People die when they're ready to.
We turned off on a pothole-stricken road just outside of the city. Ricky kept the Buick at five miles an hour, and we bumped along. “Our tax dollars at work,” he said. He pulled over into a patch of dirty grass and mud near a squat blue house, and pointed through the windshield at a distant ugly house—the only other building on the street.
“Why'd you park so far away?” I asked.
“Never let 'em see you coming,” Ricky said. “Ready?”
I opened my sportcoat a little, so he could see the Beretta he'd sold me. We got out and shut the car doors, and they sounded loud and crisp, the way they always do when you're heading toward trouble. We walked. A skinny black cat ran across the road in front of us. It hid in some bushes, and as we passed I knelt down and made a clicking sound. It ran right over to me. You could see the shape of its backbone. I made a fist and let it stroke its face against my hand, and it hummed like an engine.
“Jesus,” Ricky said. “I ain't superstitious, but let's not push it.”
Ricky rang the doorbell. It took a few minutes. Then the white curtain of a nearby window lifted up and fell back into place.
“Who is it?” a voice said.
“The meter man,” Ricky said.
The deadbolt clicked and the door creaked open. A scrawny kid with long blond hair stood there looking us up and down. He had a lot of piercings. One through his eyebrow and one through his nose, right in the middle, like a cartoon bull. His ears were stretched out as big as silver dollars from those tribal style earrings that so many white kids are wearing these days.
Moe wears tiny gold hoops, and those look fine. What I don't understand is some guy with earlobes the size of a coffee mug. There's no going back from that. And it's disrespectful to the guys in Papua New Guinea with red face-paint and bows with poison arrows. Those stretched out lobes are an important part of their culture. They have spiritual significance. But over here in America, on some suburban college kid, giant holes in your ears are just a cheap way to say, “hey, look at me!”
So right off the bat I didn't like this kid. His baseball hat was turned sideways, he was wearing a tank-top, and his bony white arms were covered with ridiculous tattoos. His eyes were redder than a baboon's ass, and the sharp smell of weed was practically floating in a visible cloud behind him in the darkness.
“We're friends of Moe,” Ricky said.
“Who's Moe?” the kid said.
“The black gentleman you refused to do business with,” Ricky said.
“Who is it?” a girl said from the darkness.
“Shut up,” the kid said. Then he yelled out “Wade! Get down here!”
“Do we have to stand out here like bums?” Ricky said, flashing his white teeth.
The kid stepped aside and the door creaked open. Next thing I knew we were sitting on a couch in a living room with two empty pizza boxes, a three foot glass bong, some beer bottles here and there, and white sheets thumb-tacked over the windows. Classy.
A girl with pink hair and tight black pants sat in an ugly recliner. She looked even more stoned than the kid. She grabbed the wooden handle on the side of the chair and heaved herself back.
“Who are these guys?” she said.
“I thought I told you to shut up,” the kid said.
You could hear someone walking down the stairs, and I saw Ricky move his hand toward his gun. It was the kid's older brother. You could see they were related, but this one had short hair and a way more professional appearance. I couldn't find a single tattoo.
“I'm Wade,” he said when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “That's my brother Clayton”—he looked over at the scrawny kid—“can we help you?”
“You weren't very nice to Moe,” Ricky said.
“I thought he was bluffing.”
“No Sir,” Ricky said. “We have a certain way of doing things around here. If you guys want to operate, you're gonna have to pay a fee.”
“Sounds
We turned off on a pothole-stricken road just outside of the city. Ricky kept the Buick at five miles an hour, and we bumped along. “Our tax dollars at work,” he said. He pulled over into a patch of dirty grass and mud near a squat blue house, and pointed through the windshield at a distant ugly house—the only other building on the street.
“Why'd you park so far away?” I asked.
“Never let 'em see you coming,” Ricky said. “Ready?”
I opened my sportcoat a little, so he could see the Beretta he'd sold me. We got out and shut the car doors, and they sounded loud and crisp, the way they always do when you're heading toward trouble. We walked. A skinny black cat ran across the road in front of us. It hid in some bushes, and as we passed I knelt down and made a clicking sound. It ran right over to me. You could see the shape of its backbone. I made a fist and let it stroke its face against my hand, and it hummed like an engine.
“Jesus,” Ricky said. “I ain't superstitious, but let's not push it.”
Ricky rang the doorbell. It took a few minutes. Then the white curtain of a nearby window lifted up and fell back into place.
“Who is it?” a voice said.
“The meter man,” Ricky said.
The deadbolt clicked and the door creaked open. A scrawny kid with long blond hair stood there looking us up and down. He had a lot of piercings. One through his eyebrow and one through his nose, right in the middle, like a cartoon bull. His ears were stretched out as big as silver dollars from those tribal style earrings that so many white kids are wearing these days.
Moe wears tiny gold hoops, and those look fine. What I don't understand is some guy with earlobes the size of a coffee mug. There's no going back from that. And it's disrespectful to the guys in Papua New Guinea with red face-paint and bows with poison arrows. Those stretched out lobes are an important part of their culture. They have spiritual significance. But over here in America, on some suburban college kid, giant holes in your ears are just a cheap way to say, “hey, look at me!”
So right off the bat I didn't like this kid. His baseball hat was turned sideways, he was wearing a tank-top, and his bony white arms were covered with ridiculous tattoos. His eyes were redder than a baboon's ass, and the sharp smell of weed was practically floating in a visible cloud behind him in the darkness.
“We're friends of Moe,” Ricky said.
“Who's Moe?” the kid said.
“The black gentleman you refused to do business with,” Ricky said.
“Who is it?” a girl said from the darkness.
“Shut up,” the kid said. Then he yelled out “Wade! Get down here!”
“Do we have to stand out here like bums?” Ricky said, flashing his white teeth.
The kid stepped aside and the door creaked open. Next thing I knew we were sitting on a couch in a living room with two empty pizza boxes, a three foot glass bong, some beer bottles here and there, and white sheets thumb-tacked over the windows. Classy.
A girl with pink hair and tight black pants sat in an ugly recliner. She looked even more stoned than the kid. She grabbed the wooden handle on the side of the chair and heaved herself back.
“Who are these guys?” she said.
“I thought I told you to shut up,” the kid said.
You could hear someone walking down the stairs, and I saw Ricky move his hand toward his gun. It was the kid's older brother. You could see they were related, but this one had short hair and a way more professional appearance. I couldn't find a single tattoo.
“I'm Wade,” he said when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “That's my brother Clayton”—he looked over at the scrawny kid—“can we help you?”
“You weren't very nice to Moe,” Ricky said.
“I thought he was bluffing.”
“No Sir,” Ricky said. “We have a certain way of doing things around here. If you guys want to operate, you're gonna have to pay a fee.”
“Sounds
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