Six Bad Things Part 13

--Told you they needed fluid.

--No kidding.

--You want your money back?

--No. Which way?

She directs me through several blocks of run-down suburbia, brown lawns, peeling paint, overgrown tree roots pus.h.i.+ng up slabs of sidewalk, until we pull into the driveway of another stucco job, this one with a rusted and empty boat trailer in the side yard. Leslie opens her door and sticks one foot out.

--Look, will ya do me a favor?

--Depends.

--I know I said I just needed a ride here, but will you wait a second in case he's not home and we need a ride to the bus stop? I would of called him, but the phone, ya know, like the cable.

Killing me, she's killing me.

--Just be fast, OK?

She nods sharply, gets out, and helps Ca.s.sidy from the backseat. I turn off the car and watch as they go up the walk. The front door opens before they can knock. A guy in his twenties, wearing sweatpants and a concert T with the sleeves ripped off, comes out. He sees me in the car and points.

--Who the f.u.c.k is that?

Oh no.

Leslie looks at me.

--That's the guy I just sold your f.u.c.king car to, you a.s.shole.

Oh f.u.c.king no.

--See, f.u.c.ker, I told you. I told you, pay your f.u.c.king support or I'd sell the f.u.c.king thing.

No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers.

Ca.s.sidy's dad sticks his finger in Leslie's face.

--You did not, you f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h.

--Yes I did, I did.

She points at me.

--Go ask him. Go see, he has the f.u.c.king pink slip, you deadbeat piece of s.h.i.+t.

Ca.s.sidy walks past them and into the house with a shrug of her shoulders. Been there, done that.

The guy starts heading for me.

--You, c.o.c.ksucker, get out of my f.u.c.king car.

Why do I keep landing in this s.h.i.+t? I mean, is s.h.i.+t just attracted to this fly or what? No matter. This particular s.h.i.+t is easy to get out of.

I start the car, drop it in reverse, zip out of the drive, and head back down the street the way we came in. Except, of course, I turn the wrong way out of the driveway and go straight into a cul-de-sac. Now I have to turn around and drive back past Ca.s.sidy's dad, who is standing in the middle of the street with a ball-peen hammer in his hand. Where the f.u.c.k did he get that?

I try to steer around him to the left, and he steps in front of the car; to the right, and he's there again. I think about just hitting the gas and going over him, but stop the car instead. He stands in front of the hood, hammer dangling at his side.

--I said out of the car.

Leslie has walked down to the bottom of the driveway.

--Stop being a d.i.c.k, Danny. I sold him the car. You want to yell at someone, yell at me.

He keeps his eyes on me, but raises the hammer and points it in her direction.

--Get in the f.u.c.king house, b.i.t.c.h, I'll deal with you.

--Oh, f.u.c.k off, you're not my husband. Just 'cause ya knocked me up doesn't mean you can tell me what to do.

He turns to face her.

--Get in the f.u.c.king house before I kick your a.s.s.

She s.h.i.+vers all over like she's cold.

--Ohhhh, I'm so f.u.c.king scared. You lay one f.u.c.king hand on me and you know my dad will come over here and kick your a.s.s again.

Danny turns back to me, face boiling red.

--What the f.u.c.k are you still doing in my f.u.c.king car? I said get the f.u.c.k out!

--Leave him alone, Danny.

--SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!.

He walks toward my door, hammer hefted.

He's smaller than me, but has one of those hard wiry builds. He could be dangerous. What say we play this one cool.

He grabs the door handle, yanks it open.

--Out.

--Easy.

I start to get out of the car. He grabs my hair, pulls me the rest of the way out.

--I said out, f.u.c.k.

He kicks me in the a.s.s as he releases my hair and I stumble a couple steps.

Leslie is still on the curb.

--Knock it off, Danny.

He ignores her, focused on me now.

--She telling the truth? You got my pink slip?

--I got the pink slip.

--Let's have it.

--Look, man, I paid for the car.

--That ain't my problem. That b.i.t.c.h sold something ain't hers. You want your money back, talk to her.

Leslie takes a couple steps into the street.

--That's not f.u.c.king true and you know it. The judge gave me that car. It's mine.

--I. Don't. Give. A. f.u.c.k. What. The. Judge. Said.

I raise a hand.

--Hey, whatever you guys have going on is.

--Give me my f.u.c.king pink slip right f.u.c.king now, a.s.shole.

He's holding the hammer up at shoulder level, c.o.c.ked and ready to swing.

--Give it to him, Danny.

--Kick his f.u.c.king aaaaaaaa.s.ss.

--Do it. Do it. Do it.

I look over at the porch of Danny's house. Three of his friends have come out to watch the party. They're all about his age, one with a shaved head, one with a ponytail, and one with a greasy mullet. I am now officially being ha.s.sled by the a.s.sholes who stole everybody's milk money.

Leslie turns to face them.

--Shut up, you d.i.l.d.os. This is none of your business.

The biggest of the three, or rather, the fattest of the three, he of the shaved head, gives her the finger.

--f.u.c.k off, Leslie.

Danny jerks his head around.

--Hey! What did I f.u.c.king say about talking to her like that?

--She's being a b.i.t.c.h.

--I don't care what she's being, she's my kid's mom.

Leslie waves her hand toward them, done with the whole scene. She walks toward the car.

--Come on, mister, give me a ride to the bus, he's a f.u.c.koff.

--Shutthef.u.c.kupshutthef.u.c.kupshutthef.u.c.kup!!!

Enough of this.

--Look, Danny.

He swings the hammer at me.

I MURDERED a man less than a week ago. I saw another man have his face blown literally off. That was . . . yesterday? One of my friends got beat half to death on account of me. I have four million dollars sitting at another friend's house in Las Vegas, sitting there waiting to attract killers or cops, whoever smells it first. I'm not sure anymore who may or may not be after me: the Russians, the Mexican police, the FBI, a bunch of f.u.c.king treasure hunters like Mickey. Whoever wants me or the money, all of them, can find out where my parents live whenever they want because Mom and Dad stayed put through all the killing, and the reporters, and the cops, stayed right in the house where I grew up. And I'm really, really f.u.c.king tired.

I actually hear the sound as I snap.

It sounds good.

Just like a bat hitting a ball.

I step inside Danny's swing. His forearm hits me in the shoulder and the hammer ends up slamming against my back. I hook him under the ribs, he folds in two. I grab the back of his head and bring my knee up into his face. He turns at the last moment so I don't break his nose. But I can fix that.

I have his head in the open car door and am ready to slam it on his face when I realize his friends are running into the street. I drop his head, scoop up the hammer from the asphalt, and swing it in a mad arc. They fall back, but stay in a tight group, and I dive at them, shoving the fat guy back into his two skinnier buddies. They stumble, Fat Guy falling on top of Mullet Head, and Ponytail Boy windmilling his arms to keep his balance. I start kicking at the heads of the two on the ground.

--Stop it! Stop it!

I turn, hammer raised. Leslie flinches back. I lower the hammer. Leslie sticks her finger in my face.

--What the f.u.c.k are you, some kind of maniac? Ya didn't have to beat the s.h.i.+t out of 'em, they're all a bunch of p.u.s.s.ies anyway.

The two on the ground are curled into scared little b.a.l.l.s, their knees drawn up, hands covering their heads. Ponytail Boy has run off into one of the houses in the cul-de-sac. I throw the hammer into some bushes. Danny is on his a.s.s, leaning against the side of the car, holding his bleeding mouth.

--Danny.

He doesn't look up. Blood is trickling steadily from his mouth. I think he may have bit through his lip. I squat down in front of him. He looks up at me. His eyes narrow.

--Hey.

His hand comes away from his mouth and he points at me.

--Heeey.

--Get off my car, Danny.