The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [16]
“Damn it, DeWayne,” he said, “Shut up for a second and pay attention. ”DeWayne lurched back in the truck seat with his eyes closed, playing air guitar along with Stevie Ray. His back arched orgasmically as he launched into the chorus. Part of the beer in his left hand spilled on his shoulder as he mimed the solo. “Hey, hey...” he wailed. “Look at little sisterrr...”
“DEWAYNE!” Leonard bellowed. He reached over and turned the stereo off.
DeWayne’s eyes snapped open. “‘Eyyyy, man,” he whined. “The fuck’d you do that for?”
“I got no idea where we are, man.” Leonard said. “You been to Crystal’s, I ain’t. You gotta tell me where to go.”
DeWayne straightened up and look around blearily. He squinted as if to bring the road into better focus. “I’m gettin’ hungry,” he said.
“One thing at a time, cuz,” Leonard said. “We gotta--”
“Wait, turn here, man!” DeWayne yelled. “Turn right, turn right!”
They were almost past the turn. The tires screeched as Leonard instinctively obeyed. The truck rocked up slightly on two wheels.
“Whoo!” DeWayne shouted. He laughed and drained the last of his beer. “It’s down here at the end.”
In the daylight, it was apparent that the neighborhood was struggling against becoming decrepit, and losing. Some of the houses were in good repair, others had sagging roofs and trim that was badly in need of fresh paint. There were small clumps of skinny, half-bare trees in some yards. In others, the owners who had apparently given up on even mowing the weeds that grew around the stumps where the trees had once been.
A red Corvette was parked in the driveway in front of the house at the end of the street. It was the newest, brightest object visible. There were still a few flakes of the original white paint clinging to the picket fence in front of the house. The rest had weathered to gray.
Leonard picked up the bag with the money in it and got out. DeWayne followed. The two men got out of the truck and walked towards the white house, with DeWayne leaning on Leonard’s shoulder for support. He was singing again: “Heyyyy, hey, look at little sisterrrr..." All of the shades were drawn. Had it not been for the car parked out front, the house would have appeared deserted.
Leonard pushed the doorbell button beside the door. There was no sound of a bell inside and no answer. He knocked. He knocked harder. No answer. Leonard began knocking steadily, monotonously, like a man pounding nails in Hell. Finally, a slurred female voice responded, “All RIGHT,” God damn it, I’m coming.” There was a creak of footsteps. DeWayne stuck his face up to the peephole in the door and grinned maniacally. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” the voice said. It sounded very weary. There was a rattle of a chain, the solid snick of a heavy deadbolt, then the snap of the door lock. The door opened a crack.
“The hell do you two want?” the girl said.
“C’mon, sis, let us in,” Leonard whispered. There was a heavy sigh and the door swung wide. The two men stepped inside. DeWayne wrapped his arms around the girl and lifted her up off the ground in a bear hug. “Put me down, asshole,” she said, the words muffled against his shoulder. There was no anger in her voice, just a kind of weary amusement. DeWayne put her down and stepped back.
She was a tiny woman, a little over five feet. It was the breasts that men noticed first, an unfortunate fact that had shaped most of her adult life. They seemed overly large for her thin body and thrust against even the shapeless cloth robe she wore, demanding attention. Her hair, cut short and parted in the middle, was dyed a dark reddish-brown. The hair was rumpled, as if she had just gotten out of bed. Her facial features were small and regular, but just enough out of proportion to one another that she missed beautiful by a narrow margin and had to settle for cute. Her mouth was drawn in a perpetual affected pout that she thought was sexy, but served only to give the impression of a sulky child. The year since they had seen one another had not been kind to her.