Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [86]
Brady had had a chip on his shoulder for as long as he could remember. And the absolute worst thing he could imagine was being laughed at.
He glared at Tatlock and his grin. “You’re lucky I didn’t steal more from you,” he said.
Tatlock’s smile faded. “You’re the lucky one, Brady. You could be in jail right now.”
“I should have broken the windows here, trashed the machines, slashed your tires.”
“Careful, son.”
“I still should.”
“You threatening me, Brady? I think it’s time for you to leave. And remember, I expect your payment this week.”
Brady rushed out, kicking the push bar of the front door and bending it.
“And you can add a payment for that, Darby!” Tatlock called after him.
Brady cursed him and kept moving. That guy would be lucky if he saw one more payment.
Brady was quivering in the darkness by the time he reached the laborers’ shack. What was wrong with him? Tatlock was the one guy who had treated him better than he should have, the one who could have called the cops on him, and now Brady had turned on him. He was his own worst enemy. If it wasn’t for Petey, Brady would be better off dead.
When he entered the shack, the din before the TV suddenly died and someone muted the set. The Mexicans looked at him and at each other.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, Burger Boy,” one said.
Brady smiled as if he found that funny and headed up the stairs. He nearly froze when he realized they were following. Every last one of them. He sat on his bunk and began taking off his shoes as they all crowded into the room.
“What?”
Some leaned against the bunks. Some sat on the floor. Manny took charge.
“You were supposed to tell us when you got a job, man. Start paying your full share.”
“I will. No problem.”
“How long you been at Burger Boy?”
“Just a few days; why?”
“Meter’s been running.”
“Yeah, that, well, I’m on probation, so the job isn’t guaranteed until they watch me for another week or so.”
“That’s bull and you know it. Why didn’t you tell me you had a job?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I told you. I meant to tell you. That’s my bad.”
“No good, gringo. We got to be able to trust you. You want to live here, you tell us what’s going on, and you take your responsibility for your share.”
“I don’t get paid for another week. I couldn’t pay you till then anyway.”
“Yeah, but we got to know how much to expect. Full price started when you started work.”
“Fine. No problem. Now, we okay?”
“We’ll let you know. Anything else we should know about?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything. You don’t want to be a stranger here. We got to be like family.”
“Okay. Good.”
“You need anything from us?”
Brady laughed. “I need money, man.”
“You got two jobs and you need money?”
Brady said he had debts and wanted to throw his brother a birthday party. “I also wouldn’t mind a little weed, but I know you don’t do that on credit.”
Everybody turned to look at Pepe, who stepped forward and smiled. He was a young-looking, round-faced man who was probably carded at every bar. “I might be able to work something out, amigo,” he said. “We can talk in private.”
The rest of the Mexicans took that as their cue to head back downstairs.
“Somebody said you got a shotgun,” Pepe said, sitting uncomfortably close to Brady on the bunk.
“Yeah. A sawed-off. My dad left it to me.”
“I love guns. Can I see it?”
Brady shrugged. He wanted to talk business, but Pepe spooked him—so young and innocent-looking, yet clearly afraid of nothing and no one.
Brady dug out the shotgun, and Pepe weighed it in his hands, turning it this way and that, expertly breaking it open.
“Got any shells?”
Brady nodded. “Not sure how old they are.”
“Lemme see.”
Pepe deftly popped two shells into the chamber at once. “One way to find out if this works,” he said.
“Hasn’t been shot in ages. And that’s really old ammo.”
Pepe smiled and shrugged. “Plug your ears.”
“What’re you, serious? You’re going to shoot that inside?”
And before Brady could cover his ears, Pepe pointed the weapon at the ceiling.
The explosion deafened Brady and left his ears ringing. He could