The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [38]
“I ran out on him,” DeWayne rasped. “That sumbitch killed him, and I ran.”
“It’s all right,” the kid croaked. He was obviously baffled, but desperate. “It’ll be okay…”
“Like hell it is!” DeWayne screamed. He slammed the gun down on the counter. “You don’t know shit!” DeWayne shouted down into the kid’s face. “He never ran out on me! Never!”
“Please, mister,” the kid sobbed. “Please…”
When they were kids, DeWayne had been a strange child, prone to tantrums that no one could explain or control. His aunt and uncle blamed it on his mother having run off, leaving six-month-old DeWayne in their care. As he got older, the tantrums matured into fits of berserk rage in which DeWayne would throw fists, bottles, anything handy. Once he had tried to slash another kid’s throat with a box-cutter over a half-pint of milk spilled in the school cafeteria. He was twelve at the time. DeWayne had bounced in and out of juvenile court more times than he could remember and suspended so many times that the entire school seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when he dropped out. The only one who could calm him down was Leonard, who would wrap DeWayne up in his big arms and silently hold him until the storm passed. Leonard never asked what was wrong, never made any comment at all when the incident was over. He just set DeWayne down, gave him an extra squeeze, and walked away. DeWayne had always depended on that, depended on Leonard’s quiet, unquestioning solidity to anchor him and keep him from flying off completely. Now, that was gone. DeWayne felt that familiar sick giddiness, like he’d been on a roller coaster too long. He staggered slightly as he raised the gun.
“Please!” the kid shrieked. A dark stain appeared at the crotch of his jeans as he wet himself. When DeWayne saw the slowly spreading stain and the puddle that was collecting under the kid’s ass, he began to laugh. It began as a slow bubbling chuckle with an edge of hysteria. The laugh picked up speed and depth as the kid’s face showed the dawning realization of what he had done, and quickly exploded into a full out belly laugh that left DeWayne clutching his stomach with one hand as he held the gun on the kid with the other. He slid slowly to the floor on the other side of the area behind the counter, laughing, his gun hand never wavering. The kid looked uncertain for a minute, then angry, then he started to laugh along, forcing it out as if to placate the man with the pistol. The falsity of the sound sobered DeWayne immediately. “Okay,” he said, “you can cut it out.” The kid stopped, his face again frozen in a mask of fear. DeWayne reached up and pulled the carton of cigarettes down off the counter. He ripped it open with one hand and took out a pack. He ripped the cellophane off the pack with his teeth and opened the pack, tapping a cigarette out and withdrawing it with his teeth. He offered the clerk one, but the kid shook his head.
“Good for you, bubba,” DeWayne said. “These things’ll sure as hell shorten your life.” He looked over at the kid. “I kilt two men tonight,” he said. “Maybe three,” he added, thinking of how the blonde dude had looked after DeWayne had kicked him in the head. “One of ‘em was a cop. So I reckon it don’t much matter if I kill you. I’m gonna die if they catch me. They either gonna