“These were gonna be on you,” Powell said to the men, laughing. “Bought ’em at a sex shop and rigged ’em up myself. Long time ago.” His thoughts seemed to wander, then he smiled at Gene. “Figured it would bother you more to see these two little weasels in ’em than to be in ’em yourself. And I see I’m right.”
Powell began pacing back and forth across the basement. There was a sleeping bag on a cot against the far wall and a small wooden table. A portable, battery-operated lantern sat on the table, along with a rumpled canvas bag and wadded-up paper sacks from a fast-food place. The lantern light cast long, strange shadows. This room didn’t smell like oil. It smelled like sweat and old hamburgers.
“Daddy, why is he doing this to us?” Sam asked.
Powell laughed again. “Tell him, Gene. Tell him what a great guy his old man is.”
“It’s all my fault, Sam,” Gene choked out. “God forgive me, it’s all my fault.”
“Gene—” Julian said.
“Shut the fuck up, Neukirk,” Powell said. “Let the doc make his confession.”
But Gene was silent. Powell went over to the canvas bag and exchanged his gun for a long knife. He moved over to Julian and, before anyone knew what he was planning, made a small cut on Julian’s arm.
Bret started screaming. Gene and Sam were shouting.
“Shut up!” Powell yelled, moving back toward Julian with the knife.
They were all silent.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Julian said, but his face was pale. Sam moved over to Bret, held on to him.
“Now, Gene, I asked you to make your confession,” Powell said. “Tell these little faggot kids of yours what you did.”
“No one should ever call anyone a faggot,” Sam said, repeating — verbatim — one part of a lecture they had received not long ago.
Bret, who had not been able to take his eyes from his father’s bleeding cut, was terrified that Powell would slice at Julian again because of Sammy’s remark.
But Powell just laughed. “You admit being faggots, huh?”
“No. We’re just like brothers,” Sam said, still holding Bret. “Brothers don’t have sex with each other. But even if we were gay, you shouldn’t say the word ‘faggot.’ It’s bad manners.”
Powell howled with laughter. “Man, you are a piece of work, kid.”
“I’m very proud of you, Sam,” Gene said quietly, attracting everyone’s attention. Bret realized that Gene’s voice was different. He sounded stronger, as if being proud of Sam had made him braver. “But I’m not so proud of myself. You’re right. You and Bret are like brothers, just as Julian and I are like brothers. It’s also right that it’s my fault we are here — partly because I didn’t confide in Julian.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Julian said.
“It’s the only thing that matters,” Gene said. “Boys, I want to tell you a story — a true story. Julian knows some of it, but not all of it.”
Powell backed off from the men and sat on the cot. “I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta this,” he said.
Julian looked over at Bret and Sam. He mouthed the words, “Be brave.”
So Gene began to tell them about gambling and losing money. He talked about being afraid of the men he owed money to, of what they might do if he didn’t pay them back. He talked about Powell approaching him with the chance to make easy money.
“Chris knew a man who wanted something flown to the United States from Mexico,” he said.
“What was it, Daddy?” Sam asked.
Gene hesitated.
Powell jumped to his feet, knife in hand. He swaggered over to Gene. “What was it, Daddy?” he mimicked.
“Cocaine,” Gene whispered.
Bret saw Sam’s eyes widen in disbelief. Bret shouted what Sam had wanted to say. “You’re lying!”
“Bret!” Julian said sharply.
Gene was shaking his head. “No, Bret, I’m sorry, I’m not.”
“Boys,” Julian said quickly, “this is a secret. You understand? No one ever hears about this. No one! Not ever.”
Powell turned and slashed him again, the other arm this time. In the next instant, he cut Gene.
“You two are pissing me off!” Powell shouted. “Now get on with the story, Gene. Or next time, I cut one of these little babies over here.”
Shakily Gene went on. He told of flights to Mexico in the Cessna 210 — flights the boys thought were missions of mercy to help people too poor to pay for doctors. Yes, he really did help the poor, he told them when Sam asked. But while the other doctors were there only to help, he was also doing illegal business on the side. That’s why he always went on his own, alone, and the others went in groups. If he met up with other doctors, he told them he flew alone because of his insurance, but that wasn’t true.
He picked up the drugs — marijuana or cocaine or heroin — in Mexico. He would then fly the plane to the Kern Valley Airport, near Lake Isabella, and drive down to Bakersfield from there. Powell would unload the drugs and leave money for Gene in a special locked box. It was a lot of money. It helped him get out of debt quickly.
Although at first he did not handle any payments to the suppliers, eventually Gene was entrusted with taking
