What the hell, right? He stepped over to the rail and reached across, a five in his hand. She offered him her ass, her G-string, and he tucked it in, getting a whiff of the sweat-stink coming off her. A hard-working girl. She shook it for him. Looked over her shoulder with a wink.
Someone’s camera flash blinded him for a moment. He blinked a few times and stood back. When he could see again, he saw Russell and the tomboy waitress talking. He was right on her ear, and she was nodding, nodding, and then she pulled back with a weird look and twisted lips. But Russell put his hands on her shoulders and kept talking. She finally smiled wide and nodded some more. He dropped what looked like a lot more than a few ones on her tray and headed back to the table.
They left the Tux, Russell leading the way, shouting over his shoulder, “What do you say? Cheaper pussy or cheaper booze?”
Neal said, “I didn’t know pussy got cheaper than this place.”
Russell winked at him.
“How about just a drink?” Ferret’s throat felt as if it was closing up from the whiskey, which he hardly ever drank. “I could go for a few quiet cold ones. Which bar has air conditioning?”
Russell shook his head and Neal shrugged. They knew what Ferret really wanted. One of the chain joints, like Applebee’s or Buffalo Wild Wings. Plenty less bad behavior, a couple of video games in the corner—Ferret liked Big Buck Hunter.
Russell clapped Ferret on the shoulder and said, “I know the place.”
They crossed the street and started down the opposite sidewalk and Ferret felt a twist in his gut because they were headed the wrong direction. The one place Ferret really didn’t want to go.
There it was on the next block: The Teacher’s Lounge.
Ferret pulled the brim of his cap lower, kept his eyes down. He followed Russell and Neal inside but was trying to think of a good reason to duck out early, take a cab back to the man camp.
He felt like he was back in high school, hanging with the losers who raided their folks’ liquor cabinets when they were out of town. He hadn’t worried so much about his parents grounding him. His dad was the type who could think up much more inventive punishments—like making Ferret drink up until he was wasted, then take him out for a few jogs around the block until he threw up. Or, one time, his dad locked him out of the house twelve minutes past curfew and had superglued a metal plate over the deadbolt lock. Ferret had slept in the car that night, only to find the plate gone when he woke up at five a.m. desperate to pee.
What he was really worried about instead was cops. He’d grown up paranoid of them. It wasn’t like he’d had any bad run-ins, but his mom always froze up around them, hit the brakes when she saw a police car, and tried to avoid them in malls. Ferret never understood the root cause, but he sure as hell picked up on the chill, and he had never lost it.
He wondered if the cops were still looking for him after the fight in the back parking lot. Or if the bartenders and the customers might recognize him and call them. Seriously, though, how many of the oil workers had been arrested for such pissy little things, only to sleep it off in a holding cell, pay a fine, and be back at work the next day? Why was that so bad? But when he got right down to it, Ferret knew it was because Dee Dee would find out about it and it might nix the move. That’s how on-the-edge she was, and it wasn’t worth it to press his luck.
So, a couple of beers to make the fellas happy, then a fake text on his phone, something he had to take care of, and that would do it.
As soon as he lifted his eyes and saw the table they were approaching, Ferret’s plan fell apart. Russell had been jerking him around this whole time. There waiting for them was Hunter—Bad Russell—with his arm around Glen Ramsey, the Baptist, barely able to hold himself up on his elbows.
Bad Russell saw them coming and flashed a tobacco-stained smile. “Hey, buddy, look who it is. Look who’s come out to see us.”
Ramsey lifted his chin a fraction. His eyes were mostly closed. “The little guy? I remember the little guy.”
Ferret turned his back to the table, blocked Good Russell’s path. “What’s going on? What’s the deal with this asshole?”
Russell shrugged, but he was grinning and blinking. “No idea, man. We’re all cool. Nothing’s going to happen, not with us here.”
“The guy tried to kill me.”
“No, seriously? No, man, it just got out of hand, that’s all. Don’t worry. You have a beer and we’re cool.” Russell pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll be right back.”
He left. Ferret peeked over his shoulder. Neal had already joined in and was putting in an order with a waitress in tight purple short-shorts and a low-cut tank top. Bad Russell was waving Ferret over.
Look, he was a grown man, right? Why should he waste his time on another round with the Baptist, right? Being a grown man meant not having to put up with the high-school crap, right? Maybe if he didn’t work in a job surrounded by thousands of men whose brains seemed to lock up around the age of eighteen. Just like back then, they still picked and poked and provoked until a guy broke, then laughed and bought him a beer. Or if he wasn’t a good sport, they kicked his ass and never let him forget it. So a guy like Ferret, he had to grin, drink his “peace offering,” and shut up.
He pulled the stool out from the table, sat half his rear on it, one foot still on the ground. Bad Russell nodded and told Ferret it was good to see him, and he hollered at the waitress before she left and ordered a couple of beers, plus another five shots for the table. “Rotgut,” he told her. “The stuff you can’t even give away at happy hour. That’s what I want.”
Ferret coughed into his hand and cringed. Jesus. He couldn’t take any more.
Neal pointed between the Baptist and Ferret. “How do you two know each other?”
Ramsey, way past his limit, grunted and looked like he was about to speak, then pushed himself up, arms fully extended. Another noise like he was going to be sick.
Ferret said, “We just...bumped into each other a while back, that’s all.”
But Neal smiled as if he had known the answer all along. “Sure, sure.”
Ramsey finally said, “He’s a scrapper. He’s a little fucker, but...” Long sigh. “...Little scrapper. I, I, I been looking all over for him. Like, when he didn’t have that friend around. His butt-buddy, you know? His butt-buddy? That big guy?”
Bad Russell clamped his hand around Ramsey’s neck, like he had to hold him up. “You talking Gene Handy? That’s the one?”
“Yeah! Yeah! I asked around, and around, and...it’s so hot here. I thought up here, it’d be colder. It’s almost Canada. It’s so goddamn...so hot.”
Bad Russell cackled. He said to Neal, “You heard about this, didn’t you?”
“Enough of it. Yeah.”
“Shit, man, I wish I’d seen it. I was right here the whole time!” He gave the Baptist a little shake. Ramsey picked up his empty beer glass and took a sip of nothing anyway.
Ferret said, “I’m not looking for a rematch. I didn’t do anything. He bumped into me, spilled my drink, and started some shit.”
“No, I heard you got some good licks in. You were pretty good.”
“You heard wrong. I got lucky.”
Another cackle from Bad Russell, like a hyena. “Boy, you got Handy. That dude...man. He’s like, you’ve seen The Avengers? He’s The Hulk.”
“My dad used to watch the Hulk on TV when I was a kid. He got the DVD a couple years ago and we watched it together.”
“Gene Handy’s not that green.”
“I don’t know. Anyone looked close enough?”
Ramsey spurted, “Sucker-punched me. Motherfucker. He ain’t shit.”
Bad Russell gave the man another shake. “Sore loser, that’s all you are, man.”
“Aw, I know. But I can’t let it go, man.” He looked across at Ferret with glassy eyes. “I’ve got to finish it, one way or another. Just...just the way it has to be.”
Ferret shrugged, dropped his eyes to
his hands in his lap. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
Good Russell returned to the table right before the waitress did, balancing a crazy tray filled brim to brim with full drinks, much more than their order. She must have had a lot of practice. She handed the drinks around with a smile and poppy, “I’ll check on you guys later!” and was off again to the next table.
Bad Russell looked at Good Russell and asked, “All set?”
Good Russell nodded back, then turned to Ferret and pointed at the shot of rotgut. “If you don’t want that, I’ll take it.”
He felt a little relief. The first since walking in here. “Thanks, man.”
Good Russell took it and downed it and it was gone. “Cheers.”
Then he stood, that whole round of nearly full beers and booze forgotten, and said, “On to the next adventure?”
Ferret pushed back from the table, thinking this was his way out, but Bad Russell clamped his hand on Ferret’s shoulder and spoke low. “You’re going to love this part.”
Ramsey was leaning on the table, clawing at something in his front pants pocket. He finally pulled out some keys and held them close to his face, stupidly smiling, mumbling.
Neal reached out and took the keys. “No, no, man, not like this. No driving for you.”
Ramsey stared, squinted, but didn’t fight it. Bad Russell steered the man towards the exit, the rest following behind. Ferret fought down a stomach ache, played cool. He had no clue what these guys were planning. He already didn’t like it.
On the sidewalk, they met up with the tomboy waitress from the strip club and another young guy, one he hadn’t seen before. No one bothered to introduce them, and they didn’t introduce themselves. He was real thin and wore a hoodie—in this weather? The kid had spiked hair and, maybe, some eyeliner. The waitress, though, now that he had a better look, was only tomboy on the outside. Old jeans, simple T-shirt, flip-flops, but she filled out the shirt and was curved like a work of art. Like one of Ferret’s grandpa’s hand-whittled duck calls. No make-up. Scrubbed clean. She smelled like soap. And she was goofy, cracking jokes and laughing with the new boy, following the crowd down the sidewalk.
Neal stood ahead with the Baptist’s keys, punching the buttons on the fob.
“What are we looking for?”
Neal showed the fob. “GMC. I’m guessing a huge truck, right? See any on the street?”
They didn’t but they all kept walking until a silver truck that looked brand new flashed its lights and honked at them. It was double-parked in a lot next to a fried-chicken joint. The greasy smell pouring out of those walls didn’t make Ferret feel any better. They all stood around the truck a moment, admiring just how fucking big and shiny this thing was, simultaneously pissed that it was Glen Ramsey who owned it. Or, worse, leased it.
Bad Russell said, “Neal, let’s get it behind the building, alright?”
Neal nodded and climbed into the beast, cranked up and pulled out. Ramsey made some noises—a bit of “Hey, my truck” and “Motherfucker truck” and “Ah, hey, ah.” But Bad Russell kept the pressure on Ramsey’s neck and kept the man quiet. He started towards the back of the building, behind the truck’s taillights, and the others followed.
Ferret sidled up to Good Russell. “Jesus, how’d you get him that drunk?”
“You know, one shot then two, then a little something-something in his glass.”
“Like, date rape?”
A shrug. “Date help.”
Around back, Neal had parked the truck by the restaurant’s dumpster. The grease smell turned old, burnt, and clashed with sweet pop and rotting coleslaw. Jesus. Neal turned off the truck and hopped out while Good Russell, the waitress, and the skinny guy walked over to the passenger’s side. Bad Russell kept Ramsey on a beeline to the driver’s seat. He told Neal, “You keep an eye out?”
Neal shook his head. “Man, I wanted to see this.”
“You can watch the video. Come on.”
So Neal mumbled some curses and stepped over to the corner of the building, peeking around out front.
There was a scattering of cars in the back gravel lot, probably the waiters, cooks, dishwasher. A chain link fence separated them from the building next door, but was open to the grove of trees behind them, a wood fence that was shin high with sandwich wrappers and pop lids, blown there by the wind. The lot had a single light overhead hanging off the corner of the building, and that gave them a huge contrast—stark, unforgiving florescent glare and deep, black shadows. Ferret stood where he could watch Bad Russell help Ramsey into the truck, and then watched him undo the guy’s belt.
“Wait, what’s going on here?”
Bad Russell shushed him. “Keep cool.”
Ferret walked around to the other side of the truck. Good Russell had his phone up and ready in camera mode. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the back screen-door of the chicken joint. The inside door was open and Ferret saw some shadows pass by, but no one was paying attention to the folks out back. They were talking loud in there, sounded Spanish. The chicken fryer was loud, too.
Bad Russell said, “Okay, let’s get this done.”
Ferret turned back to see the tomboy waitress already pulling her shirt over her head as she kicked off her jeans and panties. The skinny guy held the passenger door open. In the cab, Bad Russell held up Ramsey with one hand and tugged his pants and boxers down past his knees. Ferret stepped over in front of the waitress and held his arms out to his side, like, No no no.
“What the fuck? Are you kidding me?”
“No it’s okay.” The waitress unlatched her bra and dropped it on her pile of clothes. “Really, it’ll be funny. It’s fine.”
“What’s fine? Why would you...”
Good Russell took hold of Ferret’s arm and pulled him out of the way. “Watch and learn, man. Don’t worry about it.”
He let himself be pulled aside. The girl was nice naked. Goddamn. Some red lines where her bra and jeans were too tight. Some scars on her shins and a couple of zits on her back, but he was embarrassed for liking her, embarrassed for everyone getting to see her like this even though she didn’t seem to mind at all. She climbed up into the cab on her knees and the skinny guy closed the door. She leaned over, ass up and head in Ramsey’s lap, fingers wrapping around his limp cock. Ferret couldn’t tell if Ramsey even knew what was going on. He was sitting up on his own and looking around. He placed his hand on the waitress’s back. Bad Russell reached across and repositioned it on her head.
“We’ll do the photos first. See if you can get it hard enough for the pics,” Bad Russell told her. He shut the driver’s door. “Then we’ll do the video real quick.”
She nodded. “Tell me when.”
“Get started. This guy might be numb.”
She went down on him, started flicking her tongue. Behind Ferret, Good Russell cleared his throat. Ferret turned back, and Russell lifted his phone. “I’ve got to take the pictures now.”
Ferret stepped out of the way while he started shooting, with flash, stepping closer until the waitress, who’d gotten Ramsey hard enough, lifted her head and pretended to get angry at the cameraman, covering her boobs and flipping him off. Then she dropped her arms.
“How was that?”
“One more before the video. Just don’t make him cum.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ew, gross. Stop.” Back down into his lap one more time.
Ferret couldn’t take his eyes off her. He tried. He heard the slurping, the low moans from the drugged Ramsey. The girl seemed plenty happy with the audience, though. At one point, Ferret was surprised to notice one of the cooks from the chicken joint standing by him, dirty apron and hairnet and cigarette. Arms crossed, not even smiling. Then the video was done, and she got a round of applause. She smiled and bounced out of the truck, grabbed her clothes.
Ferret couldn’t help himself. After she pulled her panties on and snugged into her shirt, no bra this time. Ferret stepped up and said, “Hey.”<
br />
“Yeah?”
“You were really okay with that? Did you know that guy?”
She shook her head. “Never seen him before. Russell asked if I’d do it.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“It was a lot. A couple hundred bucks.”
He was about to ask her if she was serious when Bad Russell shouted, “Let’s go. Next up.”
The hell did he mean by that? Ferret turned around and now the skinny guy with the eye liner was naked and climbing into the truck for his turn. The cook shrugged and started inside, said to Good Russell, “Whatever, man.” He flicked the cigarette across the lot.
Ferret waved Bad Russell over behind the truck and whispered, “What’s the deal now?”
“In case his wife or boss or whatever isn’t worried about him getting it on with some sweet pussy, maybe they will if he’s messing around with a faggot.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s all cool, man. We’ll get him home, let him sober up, then show him all the pictures and videos in a day or two. Whatever shit was between you two, it’s gone now, trust me.”
Ferret shook his head. Good Russell did the back and forth thing with the camera again, giving instruction to the guy doing the sucking each time. Whatever this was, it went beyond humiliation. Beyond blackmail. This was straight-up rape, same as if they’d slipped those roofies into a woman’s glass.
“One more thing,” Bad Russell said. “Pancrazy says ‘You’re welcome.’ And also, you’re in. Stay tuned.”
“In? In what?”
Wink. “You’ll see.”
How would they even know he wanted in unless Gene Handy had told them? Then, shit, maybe he’d changed his mind. He was about to ask, but looked up at the thin guy’s pimply ass and balls in the cab of the truck and changed his mind.
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