'I'm worried about him!'
'Don't!' he snapped. 'It's not worth it!'
'He's still our father!' she pouted.
Donnie snorted. 'Not much of a father!' He was sarcastic, disdainful. He arose from the table. 'I'm splitting… got to take care of some business.'
'Girl type business?' Charity kidded.
'Yeah!' he said, grimly. 'Girl type?'
It was just getting dark when he left the house, mounted his motor bike and roared off down the street. He stopped, on his way across town to change the twenty dollar bill for two tens.
He parked his cycle in front of Marcy Lunceford's house, ambled up the front walk and rang the doorbell. Her mother come to the door, eyed him up and down and barked, 'Yes?'
'May I talk to Marcy?' he asked politely.
'And who are you?'
'Don,' he told her. 'Just tell her Don wants to see her.'
Mrs. Lunceford, again, looked him over from his boots to his middling-long hair. She must have found something distasteful in the way he looked, for she turned away, saying, 'I'll call her… She'll see you, I suppose, if she's not busy!' She closed the door in his face.
'She'll see me!' Don assured the intricately carved portal.
The door was re-opened in a few moments. It was Marcy. Don lounged on the porch railing; he did not go to her. She was forced to walk over to him. He held the bills in his hand.
'I brought you your blood money!' he gritted.
'Groovy! Give it to me!'
He flung the bills to the floor at her feet.
'Pick them up… whore!'
Hers was a bitter laugh. 'Wake up, Don… smell the coffee! If it gives you a thing… try the same label out on your mother!'
Don shot off the porch railing. He grabbed her by the shoulders. 'That's a God damned lie!' he grated into her face. 'You little bitch… I ought to give you some of what I got this afternoon!'
Calmly, she shrugged free of his grasp. 'You wouldn't dare! Jack and his boys are just waiting for a chance to cut you up!' It was a bare-faced threat.
He backed away from her. There would be no point in running into something he knew he couldn't handle… yet.
'All right… lay it on me… you know so damned much! How do you know… that… about my mom…?'
'I've known it for months… my uncle was talking to my father — I overheard them. He said he'd laid Dottie Scott… took her to that motel, on the highway… just outside of town. He said she sucked him off… and fucked him!'
'That's enough!' Donnie's mind was seething. Christ! My own mom! 'Did he pay her for it… just like a regular… p-prostitute?'
'Yeah… he said it cost him twenty bucks!'
'The God damned bitch!' he raged.
'Cool it, Don! It's her bag! She's the one that's doing it! It's her thing!' she reasoned.
'But… it's my mom!'
'… And, maybe there's a reason…'
'Like what…?'
'Like your father, Gabby… he's the town drunk… isn't he? When was the last time he worked?'
Her truths were hitting home. Damn! Maybe she's right! Maybe Mom did hove reasons for… for doing it! He walked to the edge of the porch and stared out into the street. Then, it's really Dad's fault! He's to blame…! And, Mom just wanted to get things for us kids… like her helping me to get my motor cycle! Christ!
'I know something else, too…' she taunted.
'Lay it on me… too!' he growled, not turning to face her.
'Your dad's in jail! He beat up a guy in a bar… because he called your mother a whore!'
'Great! Just great!' Don grunted, 'I hope he rots there!'
He walked quickly down the walk, started his bike and shot off down the street, without a backward glance.
God! What a mess! Our family's just one great big nothing! Christ… the sooner I hit the street, the better…! But, I've got to have some bread… before I leave! Got to have something to start out with!
Don headed for Ray Donahue's house. In Ray's room, lounging at ease, he talked about what had happened to him at the hands of Jack Roberts.
'We've got to have muscle, man! We can do the same things better… if we've got the organization!' he told Ray.
'Yeah, like that's what I say, too. We could get a couple more cools guys… and do some leaning of our own!' Ray agreed, enthusiastically.
They talked for hours and laid it all out. Their meticulous plans, they were convinced, was going to net them a lot of bread. The money would come their way, now, and they were going to use every means at their disposal. Don, of course, didn't tell the tall, freckled-face boy that for him, at least, this was going to be a short-term project. All he wanted was a stake… then he would get the hell out of Redfern. It was the street for him… probably in San Francisco! Things happened up there. He wanted to be in on it… where it was happening!
'You want to go the whole route, Don… use some real muscle?'
'Like what?'
'Like guns, maybe?'
'Guns?' Don was incredulous. 'Christ! You get caught… and they send you up north! No simple little Juvie for that!'
'But, if you're smart… real brainy… you don't get caught!'
'Yeah… But…'
'I lifted a couple, already!' Ray boasted.
'Guns…?'
'Like, why should I put you on…?' Ray reached into his closet and produced two pistols, a snub-nosed.38 and a.45 automatic. He handed Don the.38, and he hefted it in his hand. 'Be careful… it's loaded!' Ray warned.
Don was impressed. 'Like, man… nobody'd argue with this!' He suddenly saw the weapon for what it was: a powerful force, in the hands of the wielder… and equalizer… a counter force. He had given up some ideas about peace, love… and non-violence that afternoon. Those ideas had fled as the blows rained down on him from the fists and boots of Jack Roberts and his two goons. Christ! What a temptation! 'You want to learn how to use it?' Ray asked.
'Sure, man! Go ahead… lay it on me!'
Ray Donahue showed him the mechanics of the pistol and gave him a half-full box of ammunition and loan of the pistol so that Don could do some target practice.
'Now… don't let that thing get away from you!' Ray told him. 'I can let you have it till Saturday… got it?'
'Right on… I'll get it back to you on Saturday, sure!'
Riding home on his big motorcycle, Don felt important, confident, even a little cocky, with the.38 tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his windbreaker zipped up to cover the butt of it. As he rode along, his hand would steal to the pistol, to feel it, fondle it, and he idly wondered whether or not he would use it. Could he point it at a person? More importantly, could he fire it… if he had to do so? He didn't know. One thing he did know: there could be no such thing as a three to one fight… with the loaded gun in his hand.
A station wagon, standing at the curb on the opposite side of the avenue, attracted his attention. A stockily built man labored, in shirt sleeves, to change a flat tire. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. There was no traffic. The man was alone.
Don rode on for two more blocks. He wrestled with an idea he couldn't shake. It was late. The guy was alone. He was a middle-aged establishment type, and he probably had a wallet stuffed with bread. Man! It would be
