Nightcrawlers

21

TOMMY DOUGLASS

“Hey, Tommy,” Bix said, “hey, man, you sure about this, huh?”

“Sure about what?”

“Doin’ this one so early, man. People on the streets, cars, lights in all the houses… suppose somebody sees us?”

“We been over that already, how many times? This Butter-field’s not like the other fags. He don’t go out much and when he does he drives.”

“The one up by the park had a car.”

“So what? He stayed out late couple of nights a week, that made it easy. This one don’t go out much at night and when he does he comes home early and brings some other fag back with him. Troy told us that, didn’t he? We checked him out, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Yeah but, yeah but. Come on, what’s the matter with you? You turning chicken on me?”

“Chicken?” Bix glared at him from under the bill of his Giants cap. “Listen, dude, I ain’t afraid of nothin’ or nobody. You call me chicken, I’ll kick your ass. You know I can do it, too.”

Tommy sighed. Problem with Bix wasn’t that he was chicken, problem was he had two fuckin’ brain cells and one of ‘em was always out looking for the other. You had to explain everything to him fifty times before he got it, and then half the time he forgot and you had to explain it all over again. It was worse when he was high. He was high now, all that crystal meth he’d smoked out at Finn’s crib in Daly City. High and wired, the way he had to get to give these lousy queers what they deserved. Not Tommy. One pipe, that was all he’d smoked. He didn’t need speed or anything else to get his juices flowing. Just giving it to those bastards, paying ‘em back for what they did to Troy, that was enough. Better than any drug he’d ever tried.

Troy. Stupid punk kid. Ten times smarter than Bix, maybe even had a few more brains than himself, but he was still stupid. Convincing himself he was gay, of all the goddamn things, then running off to the city, the Castro, Faggotville, and letting all those queers take advantage of him, stick their dicks in him… Christ! Made his blood boil thinking about what they’d done to an innocent seventeen-year-old kid like his little brother. Made him want to fix them real good. Not just hurt them, like the first three-put their lights out permanent so they couldn’t prey on any more underage dummies. Maybe that’s what he’d do with this Butterfield or the next one. Yeah, maybe. Why not? Felt so good kicking the crap out them, think how good it’d feel taking one all the way out.

“Tommy, hey, man, what time’s it now?”

“Quit worrying about the time. He’ll be here pretty soon, comes home from his work about this time every night.”

“Unless he goes out somewhere. What if he don’t show?”

“Then we’ll come back tomorrow night. Or the next.”

“I’m ready now, man. I’m hot to trot.”

“Just take it easy. Stay cool.”

“So hot I’m cool,” Bix said and giggled. “So cool I’m hot.”

Two fuckin’ brain cells.

They were parked behind a Dumpster across the street from Butterfield’s house off Twenty-fourth Street. Nice old shingled house, big, yard in front, garage built on to one side. Rich faggot, worked for some computer company, big executive or something. Screwed businesspeople during the day, screwed underage kids at night. Bastard. Lousy queer boy-fucking bastard. Well, he’d get his pretty soon, pretty soon. Wouldn’t be screwing anybody for a long time after tonight. Might never screw anybody ever again after tonight.

Cars came up the street, went down the street. None of them turned into the driveway over there, but Tommy had a feeling it wouldn’t be long now. Another five minutes, ten at the most. The Little League bat was on the seat between him and Bix; he pulled it over onto his lap, ran his fingers over the dented aluminum.

Bix had one of those little rubber balls that he kept squeezing in one hand or the other. He flipped it from his left to his right, made a fist and crushed it hard. Then he giggled again. Not because anything was funny, he always giggled when he was high. The more he smoked, the more he giggled. Damn irritating habit. Sounded like a girl. Sometimes he even sounded like a faggot.

Another set of headlights crawled up the street. Tommy sat up straight. His head felt funny all of a sudden, like it’d just been pumped full of air. His ears started ringing. His pecker stirred as if a girl had just stroked it.

“That’s him,” he said.

“Hey, man, how can you tell that from-”

“That’s him, goddamnit, get ready to move.”

Tommy took a tight grip on the handle of the bat, shoved the door handle down on his side. It was Butterfield, all right-the car slowed, lights swept off into the driveway, garage door started to slide up. Tommy was out and halfway across the street by the time the door was all the way up and the car started slotting inside, Bix a couple of steps behind him. Nobody in sight, one other set of headlights but they were a block and a half away uphill. No problem.

Click, whir, and the garage door started down again just as Tommy hit the sidewalk running. Bix was right behind him as he ducked inside. The fag was half in and half out of the car-a Beamer, wouldn’t you know it-and when he saw them he tried to crawl in and slam the door, lock himself in. But Tommy got there first, yanked it out of his hand, and jammed it open with his hip. Butterfield’s face twisted up at him, more pissed than scared, and quick he jammed his thumb against the remote hanging from the visor. The garage door stopped halfway down. Hell with that. Wasn’t gonna do him any good, he wasn’t going anywhere except down for the count.

“What the hell’s the idea? Get out of my garage!”

Tough-talking fruit. Bigger than the others, over six feet, all decked out in an expensive suit and tie, ugly bearded face… how the hell could Troy let an ugly bastard like that screw him? Tommy felt himself swelling up with heat and rage and excitement, until he felt ten feet tall. He could’ve taken on the biggest queer ever lived tonight, one on one. Didn’t need Bix, didn’t need anybody but Tommy Douglass and his little Louisville Slugger.

“You’re the one getting out,” he said. “Or we’ll pile in there and drag you out.”

“I know you. Gay bashers, breeder trash.”

Bix giggled. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ass-kickers R us.”

“Bastards!”

Butterfield came out sudden, kicking and swinging. But they were ready for him. He slammed a foot into the car door, but Tommy danced out of the way and as soon as the faggot came up on his feet Bix had him around the neck. Jerked his head back, legs spread so the bugger couldn’t back-kick his shins. Tommy shoved the greasy rag in his mouth, jabbed the head of the bat into his gut hard enough to put a hole right through him. Air went out of him in a gagging hiss. He doubled over in Bix’s grasp.

“Let go of him, man, he’s all mine.”

Bix let go and Tommy jabbed him again, same place, then belted him in the kneecap. Line-drive single! Butterfield went down on the other knee on the concrete floor. Tommy swung again. Crack! Two-bagger down the line! Again, on the side of the head this time. Crack! Triple up the gap!

“Hey, Tommy, hey, man, not so hard, you gonna kill him-”

“Shut up!”

The faggot was all the way down now, moaning and writhing, blood all over his ugly bearded face. Tommy took his stance, home-run stance, Barry Bonds getting ready to break McGwire’s record, and lifted the bat for the big blast All of a sudden he didn’t have it anymore.

Somebody jerked it out of his hands at the top of his swing.

At first he thought it was Bix, but then he heard Bix yell and then yowl with pain, and when he came around he saw there was somebody else in the garage, big son of a bitch he’d never laid eyes on before. Bix was sprawled over the back end of the BMW, holding his arm and trying to dodge another blow from the bat. The big son of a bitch swatted Bix across the kidneys and sent him spinning off the car onto the floor. Tommy unfroze and charged the guy, some goddamn faggot neighbor, fix him like he fixed Butterfield. Head ducked, arms reaching Something happened, he didn’t know what, but all of a sudden bright pain burst through his head and neck and his vision went cockeyed and he was stumbling off balance, then banging into something solid with his shoulder and the back of his head. Flashes of light went off behind his eyes. He blinked and pawed at his face and the light faded and he could see the big son of a bitch standing there in front of him, practically in his face.

“Had enough, Douglass?”

Knew him, knew his name!

“Who the… hell’re you?”

“Your worst nightmare, kid.”

“Bix!”

“He can’t help you. He just crawled out of here on his hands and knees.”

Tommy said, “Dirty bastard,” and didn’t know if he meant Bix or the big stranger. He pushed off the wall, blinking, trying to see straight, and took a swing at the face in front of him, but it was as if he did it in slow motion, as if his arm had lead weights tied to it — and there was another burst of pain in his neck and shoulder — and he was sitting on the floor and his head was full of more hurt and confusion and he couldn’t see anything this time, not even flashes of light. Blind. Oh God, he was blind…

All the fight went out of him. And all the anger and hatred and excitement and hunger for revenge, until there wasn’t anything left.

“Give it up, Douglass, you’re all finished.”

Finished. Yeah.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Even when the darkness went away and he could see again, there just wasn’t anything left.