they lived, what the kids wore, where they shopped, what they drove. None of it was ever good enough. In Hal’s estimation, Darren needed to leave this bitch and get out of this rat’s nest of a living arrangement. It seemed strange that a big boy like Darren allowed himself to get pushed around and used up like this.
It wasn’t right.
Darren came back on the porch. He smiled with that big jaw of his. Atta boy. His eyes were still blacked, his nose plugged and taped, and that bruise on the side of his neck was coming along good. They had skated by on the damage by telling Lynn they’d been down to Old Orchard Beach drinking in a bar, and got in a scrape with some black boys. Lynn hated those blackies in Old Orchard.
“Only got four beers left,” Darren said. “Guess we’ll need to head out for some.”
Hal smiled, too. The sun was just about gone. Twilight was coming in, and with it, the night’s chill. “Wanna show you something before we do.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Hal’s grin grew even broader. He was feeling good. Despite everything, or maybe because of it, he was feeling real good. He looked forward to a challenge, after all. And getting even? Boy, was there anything quite like it? Even being around Lynn today couldn’t bring him down.
“Out in the car,” he said.
The two men sauntered, beers in hand, the flask of Jack in Hal’s back pocket, through the gathering gloom and over to the parking lot. They reached Hal’s big Caddy Eldorado. He pressed a button on his key chain and the trunk popped open a few inches, the light coming on inside.
There was no one around.
Back over by the bushes – the woods is what they called them – the kids were still running and screaming. They had flashlights now.
Lynn’s voice floated across the lot. “Okay, come on you kids. Get in the house. Now, I said.”
“Whatcha got?” Darren said.
Hal opened the trunk. Lying there, amidst the jack, the tire iron, some recyclable beer bottles, and a few assorted sundries, was the gun case.
“Oooooh,” Darren said.
“You know that Mossberg 20-gauge I had my eye on down to Kittery Trading Post? The single barrel with the pump action?”
“I guess I do.”
Hal unzipped the case and yanked out the shotgun. “Went down and bought her last week. I forgot to mention it in all the recent excitement.”
Darren giggled like a boy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Just like Darren to be a step behind. Why else would it be in the car? “Sure am, kid. Thought I’d bring it with us down to Portland tomorrow night, see what Little Miss Lola does with her prize pussy when she gets a look-see at that big barrel.”
Hal took another slug of his beer. His smile was wider than ever.
After Lorena finished in the garden, she lingered for some time in Smoke’s apartment itself. It was a tiny place, a bachelor’s home in every way, with a double bed in one supposed room, then through a wide open double doorway to the kitchen and dining area, then out the door to the back. The cats had a little doorway they could squeeze through in the lower panel of the back door itself. Oddly, Smoke kept triple locks on both doors, and sometimes at night he placed a t-bar against the bottom, secured with a bolt which he had mounted into the floor.
She teased him sometimes about this. “Who are you afraid of, Smoke? Will the secret police come to get you?” “I am like the janitor – I have so many keys on my chain. They are all to get into your home.”
Smoke didn’t keep the place very clean, and sometimes Lorena cleaned up after him. She didn’t clean too often, though, because Smoke had a woman who should take care of that for him. Lorena was well past the age of competing for a man.
She sighed, not realizing she had done so, then stood and left Smoke Dugan’s apartment. Once outside, she walked the half-mile to the Shaw’s Supermarket near the bridge and purchased some milk and eggs, and a very few other items she needed at her own small apartment.
She walked along the darkened street toward her own home, not far from that of Smoke Dugan. It was quiet and chilly, and dead leaves rustled as they blew along the ground in the breeze. Lorena could just see her own breath.
A man came toward her. He was a tall man, a young man who looked strong. She imagined that if she were not a mixed race old woman from Central America, this young man would offer to carry her bags home to her apartment. Instead, because things were as they were, he would ignore her. She did not believe he would do this out of spite, but out of fear. People were afraid of one another, of reaching out and being together. This she knew about people. The boy would probably fear that if he offered assistance, she would answer him in Spanish and he would not be able to respond.
The young man passed her without so much as a glance in her direction.
There was something unusual about him, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Only after he passed did she realize that his right hand was missing nearly all of its fingers. He seemed to have a pinkie and a thumb, and that was it.
She continued to walk, allowing the weight in her hands to settle deeper, pulling down harder on her shoulders. La Mula, she called herself. The Mule. She was a strong as one, and could be just as stubborn. She was a fool for engaging in these fantasies about people and their nature. The boy hadn’t given her a thought.
Here came another man up this same deserted street. Also a young man. What is he thinking, Mula? Will he help you with your bags?
The man approached slowly, but this man was very definitely looking right at her. She thought she didn’t like the look in his eyes. He was a big man. She stopped and studied him carefully. He was very big. Violent crime was almost unheard of in this city, but this one had the dark, hard and wild light in his eyes – that light she remembered from so many murderers in her homeland. There was hard laughter in his eyes, but no real mirth or warmth. Nothing was funny.
She thought of the man who had just passed. Perhaps she could run to him. She turned, and he was right behind her.
A hand clamped on her hair from behind and pulled her backwards. She dropped her groceries. She felt, rather than heard the eggs smash. She tried to turn, to struggle, but to no avail. The big man had her in a powerful grip and was dragging her along by her hair, keeping her off-balance.
The smaller man approached her quickly. He smiled and punched her in the eye. It hurt, it was horrible, it was shocking. Then he hit her again. Things were moving too quickly. Her heart beat rapidly.
She fell to the ground.
They pulled at her, yanking her along the sidewalk. Dios mio! What did they want? Her bag, she realized. They were pulling her along the ground by her hand bag. She felt her dress, then her skin tearing as she bumped along the gravel. They wanted her money, her little bit of money.
Well, they could have it.
She let go of the bag. At last, she thought. They would be gone.
But no. Now one stood over her and kicked her. It was the small one. He delivered swift, sharp punishing kicks to every part of her body. He kicked her in the head. She grew dizzy. The world went dark, then swam back into focus. Then went dark again. She saw the big one, standing nearby watching the little one kick her to her death.
As she faded from consciousness, she realized the madman was still kicking her.
Sirens howled somewhere close by.
