Rage Factor (29 page)

He stopped going to baseball practice, circling around and silently entering the house instead, heading straight for the closet, for the exotic sights and smells and sounds that poured through the crack above the shelf. He hated himself for it, but staying away was not an option he even considered. He lived for those moments, imagining
he
was the one causing the smile, the soft moans, the moisture that glistened on his mother’s skin.

The day his father walked into the room, Lawrence had his eye to the crack and his meat in his hand. His father’s stricken face was like a winter gale, freezing him where he stood. Freezing the pair on the bed. In those frozen seconds, his father aged and died. Then, slowly, he turned and retraced his steps, shutting the door behind him with extreme care.

It was almost five years and many men later that he killed himself, carbon monoxide from another long gray Lincoln, the day after his son left for college. When the phone call came, Lawrence drank himself sick, knowing the complicity he shared in his father’s death. Marianne had killed him, all those years ago. But Lawrence had kept quiet—a coward crouched uselessly in a corner with his baseball bat.

A truck’s headlights glared in the rearview mirror. Adjusting it, Lawrence noticed his freeway exit approaching. College had taken him away from Marianne—he’d stopped thinking of her as Mother, and certainly couldn’t call her Mom or Mommy—but college hadn’t erased those days in the closet, nor the sight of his father’s face. At first, he spent holidays and spring break anywhere but home. But after the first year, he returned to his old room each summer, and after college, he’d returned for good.

At forty-three, Marianne could still turn heads, and the men she brought to the house were often closer to her son’s age than her own. Lawrence had long ago sealed up the crack in the closet wall, but he didn’t need to watch. He could see the entire show in his mind—flushed cheeks, fluttering lashes, and that smile.

Taking the exit, he opened the Jaguar’s glove box, removed the mobile phone and a fold of pink notepaper, and dialed a number. Lying now in her reeking room—Lawrence paid plenty to keep Marianne in the best, but the stench of sick old people still permeated the air—she could not smile or even respond to the stories he told of his own sexual pleasures, beyond rolling her phlegmy eyes or waving that one clawlike hand. But he loved watching her die a little every time he visited.

“Hello?”

“Dottie, darlin’.” Lawrence sniffed the pink, honeysuckle-scented paper. “I am four blocks from your house and starving for a glimpse of your sweet face.”

This would be a good night to give the randy Dottie a thrill while he waited for the time and place to do Dixie Flannigan. One thing he prided himself on was patience.

“Hope you won’t mind, pretty lady, if I pop in for a nightcap.”

Sid Carlson peeled a twenty from a wad of bills as big as his fist and dropped it on the bar.

“Another round here,” he told the bartender.

Sid was wearing his “
IF YOU CAN’T TAKE A JOKE
…” T-shirt, red with white letters, and hoping the bartender would give him a hard time, give him a reason to lift the edge of the shirt and show the final two words. What Sid would do next, depending on the bartender’s attitude, was to either laugh at the cocksucker’s surprised expression or put a fist through his stupid face. Whichever happened didn’t matter much to Sid. He was having a great time celebrating. No one was going to spoil it.

The bartender set two cold mugs of Budweiser on the bar, precisely, so as not to spill foam down the sides of the mugs.

“You’re getting better,” Sid told him. “That’s a nice head. Ain’t that a nice head, Gary? Not a perfect head, a perfect head would be three-quarters of an inch above the top of the mug, without a drop spilled. This one’s maybe half an inch,
beer right up to the rim, then the head above that, and no beer wasted. Nice.”

“Nice,” Gary echoed. He slurped Budweiser through the foam, leaving a thin bead on his upper lip, which he raked off with a swipe of his thumb.

Gary rarely spoke much more than a mouthful of words in one gulp, which was all right with Sid. One thing Sid hated was some rattle-mouth bastard all the time yapping in his ear. When Gary had something to say, he said it. Otherwise, he kept his yap shut.

“Give our friend down there another round, too,” Sid said. There were only three people in the place, so there was no way the bartender could get confused about who was meant. “Then drop another handful of quarters in the jukebox and play our favorite song.”

Sid’s favorite song was “I’ve Got A Tiger By The Tail,” by Buck Owens. He’d never heard it until a couple months ago, right here on this jukebox. Somebody told him it was an old song, from sometime back in the sixties, but that didn’t matter to Sid, who was born in ’65 and wasn’t old enough to remember much that happened in that decade. Who the fuck cared what happened back then, anyway? Who the fuck cared what happened last fuckin week, for that matter? Sid only cared about right now, this minute, and what happened from here on out. Right now, he was celebrating. And give Gary Ingles his due for not being a yapper, truth was, Gary wasn’t much of a hell-raiser, either.

Fellow in the shadows at the end of the bar lifted his glass in a silent salute, meaning “Thanks.”

Earlier, the joint had been rocking pretty good. Sid had won a few games of pool, had even lost a couple games without pushing anybody’s face in for cheating. He and Gary had bought a couple of rounds for the house, not telling anybody exactly
why
they were celebrating. Of course, their mug shots had been on TV, so a few guys recognized them, knew they were celebrating being out of the slammer and squeaking by that robbery charge, but nobody knew what
they were
really
celebrating. Nobody knew how many tills him and Gary had raked clean before they got nabbed. Twelve in all, not counting the citizens they held up in parking lots. Twelve, and tonight was his and Gary’s anniversary, one year exactly from the first job they pulled together. It was just too goddamned perfect, being released from jail on the very day of their anniversary. So they had to fuckin celebrate.

One by one, everybody in the bar had gone home, except him and Gary. And that quiet bastard shuffling cards at the end of the bar. Not playing solitaire or anything, just shuffling, over and over.

Sid could go for a few hands of poker; hell,
that’d
be the way to finish celebrating. Case of cold Bud, bag of greasy Whataburgers, and a deck of hot cards.

His mom would say it was poker that got him and Gary in trouble with the law, got them knocking over convenience and package stores to pay their debts, but Mom had it all wrong. They robbed stores cause it was
fun.
Nice that it gave them pocket money and poker money and general fartin-around money, but the truth was, they got more money sometimes off the people they robbed in parking lots than from stores, the way everybody stuck their big bills in these fuckin safes, idiot clerks not knowing how to open the goddamn things, just poke the money through the fuckin slot.

But him and Gary had wised up and started casing a place before they hit it, looking to see if it had a safe. Your Stop & Go, Circle K, Spec’s Liquor pretty much all had safes, but the mom-and-pop stores tried to get by staggering their bank deposits. What him and Gary did was wait till the first and fifteenth, nights people got paid, especially if it fell close to a weekend, then hit the store just before closing, after the whole neighborhood had come in to buy their beer and ice cream.

Anyhow, the mom-and-pop places were the most fun. Catch an old couple late at night like that, they
begged
you to take the money and not hurt anyone. Take an old guy alone,
he might get feisty, pull a gun out from under the counter. But not when there was a woman in the place. One whack at the woman, the old guy practically pisses his pants begging you to rob him and
“not hurt anybody”
That last job, they’d got a bonus, the geezer having a young sweet-thang in there, helping out.

The more Sid thought of it, a poker game would be a damn fine way to celebrate. He picked up his beer mug and ambled down the bar.

“You shuffle them cards anymore, won’t have any marks left. That your special deck, or what?”

“New deck.” The guy nudged a cellophane wrapper wadded up in the ashtray.

“Don’t s’pose you know where a fellow could get into a good game tonight?”

The guy looked him over for a minute from the shadows, not straight on but out the side of his eye, like. Sure was a wiry little fucker, not much meat on him.

“Might,” he said.

Kind of a croaky voice, like he smoked too much, only Sid hadn’t seen him smoking since he’d been in the bar. Knit cap pulled low, blond hair poking out near the ears, big, heavy coat for such a mild night. Face and hands smooth as a woman’s. Probably queer, but what the hell, everybody had to follow his own call, Sid always figured. Sure was tight with his words, tight as Gary, maybe, only Sid didn’t think anybody could be as tight with words as Gary.

“Me and my friend over there are celebrating,” Sid said. “A good game’d be the ticket, seeing as how the bar will soon shut down for the night. Just a friendly game, mind, no high rolling.”

The long look again, like he’s thinking whether Sid is okay to bring round to his buddies, then a glance down the bar at Gary. “You got money?”

“Hell yeah, I got money. Always got poker money.”

Little fucker glanced at the clock. Bartender hadn’t called last round yet, but he would in the next five minutes.

“Friends down the street are starting a game at two, goes till five. Win or lose, stops at five o’clock sharp.”

“Fuck, if I can’t take my share of a pot in three hours, something’s seriously wrong.”

“You up for it?”

“Hell yeah, Gary and me. And we’ll bring along a case of brew, just so there’ll be no hard feelings when we walk away with all your dough.” Sid grinned, thinking about it. “Your friends’ll say, ‘Motherfuckers cleaned us out, but at least they brought the beer.’”

“You got a car?”

“Hell yeah, we got a car. Need a ride or something?”

“I’ll call ahead, make sure there’s room for two more at the table, then you follow me. Got to be there by two, sharp.”

While the little fucker made his call, Sid talked the bartender into selling him a case of Bud at discount. He settled up, shorting the tab by seventy-five cents, and waited for the bartender to open his mouth, tell Sid to fork over. Then he laughed and flipped up the bottom of his T-shirt, showing the last two words:
FUCK YOU
. The bartender’s face turned red, and his eyes got mean, but he didn’t say anything. Smart fucker.

Gary lifted the case of beer off the counter. One of your strong silent types, that was Gary.

Sid heard the telephone receiver clunk down.

“Hey, what’s your name, anyway?” Couldn’t call their new poker friend Little Fucker out loud, man might take offense.

“John.” Little fucker opened the door, dark clothes instandy blending into the dark night.

Sid took out his keys and headed toward the only two cars left in the parking lot, parked side by side. Bartender’s ride was probably round back. He opened the trunk so Gary could set the case of beer inside. Saw the little fucker open his own trunk, wondered if he kept his poker money in there. Not a bad place, guy breaks into your car never thinks to look
in the trunk for money. Except, of course, if they steal the whole car, you lose money and all—

Whop!

Sid turned at the sound, like a watermelon bustin’ open, falling off the back of a truck, hitting the hot asphalt and
whop!
That same wet sound.

Only it wasn’t a watermelon, it was Gary’s head that got busted, and now something was swinging at Sid—

Whop!

Sonofabitch, that hurt! He fell against the car, fingering the side of his skull, which felt half-crushed, and thinking he was going to vomit. In the meager light, he saw shapes, movement, someone setting the case of beer on the ground and someone else shoving Gary into the trunk.

Then Sid felt a fist grab his collar, pushing him toward the other car. He bucked, swung an elbow and heard a satisfying grunt, then felt a
whack!
against his shin—
must’ve broke the goddamn bone, it hurt so
—and him falling, being shoved inside the fucker’s car. Then the trunk lid closed over him.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What the fuck’s going on? Let me out of here!” He banged on the lid with his fist.

A moment later he heard an engine start, then another, and they were moving, his body crushed into confinement, feeling every stone in the gravel parking lot. Blood seeped from his hair onto his neck. He reached up to wipe away the blood just as the car bounced over a curb, turning onto the paved road, and his head slammed against the trunk lid.

“Fuck!” Pain darted down his neck into his shoulders, and he gasped, sucked in a gulp of dusty, oily air, and sneezed, his head banging the lid again.

This time it hurt too bad to curse. Tears stung his eyes, and his anger was suddenly huge and rampant. He wanted to hit something,
HURT SOMEBODY
, but he couldn’t even turn over, he was so cramped. He lay still for a few minutes, one arm shielding his head from further injury, his face mashed against the gritty mat.

He thought about it, wondered why anyone would bother to kidnap him and Gary. Neither of them had any family to pay ransom. They weren’t worth anything, except for the wad of bills Sid was carrying, say a thousand bucks, give or take a few, maybe a couple thousand more stashed away.

He didn’t know what the fuck was happening, but sooner or later they’d have to let him out, and he wasn’t coming out bare-handed. Feeling around for something to use as a club—wrench, jack handle, anything—his fingers touched something hard and cold. He stretched, trying to hook a finger around it, but the goddamn spare tire was in the way, him twisted around it like a fuckin pretzel. He squeezed his head between the spare and the trunk lid, gaining a couple inches, and he could tell the thing was metal, could feel a smooth indentation like a handle grip. He dug his finger into the groove and tried to slide it toward him.