the hammock
.
Motorcycles roared into the driveway, and Ben jogged downstairs.
Darryl Sikes walked into the living room and looked around slowly. He wore his leather jacket and heavy, dark boots. His face was flushed, sweat running down his temples.
Ben stopped on the bottom step. Myra tied her robe shut. Darryl’s leather jacket creaked like a redwood in a windstorm as he stomped into the kitchen and turned on the faucet.
“You’re bleeding,” Myra said.
He scrubbed his hands with soap. “This isn’t my blood.”
The gang of bikers burst through the front door. They carried a bloodied man between them. They put the man on the floor and Frank gritted his teeth.
“T-Rex hit KC in the face with a ball-peen hammer,” Frank said. “Sons of bitches must pay.”
Ben stared at the bloodied man. His cheek was split open and bits of tooth poked through the glistening flesh. He breathed from the other side of his mouth, swallowing blood and trying not to cough.
“They hired Screaming Eagles to bust the strike,” Frank continued. “So KC dropped the first scab. Next thing we know, someone hits Petey over the head with a two-by-four.”
Myra put her hand to her mouth. “Oh God, no—”
“Then T-Rex nailed KC. Didn’t even give him a fighting chance. Just popped him with the hammer and let him fall.”
Darryl ran his fingers through his hair and stalked around the living room. KC began to cough. Blood sprayed from his mouth and soaked into the carpet.
“Call the police,” Myra said.
Darryl shook his head. “No cops.”
“Darryl—”
“No cops. Not this time. We’re Hell’s Foster Children. This time we do it my way.”
The door to the basement opened and the old man stepped into the living room. He had changed into his red sweatsuit, hair combed high, a pair of green-tinted aviator glasses resting on his sagging cheeks. He held a laundry bag in one hand and a mimosa in the other.
The old man walked around the couch. The gang of bikers stepped aside as he craned his neck to look at the man lying bleeding on the floor. He set the laundry bag down and sipped his mimosa. He stared long and hard while KC sputtered and spit, then he gulped the rest of his mimosa and wiped the dribble off his chin with his sweatshirt sleeve.
“Details,” he said.
“Union hired us to protect their picket line,” Darryl said. “This morning they tried to bust the strike.”
The old man frowned. “You also union?”
“Some of us,” Darryl said. “Local 210. Frank here is president.”
“What’s being built?”
“Miniature golf course,” Frank said.
The old man nodded to himself. “Ben, pull the car up.”
“It’s already parked close,” Ben said.
“Then pull it closer. My back is killing me.”
The old man turned to the group and held out his empty glass. Myra took it away.
“Saddle up, boys,” he said. “I’m leading a charge of the righteous.”
6.
hey pulled up to the construction site, led by a wisteria-on-white Caddy with a young man at the steering wheel and an old man who looked like Elvis by his side. Behind them a convoy of roaring Harleys, sun gleaming on chrome, black enamel, and mirrored sunglasses.
“You ever been in a fight?” the old man asked.
“Ninth grade,” Ben said. “Bill Pippen got me into a headlock for fifteen minutes. My friends chucked basketballs at his head until he let go.”
“Man, I mean a real fight. Just you and some sonofabitch trying to rip each other’s heads off.”
Ben thought about Patrick. “Not really.”
The old man sucked air between his front teeth. “Keep your hands up and your chin low. Bend your knees. Strike fast and hard, use the strength from your
hara
.”
“What’s a hara?”
“The center of a man’s energy. Three finger widths below the navel.”
“Is that anything like a kundalini?”
“A what?”
“I’m just fucking around,” Ben said. He saw the rival gang at the construction site, large men sitting on
.
Motorcycles roared into the driveway, and Ben jogged downstairs.
Darryl Sikes walked into the living room and looked around slowly. He wore his leather jacket and heavy, dark boots. His face was flushed, sweat running down his temples.
Ben stopped on the bottom step. Myra tied her robe shut. Darryl’s leather jacket creaked like a redwood in a windstorm as he stomped into the kitchen and turned on the faucet.
“You’re bleeding,” Myra said.
He scrubbed his hands with soap. “This isn’t my blood.”
The gang of bikers burst through the front door. They carried a bloodied man between them. They put the man on the floor and Frank gritted his teeth.
“T-Rex hit KC in the face with a ball-peen hammer,” Frank said. “Sons of bitches must pay.”
Ben stared at the bloodied man. His cheek was split open and bits of tooth poked through the glistening flesh. He breathed from the other side of his mouth, swallowing blood and trying not to cough.
“They hired Screaming Eagles to bust the strike,” Frank continued. “So KC dropped the first scab. Next thing we know, someone hits Petey over the head with a two-by-four.”
Myra put her hand to her mouth. “Oh God, no—”
“Then T-Rex nailed KC. Didn’t even give him a fighting chance. Just popped him with the hammer and let him fall.”
Darryl ran his fingers through his hair and stalked around the living room. KC began to cough. Blood sprayed from his mouth and soaked into the carpet.
“Call the police,” Myra said.
Darryl shook his head. “No cops.”
“Darryl—”
“No cops. Not this time. We’re Hell’s Foster Children. This time we do it my way.”
The door to the basement opened and the old man stepped into the living room. He had changed into his red sweatsuit, hair combed high, a pair of green-tinted aviator glasses resting on his sagging cheeks. He held a laundry bag in one hand and a mimosa in the other.
The old man walked around the couch. The gang of bikers stepped aside as he craned his neck to look at the man lying bleeding on the floor. He set the laundry bag down and sipped his mimosa. He stared long and hard while KC sputtered and spit, then he gulped the rest of his mimosa and wiped the dribble off his chin with his sweatshirt sleeve.
“Details,” he said.
“Union hired us to protect their picket line,” Darryl said. “This morning they tried to bust the strike.”
The old man frowned. “You also union?”
“Some of us,” Darryl said. “Local 210. Frank here is president.”
“What’s being built?”
“Miniature golf course,” Frank said.
The old man nodded to himself. “Ben, pull the car up.”
“It’s already parked close,” Ben said.
“Then pull it closer. My back is killing me.”
The old man turned to the group and held out his empty glass. Myra took it away.
“Saddle up, boys,” he said. “I’m leading a charge of the righteous.”
6.
hey pulled up to the construction site, led by a wisteria-on-white Caddy with a young man at the steering wheel and an old man who looked like Elvis by his side. Behind them a convoy of roaring Harleys, sun gleaming on chrome, black enamel, and mirrored sunglasses.
“You ever been in a fight?” the old man asked.
“Ninth grade,” Ben said. “Bill Pippen got me into a headlock for fifteen minutes. My friends chucked basketballs at his head until he let go.”
“Man, I mean a real fight. Just you and some sonofabitch trying to rip each other’s heads off.”
Ben thought about Patrick. “Not really.”
The old man sucked air between his front teeth. “Keep your hands up and your chin low. Bend your knees. Strike fast and hard, use the strength from your
hara
.”
“What’s a hara?”
“The center of a man’s energy. Three finger widths below the navel.”
“Is that anything like a kundalini?”
“A what?”
“I’m just fucking around,” Ben said. He saw the rival gang at the construction site, large men sitting on
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