The Shotgun Rule

by Charlie Huston

  He levers himself up with the crutch.

  – That’s some prison education for you. Lessons direct from the school of hard knocks. Santa Rita social studies.

  He looks at Hector, still bent over, bleeding face still in his hands.

  He looks at the chain, watches a drop of Hector’s blood slowly creep from link to link.

  – Anyway, whatever. Let’s see how this shit works.

  And he puts the chain to use.

  – Andy. Andy.

  – Leave me alone.

  – Andy.

  – I hurt. Leave me alone.

  – Let me see your face.

  – I donwanna.

  – C’mon, man, just let me take a look.

  – No. No.

  – Andy, stop being a fag and let me see your face.

  – Fuck you. Fuck you.

  But he turns his head, letting his brother see his face.

  – Shit, oh shit, little brother, oh shit.

  Andy looks down.

  – Your legs are bleeding.

  – It’s OK, it’s just scrapes. How’s the inside of your mouth, did you bite your tongue?

  Andy sticks his tongue out.

  – I thon thing tho.

  – It looks OK.

  – Thor hed ith bleeing.

  – Put your tongue back in your mouth.

  Andy puts his tongue back in his mouth.

  – Your head is bleeding.

  – They hit me with something.

  – Who did?

  – I don’t know. I don’t remember too good. Fernando or Ramon, I think.

  – You tore my favorite shirt.

  – That was Paul, OK? It was Paul. I told him to stop and he just. Fuck! Andy, your eye?

  – What?

  – Can you see out of it?

  Andy blinks.

  – Which one?

  – The left one, your left eye. It’s like, it looks like it’s full of blood, like there’s blood inside of it.

  – Oh.

  He closes his right eye.

  – Yeah, I can see out of it.

  – Good. OK.

  – George?

  – Yeah, bro?

  – My stomach feels funny.

  He tilts, eyes open, until he’s lying on his side, shivering, and then still.

  Paul stops running.

  He looks around to see where he is. Somewhere on Locust. Turning, he can see the swimming pools at May Nissen Park a few blocks away. He’s covered in sweat. Even with the sun down it’s still like eighty. He gets out a Marlboro and lights it. He starts to walk, heading toward the pools.

  Too bad they close at dark. Be nice to jump in the water and cool off. If they didn’t have those security lights he could just hop the fence. Could do it anyway. Get over the fence and do a couple quick laps and get out. Still be plenty of time to meet up with the guys. They were lagging so hard, didn’t see any of them behind him when he took off. Fucking laggers. Gonna give them all kinds of shit when they catch up. Trouble starts, you gotta jet right away.

  He crosses Rincon and walks up to the fence and stands there looking at the pools on the other side.

  Lameass Andy fucking up inside the house. Getting George in there with him. Well, George’ll get them both out. Hector must have split around the other side of the house. Probably got his bike. Man, getting his bike back is gonna be a bitch. Maybe go back there right now and take a grab at it. No, that’s lame. Guys’ll be catching up soon. Gonna have to deal with those bikes together.

  He hooks his fingers in the chainlink, closes his eyes.

  And sees again his best friend’s legs, cut and bleeding, being pulled through the window. And hears the screams.

  He opens his eyes.

  – Fuck me.

  – Where are they?

  – There’s one right there, man.

  – Yeah, I see him. What’s wrong with him?

  – He’s the puta bitch that fucked up my car.

  – OK. So what’s wrong with him?

  – I hit him a couple times.

  Geezer tilts his head to get a better look at Hector’s face.

  – Kid’s got, what, cuts on his face? What’re those?

  – Cuts.

  – From what?

  – Piece of chain.

  Geezer looks where Fernando is pointing. Uses the grabber to pick up the bloody chain from the floor.

  – You hit him a couple times with this?

  – Once, just once.

  – Kid’s been hit a lot of a fuck more than once. Kid’s missing teeth. He’s been…word? When you get attacked by a wild animal, a bear, what it does to you?

  – Como?

  – What’s the word for that?

  – I don’t fucking know, man.

  Ramon shifts on his crutch.

  – Maul. You get mauled by a bear.

  Geezer drops the chain.

  – That’s it, kid’s been mauled.

  He looks at Fernando.

  – You hit him once and mauled him like this? Remind me never to let you hit me.

  Ramon pokes Hector with the rubber tip of his crutch.

  – I mauled him.

  Geezer pulls at the brim of his black and yellow Caterpillar hat.

  – What’d he do?

  – Screamed a little. Cried a lot.

  – No, what’d he do that you mauled him?

  Ramon pivots on his crutch and hobbles to the couch.

  – Nothing. Just wanted to see what that chain’d do to his face.

  Geezer watches him lower himself to the couch and stretch out his gun shot leg.

  He points at Hector.

  – Well, guess we know now what happens you whip some kid’s face with a piece of chain. He gets all fucked up. Might want to call a medical journal or some shit, make a report, get yourself nominated for the fucking Pulitzer.

  Ramon smiles.

  – Nobel.

  – What?

  – Nobel Prize. Pulitzer, they only give that for writing stuff.

  – Well, when they start giving a Nobel Prize for fucking kids up with chains you’ll be a pioneer in the field, won’t you?

  Ramon stares.

  Geezer pushes up the brim of his hat, looks at Fernando.

  – ’Nando, your little brother vying for top psycho in the room honors? He trying to freak me out, put me off my game?

  Fernando puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  – He’s cool, Geezer. Just likes to show off a little.

  – Got some macho in him, eh?

  – Sure, like all of us, right?

  Geezer smiles.

  – Never met a Mexican worth a damn who didn’t have some macho to him.

  – Sure, that’s just how we are.

  He looks at Ramon.

  – Right, little brother?

  Ramon leans back.

  – Sure, ese, just me and my macho showing off.

  Geezer nods at Fernando, chins waggling.

  – Good enough. Where’s the other ones?

  Fernando points at the hallway.

  – Bathroom.

  – El baño, eh?

  – Right. The bathroom.

  – Show me.

  Fernando walks around Geezer and down the hall, ignoring the slit-eyed wink Ramon throws him from the couch.

  Geezer follows him into the master bedroom, waving the grabber at Timo on the floor.

  – Jesus, everybody in this place take a beating?

  Timo stays on his back, pinching his nostrils gently, trying to stop the blood that keeps dripping from his swollen nose.

  – I dinn’t tate no beadin’ froh nodbody.

  Fernando puts his hand on the bathroom doorknob.

  – He fell down.

  Geezer laughs.

  – Fell down on a pile of fists it looks like.

  Timo looks away.

  – I fell ond duh grounb libe ebberbody dubs.

  – Sure, sure thing, amigo.
Whatever you say.

  He faces the door.

  – Alright, ’Nando, open up.

  Fernando opens the bathroom door.

  George looks up at them, his little brother’s head in his lap.

  – My brother. My brother. He’s hurt. I think he’s hurt real bad. Help my brother. Please help my brother.

  Geezer fills the doorway and peers down at Andy’s bruised face and turned up eyes.

  – Damn, now that’s comatose if I ever saw it.

  – Whas the matter? Whas that?

  – Nothing.

  – Whas that thm?

  – Yeah.

  – Whut time’s’t?

  – It’s late. Go back to sleep.

  – Where?

  – I’m gonna go give them a little talk.

  – Done be too hrd. Th’r hum. L’thm go t’bed.

  – Don’t worry.

  – Talk in the muhrn’n ’bou’t.

  – Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.

  – Hokay.

  Bob Whelan watches his wife tuck her face back into her pillow and close her eyes and drop back to sleep. Still naked, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed. He uses the toilet in the hall instead of the one in their room, not wanting to wake her again.

  She’s tired. Up first thing in the morning, on her feet all day behind that cash register at the Safeway, back here to straighten up the house and get things ready for dinner.

  She tried to stay up when they finished screwing around and realized the boys hadn’t come home, made it till a little after midnight, but couldn’t hang in there. Even after she conked out she was restless as hell. Well, she’ll sleep OK now.

  He flushes and puts on his jeans and goes to the front door and out onto the porch. Whatever the sound was, it wasn’t the boys. But he knew that already. He knows exactly what they sound like sneaking in and out of the house. He walks to the foot of the driveway and stands there and looks up and down the street.

  Goddamn kids.

  Got no problem with them running around and getting in a little trouble. Learn more about life that way than by sitting around inside watching TV like so many other kids. Get in a few fights, that’s how you learn to stick up for yourself. Get the crap beat out of you, that’s how you learn what sticking up for yourself can cost you. Do a little drinking and smoking, that’s how you learn how much you can handle. Take a ride in the back of a police car, that’s how you learn the consequences of trying to get away with too much.

  And that’s probably how they’ll be coming home. If he’s lucky the cops will drive them right up to the door. If he’s not lucky he’ll be getting a call from the jail on North L telling him to come get his boys that got picked up at some house party where the parents are out of town and their kids got their hands on a keg and a few bottles of Cuervo or something.

  The more things change.

  If it was just him, he’d wait for the call and let them stay the whole night in jail, pick them up tomorrow afternoon after the yard is rototilled, bring them home and put them to work on the rock pile right away. That’s how his pop would have handled it. Hell, that’s how he did handle it.

  He scratches his stomach, his index finger running along the ridge of scar at the bottom of his rib cage. Truth be told, his pop handled it a hell of a lot harder.

  Paul, he knows about that kind of thing. Seen those cigarette burns on his stomach. Only one place you get marks like those.

  He takes a few steps into the street, looks down the block at the dark front of the Cheney house. Man, sometimes, see that little prick out there watering his lawn, like to stroll over and give him a good one. See how he likes it. Don’t even say anything, just walk up to him and put him on his ass.

  A kid gets knocked around a little by his dad? Well, shit like that happens, nobody ever said life was fair. But cigarette burns? No way to explain that. Just that Kyle Cheney is a little prick. Probably ran his wife off by being a little prick. Now he probably blames his kid for her smashing up her car and dying, takes it out on him.

  Prick.

  Just one good punch right on the button. Might straighten him out.

  No. Can’t do that kind of thing. That pecker brings assault charges, a whole can of worms gets reopened. Rules broken, rules he made for himself. Promises he made his wife. That’s not the way to handle it. That’s not the way he handles things. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

  Ain’t none of his business, anyway. How a man raises his kids, that’s just nobody else’s business. And Paul’s gonna come out of it OK. Tough little fucker. They’re gonna love him in the Army. And he spends half his time down here anyway. No need to make a big scene out of helping the kid, just give him a place to go every now and then, that’s help enough.

  He walks over to the 4×4 and boosts himself up on the fender. He leans forward and a roll of his stomach pushes over the waist of his jeans. He looks at it. Still don’t know where the hell that came from. Woke up one morning and there it was. Crap. Nobody stays young. But crap.

  He freezes.

  That the phone ringing inside? Nope.

  If it was just him, he’d be asleep right now. But Cindy would worry. Got to put on a show for her. Make her think they’re home safe and sound. Damn them. Worrying their mother, messing with his wife’s sleep. And then she’ll be bitchy in the morning and he’ll be grouchy and they’ll end up bickering tomorrow. Damn them. George should be old enough by now to get himself out of trouble. And Andy is smart enough he shouldn’t be in it in the first place. Or he should be smart enough. Some days the kid seems like he’s not so much smart as he’s just from Mars. At least he hasn’t gotten as weird as Hector. Yet.

  He slides off the fender and walks back up to the porch.

  Not doing any good standing here. Go back inside. If Cindy wakes up tell her the boys are in bed. Doesn’t do anyone any good standing here getting worked up and worn out. The boys are fine. Probably in the police station right now. Getting the shit scared out of them. Do all four of them a load of good.

  He sits on the edge of the porch.

  Anyway, it’s warm and it’s quiet. Might as well wait a little longer.

  – Where’s the other one?

  – Other one?

  – There’s four of them, right?

  – Yeah.

  – So, you got the Nobel Prize winning science project in the livingroom, you got that one comatose, and you got his brother here. Unless Ramon learned a different way of counting in the joint, that’s three.

  Fernando pulls the front of his hairnet, shifts it slightly lower on his forehead.

  – He ran away, man.

  – He got out of the house?

  – No, man, he was never in it.

  Geezer takes off his hat, runs his hand over his head, and wipes the sweat on his thigh.

  – And how, why was the kid outside when he ran? How did he know you were in here?

  – He saw us.

  – How? No. The point. This was a trap, right? I set up a trap. I saw some jewelry that should be in your possession and I did some pretty fucking clever reasoning and plotting. Impressed the fuck out of myself, to be honest. The point of it being to let them all get in the house before you did anything. Grab their asses in the house. It’s quiet, there’s no witnesses, it’s easy.

  – Yeah, man, but they couldn’t break in.

  – What do you?

  – They were taking forever to break in. We.

  – Why would they?

  – They don’t know how to pick a lock or anything.

  – What the? Why was it locked? We wanted them in the house. Why the fuck would you lock the doors?

  – I thought you wanted. Well, you know, man, to make it, real. So they wouldn’t know it was a trap.

  Geezer slaps his hat on the side of the bed.

  – They’re kids, ’Nando, how the fuck would they? OK. Just. Never mind.

  He puts on his hat and holds out his hand, slick with swea
t from the top of his head. Fernando takes it and hauls him to his feet.

  Geezer makes for the livingroom.

  – Just bring the one that’s awake.

  Fernando goes to the bathroom.

  – Get up.

  George looks at him.

  – Hey. Hey, man. Fernando.

  – Get the fuck up.

  George puts his hands under Andy’s head and lowers it to the floor and stands up.

  – Hey, whatever, whatever we fucked up, my brother is really hurt. No more fucking around here, man. This is no joke. We got to call, we got to get him some help.

  – Get out here.

  – Seriously, man. This shit between us, we can’t mess around, you know, whatever, take it out on me, but Andy’s. Look at him, man.

  Fernando reaches out and swats the side of his head.

  – Whelan, fuck you. Fuck Hector. Fuck fucking Cheney. And fuck your fucking brother. Get in the fucking livingroom and shut the fuck up.

  George holds the side of his head, covering the bloody lump where Fernando hit him with the minibat while he was stuck in the window screaming. He looks down at his brother.

  – I’ll be back, Andy.

  But Andy doesn’t say anything and George steps out of the bathroom, following Fernando.

  Still on the floor, Timo flips him off.

  – Dode fudking loob ad me, bidch. Youd gob fudking enoudgh trubdle.

  – You’re a shucking cockshucker, Ramon.

  – Me? No, man, never. Had mine sucked a few times in the joint. Know what, Hector? Man’s mouth feels just like a woman’s. Yours, with those teeth knocked out, it might feel pretty good.

  – Shuck you and you mosher and you grandmosher, puta Shucking cockshucker.

  – That’s a long to do list you’re making for yourself, joven.

  – Shee ish I’m a lishle boy when I shuv that chain down your shucking shroash.

  Ramon leans forward on the couch and prods Hector with the end of his crutch.

  – Hey, hey, what do you think this would feel like in your ass?