King Suckerman

Ten

Ronald Thomas shook a Kool out from the bottom of the deck. He sat on the stoop, watched his brother Russell approach a couple of fine young girls who stood on the street corner, talking and laughing and telling stories. Russell looked back at his brother, smiled as he put a little down-strut into his walk. Ronald lit his smoke.

Russell couldn’t talk to the ladies, had never even been close to having the rap down, but he was one of those dudes who believed he could. Ronald couldn’t think of a time Russell had gotten any play his own self. It was always Ronald, hooking Russell up on a double, a girlfriend of one of Ronald’s freaks, situations like that. Nothing but mercy-pussy for young Russell, on account of he was one sorry-looking motherfucker for real. Their uncle even had him going on one of those special buses for a while back in grade school, this bus where all the kids wore helmets and shit, had drool going down their chins, falling onto raggedy-ass bibs that were always gray and wet. Russell dropped out of school sometime after that, partly’ cause he couldn’t keep up and partly from shame. Soon after, Ronald dropped out with him.

They grew up on their uncle’s farm, worked it hard. Hotter than the devil’s living room down in Carolina, and the heat made you hornier than a motherfucker, too. It made Russell that way, for sure. More than one time Ronald had caught Russell on the treeline side of the barn, stump-breaking some mule. Once, a few kids from a neighboring farm caught Russell doing just that, and Ronald had to fuck a couple of them up just to save some kind of dignity for the family name. It seemed that Ronald was always looking after Russell, except for during those hard bits Ronald had to do later on. The first armed robbery stretch in Delaware, in that prison they had up there on 113, and then in Angola, where Ronald had met Wilton Cooper. But once he got out, Ronald went right back to wet-nursing his younger brother. Someone had to look after Russell, foolish as he was.

“What’s goin’ on, baby?” said Russell to the girl leaning her forearm on the corner mailbox, a short, tight thing wearing hoop earrings and filling a jean skirt with her bubble ass.

“Nothin’ much,” she said, glancing warily at her girlfriend, who was older, taller, wearing a short-sleeved jumper and cork-wedge heels.

Russell stood near the girl in the hoop earrings, appraised her carefully. “Uh-huh. Mmm-huh.” He stroked his spare goatee, nodded his head. “Yeah. You are fine, too.”

Ronald blew a smoke ring, watched his brother move closer to the short girl, watched the short girl kind of back away. The tall one looked over at Ronald, gave him a little smile. It had always been easy for him.

“My Nubian princess,” said Russell, going straight into his tired rap.

“What you talkin’ about, fool?” said the girl. “You don’t even know me.”

“What’samatter, baby?” said Russell. “You got a George?”

“Whether I got a George or not, you know it ain’t none of your business.” She once-overed Russell’s green patterned-knit slacks. “So you best get your Cavalier Men’s Shop — lookin’ ass the fuck on out of here ’fore my older brother comes around, sees you botherin’ us, hear?”

“Shit, baby, it’s cool.” Russell made a parting-of-the-waves motion with his hands. “You change your mind, me and my brother are stayin’ with our cuz, just up the way.”

Russell walked slowly back to Ronald on the stoop. He put out his hand. “Gimme one of them double-O’s,” he said.

Ronald shook a Kool out for Russell, gave him a light. Right about then, the red Challenger came around the corner and moved down the block.

“There’s Cooper,” said Ronald.

“Yeah,” said Russell. “Good thing for Shorty he showed up, too. ’Cause I was fixin’ to go back over there, talk her into a date. And you know I would’ve torn that shit up.”

“Yeah, she was into you, Russell.”

“Damn sure was. Said I was cavalier and shit.”

“Go ahead, boy.”

“Who you callin’ boy?”

“Go ahead.”

“You see a boy, give him five dollars.”

“Aw, go ahead.”

The Thomas brothers folded themselves into the backseat of the Challenger. Wilton Cooper drove to a surplus store on F Street, downtown. He bought a lightweight hunting vest for Bobby Roy Clagget and threw it in the trunk with the guns and ammunition they had brought up from the South. He went to a record store and bought some new cassette tapes, stopped at a 7-Eleven for cigarettes, gassed up on New York Avenue. In the bathroom of the service station he patted his Afro in the mirror, made certain that he was looking clean.

They drove out of D.C., cut off of the BW Parkway, crossed over to 95 and headed north. Cooper slid an Edwin Birdsong cassette into the box, something called What’s Your Sign? and he put it up loud enough so that no one even thought about trying to speak. Ronald Thomas could tell that Cooper just wanted to drive, smoke his Salem longs down to the filter, think. Every so often he’d see the white boy lean real close to Cooper, whisper something in his ear, so close that it looked like the white boy had become Cooper’s bitch. Not that Ronald would even think about cracking on Cooper about being a sissy, even in fun. He knew Cooper could fuck a nigger up if that’s what he had a mind to do; he’d seen Cooper strike quicker than a woodpile snake in the yard so many times before. If Cooper wanted the white boy to be his girl, shit, man, it was cool by Ronald.

Around a place called Columbia, Cooper tossed the Baggie of cocaine over his shoulder, told Russell and Ronald to knock themselves out. The Thomas brothers used their fingernails to hit the coke, laughing and giving each other skin after each go-round. Ronald thought the freeze was pretty good, not stepped on too hard, with a fast rush to it and a nice drip back in the throat. Russell seemed to be enjoying it, too; he was talking shit now, much shit, even for Russell, his mouth overloading his asshole. The two of them couldn’t light their cigarettes fast enough. Cooper had put a Jimmy Castor Bunch cassette into the deck, kept the volume cranked. Ronald and Russell sang along to a bad jam called “Supersound.”

Cooper checked Eddie Spaghetti’s directions, turned off 95 at an exit marked Marriottsville. A couple of miles past small farms and wooded land and Cooper made another turn into an unmarked, graveled one-lane that led into a forest of oak and pine. A half mile into the woods, Cooper killed the music, coasted a hundred feet, cut the engine on the Dodge.

“All right,” said Cooper, “everybody out.”

They got out of the car and followed Cooper back to the trunk. Cooper turned the key and popped open the lid. B. R. Clagget reached in, put the hunting vest on over his rayon shirt. He pulled free the sawed-off, thumbed in a couple of double-aught shells. He took another half dozen rounds and fitted them through the loops of his vest.

“We goin’ in showin’ like that?” said Ronald.

“The Miami way,” said Cooper.

Ronald Thomas shrugged, looked over at Russell, slack-jawed. Ronald took the short-barreled .357 he favored from the trunk, broke the cylinder, spun it, saw the copper casings snug in their homes. He wrist-snapped the cylinder shut, put the pistol barrel-down behind the waistband of his slacks. Russell withdrew his .38, clumsily aped his brother’s action, fitted the S&W inside his patterned double knits.

Cooper dressed holsters over each shoulder of his maroon polo shirt. He thumb-checked the top round on each of the magazines of his twin Colts, slapped in the magazines, racked the receivers on both guns. He holstered the .45s. He reached into the trunk, brought out Carlos’s briefcase filled with banded stacks of cash money.

Cooper nodded at Ronald, tossed him the keys. Ronald caught the ring, swung it on his finger. Cooper looked up at the sun, directly overhead. He wiped sweat off his brow.

“After these woods clear,” said Cooper, “there’s supposed to be a house in a field. You drive us out halfway, Ronald, drop us off.”

“Right,” said Ronald.

“What about me?” said Russell.

“You stay with your brother. When it starts, he’ll tell you what to do.”

“Wilton?” said Clagget.

“You’re comin’ with me.”

“Thanks!”

“All right, then,” said Cooper. “Let’s take it to the bridge.”

They got back into the Challenger. Ronald Thomas situated himself behind the wheel, turned the ignition. He headed for the white light sheeted at the break in the trees.

Larry Spence popped the ring on a can of National Bohemian, threw back a foamy swig, let some gas pass through his mouth. He had another sip of the warm beer, his first of the day. Rocking back on the heels of his engineer boots, he looked out the window of the bungalow. Out in the field, Poor Boy, his shirt off, his jeans hung low, a Prussian helmet covering his head, sat on his heels, polishing the chrome on his hog. A half dozen bikes stood nearby in an orderly row, gleaming in the sun.

“Nice day to get in the wind,” said Larry.

“Huh?” said Albert, who sat on the couch, cleaning pot on the cover of Pronounced Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd.

“He said it’s a good day to ride,” said Charlie, wearing a Tijuana Pussy Posse T-shirt and sitting next to Albert.

“Oh,” said Albert. “It is a good day.” Albert was high and happy.

Larry stared out the window. “Why don’t somebody put some fuckin’ music on,” he said.

“Put some on,” said Charlie to Albert.

“I’m gettin’ the seeds and stems out of the shit,” said Albert.

“I’ll put some on, then,” said Charlie.

Charlie took his can of Natty Bo off the table in front of him and went to the stereo, where the albums were set face out in a peach crate. Charlie flipped past a couple of Dead albums, a New Riders of the Purple Sage, and a scratched London-label Stones that had no cover. He stopped at a double near the back of the crate.

“Steppenwolf Live all right?” said Charlie.

“Put it on,” said Larry.

Charlie put on side four, his favorite, which kicked off with “Hey Lawdy Mama.” He shook his kinky black hair, played some air guitar with the hand that did not hold a beer as Deborah, Larry’s woman, came into the room.

Deborah stood near six feet and wore hip-hugger jeans with one snap on the fly and a leather headband tied around her long, straight chestnut hair. The headband made her look faintly Indian, that and her deep tan and high cheekbones. The long nipples of her thin, conical breasts pressed out against her shorty T. She flipped her hair off her shoulder, revealing one feather earring. Deborah had just done a line of uncut snow back in the kitchen; she rubbed its residue onto her gums, then licked her finger clean.

“What the fuck’s happening, Larry?” she said.

“Waitin’ on those buyers,” said Larry, turning around to look at his woman. Larry scratched at his beard. He had another swig of beer, tossing his head back for a long one. His jean vest parted to expose his barrel chest and a great white belly covered with hair. Larry belched.

Albert did a bong hit, passed the bong over to Charlie, seated now on the couch. Albert shook a Marlboro red out of his box, gave himself a light. Charlie filled the bowl of the bong.

“You know these guys?” said Deborah.

“Remember that fat guy from Jersey, we met him in that bar in D.C., the dude bought us all those beers?”

“Yeah?”

“He knows ’em.”

“That supposed to mean something?” said Deborah.

“Shit, Deb, it’s a beautiful day. Why you gotta be so negative and shit?”

“Yeah,” said Albert, “you’re killing my high.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Albert,” said Deborah.

“You gonna let your lady harsh me out like that, bro?” said Albert. Albert blinked his close-set eyes and shook a curtain of greasy brown hair out of his face.

Larry didn’t answer. He crossed the room, gave Deborah a kiss, calmed her down. It was more to protect Albert than it was Deborah. Larry had seen Deborah kick Albert’s ass one night at a keg party out by the fire in the middle of the field. Albert claimed it was the barrel acid on top of the 714s that night that had thrown off his timing. But Larry knew it was his lady’s fierce will to come out on top. Hell, she even had to fuck him the same way — always on top. Deborah, she was one tough lady.

“Hey,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s work on some peaceful vibes around here today, okay?”

“Okay, Larry,” she said. “Okay.”

Charlie used a poker to force the rest of the hit through the bong’s bowl. He put the bong on the lacquered wood table and walked to the front window. He looked out into the yard.

A red muscle car appeared over the hill near the tree line, came slowly down the gravel road. Poor Boy stopped polishing his bike, stared at the car as it stopped fifty yards from the house. Charlie gave a stoned chuckle as he squinted through the streaked window, seeing the Afros inside the car.

“Hey, Larry,” said Charlie, saying it loud enough so Larry could hear over the John Kay vocals and dirty guitar filling the room.

“Yeah,” said Larry.

“Buncha boofers in a cage just pulled up and stopped in the middle of the yard.”

“What kind of a cage, Slo Ride?” said Larry.

“Dodge,” said Charlie, who was called Slo Ride by his bros. “Red ragtop with black hood stripes.”

“That’s the way Eddie described it,” said Larry. “That’s them.”

Charlie watched the doors open, watched two figures emerge from the backseat. Charlie pushed a block of hair back behind his ear.

“Goddamn,” said Charlie.

“What?” said Larry.

“Two of ’em are walking toward the house. One’s packing double automatics and a suitcase and the other’s holding a sawed-off. They ain’t trying to hide it, neither.”

Albert stood up from his seat on the couch. He stabbed his smoke into the tire ashtray that sat on the table. “What the fuck’s going on, Larry?”

Larry picked at his beard. “Hell if I know. The way they do it down in Florida, I guess.”

“I’ll get the guns,” said Deborah, anticipation and excitement in her voice.

“Right.” Larry nodded rapidly. “And you go with her, Albert. Then go out the back door and get yourself against the side of the house.”

Albert and Deborah went back to the bedroom, came back quickly with guns and ammunition stacked like firewood in their arms. They dumped the guns on the couch.

“C’mon, Slo Ride,” said Larry. But Charlie hadn’t moved. He was smiling at the two who were now nearing the bungalow.

“What’re you waitin’ on, Slo Ride?” said Larry.

“Just lookin’ at our visitors, is all.”

“Yeah? Whaddaya see?”

“A bad-lookin’ nigger and a white boy who walks like a nigger. I’m tellin’ you, you ought to see it. It’s funnier than shit.”

“Never mind that,” said Larry. “Get your ass over here, now.”

Deborah slapped a magazine into the house M16 she had picked up off the couch. She switched the selector to full auto, cocked her hip, struck an SLA pose.

“How do I look, baby?” said Deborah.

“Just like Patty,” said Larry, a hint of pride in his voice.

Deborah said, “Bring ’em on.”

Larry could only look at her and smile.

Ronald Thomas leaned over toward the passenger seat, snorted a neat white mound off the crook of Russell’s hand. He felt the burn in his sinuses and almost right after, the medicinal drip in the back of his throat. The freeze was nice, but it made him want to do something: Get out of the car, fuck someone up, talk to some bitches... do something. He heard Russell take some more blow up into his nose.

“Got-damn, boy, this shit is right!” Russell put out his hand. “Gimme one of them double-O’s, man.”

Ronald shook two Kools out from the bottom of the deck. He pushed in the dash lighter. He smiled a little, watching Cooper and that B.R. boy walking toward the house, putting something extra in their strides, Clagget having a time of it, trying to put a city black man’s down-step to it on those four-inch-high stacks of his. The two of them stopped at the shirtless biker cat who had been polishing his hog when they first drove up. Then Cooper got up on the front porch, stepped right in, just opened the screen door without knocking, went inside. B. R. Clagget stayed out in the yard, talking with the shirtless biker with the German army — looking helmet on his head.

“Right here,” said Russell, holding out the hot lighter, Ronald leaning over, putting fire to his Kool.

Ronald heard a rumble, looked in the rearview. A big ugly sucker wearing goggles and sitting low to the ground on a big bike was approaching from behind on the gravel road, his long straight hair blowing back in the wind. The bike went around the Challenger, the rider giving Ronald and Russell a good hard look before he continued on to where the other bikes were parked in front of the house. Ronald smiled at the man and nodded even as he shifted in his seat.

“Ronald,” said Russell.

“Be cool,” said Ronald. “Man’s just comin’ back to his crib.”

Ronald watched the big guy get off his bike, go over to where Clagget and the shirtless cat with the helmet were having their talk. Right about then, Ronald saw some movement on the side of the house: A thin white dude with a gun in his hand had himself pressed against the cedar shake siding, was moving slowly to the front. Ronald saw him put the gun back behind his jeans, try to get loose and natural as he pushed himself away from the house. Slick.

So it was those three out in the yard, one of them packing. And Ronald could see the dark outline of a few bodies through the bay window of the house. Two, maybe three in there. If he had to peg it, Ronald made it six against three: Cooper, Clagget, and himself. He didn’t count his younger brother; Ronald never counted on Russell in a pinch, simple as he was.

“See that shit?” said Russell.

“I see it.” Ronald slipped the .357 out of his slacks and placed it on his lap. “Now, you listen to me, boy—”

“Who you callin’—”

“Just listen. Whatever goes down, I want you to sit your ass low in that seat, and I want you to stay there. Don’t do nothin’ but that, hear?”

“Yeah, I hear.” Russell had pulled the .38 and was rubbing his thumb nervously against the checkered grip. He looked over at his brother. “Ronald?”

“Uh-huh?”

“This motherfucker’s gonna happen, ain’t it?”

“Gonna happen, all right.”

A line of blood had dripped down from Russell’s nose. He wiped the blood from his upper lip. “When, Ronald?”

“If I was gonna place a bet” — Ronald pushed the gearshift into first — “I’d say it was gonna happen right about now.”

Bobby Roy Clagget swung the shotgun at his side, kind of threw his other arm out when he came up off the down-step. He had that free hand cupped like he was cupping a smoke. It felt good, walking next to Cooper. It wasn’t just that moving next to Cooper made him feel safe; moving alongside Cooper made Clagget feel bad, too.

It was hot out in the sun. Maryland in the summer, it was as hot and still as Carolina in July. Walking across the field toward the house, with the bugs buzzing in his ears, the sweat making the rayon shirt underneath the hunting vest stick to his back, Clagget had a feeling that he was a boy again, his stepfather yelling at him from the house as he walked along the plow lines of his mother’s farm.

They came near the shirtless guy polishing his bike. The guy had stood up and was watching them approach with a wary but cool eye. Clagget checked out the bikes sitting in the row: small-saddled, customized Harleys, all of them, their forks stretched and raked, Twin and Big Twin Knucklehead engines, one newer model sporting the AMF logo, a Panhead on the end. Shritless’s bike was a Panhead as well. Growing up in the south, Clagget knew something about bikes; he had taken apart and put back together a street Yamaha his stepfather had won at cards just a few years back. He’d have something to talk about with the guy in the yard.

They stopped in front of the biker. Clagget noticed his very blue, almost Chinese eyes, and the twin SS stickers on the Prussian helmet pushed back on his head. An awful scrape ran from shoulder to elbow on the biker’s right arm. The sound of a bluesy guitar came from the bungalow’s screen door.

“How do,” said Cooper, smiling broadly. “Larry around?”

“Inside,” said the man. “You got—”

“An appointment? Sure do. And what’s your name?”

“They call me Poor Boy.”

“Tell you what, Poor Boy. I’m gonna go on in, have my meeting with Larry. Anyone else in there with him?”

Poor Boy looked at the .45s slung loosely under Cooper’s arms. He looked at Clagget’s shotgun. “Well... there’s Deborah, Larry’s lady. Dude named Charlie, goes by the name of Slo Ride. Another dude named Albert.”

“This Albert got another name?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay. So I’m gonna go on in. This here’s my young friend B.R. He’s gonna stay out here, keep you company. That sound good to you?”

“Sure,” said Poor Boy, his hands fluttering nervously.

Without another word, Cooper stepped up onto the bungalow’s porch, touching one of four pillars that held up the overhanging roof, and went to the screen door. Clagget watched him open the door, step inside without stopping to knock or even announce himself. Yeah, Cooper was one genuine bad-ass dude.

Clagget looked at Poor Boy’s scraped arm. “Where’d you get the road rash?”

“Dropped my bike on Six Ninety-five.”

“You didn’t hardly scratch the bike.”

“Saved it with my arm and leg. Leg’s worse.”

Clagget chin-nodded at Poor Boy’s Harley. “It sure is nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Panhead, right? Got those fishtail pipes. Like Peter Fonda’s Captain America.”

“Huh?”

“Easy Rider.”

“Peter Fonda. That all you know? You know movies, but what you know about bikes?”

“Broke down a Yamaha once.”

“Fuck a Yamaha.”

“Bike’s a bike.”

Poor Boy said, “Rice rocket ain’t no bike.”

“If you say,” said Clagget.

Poor Boy stared at the kid, the khaki hunting vest over the disco shirt, a tick-tack-toe design, rust on yellow; rust-colored baggies, cuffed at the ends, breaking low on the stacks. Even with the shotgun in Disco Boy’s hand, Poor Boy had to know.

“Say, man,” said Poor Boy. “You mind if I ask you somethin’?”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s a natural-born white boy like you doin’ hangin’ out with a bunch of niggers?”

“Just fortunate, I guess.”

Both of them turned at the sound of a monster bike coming down the gravel road. The rider was fat and uglier than a pig’s ass, and he clutched the ape-hanger handlebars in the crucifix position as he went around the Challenger and blew in toward the house. He sat way low in the saddle and leaned back against the sissy bar with his feet high on the pegs. He came to a stop near Clagget and Poor Boy, cut the engine, got off the bike.

The guy towered over Clagget by a head, outweighed him by a hundred and fifty pounds. He wore black boots with heel-wrapped chains, fingerless gloves, and Red Baron — style goggles. His arms were tattooed wrist to shoulder, and there were teardrop tats coming down behind the goggle of his right eye.

The big biker looked Clagget over thoroughly. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he said.

Poor Boy chuckled. With the big guy around, he had gotten back some of his courage. “He’s with some rugheads came to make a buy from Larry.”

“That a fact.”

“Name’s B.R.,” offered Clagget. “Didn’t catch yours.”

The big man hesitated. Disco had the shotgun — he’d play Disco’s game.

“Lucer,” said the big man.

“Loser?” said Clagget.

The big man sighed. “Not Loser. Lucer. Billy Lucer. It’s my name.”

Clagget looked at Lucer’s bike. “Old Shovelhead, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Boss tubes,” said Clagget, pointing to the pipes on Lucer’s bike. “You slash ’em like that your own self?”

“Yeah. Slash-cut ’em and turned ’em out.”

“Ain’t no wonder it’s so loud.”

“One of the loudest on the street.”

“Yeah,” said Clagget, “it sure is a nice sled.”

“Thanks,” said Lucer, squinting at Clagget, not sure if the skinny, toothless kid with the fucked-up face was putting him on.

“Yeah, I mean to tell you, it really is nice.” Clagget took a few steps over to the bike. “You mind if I kick it over?”

Lucer looked at Poor Boy for a moment, then back to Clagget. “I guess it’s all right.”

Clagget smiled. He had seen this in a flick at the drive-in, Angels Die Hard or The Savage Seven, he couldn’t remember which. He never thought he’d get the chance to do it himself.

“I do thank you,” said Clagget.

“Hey,” said Lucer, as Clagget lifted his right leg.

Clagget put his shoe to the flame-painted gas tank, kicked the bike over on its side. It hit the hard ground, bounced a few inches, kicked up a cloud of dust.

“You’re fuckin’ dead,” growled Lucer, moving forward.

Clagget stepped back a couple of feet and swung the shotgun between the two men. “You boys know what this is?”

Poor Boy nodded stupidly, stumbled back a step. Lucer stopped dead in his tracks.

Clagget pumped the sawed-off, pointed the shotgun at the one called Poor Boy. “And you sure do know what that sound is, don’t you?”

Poor Boy opened his mouth to speak. Before any words came out, they all heard the double clap of gunfire and then a woman’s scream from inside the house.

When Wilton Cooper stepped into the living room of the bungalow, he saw three biker types spread out in a loose triangle, all of them holding guns. There was a fat man tapping the barrel of a .44 against his side and a kinky-haired stoner holding a revolver of undetermined caliber and a tall bitch cradling an M16. Fat Man stood in front of the couch, with Stoner standing to the side next to a wood table with smoking paraphernalia on it. The tall Pocahontas-looking freak — she was back in what would have been a dining room, near the kitchen — she had those bright, fearless eyes Cooper had known in certain stickup boys he had run with back in the years past. Of the group, she was the one to watch.

They were just standing there, waiting for Cooper to say something, he guessed. The stereo was cranking, the singer digging out the first verse of the song from somewhere deep in his throat: “You know I smoked a lot of grass, Loooord I popped a lot of pills...”

Cooper moved closer to the group, smiled. “How do?” he said.

“You Cooper?” said Larry.

“It is me,” said Cooper.

“Larry,” said Larry.

Cooper said, “Well, all right.”

Larry nodded to the kinky-haired one with the uncertain eyes, wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon Mexican, some fool thing about pussy written on it. Like wearing that shirt was going to get him some play.

“This here’s Slo Ride,” said Larry.

“Pleased to know you,” said Cooper.

Larry motioned his head behind him, managed to do it without taking his eyes off Cooper. “And my lady, Deborah.”

“My pleasure, baby,” said Cooper.

Deborah had moved back farther into the dining room. Smart girl. Cooper wondered where the fourth one had gone to; out in the yard, Poor Boy had said that a cat named Albert was in the house. Could be back in the kitchen, some shit like that, or maybe out back, moving around the bungalow. No matter. Cooper had faith in B.R., and he knew Ronald Thomas would be on it, too. Cooper would just put Albert out of his mind, deal with him if he had to when the time came.

“Goooddamn... the pusher,” growled the singer from the speakers.

“Turn the music down,” said Larry to Charlie. “I can’t fuckin’ think.”

“That’s okay,” said Cooper. “Used to hear this tune all the time. Had a lot of boys, looked something like you, used to play this all the time, back at my alma mater.”

“Yeah?” said Charlie. “Where’s that?”

“Louisiana State.”

“Angola?”

“The same.”

“Had some bros in there myself.”

“I figured you did.” Cooper dropped the suitcase on the wood table.

“Well, anyway. What y’all say we do our business? Kind of in a hurry to get back to the city, if you know what I mean.”

Cooper opened the suitcase, and Larry stepped over to have a look. His eyes widened: It was a shitload of cash money in there, rubber-banded and stacked. He picked up one of the bundles, flipped through it, made sure there wasn’t blank paper behind the cover bill. He tossed the stack back into the case.

“Looks good,” said Larry. He turned his head. “Hey, Deb, go ahead and bring out the shit.”

Deborah booked.

Cooper stood there, smiling, rocking back on his heels, waiting for the Indian girl to come back with the blow. The solo had kicked in on the song, and the simple-ass mug they called Slo Ride was playing a little air guitar with his free hand. No attention span, thought Cooper, even when an ex-con, stone-nigger gunman was standing right before him. Slo Ride. Slow, hell. Motherfucker was standing still.

The girl came back in the room with a brown paper grocery bag, dropped it on the table next to the suitcase. She moved quickly back to the dining room, stood half in and half out of Cooper’s sight, near the open kitchen door. Goddamn, thought Cooper, was she the only one in this group with a brain in her head?

Cooper opened the bag, reached inside. He pulled free one of the Baggies, felt its weight. The Baggie was cold, near frozen, with several grains of rice scattered throughout the snow.

“We kept it in the freezer,” said Larry, seeing Cooper’s perplexed expression, “so’s it didn’t disappear in this heat.”

Cooper realized for the first time that he was sweating right through his shirt. “It is hot in here, too.” Cooper dropped the blow back in the grocery bag. “Anyway, there’s your money. Two hundred grand, just like Eddie Spags said.”

“What,” said Larry, “ain’t you gonna check out the merchandise?”

“Don’t use it myself, don’t even want to try it for business reasons,” said Cooper. “My boys took your sample for a test run, gave it a passing grade. Besides, if it ain’t right, you know I’ll be back.”

Larry looked over at Slo Ride, shrugged.

Cooper said genially, “I’d go ahead and take the cash, put it in a safe place if I was you. Don’t want to leave all those ducats lyin’ around and shit.”

Larry switched the .44 to his left hand, picked up the suitcase with his right, like Cooper knew he’d do. Yahoo, motherfucker — Mountain Dew.

“Larry,” said Deborah, noticing Larry’s mistake from way back in the room. But Larry couldn’t hear her. The music had absorbed Deborah’s voice.

Slo Ride squinted, scratched the barrel of his pistol along the side of his head. “Hey, Cooper.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just wonderin’. You left-handed or right?”

“Right.”

“So when you pull them guns you got — when you get in a situation, I mean — which one you pull first?”

Larry looked up.

“Aw, that’s easy, Slo Ride.” Cooper laughed. He looked down at the .45s hanging beneath each arm. He moved his left hand to the right grip, the right hand to the left grip, like he was giving himself a hug.

“Larry!” screamed Deborah, and Larry turned his head.

“You just do this,” said Cooper, still smiling. “Called a cross-draw.”

Cooper pulled both guns from their holsters, squeezed both triggers at once, shot Larry twice in a close-pattern square in the chest. Cooper turned his head at the blow-back as Larry toppled ass over tits and seemed to disappear into the makeup of the room.

Cooper turned to the right. Slo Ride had dropped his gun, just dropped it like Cooper knew he would, and he was raising his shaking hands. Cooper blew the top of Slo Ride’s head off with one clean shot. Slo Ride kind of sailed off to the side, an arc of brains and blood moving with him, like he was diving into a pool.

Deborah screamed, came into full view, fired the M16 into the living room.

Cooper hit the floor, chunks of upholstery flying off the couch around him, the bay window exploding behind his back. The woman was strafing the place now, giving it all, full clip, the wood splintering around him as Cooper held the .45s straight out while trying to fend off the ricochet rounds that were popping and pinging all over the house.

Over the sound of the gunfire and machine-gun guitar, Cooper heard the explosion of a shotgun outside the bungalow, then another, then felt the house shake as something ran straight into the porch.

There was a quiet. The Indian girl had stopped shooting. An empty magazine hit the floor, and a full one replaced it with a soft click. Cooper heard the girl’s footsteps come across the hardwood floor.

“Little brother,” said Cooper, whispering it to himself. “Get on it, boy.”

The screen door swung on its hinges. B. R. Clagget appeared in the open frame.

As soon as B. R. Clagget heard the shots from inside the house and then the woman’s scream, he shotgunned Poor Boy straight off his feet with a direct hit to the chest. Poor Boy flew back as if blown by a strong wind. He knocked down his bike and the Big Twin beside it before coming to rest.

Clagget swung the shotgun on Lucer, pumped in a shell, fired as Lucer tried to turn away. The blast took off Lucer’s right arm at the bicep. Lucer screamed, still on his feet, blood ejaculating from the frayed meat stub dangling below his shirtsleeve.

Clagget stepped back. He drew a shell from his hunting vest, fumbled as he thumbed it into the Remington. Lucer tripped, fell down, managed to get back up on his feet by pushing himself up with the arm he still owned. Lucer turned three hundred and sixty degrees and began to run away.

Just then Clagget saw a greasy-haired guy moving quickly from around the side of the house. He saw the guy stop in front of the bungalow’s porch, saw him pull a pistol, saw him fire it, saw smoke blow out of the barrel with each shot. He heard the rounds spark off the bike at his feet. Clagget suddenly realized the greasy-haired guy was firing the pistol at him. Oddly, Clagget knew he would not be hit. It was as if he were watching the whole thing up on a screen.

Clagget got the first shell into the shotgun. He managed to fit another one in the breech.

The rapid fire of an automatic rifle came from the bungalow just as the Challenger’s four forty sprang to life. Its tires spat gravel, and the back end fishtailed as Ronald Thomas drove the Dodge straight for the gunman standing in front of the house. Clagget heard the greasy-haired guy issue a high-pitched, slide-whistle scream, watched his eyes widen like the eyes of an animal frozen in the road as the hood of the Challenger scooped him up and carried him right into the bungalow’s porch. The porch and its roof collapsed on one side where the force of the collision snapped one of the pillars clean in half.

Ronald backed up the Dodge in the smoke and dust. He turned it around, drove across the field to where Lucer was running toward the trees. Lucer, running without an arm, lost his balance and right about then began to go into shock. As if in his own bad dream, the big ugly biker moved his legs but seemed to be making no progress at all. Clagget figured that Ronald would be there in a few hot seconds, take care of Lucer out in the field.

Clagget pumped a round into the Remington. He walked toward the house. He passed the greasy-haired biker who had shot at him, saw that the biker’s legs had been pinned against the edge of the porch by the Challenger’s bumper. One of his legs appeared to have been amputated below the knee, while the other hung by a few strands of tendon. His jeans, ripped at the knee and open there, exposed a smashed pink-and-white stew of muscle and bone. The man was conscious, his eyes glassy and fixed, his face a tight and unholy mask.

Clagget heard a single gunshot from behind him in the field. He walked on.

He stepped up on the porch, through the broken window saw a tall woman with a Vietnam-looking rifle walking toward the front of the living room. Clagget knew then that this was his movie, his and Cooper’s. As Cooper had done, Clagget opened the screen door, went right into the house.

The woman turned as he entered, swung the rifle in his direction. Clagget dove to the side, firing while still in the air. The recoil threw him back against the wall. As he hit, he watched the woman kind of fold in on her middle, saw a shower of blood and something else erupt simultaneously from her midsection and back.

Clagget heard a funny kind of drumming sound against the hardwood floor.

Cooper stood up slowly from behind the couch, his right gun arm extended. He walked to where the woman lay kicking at the floor. He put her down with a head shot. He holstered both of his guns.

“Lord have mercy, baby,” said Cooper, talking softly to Deborah. “You was man enough for all these motherfuckers. You know it?”

“Wilton,” said Clagget, getting to his feet.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You did good, little brother. I knew you would.”

Cooper went and picked up the suitcase where it sat in a smeared puddle of blood next to Larry Spence. Cooper wiped off the handle, gripped it tight. He went to the stereo, kicked the turntable savagely. The rip of a needle on vinyl and then silence hit the room.

“I always did hate that song,” said Cooper. He turned to Clagget. “Get that grocery bag off the table, boy.”

Clagget picked up the bag. They heard the crack of gunshots then, two barely spaced reports.

“Ronald?” said Cooper.

“Finishin’ up, I expect.”

Cooper nodded one time.

They left the house, stood on the slanting porch. It was quiet now, hot and still, like it had been when they arrived. Some gun smoke hovered out in the field. Near the tree line, Clagget could see the body of Lucer lying facedown, one hand palm up at his side.

Ronald was walking away from Albert, whom he had just finished. He moved toward the Challenger, which was now parked near the bikes. Russell stood against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette, the .38 in his hand. Cooper didn’t have to smell the barrel to know the gun hadn’t been fired. Useless as he was, Russell came with Ronald, and that made carrying him more than worthwhile.

Cooper and Clagget stepped off the porch. There was blood on their clothing and a spray of it on Cooper’s face. Cooper got down on one knee, checked out the Dodge’s front end.

“Damn, Mandingo. You done fucked up my ride.”

“Had to.” Ronald shrugged, head-motioned toward Albert. “Anyway, I didn’t fuck it up near as bad as I fucked up that boy’s day.”

“I heard that,” said Cooper.

“Busted on his groove,” said Russell.

Cooper got the grocery bag from Clagget, put it with the suitcase in the Challenger’s trunk. He went to the driver’s side of the car, reached inside, got his Salem longs from where they were wedged in the visor. He passed one to Clagget, lit his own, lit Clagget’s. He took a deep drag, held the smoke in, let it out slow.

“We’re rich, fellas,” said Cooper.

Russell and Ronald gave each other skin.

“We goin’ home now, Coop?” said Ronald.

“Not just yet,” said Cooper. “Got a little business still, back in D.C.”

Cooper, Clagget, and Ronald got the bodies into the house while Russell found some gasoline in the root cellar. They set fire to the bungalow. They stood in the field and watched the fire catch.

Cooper tugged on the sleeve of Clagget’s shirt. “C’mon now. We best be on our way.”

“Can’t we stay and watch it, Wilton? It’s beautiful!”

“I know it is,” said Cooper. “But we got to be goin’. In another minute, that smoke’s gonna get up over them trees.”