The Shotgun Rule

by Charlie Huston

  – How about that, boss?

  He taps the pencil against his chest.

  – First, I got your point.

  He waves the pencil at the guys and his brother.

  – Now, I’m making a point of my own.

  – You’re an asshole, Ramon. A jailbird asshole and you don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Ramon looks at the pencil.

  – Check it out, it’s a Number 2.

  He taps the tip against his thigh.

  – Think you filled in the bubble completely?

  – A fucking beaner spic wetback asshole.

  – Ooooooh, that’s a lot of racial stuff. That’s a lot of, get this one, racial epithets.

  – You fuck your mother.

  – Man, you ever seen my mother? You ever saw her, you wouldn’t talk like that. My mother is one mean ugly bitch.

  Fernando snaps his fingers.

  – Don’t talk like that, ese.

  – You know what I can’t figure out, bro?

  Fernando shakes his head.

  – What?

  Ramon holds up a hand, four fingers in the air.

  – Me and you and Hector and Whelan over there, all four of us sitting and being scared of boss here, and him holding that gun that only shoots two bullets.

  Geezer licks his lips, gestures with the grabber, pointing it in the air.

  – OK, OK, you got a point about the witnesses thing, Ramon. And I’ll admit, all things being the same, I’d be trying to figure out how to deal with that issue. But we’re kind of beyond that now. We’re at a point of shit being so fucked up that we can just forget about what happens with the cops. Right now, getting that half kilo so we can hand it to Oakland and keep them happy is a more pressing problem. Most of all, before we worry about the cops, we got to worry about them.

  He points the grabber at George and Hector.

  – And what we’re gonna do when psycho Bob Whelan shows up looking for them.

  Ramon shakes the pencil from side to side.

  – Oakland. Whelan’s dad. These things, they sound like your problems. Bro and me, we got to worry ’bout how you’re not mentioning lawyers anymore. We got to worry ’bout getting out of town, it looks like. These kids, looks like they got to worry ’bout getting from this house alive.

  He taps the pencil against his forehead.

  – All of us, we got conflicting agendas, ese. ’Cept one thing. The four of us, we all got one thing in common.

  He leans back and crosses his arms.

  – None of us like you.

  – You are so fucking dead, Ramon.

  – See what I mean, guys. Ese, vato Hector, Whelan, let’s rush him, eh? Tell you what, if it means this fat pendejo cocksucker dies, I’ll go first, I’ll take one of those bullets.

  The crate shatters under Fernando’s ass and Geezer jumps and the gun goes off.

  George and Hector, still holding hands, squeeze, and their knuckles go white.

  Fernando scrambles up, a big splinter jutting from his right buttock.

  Ramon looks at the bullet hole in the plaster two feet from his head.

  – I know your vocabulary sucks, boss, how’s your math?

  It’s no real surprise that his dad can’t tie a knot worth shit.

  Once he starts twisting his wrists back and forth, once his dad isn’t touching him and the pain stops and he can move, pulling his hands and feet free is pretty easy.

  Mr. Whelan has his dad shoved into a corner, holding him by the throat.

  – Youyouyouyouyoufucker! My kids! Where?

  Paul gets up and goes to the dining room table and picks up one of the big hardbound computer textbooks and comes back and hits Mr. Whelan in the back of the head with it and Mr. Whelan hunches over and Paul hits him again and he falls on the floor and his dad slides to his knees coughing.

  Paul drops the book.

  – Sorry, Mr. Whelan. You can’t hurt my dad like that.

  Mr. Whelan doesn’t move.

  Paul finds his clothes in the garbage bag under the kitchen sink and puts them on, but his boots aren’t in there and he has to go back to the livingroom to find them.

  – Paul.

  – Yhuh huh.

  – Thank you.

  – Hunh uh.

  He puts on his socks and his boots.

  – We’re going to have to, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, son, but we’re going to have to leave town. I know that’s going to be hard for you. You have friends here, a school. But it will be hard for me, too. And sometimes a change is good for everybody.

  Paul gets up and adjusts his shirt and brushes back his hair.

  – Hunh uh.

  Mr. Cheney pushes himself up the wall, pulling his robe closed.

  – So let’s not put it off. Let’s dive in. You go start packing a bag and I’ll get some things together that we need. And, it won’t be all bad, we’ll be on the road for a bit. I can teach you to drive.

  Paul looks around and sees what he wants and picks up the bag of crank.

  – I know how to drive, Dad.

  His father comes toward him.

  – Well, I guess that doesn’t really come as a surprise. But you can always use practice. And I’d like to see your traffic safety skills before I feel comfortable about you driving on your own. Why don’t we, let’s get some things together, and we can get started. I’ll drive the first leg and then you can take over and we’ll see how you do. How’s that sound?

  Paul looks at his father.

  – I got to go somewhere.

  Mr. Cheney reaches for him.

  – No, Paul, I’m going to have to put my foot down here. I’m not letting you get in any more trouble. It is time for you to listen to your father and do what he tells you.

  Paul steps away from the outstretched hand.

  – I got to go, Dad, my friends are in trouble. I got to help them.

  He starts for the door.

  Mr. Cheney rushes around him and blocks the hall.

  – No, Paul. No. I appreciate you wanting to help your friends, but this is not the time.

  – Get out of my way, Dad.

  – Don’t speak to me in that tone.

  – Get out of the way.

  – Paul.

  Paul shoves his father out of the way and walks past him.

  – Leave me alone.

  Mr. Cheney comes after him, grabbing at the back of his shirt.

  – Paul, Paul, you have to listen to me, son. There’s things. You don’t really understand things. Me. I’m your father and you don’t even understand me.

  Paul turns, knocking the hands away.

  – Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me. I want you to leave me alone. Just leave me alone.

  – I. I. Leave you. I. Paul. I. Leave you? Paul, I. I, don’t. You, can’t you try, try to understand? I. I love you. I’ve always loved you. You. You are what I. I just love you so much and I don’t understand why, why you can’t see that. Why you won’t see that? Paul, listen, I, I can make you happy, I can make you so happy. I can make you, you can love me, you can. You do. I know you do. I can feel it. I can. You just don’t know how much you love me. And I love you so much.

  Paul slaps his father.

  – Be quiet, Dad.

  – I love you.

  He slaps him again.

  – Just be quiet.

  – I do, I do, I love you.

  – Dad, listen to me.

  His dad listens, a hand on his burning cheek.

  – Yes, son?

  Paul spits in his face.

  – I don’t love you, Dad. I never loved you. Ever.

  He turns and pulls the door open.

  – Go away, Dad. Run away. You’re in a lot of trouble, so run away. If you don’t, I’m gonna kill you or something when I come home.

  He goes out and closes the door behind him.

  Kyle Cheney grabs the doorknob, twists it, starts to pull the door open, and cl
oses it before he can see the street outside.

  He walks back to the livingroom and looks at the mess. The boy unconscious in the hall. His neighbor on the floor. He sits at the dining table and picks up an uncorrected test and a red felt tip pen and makes a few marks on the paper. Some of his son’s spit rolls down his chin and onto the table.

  He gets up and goes to the bedroom and dresses in brown corduroys and a blue and pink madras shirt and blue socks and a pair of brown moccasins. From the nightstand he takes a photo of himself holding his five year old son; crouched behind him, arms around his middle, Paul squirming. He takes the picture from its frame, folds it in half and slides it in his breast pocket and gets his keys and checkbook and ID and walks past the wounded bodies and out of the house.

  The sun is cracking the sky above the Altamont.

  He walks around the block and finds his car and gets in and starts it and drives to the QuickStop. He doesn’t have any cash, but the man lets him write a check because he recognizes him and because he has ID. He takes his bottle and gets in his car and takes a long drink and sits and thinks for a minute.

  If he closes his eyes, he can remember exactly where it was his wife’s car slipped the embankment. He can picture what the car looked like when he got the call and drove until he saw the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance and fire truck. He can remember the elation.

  He starts his car and pulls it onto the freeway and drives fast.

  – Seriously, boss, why the hell you bring a gun with only two bullets?

  – I got more.

  Ramon laughs.

  – I’m not lying, guys. I don’t think I can walk much, but I bet I can hop on one leg. After he shoots me, the rest of you got no problem.

  – Shut the fuck up.

  – Fernando, you promise me, you guys, too. Whelan, Hector, you all promise me you’ll kill this fatass, and I’ll get up and hop right at him and make him shoot that last bullet at me.

  Ramon looks at the bullet hole in the wall again.

  – Hell, I could get lucky, he might miss.

  Geezer puts his back in a corner of the room, Fernando and Ramon to his right, the kids to his left.

  – Gun can be reloaded, asshole.

  – Yeah, how fast? Whelan, Hector, you guys in? Want to play some chicken with fatass?

  George is shaking.

  Hector pulls his hand free of George. He picks up the length of chain crusted with his own dry blood and stands up.

  Ramon claps.

  – That’s it, vato, that’s what I was talking about before, homies sticking together.

  Hector stares at him, swallows more blood.

  George grabs at Hector’s hand.

  – Sit down, man. Sit down.

  – No.

  George watches the barrel of the derringer swing in his direction.

  Geezer thumbs the hammer back.

  – George, I promise you, these spics try to rush me, you’re gonna be the one taking the bullet.

  Ramon sits up.

  – Hey, I like that even better. You mean, I come at you, me and my brother and Hector come at you, you’re gonna blast Whelan? Ese, hear that?

  Fernando yanks the splinter out of his butt.

  – Yeah, I heard it, bro.

  George is pulling on Hector’s hand.

  – Sit down, man, I don’t want to get shot, sit down.

  Hector edges down the wall, out of his reach, watching Ramon.

  Ramon’s hand dips between the couch cushions and returns, holding the hacksaw.

  – Yo, boss, look what I left lying around.

  Glass shatters as Paul throws the bag of meth through the sliding door, making the hole Hector punched in it big enough to climb through.

  – I got your shit, fatass, let my friends go.

  Bob stands slowly, the lump on the back of his head throbbing. He goes to the phone and picks it up. He dials 9, but sees something he’d forgotten and doesn’t finish. He hangs the phone up and goes to the end of the hall and walks over the broken door, his foot punching a hole in it, and finds a glass and fills it with water and goes back to the boy on the floor in the hall and pours the water in his face and throws the glass over his shoulder and bends and takes the boy by his hair and slaps him.

  – You, fuckhead, wake the fuck up, you little piece of shit, wake the fuck up. Where are my sons? What the fuck is going on and where the fuck are my boys?

  The garage pitches and rolls and Andy thinks he’s going to go back to sleep, but he doesn’t.

  He folds the plastic back around the parts of Jeff’s head that are still there. It’s weird, how it looks almost exactly the way it looks when he imagines shooting someone in the face.

  He gags. But his stomach has been empty for awhile now and nothing comes out, but it makes his eye and his head hurt.

  He stands up and pokes around in the chemicals and glassware and trash and piles of broken furniture and crap and finds a bent piece of rusted rebar with a clot of broken cement jutting from its end.

  He swings it back and forth a couple times.

  He sees himself standing behind the door when someone comes out to the garage as he brings the rebar down on their head and it gets lodged in there and they fall down and pull the rebar from his hand and it cuts his palm as it jerks free and he has to wiggle it back and forth to pull it loose from the hole in the skull of the dead body on the floor.

  He swings it a couple more times, raising it above his head and letting gravity pull it down in an arc. He guesses at its weight and thinks about the density of bone and resiliency of flesh and figures that swinging it like that you wouldn’t have to add much force to it at all to create enough momentum to shatter bone and cause sufficient trauma to a person’s brain so that they wouldn’t get back up. Swinging it from the side like a bat will take more force. He tries it. The bar wants to slip from his hands, but it doesn’t.

  He wonders how long it will be before someone realizes that he must be in the garage because they’ve eliminated everywhere in the house and then they come out to look for him.

  Then he hears a gunshot.

  And then breaking glass.

  And then the screaming starts.

  George watches as the bag of crank hits the floor and pulls Geezer’s eyes from him, the aim of the derringer drifting away, and he jumps at the fat man who is reaching for the drugs with the snapping claw of the grabber.

  The bag is about the same size as a football.

  Fernando sees George making a move and dives and rolls and cuts George’s feet from underneath him and tries to cover the bag with his body, but it’s snagged on the end of Geezer’s fucking grabber and is pulled away from him.

  Ramon gets his crutch planted in his armpit and shoves himself forward, a stream of blood pulsing from his leg, pivoting on the rubber tip of the crutch to face Paul as he comes through the hole in the glass door, and being totally blindsided when Hector whips the chain across the side of his head, ripping his ear open.

  George flies, his legs suddenly out from under his body, and plows headfirst into Geezer’s gut and Geezer grunts and jerks the grabber and the claw rips the plastic bag and it falls and he lets go of the derringer as he tries to grab the meth, but both drop to the floor, the bag spilling dirty yellow crystals.

  Ramon swings the hacksaw backhand, the blade tearing through Hector’s black jeans and into the meat at the back of his knee. Hector’s leg folds and he goes down, swinging the chain, watching it wrap around Ramon’s crutch, and yanking as he hits the floor, bringing the jailbird down on top of him.

  On the floor, Fernando lunges and wraps his fist around the shaft of the grabber as Geezer moves to snatch up the fallen derringer. He wrenches it free of the fat man’s sweaty hand and throws it across the room and curses all the saints as George flops on top of the gun.

  Geezer looks at the floor, at the bag spilling his meth, at his favorite gun disappearing under Bob Whelan’s son, and at his grabber acros
s the room. He doesn’t even try to bend and pick anything up. Knowing he’ll never be able to rise without help, he heads for the door.

  Paul sees Geezer running. He wants to hurt him. Hurt him so bad for sending him to get the meth, for sending him home. He runs past Hector and George, struggling on the floor; going after the fat guy, crying.

  George covers the derringer as Fernando comes down on him, driving his elbow into the back of his neck. George’s face goes into the floor and he feels Fernando’s hands digging under his chest, going for the gun, grabbing his thumb.

  Fernando wrenches, and George’s thumb breaks.

  Geezer’s hand slips off the doorknob. He screams and wipes the sweat off on his chest and twists the knob as the big kid comes charging after him. He swings his arm and catches Paul in the balls with his huge fist and the boy folds and falls and Geezer is out the door.

  He chugs to his Seville, gets in, fumbles the key into the ignition and the AC comes to life with the engine. He hits the gas and the engine roars, and he almost plows head on into a 4×4 rounding the corner. He cuts down the street, thinking about money and where to get some.

  Hector has one end of the chain in each hand, stretching it across Ramon’s neck as Ramon sprawls on top of him, one forearm shoved under Hector’s chin as his other hand feels for his dropped hacksaw.

  George goes blind from the pain of his thumb breaking, he can feel it as Fernando grabs his other thumb, but this time he just pulls George’s hand to the side and worms his fingers around the derringer.

  Curled around the pain between his legs, Paul watches as Andy comes through the door from the garage, something dangling from his hand.

  Ramon has the saw. He twists his head, trying to keep Hector’s chain from biting through his throat and plants the blade on the back of Hector’s wrist. But he never draws it across the skin to shred the tendons. Instead he goes limp as something impossibly heavy hits the back of his head, and his body falls away from him.