

—Dude.

I put my hand on his thigh.

—It’s cool.

Terry points his cleft chin at Rolf.

—He gotta problem?

—It’s cool.

Rolf rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. I point at the end of the couch. Sid takes three tightrope-walker steps and sits down.

—Better?

Terry nods.

—Oh, yeah, love it.

Sandy has half her face buried in his shoulder. I can see tears on the other half. Her left hand is clenched in a fist, balling the material of Terry’s shirt. Whatever’s coming is coming soon.

—Hey, Sandy.

She jumps at the sound of my voice.

—Yeah?

—You got any coffee or anything in the kitchen you could make for us?

Her lips stretch in a tiny smile.

—Uh, yeah, yeah I could.

She starts to lean forward to get off the love seat, but Terry keeps his arm around her, holding her in place.

—She’s cool here. You guys won’t be around long enough for coffee.

Sandy crouches back into his embrace and hides her face again, closing her eyes this time. Hitler is still barking, somewhere on the other side of the wall right behind me. Barking and barking and barking. Terry smokes and says nothing, a dicky smile on his face. I pull another of T’s cigarettes out of the box in my breast pocket.

—So, Terry, what’s up?

He raises his eyebrows.

—With me?

I put the cigarette in my mouth.

—Yeah.

He shrugs, the smile still on his face.

—Not much, just hanging out mostly.

Rolf slaps my leg with the back of his hand.

—Dude!

—It’s cool.

I start to light my cigarette, and realize that I am already holding a lit one. I flick my eyes up at Terry and watch the smile spread wider on his face.

—Hate it when I do that, don’t you?

I keep my mouth shut, light the new smoke, and stub the other one out in one of the ashtrays already crammed with butts. Camel Ultra Light butts. Newport butts. Pall Mall butts. Lots of Pall Mall butts. Hitler’s barking gets louder.

I look from the ashtray to Terry. He nods.

I start to move, but the sound of a shotgun being cocked to my right stops me. Terry takes a drag from his cigarette and blows a smoke ring.

—So whatsay we all be cool now and just wait for the Russian?

TERRY’S GOONS are a couple of clowns that smoke Pall Malls.

Both wear Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association T-shirts with the word CLOWN spelled out in Western-style lettering. The one with the Remington shotgun has set his outfit off with an NFR 2003 cap, while the guy with the weird little rifle is wearing a camo-patterned cap. NFR stands a few feet away, across the coffee table, covering us with his twenty gauge while the other one pats us down.

He starts with me, holding his gun in his right hand while he feels me up with his left. I look at his gun again. What the…?

—Is that a crossbow?

He runs his hand over my pockets and pulls out my phone and the last of my money, and puts everything on the table.

—Fuckin’ A right it is, boy. So don’t you go movin’ round or I’ll put a bolt through your eyeball.

I stay still. He stands back and takes a long look at me.

—He’s clean, but I can’t figure out what he’s s’posed ta be.

He points the crossbow at my face. I flinch away from it. He laughs.

—Ya s’posed ta be a cowboy? That it, you a cowboy?

He turns to face the guy with the shotgun.

—Hey, Ron, fella thinks he’s a cowboy.

He knocks the hat off my head and the sunglasses from my face.

—Shit, ya ain’t no cowboy.

Camo Hat finishes with me. He moves on to Rolf and looks at his dreads.

—An’ who the fuck you s’posed ta be, Snoop Doggy Daaaaaawg?

He laughs and puts his hand on Rolf’s shoulder. Rolf slaps it away.

—Uh-uh, dude.

Camo Hat guy stiffens and brings his weapon up in both hands. Ron shifts so he can blast Rolf with the shotgun without hitting his pal. Rolf puts his hand down. Camo Hat leans in and presses the crossbow against Rolf’s forehead.

I lean away, not knowing how much blood might spray if he shoots that thing.

—Don’ you fuck around with me, boy. This is a two-hundred-pound Exomag. I pull this trigger an’ this bolt’s gonna jump at three hundred and thirty feet per second. Know what that is in real numbers, boy? That’s over two hundred miles an hour. It’ll go clean through your skull and inta the next room and stick the guy in there.

Guy in there. Now I know where T is.

Terry flicks his cigarette. It bounces off the back of Camo Hat’s neck and Camo jumps.

—Hey! Don’t fuck around like that when I’m holding a weapon.

Terry waves his hand.

—Yeah, sure. How about this, Dale: you shut your mouth and just do your job and check them out.

Dale grunts, turns back to Rolf and starts to pat him down. Terry points at me.

—Wade.

—Yeah?

—What’s the score?

—The score?

—What’s the fucking score?

—I don’t.

—Hey! Hey! Hey!

He lights a fresh smoke and points it at me.

—Think about it.

—Wh?

—Hey! Think about what you are going to say. What’s the score?

I think about it.

—I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

He gets up and shrugs his open shirt onto the floor. I don’t think he’s quite five seven, but he’s made up for it with the weights. His skin is strained over muscles so sharply cut I can see the fibers and veins scrawled all over his torso. He looks like he’d pop if I stuck him with a pin.

—It’s like this, Wade. I’m a team player. I go along, help out the team. Somebody needs to get hurt, they get hurt. But I like to know what the score is. Couple days ago, they tell me a Russian guy is coming around for Tim. No problem, I play. Problem is, nobody tells me the score. They don’t tell me that Tim isn’t supposed to know someone is coming for him, so I tell him not to go anywhere for a couple days, and what happens? He takes off. Tim goes missing. I try to find him. I play. Then the big bad Russian comes to town, and I don’t have Tim, and suddenly my bosses want to rip me new assholes. And all of this, why? Because I didn’t know the score. Now Sandy calls me, tells me a guy is looking for Tim. I play, I call the Russian. But I still don’t know the score. And I want to know it, before the Russian gets here. Because I don’t want any new assholes. So I ask again, what’s the score? And you’re gonna tell me or I’m gonna come over there and give you some free dental work.

Sandy jumps off the couch.

—Stop it!

Terry looks at her.

—Shut it.

—Fuck you. This is my house and I don’t want any more of this in my house. Just get out of my house.

He punches her. He balls his hand into a fist and punches her in the mouth and she drops to her knees, blood pouring from her lips.

Dale turns to watch, but Ron keeps us covered with the shotgun.

Terry grabs her by her hair and yanks her to her feet.

—I said, shut it.

Blood is running down her chin and spattering her kimono. Terry lets go of her hair and she runs up the hall and I hear a door open and slam shut. Terry shakes his head.

—Chick wants to make some money, but thinks it should be easy, thinks nobody should get hurt.

I exhale. Because
I
know the score now. These clowns may be OK at roughing people up, but that’s their limit. That twenty gauge is a small-game weapon. And a crossbow? Not what a pro is likely to carry. As for Terry, Terry’s not a killer; he’s a girl puncher. There are only three killers in this room, and we’re all sitting on the couch. I can chill this out and put myself back in the driver’s seat and all it’s gonna take is a little talk. I open my mouth.

Hitler stops barking.

We all look.

T is slumped against the wall in the hallway. His eyes are glazed, only half open. His face is swollen and bruised and dry blood is crusted around his nostrils and lips, fingers of it dribbled down his neck. Hitler is standing next to him, teeth bared, straining forward, an invisible force holding him at bay.

Dale swings his crossbow around and aims it at Hitler.

—Control your animal, fucker!

T slumps farther. Hitler edges forward.

—Control that fuckin’ thing, boy!

Ron’s mouth is shut, his shotgun still centered on the couch. I slowly raise my hand.

—Everybody just take it easy. No one has to get hurt if we all just take it easy.

Sandy emerges from the hall behind T.

—T! No, T.

Terry shakes his head.

—Stupid bitch.

T lifts his left hand, from which a pair of handcuffs dangle, and points at Terry.

—Hitler! Auschwitz!

Hitler launches himself at Terry.

I put my feet on the coffee table and shove it.

Dale fires his crossbow.

It sounds like someone striking a steel wall with a plastic plank. The bolt hits Hitler in midair, passes so quickly through his left hind leg that it looks like a magic trick, and plunges into T’s calf, pinning him to the wall. The coffee table hits Terry and Ron in the shins just as Ron pulls his trigger. He stumbles, the barrel of the Remington jerks up, and a load of birdshot blasts a hole in the wall just over Rolf’s head. Terry falls flat on his back, his head slamming against the floor, and he gets a perfect view as Hitler soars over him and crashes into the love seat.