Impact

14

Randall Worth tied up his dingy at the town floating dock, slung on his backpack, and stomped up the ramp to the wharf, keeping his head down. It was five o'clock--maybe he wouldn't run into anyone. He could feel the heavy lump of the old RG .44, the gun he carried on his boat, tucked in his belt.

"Hey, Worth."

Fuckin' A. Worth looked up to see the last man he wanted to see--Ernie Jura, owner of the lobsterman's co-op, six foot four, two hundred twenty pounds, standing there in foul-weather gear and rubber boots. Jura'd tormented him in high school and never stopped.

"I'm going to need that money you owe for diesel, three hundred and twelve bucks. I can't fuel you up again until I get it."

"I told you I'll pay you." Worth felt his limbs trembling with anger. Jura, he was sure, was one of the bastards who had cut his traps.

Jura looked at him hard, his eyes narrow. "I hope you do."

Worth brushed past him, and then, on impulse, gave him a little shove with his shoulder as he went by. Jura seized his collar and hauled him around, pushing his beefy face into Worth's, breathing beer breath over him.

"Listen, punk. You lied when you bought that diesel, said you had the cash on you. So you pay me, cocksucker, or I'm gonna make a bow tie of your balls, hang them round your neck, and send you off to dancing school." He pushed Worth away, turned his back, and said over his shoulder, "I want the money. Before noon tomorrow. You got that, Worthless?"

Worth reached in, hand closed around the grip of the RG. Keeping his back turned, Jura began working on one of the swivel lifts, hunching over it, unscrewing a bolt.

"Asshole," Worth said.

Jura ignored him. Worth began to ease out the gun, then thought better of it. He would get Jura later. Now he had bigger fish to fry. And he needed more diesel, somewhere, somehow.

He walked down the pier to his truck parked in the lot, felt in his pocket for the keys. They'd already cut him off in New Harbor and Muscongus. To get fuel he'd have to drive his boat all the way to Boothbay and even then he probably wouldn't get credit. He needed to get the diesel here, now, right away, if his plan was to succeed.

He shoved the key into the ignition and turned, the engine wheezing, grinding, and finally starting. He checked the gas gauge; enough to get him to Waldoboro.

Easing it into drive, he heard the clunk of the transmission as it shifted. He lurched out of the lot and took a right on Route 32, heading for Waldoboro.

The white clapboard house stood on the main road, porch sagging, paint peeling, dead car on blocks on the lawn. Dusk was falling and the lights were on in the attached barn. Worth parked in the driveway, got out, and went to the side barn door. He gave it a double rap. He felt a lot better since he'd smoked a little crank on the way over. That shaky feeling had left his legs and his mind felt clearer, stronger.

"Who is it?" came a voice.

"Worth."

The sound of a lock being turned. The door opened and Devin Doyle stood there, in painter's overalls, holding a beer and a cigarette. His hair stuck out, he hadn't shaved; he was one of those thirty-year-olds who looked eighteen. And acted it.

"Hey, Randy, you fucking ape, whassup?"

Worth came in and Doyle shut the door behind him, turning all the locks. The back of the barn was piled high with stolen furniture, covered with dirty tarps.

"Beer?"

Worth grabbed a Bud Light and threw himself down on a ratty sofa. He took a long pull, draining half the can. He put it on the table and closed his eyes.

Doyle collapsed in a sofa chair. "Hey, Randy, you seen those new Britney photos with the shaved pussy? I got 'em on my computer, you won't believe--"

"I've come for my cut," said Worth.

"Hey, man, what's this shit? Your cut?"

"You heard me." He slowly opened his eyes and stared.

"I told you: when I get paid, you get paid." Doyle sucked in a last lungful, blew it back out, stubbed the cigarette in a clamshell sitting by his chair. He hunted around with his hand for the beer, found it, picked it up.

"I boosted that crap off Ripp Island a week ago," said Worth. "I took a risk. I did my job. Now I want my cut." He could feel a muscle in his neck beginning to twitch.

"We don't even know what your cut is until I move the shit. Antiques aren't like flat-screens. I told you this would take time, and you agreed."

Closing his eyes again, playing it cool, Worth said: "Sorry. Don't got no stinkin' time. I brought you a hundred thousand dollars' worth of antiques and I want my money." He popped open his eyes, dropped his booted leg to the floor. "Capisce?"

"Hey, Randy, don't talk shit to me. I'll be lucky to get ten--and you'll get half, like we agreed. When I get paid. Okay?"

"Not okay, dickweed."

Doyle fell silent. Randy picked up the beer, drained it, crushed the can in his hand, and tossed it at Doyle like a Frisbee. It bounced off his shoulder. "You listening?"

The muscle in his neck was jumping like a kangaroo.

"Look, Randy," said Doyle, "we had an agreement. I'm working on it. By Monday, I'll have something for you."

Worth could see that Doyle was sweating. He was scared.

"You say ten thousand? Cool. I want my half. Now. As a down payment."

Doyle spread his hands. "I don't have five thousand, for fuck's sake."

Worth rose from the sofa, swelling with confidence in the effect he was having on Doyle. His neck was now twitching, jerk, jerk, jerk, scaring the mortal shit out of Doyle. He could see the man's eyes darting around, looking for a weapon. "Don't even think about it," Worth said, pushing up close, crowding him in the chair.

"Give me til Monday."

"I want my five grand. Now." He pushed himself at Doyle even closer, shoving his dick practically into Doyle's face.

"I don't have it." Doyle crowded back in the chair.

Worth slapped him hard across the top of the head, once, twice.

"Fuck! Randy, what the fuck are you doing?" He tried to stand up but Worth shoved him back down. He stood over him with his legs spread, straddling him, trapping him in the seat. God damn, he was starting to feel like Tony Soprano. He reached around and pulled the .44 from under his belt, shoving the barrel in Doyle's ear. "Get me the fucking money."

"Randy, you crazy? You're all fucked up on meth--"

Worth whapped him again, this time across the face, back and forth.

"Stop it!" Doyle tried to fend him off, his skinny arms held up in front of his face, ducking and dodging. "Please!"

"Where's your wallet? Gimme your wallet." He smacked at him again.

With a shaking hand, still fending him off with the other, Doyle groped in his overalls and pulled out his wallet. The faggot was actually crying. Worth took it, opened it up, and fished out a wad of money. It was a bunch of fifties. He let the wallet fall to the floor, counted out the bills. "Lookee here. Eight hundred bucks."

He feigned a sudden lunge at Doyle and the man cringed, his hands flying up. Worth laughed. "Cocksucker." He folded up the money, stuffed it into his back pocket. He poked the gun barrel into Doyle's forehead, gave it a little push. "Listen, fuck-face. I'm coming back Monday. I want four thousand two hundred waiting for me, with a card."

"We had an agreement," said Doyle miserably. His face was streaked like a snot-nosed kid.

"Now we have a new agreement."