Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [101]
Terry flicks his cigarette. It bounces off the back of Camo Hat’s neck and Camo jumps.
—Hey! Don’t fuck around like that when I’m holding a weapon.
Terry waves his hand.
—Yeah, sure. How about this, Dale: you shut your mouth and just do your job and check them out.
Dale grunts, turns back to Rolf and starts to pat him down. Terry points at me.
—Wade.
—Yeah?
—What’s the score?
—The score?
—What’s the fucking score?
—I don’t.
—Hey! Hey! Hey!
He lights a fresh smoke and points it at me.
—Think about it.
—Wh?
—Hey! Think about what you are going to say. What’s the score?
I think about it.
—I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
He gets up and shrugs his open shirt onto the floor. I don’t think he’s quite five seven, but he’s made up for it with the weights. His skin is strained over muscles so sharply cut I can see the fibers and veins scrawled all over his torso. He looks like he’d pop if I stuck him with a pin.
—It’s like this, Wade. I’m a team player. I go along, help out the team. Somebody needs to get hurt, they get hurt. But I like to know what the score is. Couple days ago, they tell me a Russian guy is coming around for Tim. No problem, I play. Problem is, nobody tells me the score. They don’t tell me that Tim isn’t supposed to know someone is coming for him, so I tell him not to go anywhere for a couple days, and what happens? He takes off. Tim goes missing. I try to find him. I play. Then the big bad Russian comes to town, and I don’t have Tim, and suddenly my bosses want to rip me new assholes. And all of this, why? Because I didn’t know the score. Now Sandy calls me, tells me a guy is looking for Tim. I play, I call the Russian. But I still don’t know the score. And I want to know it, before the Russian gets here. Because I don’t want any new assholes. So I ask again, what’s the score? And you’re gonna tell me or I’m gonna come over there and give you some free dental work.
Sandy jumps off the couch.
—Stop it!
Terry looks at her.
—Shut it.
—Fuck you. This is my house and I don’t want any more of this in my house. Just get out of my house.
He punches her. He balls his hand into a fist and punches her in the mouth and she drops to her knees, blood pouring from her lips.
Dale turns to watch, but Ron keeps us covered with the shotgun.
Terry grabs her by her hair and yanks her to her feet.
—I said, shut it.
Blood is running down her chin and spattering her kimono. Terry lets go of her hair and she runs up the hall and I hear a door open and slam shut. Terry shakes his head.
—Chick wants to make some money, but thinks it should be easy, thinks nobody should get hurt.
I exhale. Because I know the score now. These clowns may be OK at roughing people up, but that’s their limit. That twenty gauge is a small-game weapon. And a crossbow? Not what a pro is likely to carry. As for Terry, Terry’s not a killer; he’s a girl puncher. There are only three killers in this room, and we’re all sitting on the couch. I can chill this out and put myself back in the driver’s seat and all it’s gonna take is a little talk. I open my mouth.
Hitler stops barking.
We all look.
T is slumped against the wall in the hallway. His eyes are glazed, only half open. His face is swollen and bruised and dry blood is crusted around his nostrils and lips, fingers of it dribbled down his neck. Hitler is standing next to him, teeth bared, straining forward, an invisible force holding him at bay.
Dale swings his crossbow around and aims it at Hitler.
—Control your animal, fucker!
T slumps farther. Hitler edges forward.
—Control that fuckin’ thing, boy!
Ron’s mouth is shut, his shotgun still centered on the couch. I slowly raise my hand.
—Everybody just take it easy. No one has to get hurt if we all just take it easy.
Sandy emerges from the hall behind T.
—T! No, T.
Terry shakes his head.
—Stupid bitch.
T lifts his left hand, from which a pair of handcuffs dangle, and points at Terry.
—Hitler! Auschwitz!
Hitler launches himself at Terry.
I put my feet on the coffee table and shove it.