Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [52]
He opens the window and flicks his butt out.
—So when that stuff happened in New York with you, I knew two things. I knew I’d do just about anything for your mom, and I knew there was no way that woman raised a killer. And I would have believed that even if I didn’t know you myself.
Wade takes the last swallow of his beer.
—So what did you think you were gonna do, coming over here in the middle of the night?
Kill you.
I finish my own smoke and toss it.
—I don’t know. I was pissed. Beat you up. Maybe.
He grunts.
—What now?
—I need to get out of town, take care of something.
He nods.
—I’d help, but. I have Stace and the kids to. I can’t.
—I understand.
—Maybe there’s something. Something small?
—Don’t suppose you know anyone in Vegas, someone could help me find someone else? Someone lost or hiding.
He laughs a little.
—You know, you know who’s in Vegas? Remember T?
T? Oh shit, T.
—The dealer we scored off? The spaz?
—Yeah.
—I thought he got three-striked and put away.
—No, no way. He had two convictions and was on parole when they busted him the third time. Somehow his lawyer got him bail, and he jumped it. Went to Vegas.
—I don’t know, man, he was such a . . .
—Such a fuckup?
—Yeah.
—Well, I guess that’s why we all got along.
I laugh.
—Yeah.
—You know what? He sends me, you’ll love this, he sends me Christmas cards, every year.
—No way.
—Yeah, complete, the guy is wanted here, and he sends me Christmas cards complete with a return address.
We’re both laughing.
—I just got this year’s, like, yesterday. Want me to go get it?
He puts his hand on the door.
—No, no, I don’t think T is the guy I need for this.
—No, you should see, you should see this, it’s a riot.
He’s really laughing now, and I can’t help but join in.
—Yeah, OK, OK, I want to see it.
—Hang on.
He opens the door and steps out just as the black Toyota pickup squeals around the corner and plows into the front of the truck, sending Wade flying to crash against the front of his house.
I OPEN my eyes. Where am I? I’ve been in an accident. I was driving my Mustang and something happened and. Oh, God. I think I killed Rich. Oh, God.
I’m lying on my back, looking up at the stars. I’m not in the Mustang. It’s not then, it’s now. I’m lying on my back in a driveway looking up at the stars. I’ve been in another accident. I’m lying next to a huge, long-bed pickup with the driver’s door hanging open. There’s a black pickup that looks like it tried to occupy the same parking space as the long-bed. Bad call. I must have been thrown out of the long-bed when . . . When what?
My head is lodged in a cone of silence. I shake it and the sounds start to penetrate: dogs barking, car alarms set off by the crash, someone crying. Someone crying. I should see if I can help. I move my arms: check. I move my legs: check. Here goes. I roll onto my stomach and get myself up on my hands and knees. I won’t say it feels good, but nothing screams too loudly. OK, let’s go for broke: I stand up. My head does a little spin and tumble, the world spins the opposite way, trying to catch up, they crash together, and everything stops moving around. Safe to say I have some dings and bruises, but I’m better off than the guy with the mullet who’s lodged in the windshield of the long-bed. Mullet. When was the last time I saw someone with a mullet? Oh, right. The puzzle pieces in my head fall back together into the shape of my brain.
Fat Guy and Mullet Head must have been riding in the truck bed. Mullet Head is jammed into an indentation in the long-bed’s windshield that is shaped exactly like his body. Fat Guy is sprawled on the hood of the Toyota, just now propping himself up on his elbows to look around. Ponytail Boy is behind the wheel, trying to get his door open, but it looks like both of his arms are broken so he’s not doing a very good job of it. Leslie is the one who’s crying,