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
