Mad Boys by Ernest Hebert Page A

he let me up. I was glad to see him even if my vision was a little blurry from the beating. We lolled around the evaporator, talking, while we fed the fire and boiled off sap. Royal and I ate bananas dipped in maple syrup, and we smoked cigarettes. Father sucked down his brew. It was a relaxing time.
    “How’d you get here?” I asked Royal.
    “Parked my limo on the blacktop and hoofed it up your nasty hill,” Royal said. “I wouldn’t risk my dream mobile on your pitiful excuse for a road.”
    “Town won’t plow it,” Father said.
    “When it snows we just keep rolling our pickup over and over it to keep it packed down,” I said.
    “It’s hell when it storms in the middle of the night,” Father said. Actually, in the middle of the night, driving to pack down the snow was my job.
    “I pity you when mud season comes,” Royal said.
    “It’s only a mile to the town road,” I said.
    “Web’s an optimist. Reminds me of his mother,” Father said.
    “Yes, his mother, quite the hot ticket, I bet,” Royal said.
    “Where you staying?” I asked Royal.
    “I don’t have an address at the moment,” Royal said.
    “You can move in here,” I said.
    “No, he can’t because I won’t allow it,” Father said.
    “I’d die before I’d pollute my noble self by living in this hole.” Royal stared through his dark glasses into the reflection of Father’s eyes and fiddled with the knot in his tie. Then he stepped back and said, “I am currently residing in my vehicle. Unlike the squalor you live in, my condition is not permanent, and I want you to know that I have plenty of money. I’m putting the profits I make selling steroids into my gun-running business. Eventually, it’ll pay off, but right now I’m living like a pauper. This is called investment by some, sacrifice by others, but it amounts to the same thing: the future. It’s a lesson I learned from my old man that he never learned from himself, the bastard.”
    The words “gun” and “running” got father’s attention, which was just what Royal had intended, and a few minutes later Royal proposed a deal. Royal was collecting handguns for the black market. He’d pay Father good money for burglarizing houses of people who owned firearms.
    “So I’m supposed to break into somebody’s house in the off chance they might have a gun, preferably a handgun?” Father was sarcastic.
    “I’m going to make it easy for you. With lists,” Royal said.
    “What lists?”
    “Lists of gun owners. Lists of vacationers. Lists of Bingo nights and recent winners. Let me show you.” He took out some papers from his inside jacket pocket. “These are the names and addresses of people in Cheshire County who subscribe to gun magazines. You follow me? There’s a ninety-percent chance a person on this list will own a gun. It’s only common sense. On this other list, procured with great cunning from a certain computer database, are the names of all people in the county with flight reservations. Lists—I have lists. You understand what I’m saying?”
    Father nodded. “They’re out of town, they got guns; all you need is a man brave enough to break into the house. You’re a smart one, Durocher; I’ll say that much,” Father said with a sneer. He was just sick with envy, but he was willing to swallow his pride to make some money.
    Royal gave Father a few names and the prices he’d pay for guns. Father tried to dicker for more money and more names, but Royal played it stingy.
    “Dirty Joe needs Royal Durocher—I know about your drug habit—but Royal Durocher doesn’t need Dirty Joe,” Royal hissed. “I have a whole network of thieves working for me, people more reliable than you. I’m only doing this to help out Web. If you have a better deal lined up, well good luck, good-bye, and good riddance.”
    That called Father’s bluff. He agreed to do business Royal’s way. Royal didn’t bother to shake Father’s hand. He said, “See you later Dirty