running touchdowns might get them laid by a cheerleader but it wasn't going to get them anywhere far in the world.
The disappointment scrawled in their faces was offset by a perpetual confusion, like they still didn't understand where their lives had taken the left turn. Forty years down the line, they'd still be wearing that expression in their coffins.
These guys, Crease imagined them taking out their old trophies, hissing hot breath against them, and wiping them down with a greater gentleness than they'd ever shown their wives or kids. He had nothing but disdain for these kinds of mooks because in an adjacent universe he was one of them.
He still had Jimmy's knife sheathed on his belt. He drew it and held it out to him, handle-first. 'Hey, you want this back? It's okay, I've got another one now.'
Jimmy-all four Jimmys-stared at Crease like they didn't know what to make of him. They had no idea how dangerous this was yet, how fast things could go nuclear. Funny how many guys walk around looking mean, flexing what muscle they have left, doing their best to appear brutal, but then act all baffled when somebody takes them seriously.
He saw the bulge of a. 32 under one of their jackets. It wasn't in a holster, just stuck in the guy's tight inside pocket like it wasn't any big deal. If he had to draw it in a hurry, he'd be dead before he got his hand on it.
The others weren't carrying. They had no leader. Each one of them was waiting for the other to make the first move.
Jimmy Devlin didn't move to take his knife, so Crease put it back on his belt. He thought about playing around with the butterfly blade for a minute, see what kind of impression it made on these idiots, the speed he could work it, but he didn't want to go to the trouble. It would be easier and more practical to nip this as quick as possible.
Jimmy Devlin's nose was taped up, but Crease knew he hadn't broken it. Jimmy actually took a step backward, trying to center himself, one fist covering his solar plexus to ward off another punch there.
The other Jimmys, now a step out in front, didn't know which way to move, forward or back. They shuffled around some more.
Maybe Crease hadn't come back to town because of his father. Maybe the girl's murder didn't mean as much to him as it should have. Maybe it was just for this kind of scene right here that he'd bolted north. Because no matter how old you got, how much you saw or did, how many children you had or medals you stowed, the adolescent pain clung to your back like a clawed animal.
Jimmy pointed a finger at Crease and said, 'You! You screwing my girl?'
'You want me to?' Crease asked.
'No! What kind of sick question is that?'
Sometimes they were too dumb to even toy with. 'You boys sure you want to do this?'
'Do what?' one of the others said, and he cracked his knuckles. The rest chuckled and bared their teeth in befuddled, bitter smiles, trying to ramp themselves up.
The taped nose caused Jimmy Devlin's voice to go high and nasal. He sounded like his testicles hadn't descended yet. 'Where'd you come from, huh? Why are you here? I want to know why you're here.'
'I wish I could answer that, I really do,' Crease told him. 'But the truth is, I'm not certain myself. Let's just say I needed to see Hangtree again. And there's some stuff about my old man. And kidnappers. And a serious drug dealer and a bent sheriff. And a dead six-year-old girl. And money.'
'What money?' one of the other Jimmys asked, his eyes wide.
The setting sun dropped heavily from the sky, the silhouettes of distant stands of pine and maple raised against its face. Night swarmed in around them, the stars appearing in great moving washes like a black ocean stirring as a storm approached. Wind swept across the street and blew bronze leaves with slashes of fiery ember along the walks. Inside the bar things were starting to crank, the dull thrum of music and belligerent laughter rising and falling in swells. Front porch wind chimes tinkled and tolled up and down the roads, all across the neighborhood. He didn't hear any children laughing. He seemed to want to hear children laughing. He was getting maudlin again.
Jimmy Devlin said, 'You aren't from here, are you?'
'I could read you the license plate of your orange '84 Camaro, if you want. But you probably don't remember it, do you, Jimmy?'
'Christ, you do know me.'
'I know you.'
'I want your name. Tell me your name.'
'No,' Crease said.
There was always a problem with talking too much, even if you only did it to squeeze a little entertainment out of the situation for yourself. You got to chattering and pretty soon the others started believing you weren't going to do anything more. You were all talk. It gave them time to quell their nerves and pump themselves up again. Crease knew he should shut up, but he couldn't help himself. Talking to Jimmy was scratching a few places deep inside him that he hadn't fully realized he still had.
He could see these four on the streets of New York, swaggering downtown in the East Village. Looking for a place to get a brew and the first spot they hit is a gay bar. They walk in and see two guys holding hands and suddenly they need to start bashing in order to prove to each other they didn't want to take bubble baths together. They'd get half an insult out before they got their asses kicked.
Crease sighed again.
Another Jimmy said, 'Answer the man. The man wants an answer. You should give him one. You're being rude.'
'What's that?'
'You're being very disagreeable!'
It got Crease grinning. He thought, That's the worst the guy can say? That I'm disagreeable?
Another Jimmy said, 'Yeah, who do you think you are? You coming around here causing all kinds of trouble. Irritating our friend. Screwing around with his girl. Asking sick questions. We don't like people who ask sick questions around here.'
Jimmy with the. 32 said, 'Don't make us do something we don't want to do.'
'Like what?' Crease asked.
'Like what we don't want to do.'
'Yeah, but what is it you don't you want to do?'
'We don't want to do something you might make us do!'
'What am I making you do?'
'Just get in your car and get out of here. Or else you might make us-'
Taking a step forward and getting back in line with the others Jimmy Devlin said, 'Just stay away from Rebecca. She's my girl.'
'You sure about that?'
'You don't know her, you don't know who you're dealing with. You got no idea what she's all about.' He let out that laugh again, the one from the old days. 'You should've listened to me when I was talking to you the other night. She'll spit you out. I love her. You can't handle her.'
Crease heard that laugh and everything that went along with it, the sound of the Camaro's engine kicking into fourth gear. The tires squealing down Main Street, the smash of the beer bottle. His old man saying, 'Take cover.'
The four Jimmys moved up another step, the two on the ends easing out in a wide spread, cutting off any exit. All of them dropping their shoulders, shifting their weight. They were on the front line. Coach had them by the birdcage. They probably saw bleachers around them all the time, girls waving in the stands. Talent scouts taking notes.
They were stupid and they would be easy, but the chances were high that at least one of them would get hurt badly. Or somebody would get a lucky punch in. Crease couldn't afford to be off his game when it came to the final drop with Tucco. He didn't need any more trouble right now. Not when the real thing would be coming along soon enough.
Crease said to Jimmy Devlin, 'Let me get this straight, okay?'
