to Carmen, “It looks like we gonna be together for a while, ’ey? Till six or six-thirty?”
Richie Nix said, “Bird? Here, hold this,” and handed him his shotgun.
He came toward her and Carmen tried to look him in the eye, tried hard, but lowered and turned her head as his hand came up and she thought he was going to slap her across the face. “You got nice hair,” Richie said, touching it, stroking it. She was looking down at his cowboy boots toe to toe with her white sneakers. “Has body, you don’t have to use a lot of sticky spray on it.” He moved against her, his hands going to her shoulders. “Mmmmm, smells nice, too. I can see you believe in personal hygiene, you keep yourself clean. I like your sweater- and-shirt outfit. You look like a little schoolgirl.” His hands came down to take hold of her hips. “Scoot over, I want to get something here.”
Carmen looked up. She saw the diamond in his earlobe and saw Armand Degas watching them. Richie had the oven door open. He brought out a wedge of cold pizza and took a bite as he moved to the window over the sink.
“How come you had to drive the pickup?”
“It was there,” Carmen said. Her voice sounded dry.
“Whatever that means,” Richie said, looking at her now. “It don’t matter. Where’s the keys?” When she hesitated Richie stepped over to her purse lying on the counter. “In here?”
Armand said, “Put the truck in the garage and close the door. Let’s get that done.”
Carmen watched Richie look up and stare at Armand before he said, “That’s what I’m gonna
“I thought you might want to keep talking,” Armand said, “till somebody drives by, sees the truck.”
Richie stopped and took a bite of pizza. He said, “Hey, Bird?” in a mild tone of voice. “Fuck you.”
It didn’t seem to bother Armand. Carmen watched him. All he did was shrug, reach over and lay Richie’s shotgun on the counter against the wall.
She moved to the window over the sink, not wanting to be alone with Armand looking at her. She had to make up her mind how to think about this, how to accept it—her mouth dry, trying to breathe, telling herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly—how to act, passive, or let herself go, think of Wayne walking in and let the tears come, plead with them, please...Or think of a way . . . First get the keys back from Richie, with the key to Wayne’s closet, the Remington inside. She thought of it without knowing if it was possible or if she’d have the nerve, it was hard to picture, if she did somehow get to the gun—would it be loaded?—and held it on them...then what? Through the window she saw Richie inside the pickup, starting it, both hands free, what was left of the pizza slice sticking out of his mouth. He might leave the keys in the ignition. She watched the pickup creep ahead and turn toward the garage, out of view.
Behind her, Armand said, “You want to fix us some breakfast? We brought food, it’s in the icebox.”
Carmen turned and they were as close as the day he tried to come up the porch steps, his face raised with the hunting cap hiding his eyes, the day she could have shot him and wished to God, now, she had.
She said, “What do you want?”
“There some waffles if you have any syrup.”
“I don’t mean to
“We’re waiting for your husband.”
Making it sound like a visit.
“And when he gets here...?”
She watched him shrug and then look up. A hammering sound was coming from the garage, Richie—it would have to be Richie—pounding on metal. The sound stopped.
“I know why you’re here,” Carmen said. “Why can’t you say it?”
“Well, if you know that . . .” He gestured with his hands, let them fall and said, “Don’t talk so
much, all right?”
“Or what, you’ll shoot me?”
“I’ll get tired hearing you and put a gag on your mouth, tie you up. You want that? I don’t care.”
Richie came in holding Wayne’s sleever bar. “Look it, Bird. What the guy used on us. I knew he kept it in that tool box. It’s just what I been looking for.”
Armand didn’t say anything.
Richie dropped the keys on the counter going by and Carmen didn’t hesitate. She stepped over from the sink, picked up the keys, ready to shove them into her jeans, and stopped. Richie was at Wayne’s closet. She watched him wedge the pry end of the bar into the seam between the door and the frame, Richie saying, “I been wondering why you kept this locked.” He put his weight behind the bar, pushing on it. “I never even noticed it till this morning.” He grunted, pushed hard and the door popped open.
Carmen stared at the closet. She could see Richie inside now with the light on. Armand, close to her, said, “You gonna fix us breakfast?”
“Fishing poles and a bunch of shit for hunting,” Richie said, his voice raised. “I thought there’d be a gun. Hey, Bird, didn’t you?”
Carmen didn’t move, staring at the closet, Richie inside looking around. Close to her Armand said, “There was a shotgun.” She didn’t look at him. “That one you had, ’ey? Where’s that one?”
“In Cape Girardeau, Missouri,” Carmen said.
“That’s where you were? It sounds French, no? But I never heard of it. So your husband has the gun, ’ey?”
She was thinking that last week or the week before or whenever it was, she had brought the Remington inside and Wayne had come back from the store where the girl was killed and picked it up. . . . It wasn’t next to the door when they left and Wayne didn’t bring it with them, she was sure of that. He had put it somewhere... she thought in his closet.
“I remember that gun, with the slug barrel on it,” Armand said. “I remember I asked you, you shoot people with that thing? Oh, you wanted to shoot me that time. I watched you, I could see it. Didn’t you?”
Carmen stared at Richie in the closet, Richie holding something in his hand, looking at it closely.
“But you couldn’t do it,” Armand said in his quiet voice close to her. “Maybe your husband’s different, I don’t know. But you don’t shoot people, do you?”
Carmen didn’t answer, watching Richie coming out of the closet with a plastic bottle in his hand, holding it up.
“Hey, Bird? What’s Hot Doe Buck Lure?”
Armand inspected the entire house again in daylight. Upstairs in the bedroom he pulled the phone cord out of the wall, in case the ironworker’s wife sneaked up here. She might do it, but could never jump out of one of these windows without hurting herself. She would have to go through the two panes of glass, the window and the storm sash, once he locked them, using all the strength in his fingers to twist each catch in place. There were storm windows downstairs too. The living room was on the wrong side of the house to watch from, but the dining room was good. Armand liked the dining room, the big oak table, the window in front and the row of windows along the side, where the ironworker would drive in. There was still plenty of time. It was only eleven-thirty. He’d have one drink, a swallow from the bottle, that’s all.
He was getting used to the sounds around this place. It had been quiet all night except for Richie, but now the wind was gusting, rattling the windows, and those big cargo planes from the Self-ridge Air National Guard base were flying over low, with a roaring noise like they were coming into the house. It would shut Richie up for a few moments. Armand felt himself coming to the end of Richie, the irritation of this guy, this punk, reaching its peak, and by the end of this day that would be enough of him. Richie hadn’t mentioned Donna yet but he would, Armand was pretty sure.
Earlier, they had eaten in the kitchen, the waffles you put in a toaster. The ironworker’s wife had syrup. She made coffee and stood by the window while they sat at the counter, Richie talking, trying to impress her, the punk talking with his mouth full. He asked her if she had ever met a bank robber before. She said no. He asked her if she liked Missouri. She shrugged her shoulders. He said did she know Jesse James was from there? He said he was going to Missouri and rob one of the banks Jesse James robbed, that would be cool. He showed her all the flat frozen-food boxes in the icebox, not in the freezer, thawing on a shelf, so you could cook them quicker, and told her he ate chicken every day. You know why? She said no. He said because Wade Boggs ate chicken every day of his
