Vernon God Little

seven

The sign on the shrink's door says: 'Dr Goosens.' What a crack. Goosens. Whoever invented the Cold Light of Day sure went to fucken town on it, boy. On the ride over here I had a truckload of ideas about how to act crazy, maybe pull some Kicked Dog, some Spooked Deer and all, like Mom does. I even thought I could maybe drop a load in my pants or something, as a last resort. It's a slimy secret, I know it. I even loosened my asshole in case it came to that. But now, in the cold light of day, I just hope I flossed enough.

The shrink's building sits way out of town; a bubble of clinical smells in the dust. A receptionist with spiky teeth, and a voicebox made from bees trapped in tracing paper, sits behind a desk in the waiting room. She gives me the fucken shiver, but the jail guards don't seem to notice her at all. I have an urge to ask her name, but I don't. I can imagine her saying, 'Why, I'm Graunley Stelt,' or 'Achtung Beed,' or something way fucken bent. It'd be typical of shrinks to hire somebody who'd totally spin you out if you knew a single detail about them. If you weren't edgy when you came in, you would be after you met the fucken receptionist.

'Bloop,' an intercom hoots behind her desk.

'Didn't you get my email?' asks a man.

'No, Doctor,' says the receptionist.

'Please monitor the systems, there's no point upgrading our technology if you don't monitor the systems. I emailed you three minutes ago for the next patient.'

'Yes, Doctor.' She taps at her keyboard, scowls at the monitor, then looks at me. 'The doctor will see you now.'

My Nikes chirp over black and green linoleum, through a door, and into a room with supermarket lighting. Two armchairs sit by a window; an ole stereo rests beside one of them, with a notebook computer on top. At the back of the room stands a hospital bunk on wheels, with a towel over it. And there's Dr Goosens; round, soft, butt-heavy, and as smug as a Disney worm. He smiles sympathetically, and waves me to an armchair.

'Cindy, bring the client's file, please.'

Check my fucken face now. Cindy! It slays me. Now I'm just waiting for her to say, 'Groovy, Wayne,' and bounce through the door in a little tennis skirt or something. She doesn't though, not in the cold light of day. She trudges past in socks and sandals, and hands a file to Goosens. He thumbs through the pages and waits for her to leave the room.

' Vernon Gregory Little, how are you today?'

'Okay, I guess.' My Nikes tap each other.

'Alrighty. What can you tell me about why you're here?'

'The judge must think I'm crazy, or something.'

'And are you?' He gets ready to chuckle, like it's obvious I ain't. It might help if the judge thought I was bananas, but looking at Ole Mother Goosens just makes me want to tell him how I really feel, which is that everybody backed me into a nasty corner with their crashy fucken powerdimes.

'I guess it ain't up to me to say,' I tell him. It doesn't seem enough though; he stares and waits for more. As I catch his eye, I feel the past wheeze up my throat in a raft of bitter words. 'See, first everybody dissed me because my buddy was Mexican, then because he was weird, but I stood by him, I thought friendship was a sacred thing – then it all went to hell, and now I'm being punished for it, they're twisting every regular little fact to fit my guilt…'

Goosens raises a hand, and smiles gently. 'Alrighty, let's see what we can discover. Please continue to be candid – if you open yourself up to this process, in good faith, we won't have a problem at all. Now, tell me – how do you feel about what's happened?'

'Just wrecked. Wrecked dead away. And now everybody's calling me the psycho, I know they are.'

'Why do you think they might be doing that?'

'They need a skate-goat, they want to hang somebody high.'

'A scapegoat? You feel something intangible caused the tragedy?'

'Well, no, I mean – my friend Jesus ain't around, in person, to take any blame. He did all the shooting, I was just a witness, not even involved at all.' Goosens searches my face, and makes a note in his file.

'Alrighty. What can you tell me about your family life?'

'It's just regular.' Goosens holds his pen still, and looks at me. He knows he just found a major bug up my ass.

'The file notes that you live with your mother. What can you tell me about that relationship?'

'Uh, it's just – regular.' The whole subject drags a major tumor out of my ass, don't fucken ask me why. It just lies there on the floor, throbbing, glistening with gut-slime. Goosens even leans back in his chair, to avoid the heaving tang of my fucken family life.

'No brothers?' he asks, wisely steering east. 'No uncles, or – other male influences in your familial network?'

'Not really,' I say.

'But you had – friends…?' My eyes drop to the floor. He sits quiet for a moment, then reaches over to rest a hand on my leg. 'Believe me, Jesus touched me too – the whole affair touched me deeply. If you're able, tell me what happened that day.'

I try to dodge the spike of panic you get when you hear yourself fixing to bawl. 'Things had already started when I got back.'

'Where had you been?' asks Goosens.

'I got held up, running an errand.'

' Vernon, you're not on trial here – please be specific.'

'I needed the bathroom on the way back from an errand Mr Nuckles sent me on.'

'The school bathroom?'

'No.'

'You took a leak outside school?' He leans his head over, as if the information might splat in his face.

'Uh – not a leak, actually.'

'You had a bowel movement, outside school? At the time of the tragedy?'

'Sometimes I can be kind of unpredictable.'

Silence fills the forty years Fate gives me to recognize the import of things. This would never happen to Van Damme. Heroes never shit. They only fuck and kill.

A shine comes to Goosens's eyes. 'You told the court this?'

'Hell no.'

He blinks and folds his arms. 'Forgive me, but – forensically, doesn't a fresh stool, situated away from the scene of the crimes – automatically rule you out as a suspect? Fecal matter can be accurately dated, you know.'

'I guess that's right, huh?' You can tell Goosens is giving me extra service. He's only supposed to suck information for the court, but here he is, prepared to take a chance and give me a revelation along the way. He clamps his lips tight, to hit home the significance of it all. Then his eyes fall.

'I hear you say you're kind of – unpredictable?'

'It's no big deal,' I draw circles on the floor with a Nike.

'Is it a diagnosed condition – sphincter weakness, or suchlike?'

'Nah. Anyway, I almost don't get it anymore.'

Goosens runs his tongue over his upper lip. 'Alrighty, so tell me – do you like girls, Vernon?'

'Sure.'

'Can you name a girl you like?'

'Taylor Figueroa.'

He chews his lip, and makes a note in the file. 'Have you had physical contact with her?'

'Kind of.'

'What do you remember most about your contact with her?'

'Her smell, I guess.'

Goosens frowns into the file, and makes another entry. Then he sits back. ' Vernon – have you ever felt attraction towards another boy? Or a man?'

'No way.'

'Alrighty. Let's see what we can discover.'

He reaches for the stereo and presses 'Play'. A military drum beats out, softly at first, but growing in power, threatening, like a bear coming out of a cave, or a bear going into the cave, and you're in the fucken cave.

'Gustav Holst,' says Goosens. 'The Planets – Mars. This'll rouse some glory in a boy's soul.' He walks to the bed and smacks it with the flat of his hand. The powerdime takes a reckless shift.

'Get undressed for me, please, and come lie up here.'

'Un-dressed?'

'Sure – to finish the exam. We psychiatrists are medical doctors first, you know – don't confuse us with your everyday psychologists.'

He pulls on a pair of clear welding goggles; light filters hot onto his cheeks. Folding my Calvin Kleins takes a while, in order to stop loose change falling from the pocket. Even though my loose change is in a plastic bag at the sheriff's office. Brass stomps black and twisted over the drums from the stereo as I climb onto the bed. Goosens points at my underwear.

'Off, please.'

A thought comes to me; it is that a breeze on the butt, in the presence of supermarket lighting, should only be felt by the dead. I'm a naked fucken animal. But even naked animals need bail. Especially naked animals need it.

'On your stomach,' says Goosens. 'Spread your legs.'

'Ta-t-t-t, TA-TA-TA.' Musical hellfire accompanies the touch of two fingers on my back. They trace a line down my body, then turn into hands, and grab both cheeks of my ass.

'Relax,' he whispers, spreading my cheeks. 'Does this make you think of Taylor?'

'TA-TA-TA, TA-T-T-T!'

'Or – something else?' His breathing quickens with the march of his fingers, they trace a tightening circle around the rim of my hole. A line of violent cussing forms in my throat. The bail thought stops it.

'Doctor, this don't seem right,' I say. What a fuckhole, I swear. I should jam a table-leg through his fucken eye, make him grunt like a tied hog. Jean-Claude would do it. James Bond would do it with a fucken cocktail in his hand. Me, I just squeak like a brownie. He takes no fucken notice anyway. A cool finger invades me as the music explodes to a climax. I grunt like a tied hog.

'Al-righty, one for Jesus. Just relax, this next procedure won't hurt a bit – in fact, don't be embarrassed if you experience arousal.' He grabs a pair of steel salad tongs, adjusts his goggles, and lowers his face to my ass.

'I don't fucken think so,' I quiver, spinning upright. Cobwebs of spit fly from my mouth. Goosens recoils, forearms held up like a surgeon.

He slowly reaches for the towel on the bed, and wipes his middle finger. Huge gingery eyes stare through the goggles. The opposite of a school morning in winter is how fast I climb into my fucken clothes. I don't button my shirt, I don't tie my laces. I don't fucken look back.

'Think carefully, Vernon,' says Goosens. 'Think very carefully before jeopardizing your bail application.' He stops to sigh a moment, and shake his head. 'Remember there are only two kinds of people in your position: glorious, powerful boys, and prisoners.'

Music whips twisters behind me as I scramble out through the waiting room. Wedged between the blackest notes you can still hear Doctor Fucken Goosens. 'Okay – alrighty…'

I sit under a personal cloud in back of the jail van, like a sphinx, a sphinxter, to the beat of that rude orchestra music by Goosestep Holster. It does nothing to erase memories of the shrink, and his fucken ass-banditry. I try not to think what his report will say. I just watch the scenery pass by my window. Dead products dot the roadside on the way back to town: an abandoned shopping cart, a sofa skeleton. Under a tree sits a busted TV, empty of wacky antics. Pumpjacks poke dirty fingers into the landscape, but we drive past all of it, including the sky and the distance, ignorant of the fence wire that twangs a straight line to Mexico.

Mexico. Another coupon tacked onto the pile I'll redeem when I get some power in my fucken life. Look around this life and all you see is folks' coupons tacked everywhere, what they'll do if, what they'll do when. Warm anticipation for shit that ain't even going to happen.

'Kid,' says one of the guards, 'you ain't haulin your stalk back there, are ya?' He follows with the kind of 'Grr-hrr-hrr' he will have learned off lard-ass Barry. I swear these guys must share that one joke around, ole Barry must give fucken smut classes after work or something. Snatches of their talk filter back to me.

'Uh-huh, Vaine Gurie petitioned the county for a SWAT team.'

'Over the sheriff's head?'

'Uh-huh. Barry upgraded their in-surance same fuckin day.'

'He told you that?'

'Tuck says.'

'Tuck What's-his-name, at the morgue? What's he know about Barry's in-surance?'

'Tuck sells goddam in-surance. Dropped Amway to sell fuckin in-surance.'

'No shit.'

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge. Look at the way things are. I'm no fucken genius or anything, but these spazzos are in charge of my every twitch. What I'm starting to think is maybe only the dumb are safe in this world, the ones who roam with the herd, without thinking about every little thing. But see me? I have to think about every little fucken thing.

As I sit, then lay, then pace, then sit again in my cell, waiting for my next court appearance, time, being an agent of Fate, slows way the fuck down. Thursday eats Wednesday, and Jesus' last breath drags ten days into the past, towing Nuckles's silence behind it, as if he was never even there, like the truth was my shadow alone. To stretch things even further, Mom calls to say Lally has been contracted to shoot another report from Martirio. It's typical of where things are at with Fate, slowing time down all over the place, calling the weirdest fucken people Cindy. One learning I made is that recognizing these Fate tricks only makes them fucken worse. Even as I pass on to you these amazing life insights, I curse you with making them fucken worse. Because once you know about them, you fucken wait for them to happen.

The day of my court appearance is hot and soupy. I sense dogs across town, chilling under window-mounted air-conditioners, letting any ole cat pass by, and cats letting any ole rat pass by, and rats – probably too fucken lathered to even want to pass by. I'm the only one passing by, in fact, on my way to the classroom. I mean, courtroom.

'All-a rise.'

Court froths with sighs and the stench of hot clothes this Friday. Everybody stares at me. 'Oh Lord,' as Pam would say. Pam might come by later, but Mom can't make it. Faces disfigured with memories of black blood and gray skin dot the crowd. Kin of the fallen. Mr Lechuga stares death-rays at me, and he ain't even Max's real daddy. Lorna Speltz's mom is here, like a damp kind of turtle. I get waves of sadness, not for me but for them, all mangled and devastated. I'd give anything for them to be vastated again.

Vaine is gone, her table is occupied by a shiny man wearing black and white. Judge Gurie catches his attention. 'Mr Gregson, I take it you're appearing for the State?'

'One hundred percent correct, ma'am – all the way to the district court.' Perky fucker.

The judge picks Goosens's file off her desk and waves it at the prosecutor. 'I have a report on the defendant's state of mind.'

'We vigorously oppose bail, your honor.'

'On what grounds?' asks the judge.

The prosecutor fights a smile. 'In common parlay – the kid's stole more damn chain than he can swim with. We're afraid he'll go down with it, and we'll never see him again!' A chuckle runs through the court. It stops at the judge, who scowls at Goosens's file, then turns to Abdini. 'Any further submissions in respect of this application?'

Abdini stops fussing at his table and looks up. 'Is family boy, have many interest…'

'I know all that,' the judge flaps her hand, 'I mean anything new, like the – digestive condition mentioned in this report, for instance.'

'A-ha, the toilet…' says Abdini, mostly to himself.

'If your honor pleases,' says Gregson, 'we'd object to the court doing the defense's homework for them.'

'Very well. They clearly haven't been instructed, so I'll leave the clues at that.'

'Also, ma'am, we'd like to enter a statement from the witness, Marion Nuckles,' says Gregson.

The judge's eyebrows become airborne. Breathing dies in the room. 'I was told no statement could be taken until March next year!'

'It's a transcript of digital media taken at the crime scene, Judge. A reporter from CNN sourced it for us, in the public interest.' Motherfucker Lally flashes to mind. Makes you wonder which poor suck he's fucking over right now.

'Well that's very public-spirited of them. Is the defendant's alibi supported by the witness?' asks the judge.

'Not our brief, your honor. Our statement concerns the possible whereabouts of another firearm – I'm sure we all agree, that casts a serious light on the prisoner's bail application.'

Judge Gurie puts on her glasses, reaching for the document. She scans it, frowning, then lays it down and peers at the prosecutor. 'Counsel, the actual murder weapon was found at the outset. Are you saying you can link a second gun to these crimes?'

'Very possibly, ma'am.'

'Do you have that gun?'

'Not as such, but officers are investigating.'

The judge sighs. 'Well, it's obvious neither of you has seen the psychiatric report. In the absence of hard evidence, I'll be ruling on the basis of this assessment.'

An itchy silence falls over the room, measured in tens of thousands of years. The crowd divides its attention between me and the bench, all the while juggling the decent, downtown skills that let them soak it up without looking like they're at a traffic accident and fucken enjoying it. They juggle those skills with their eyebrows.

Judge Gurie sits still for a moment, then surveys the court. It freezes. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's fair to say we've had enough. We're fed up – outraged! – at these continual damned breaches of our rightful peace.' Applause erupts; some asshole even whoops like a TV audience. You wait for the chant, 'Gu-rie! Gu-rie! Gu-rie!'

The judge pauses to straighten her collar. 'My decision today takes into account the feelings of the victims' families, as well as those of the wider community. I also acknowledge that, despite the defendant's stable, if not very affluent background, he is a standing candidate to stand trial as an accessory to these crimes.' The typist looks over at my corral, probably to boost the polish on her own dumb kids. None of them in jail today, no sirree. 'Vernon Gregory Little,' says the judge, 'in light of the disorder identified in this report, and taking into account submissions by both counsels – I am releasing you…'

'My babies, my poor dead babies,' squeals a lady at the back. Outrage spews through the room.

'Silence! Let me finish,' says the judge. ' Vernon Little, I am releasing you into the care of Dr Oliver Goosens, starting Monday, on an outpatient basis. Failure to comply with the doctor's schedule of treatment, in any way whatsoever, will result in your further detention. Do you understand?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

She stretches over the bench and lowers her voice. 'One more thing – if I were defending, I'd seriously consider expanding on this, ehm – bowel thing.'

'Thank you, ma'am.'

I'll be damned. I burrow through the mess of onlookers and float out of the courthouse into the sun, just like that. Reporters buzz around me like flies at a shit-roast. I'm full of feelings, but not the ones I dreamed of. Instead of true joy, I feel waves; the kind that make you look forward to the smell of laundry on a rainy Saturday, the type of drippy hormones that trick you into saying I Love You. Security they fucken call it. Watch out for that shit. Those waves erode your goddam bravery. I even get a wave of gratitude for the judge – go fucken figure. I mean, Judge Gurie's been good to me, but – expand on the bowel thing? – I don't fucken think so.

'How do we find your turds?' they'd ask. 'Why,' I'd say, 'my logs are over there, in the den behind the bushes – right there, next to the goddam gun y'all are looking for.' To be honest, the gun ain't such a big deal. The fingerprints on the gun are my fucken problem. Thinking about it brings a whole new set of waves. I decide to ignore them, for my own safety. You just can't afford waves when you have to be in Mexico by daybreak.

The Mercury sits with two doors open, dripping ants all over Gurie Street. Mrs Binney, the florist, almost has to stop her brand-new Cadillac to get past. Mrs Binney doesn't wave today. She pretends not to see me. Instead she watches Abdini decoy some reporters on the steps, and floats right by with a fresh mess of tributes for the Lechugas' front porch.

'We happy we allow home to continue our young life,' says Abdini, like he's me, or we're fucken brothers or something. 'And we cantinue inbestigation into whappen that terryball day…'

I got me some learnings in court, I have to say. The way everybody acts, court is like watching TV-trailers; a shade of this movie, a bite of that show. The one where the kid gets cancer, and everybody speaks haltingly. The one where the rookie cop decides whether to be a bag-man for bribes, or to blow his crusty partner's cover. I personally wouldn't recommend playing that one, though; everybody ends up being on the take, like even the mayor. And don't fucken ask what show I got stuck with. ' America 's Dumbest Assholes' or something. 'Ally McBowel.'

The Mercury bitches under Pam's sandals. That's because she uses both pedals at once. 'No point having a brake pedal if your foot's a mile away on the other side of the car,' she'll tell you if you ever bring it up. I only brought it up once. 'Might as well throw the darned pedal out the door.' Camera people scatter as we lunge up Gurie Street. I see the TV pictures in my mind, the shot of my ole mutton head looking back from the Mercury.

'But, what kind of meals did you get?' asks Pam.

'Regular stuff.'

'But like, what? Like, pork 'n' beans? Did you get dessert?'

'Not really.'

'Oh Lord.'

She spins the car into the Barn drive-thru. One good thing about Pam's TV-movie; you know how the thing's going to end. That's the kind of life I want, the life we were fucken promised. A fuzzy ole show with some flashes of panty and a happy ending. One of those shows where the kid's baseball coach takes him camping, and teaches him self-respect, you've seen that show, with electric piano notes tinkling in the background, soft as ovaries hitting oatmeal. When you hear that piano it means somebody's hugging, or a woman is crumpling her lips with overwhelming joy, down by a lake. Boy, the life I could have with the right music behind me. Instead I watch Liberty Drive screen through the window, with Galveston playing in back. We pass the place where Max Lechuga sucked his last breath. He said some words, but you couldn't hear them. Heat comes to my eye, so I spark up a distraction.

'Ma home?' I ask.

'Waiting on the fridge delivery,' says Pam.

'You're kidding.'

'Humor her, she's going through a lot. No harm in just waiting.'

'That'll be one long wait.'

Pam just sighs. 'You'll be sixteen in a few days. We won't let anything spoil your birthday.'

I cushion myself in this familiar ole cream; family, with all its flavors of smell. I've only been gone a week, but my ole routines seem like a past life. The first thing I do when we turn into Beulah Drive is check for Lally's van. I try to see past a knot of reporters in the road, but then the Seldome Motel's new minibus pulls up by the Lechugas' teddy farm. Strangers lean out, take pictures, bow their heads, then the van pulls away toward the mantis market. Lally's space under the willow is empty.

'Take these fries to your ma,' says Pam through a mouthful of drumstick.

'Not coming in?'

'I have pinball right now.' Playing pinball is healthy, according to Pam.

Reporters jostle me all the way to the front door. I slip inside, locking the door behind me, then just hang, soaking up the familiar whiff of ketchup and wood polish. All's quiet inside, except for the TV. I go to leave the fries on the breakfast bar, but just as I reach the kitchen, I hear a noise up the hallway. Like a sick dog. Then comes a voice.

'Wait – I'm sure I heard the door…'

It's Mom.

'God, unghh, ugh, Lalito, Lally – wait!'

eight

' Doris – I think the Special Edition arrived!' Here's Betty Pritchard.

My heart ain't even restarted before these ladies turn up. The fridge? I don't fucken think so. Georgette Porkorney clomps onto the porch by the kitchen door. Mom always leaves that fucken door open. Even now, when she's balling Lally up the hall.

'Look!' says George. 'They're pulling over at Nancie Lechuga's!'

'I know, I know! Doris!'

My Nikes tense in their shame. I stare at the painting beside the laundry door. A clown holds up a fucken umbrella, and bawls one big tear underneath. Mom calls it art.

'Hi, Vern,' says Leona, stealing a fry. 'Stress binge?'

I forgot about Mom's fries. Now the bag's squished in my fucken hand. I park it on the breakfast bar, next to a greeting card with a cartoon baby on it. 'It's Wuv!' says the baby. I look inside the card and see a love poem from Lally to Mom. There ain't puke enough in the world for today.

When everybody is assembled with a view of the hallway, Mom steps out of her room and ripples toward us in a filmy pink robe. An alien scent drags behind her. 'Well hi, baby, I didn't expect you back.' She pelts me a hug, but as she does it, her left tit flops free and smacks me on the arm.

' Doris, they're trying to deliver the fridge to Nancie's!' says Betty.

'Wow, this is exciting,' says Leona. 'Weird, too, because I wasn't even going to stop by! My new consultant's installing the toning station today, and I still have new tenny-runners to buy…'

Three whole brags. My house is fucken Baconham Palace, all of a sudden. The reason steps into the hallway, wearing a blue robe with gold detail, and new Timberlands on his sockless feet. He throws his arms wide. 'It's Martirio's Angels!'

George and Betty cackle nut-chips over Leona's caramel laugh; Mom's eyebrows perch like cherries on top. Nobody will ask why Lally's suddenly dicking my ma, the truth of things will just get wiped over with cream-pie lies. Don't fucken ask me about this love people have of saying things are fine when they ain't fucken fine at all. Lally's toothbrush in my bathroom ain't fucken fine at all. He avoids my eyes as he walks through the kitchen, like I was nobody, as if fucken nothing; he breaks open one of his ginseng bottles, tweaks his balls, and keeps right on grinning.

'Hurry, Doris,' says George. 'It's the Special Edition, go say something!'

'Well, I'm not even dressed.'

'Maybe I'll drive to Houston,' says Leona. 'Buy some gymwear too…' It's a record-breaking fourth thing. Mom just smiles powerfully, and cozies back into Lally's arms.

'Shit, Doris, I'll go tell them,' says George. They're unloading the damn thing already, look!' I crane to the kitchen window; sure enough, a JC Penney's truck is parked in front of the Lechugas'. A teddy bear lays pinned under the back wheel.

'Well but, wait…' says Mom.

There used to be a horse that could do math on stage. Everybody thought the horse was so fucken smart, he would tap the answer to math questions with his hoof, and always get it right. Turns out the horse couldn't do math at all, could he fuck. He just kept tapping until he felt the tension in the audience break. Everybody relaxed when he'd tapped the right number, and he felt it, and just stopped tapping. Right now Lally takes a cue from the tension in the room, just like the horse that did math on stage.

'Tch – the Special Edition?' he says. 'Babe, after they screwed you around so long I called and cancelled that order. I'm sorry – we'll take a drive to San Antone, I need some more ginseng anyway.'

'Well, oh my.'

'But, you ordered almond-on-almond, didn't you?' asks George. 'Look, they're unloading a new almond Special Edition side-by-side into Nancie's!'

'What a day,' says Leona. Her face goes blank trying to suck back the fourth brag. Too late now, honey chile.

My eyes trudge over the breakfast bar, past the power bill you can see tucked behind the cookie jar, and into the living room, grasping at any straw of human dignity. Then Brad walks in, wearing a brand-new pair of Timberlands. Fucken 'Bang!' goes the door. He hoists his nose and heads straight for the TV. He'll go sit on the rug and lip-read the beeps on the Springer show, I guarantee it.

My face caves in. This is how I'm being grown up, this is my fucken struggle for learnings and glory. A gumbo of lies, cellulite, and fucken 'Wuv'.

I turn to go to my room, but Lally grabs my head. He makes like he's mussing my hair, but he's actually holding me back. 'Little big man – let's go share some thoughts.'

'Well sure,' says Mom, 'you retire for men's business – I'll fix a brew and fill the gals in on a certain somebody's diet.'

'What,' asks Leona, 'she went back to Weight Watchers?'

'The Zone,' says Mom.

I'm tuned out by the time Lally nudges me to the dark end of the living room. I get sat at Pam's end of the sofa, the end closest to the floor. He spreads himself at the high end, and studies my shoes with a frown.

'Tch, I can't tell you what you've put your mother through. Can you imagine if I hadn't been around to pick up the pieces?'

Is he fucken kidding or what? He's been here seven days, and now he's like my fucken blood? I just stare at the rug. A fucken yard of it dies.

'To say we're challenged, Vern, is to put it very mildly.'

I climb off the sofa. 'They're your damn pieces.'

'What was that?' He grabs my arm.

'Fuck off,' I say.

He slaps me with the flat of his hand. 'Fuckin cuss at me.'

The noise draws Brad over, shuffling on his ass. Lally tightens his grip on my arm.

'Lalito, how do you want your coffee?' calls Mom.

'Hot and sweet, like my woman.' Lally flashes Brad a smile, and winks. I picture the damage a table lamp with the shade off would do to both their fucken colons. Lally pulls me close and starts to speak softly. 'I hear talk of a firearm. You hear about another firearm?'

I just stay quiet.

He watches me for a moment, then hoists his eyebrows high. 'Remind me to call Dr Goosens.' He waits for a reaction, but I stay impassive. He waits a little longer, then settles back into the sofa and starts to scratch out the Dallas Cowboys label my dad sowed into the arm. 'It's not too late to shift the paradigm, Vern. In fact, if the paradigm doesn't shift, the story will die. Nobody wins if the story dies. I'm waiting to hear if I've been commissioned for a whole series, in depth. Could cross over into feature rights, web events. We could turn your situation around three hundred and sixty degrees…'

'Learn some fucken math.'

'Well look!' Mom walks in with the coffee. 'He's only twelve and he has a hundred million dollars! An e-mailionaire, look guys!'

It's America 's Youngest Millionaires on TV. The ladies drift over like farts.

'Small fry,' says Brad. 'My first billion's in the bag.'

'Attaboy, Bradley!' says George.

Eyes move to the screen like sinners to fucken church. 'A millionaire before he was ten,' says the reporter, 'Ricky is now well on the road to his second hundred million dollars.' The way he says 'doll-larrs' you'd think he'd dipped his fucken tongue in molasses, or something. Pussy or something. Ricky just sits there like a spare prick, in front of the Lamborghini he can't even drive. When they ask him if he feels great, he just shrugs and says, 'Doesn't everybody?'

'What an incredible boy,' says Mom. 'I bet his mother's on cloud nine.'

'A billion dollars,' sighs Leona. Her feet turn in like a little girl, and she leans over to whisper loud in Brad's ear, 'Remember who did all the driving in your humble years!'

A warm, fuzzy moment takes hold of the room. Then everybody's eyes settle on me. I pull away from Lally and head up the hall.

'Aren't you staying for Millionaires?' asks Mom.

I don't have an answer. I just blow some air through my cheeks and shuffle away, to fucken Mexico, via my room.

'C'mon, big man,' calls Lally. 'I'm only funnin.' I let his words thud lonely on the rug behind me.

'Wow, Nancie must've bought a new fridge,' says Leona as I reach the hall. She's good that way, Leona, how she keeps things moving along. I guess all these ole fakes are good that way, with their fucken pre-programmed coos and sighs and bullshit. One learning you should know: ladies like this can't deal with silence.

I lock my bedroom door and stand still on the other side, scanning the empty holes Vaine Gurie left in my mess. My disc player is still here, with a few discs around it. I grab an ole Johnny Paycheck compilation and load it, cranking the volume way up. Clothes fly out of the closet into my Nike backpack. Even a jacket flies in, because you never know how long I'll be gone. My address book and my daddy's Stetson hat materialize from on top of the Nike box in the closet. I spy an ole birthday card from Mom amongst my chattels, with dumb-looking puppy-dogs on it. It brings a wave of sadness, but it won't stop me.

When I'm all packed, I pause to listen at the door, mapping the voices in the living room. 'Hell no,' says George, from her usual chair. 'Nancie's still running on Hank's insurance.'

'Well I don't know why they hem and haw about my Tyler 's payout,' says Mom. She's on her way back to the kitchen for cake, you can tell. 'I mean, it's been nearly a year.'

'Honey – they need a body, you know that,' says George.

I grab my pack, heave up the bedroom window, and jump out into the shady lea of the house. It's directly in line with Mrs Lechuga's window across the street, but her drapes are still pulled tight, and the media hangs mostly on the driveway side. I carefully pull down the window behind me, then run under the biggest willow, to the back fence. Who lives on the other side is a wealthy couple; at least their house is painted wealthy. It means they spend less time spying through their screen, not like Mrs Porter. Wealth makes you less nosey, in case you didn't know. I climb over the fence, scare a hiss out of their cat on the other side, and scoot across their lawn to Arsenio Trace, the last street on this side of town. Everything's calm, except for some loser selling watermelon at the dead end of the road. I turn away from him, pulling the hat brim low over my forehead, and lope toward town, real normal, even with a new kind of limp I invent to the tune of sprinklers along the way, 'Mexico, Mexico, Mexico, fsk, fsk, fsk.'

Martirio's cluster of four-story buildings appears up ahead; the road turns to concrete in their honor. A crowd gathers in front of the Seldome Motel, must be to catch a glimpse of some network stars. I hear Brian Gumball is down here, doing a live show. I ain't stopping to check, though. Food stalls sizzle at the side of the motel, but I content myself with the thought of enchiladas when I get over the border. I guess Taylor likes enchiladas, not that I ever asked her. It's one of the things I should've asked her, but never did. Tsk. It bums me to think how few things Taylor has actually said to my face; like, maybe twenty-nine words, in my whole fucken life. Eighteen of those were in the same sentence. A TV scientist wouldn't give great odds of a college girl running away in the heat of the moment with a fifteen-year-old slimeball like me, not after a relationship spanning twenty-nine words. But that's fucken TV scientists for you. Next thing they'll be telling you not to eat meat.

Willard Down's used-car lot shimmers on the corner of Gurie Street, looking faded since he cancelled his 'Down's Syndrome – Prices Down!' campaign. He cancelled it on account of little Delroy Gurie. A flash of red catches my eye at the back of the lot. It's Lally's van, with a seventeen-hundred-dollar tag on the windscreen. Then, next thing you know, Fate puts Vaine Gurie in the Pizza Hut opposite my bank. She sits by the window, hunched over a wedge of pizza. Sitting by the window ain't a sharp idea for a diet fugitive, but you can see the place is overflowing with strangers. I stop and fumble in my pack, watching her through the corner of my eye. Strangely, I get a wave of sadness watching her. Fat ole Vaine, stuffing emptiness into her void. Her eating strategy is to take six big bites, until her mouth's crammed to bursting, then top up the gaps with little bites. Panic eating. Here's me yearning for Mexico, there's Vaine hogging herself slim, just another fragile fucken booger-sac of a life. I stare down at my New Jacks. Then back at Vaine; detached, sad, and furtive. I mean, what kind of fucken life is this?

I can't risk going to the ATM right now. I turn my face away, and just keep walking to the Greyhound yard. I can check the timetable, hang out until the coast is clear. Heat shimmers clean at the end of the street, a pair of Stetsons wriggle through it. Dirk's Eatery passes on my right, with all the specials painted on the window, and a couple of die-hards bent over their grits inside. The dog out front doesn't look at me when I pass. He just twitches an eyebrow, you know how they do.

I limp into the Greyhound waiting room, all casual. A few other folk are here, nobody beautiful though, no cowgirls or anything. Next bus to San Antonio is in twenty minutes. She might already be on the bus, the cowgirl. Trying to blend into the place, I line up behind two Mexican ladies at the ticket counter. They talk in Spanish. It gives me a buzz, I have to say, that and the spicy smell of their clothes. It makes me picture my new beach-house, with Taylor 's laundry hung out on palm trees to dry, her panties and all. She's probably naked in the house because her panties are all out to dry. Bikinis in the sun. Or tangas. Probably bikinis.

I chase some spit with my tongue, and watch an ole man at the back of the room flick through the Martirio Clarion, our so-called paper. The skin of his face hangs down in pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain't character, though; you know it's feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One thing I learned from watching folk these last days is that waves are mostly one-way; you collect them over a lifetime, until finally the least fucken thing makes you bawl.

I get quite comfortable, standing in line with my musings. Then the man's paper flops open to a picture of me. 'Guilty?' asks the headline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus' casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus. I shut my eyes, and when I open them there's no casket. But I expect it, back in my soul. That, or some fucken shit. You know Fate.

Inch by inch, I shuffle behind the Mexican ladies toward check-in. My bravery has ebbed away. I decide to try my New York accent on the man at the ticket counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he'll say, 'Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.' The ladies finish and move away. The clerk stops tapping at his keyboard, and looks up. My mouth opens, but he doesn't look at me, his eyes shoot over my shoulder.

'Howdy Palmyra,' he says.

Pam's shadow falls over me. 'Hell, Vernie, what're you doing down here?'

'Uh – looking for work.'

'Lord, a boy can't work on an empty belly – c'mon now, I'm on my way past the Barn to your place…'

Fuck. Everybody in the place looks up to watch Pam drag me out by the hand, like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him, and points. I feel the noose of this fucken town tighten around my throat.

nine

'The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,' says the sheriff on TV. 'So if a weapon is found, it'll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints.'

'And if you get a match – case closed?' asks the reporter.

'You bet.'

Mom switches off the TV on her scurry back to the kitchen. 'Lord, Vernon, please don't go to the Tragedy Sale in those shoes, you heard what everybody thinks. Please. I can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns in your size around town.'

'Timberlands, Ma.'

'Whatever. Look, here's the pastor now. I know it's not much of a job, but, as Lally says, it's important to show the community you're making good.'

'But I didn't do anything – damn!'

'Vernon Gregory!' says Lally. 'Don't argue with your mother.'

He wears this fancy suit today, with a tie and all. Suddenly this fancy fucken suit appeared.

I just want to fucken die, go back to jail, to the warmth of Barry and his crew of madcap funsters. Last night was a long night at home, real fucken long. To cap it off, Kurt started barking again. I swear the barking circuit that orbits town every night starts and ends with fucken Kurt. For such a nerdy dog, I don't see how he got to be president of the barking circuit. It ain't like he's a fucken rat-wheeler or anything.

Lally sucks down a ginseng, and nuzzles Mom. 'Hey,' he grunts, 'remember what we talked about? If I get the series, we'll fill this house with Special Edition fridges.'

Her lips tighten. 'Well I don't know what happened to that order, now it looks like Nancie got one. Anyway, if you saw her old refrigerator you'd know why. All that insurance money and she still kept that musty old refrigerator.'

'Shhh,' whispers Lally. 'We got a new speakerphone, didn't we? Now you don't even have to hold the receiver!'

I get waves about it all. My ole lady was never Honey Bear like this with my daddy. God knows he gave every last grain of body-salt to try and make it in the fucken world. It just wasn't enough, in the end, I guess. The day he got his first thousand dollars, the neighbors must've got ten. Aim for a million bucks, you suddenly need a billion. I upgraded my computer, but it wasn't enough. No matter what, it ain't fucken enough in life, that's what I learned.

The preacher steps over the porch and maneuvers his flab past the kitchen screen. 'This glorious Saturday smells of joy cakes,' he booms. I swear the Lord giveth and just keeps fucken givething to Pastor Gibbons.

'They're hot and perky, Pastor,' Mom whisks the napkin off a tray of pessimistic-looking bakes, offering it up like it was a feel of her tits twenty years ago. Gibbons' new Timberlands chirp a trail across the linoleum.

He grabs a cake, then turns to smile at me. 'And you're my deputy for the day?'

'That's your boy,' says Lally, 'he'll give a hundred and fifty percent.'

'Awesome, I'll put him on the bake stall – we're hoping to raise ten grand today, for the new media center.'

Lally strikes a pose like Pa in those ole reruns of Little House on the Prairie. 'This town sure is teaching a thing or two about community spirit, Pastor.'

'God knows the Tragedy Committee has worked miracles to bring some good out of the devastation,' says Gibbons. 'Word is, one of the networks might even put us national today.' He pulls focus from infinity to Lally's face. 'Wouldn't be – your people, would it, Mr Ledesma?'

Lally smiles the smile of a doting God. 'I'll certainly be giving you some camera time, Pastor, don't you worry. The world will be yours.'

'Oh my,' Gibbons does the coy padre off that ole army hospital show. 'All right, Vernon,' he says, nudging me toward the door. 'The Lord helps those who help themselves…'

'See you there,' says Mom.

Lally follows us onto the porch. As soon as we're out of Mom's sight, he grabs my ear and twists it hard. 'This is the way forward, little man – don't blow it.'

Son of a stadium full of bitches. I rub my ear on the way to the New Life Center; the pastor listens to the radio as he drives, nose up to the windscreen. He doesn't talk to me at all. We pass Leona Dunt's house, with the fountain in front. Her trash is out four days early again. That's to help you take stock of all the rope-handled boutique bags, and razor-edged boxes barfing tissue and ribbon. You could sell her a fucken turd if it was giftwrapped, I swear.

The Lozano boys are out hawking T-shirts on the corner of Liberty Drive. One design has 'I survived Martirio' splattered across it in red. Another has holes ripped through it, and says: 'I went to Martirio and all I got was this lousy exit wound.' Preacher Gibbons tuts, and shakes his head.

'Twenty dollars,' he says. 'Twenty dollars for a simple cotton T-shirt.'

I slouch low in my seat, but not before Emile Lozano sees me. 'Yo, Vermin! Vermin Little!' he whoops and salutes me like a fucken hero or something. The pastor's eyebrows ride up. Thanks, fucken Emile. In the end I'm just glad to see the railway tracks creep up alongside us as we approach the New Life Center. The radio is pissing me off now, to be honest. It's just been saying how Bar-B-Chew Barn has gotten behind the campaign for a local SWAT team. Now it's making noise about the hunt for the second firearm. They don't say exactly where they're fixing to hunt; like, they don't say they're specifically going to hunt around Keeter's or anything. If they were going to hunt around the Keeter property, you'd think they'd say it.

The New Life Center is actually our ole church. Today the lawn and carpark have been turned into a carnival market, a laundry-day of tousled whites flapping under the sun. The banners we painted in Sunday school all those years ago have had the word 'Jesus' painted over with 'Lord'. I help the pastor unload the car and carry stuff to a cake stand right next to the train tracks. He installs me there, as caretaker of the cake stand, and – get this – I have to wear a fucken choir gown. Vernon Gucci Little, in his unfashionable Jordan New Jacks, with fucken choir gown. After ten minutes, the morning freight train lumbers past my back, honking all the while. It never honks if you don't stand here in a fucken choir gown.

You don't know how full my head is of plans to disappear. The crusher is that I got identified by Pam at the bus depot, so they'll just be waiting for my face to show up again. Truth be told, they probably installed a fucken panic button or something, In Case of Vernon. Probably connected it to Vaine Gurie's ass. Or Goosens's pecker or something. It means I'll have to cross country to the interstate, maybe find a truck on its way from Surinam, or a driver who hasn't seen the news, a blind and deaf driver. Plenty of 'em out there, if you listen to Pam.

As the sun pitches high and sharp, more folk wander into the market. You can tell they're making an effort not to seem drained and bleak. Drained and bleak is what town's about these days, despite the joy cakes. They ain't setting the world on fire with sales, I have to say. Everybody keeps a safe distance from the joy cakes. Or from me, I guess. Mr Lechuga even turns his desk away from me, over by the prize tent, where he's selling lottery tickets. After a while Lally and my ole lady arrive. You can't actually see them yet, but you can hear Mom's Burt Bacharach disc playing somewhere. It cuts through the gloom like a pencil through your lung. Nobody else would have that disc, I fucken guarantee it, with all these jingle singers going, 'Something big is what I'm livin for,' all tappetty-shucksy, bubbly silk pie, just the way she likes. A typical stroke-job of musical lies, like everybody grew up with back then, back when all the tunes had a trumpet in them, that sounded like it was played through somebody's ass.

'Well hi Bobbie, hi Margaret!' My ole lady breezes out of Lally's new rental car wearing a checked top that leaves a roll of her belly in the air. I guess she quit mourning already. She also has sparkly red sunglasses. All she needs is a fucken poodle to carry, I swear. The vacuum in her ass no longer sucks her hair into a helmety perm, now it hangs wanton and loose.

Lally wanders up to my stall and prods a joy cake. 'Turnover?'

'Four-fifty,' I say.

'The smiles on these cakes aren't even facing the right way – come on, Vern, lure the bucks in – these aren't the only cakes in the world, you know.'

'Thank fuck for that,' I want to say, but I don't. You'd think I had though, for the fucken daggers he stares at me. Then he just strolls away.

'Nice gown,' he snorts over his shoulder.

Mom lingers back. 'Go ahead, Lalito, I'll see you at the sizzle.' Her eyes flick over the crowd, then she sidles up to me like a spy. ' Vernon, are you all right?' That's my ole mom. I swell with involuntary warmth.

'I guess so,' I say. That's what you say around here if you mean 'No'.

She fidgets with my collar. 'Well, if you're sure – I only want you to be happy.' That's what you say around here if you mean 'Tough shit'. 'If you could just get a job,' she says, 'make a little money, things'd be fine again, I know they would.' She squeezes my hand.

'Mom, with Eulalio around? Please…'

'Well don't deny me my bitty speck of happiness, after all that's happened! You always said be independent – well, here I am, asserting my individuality as a woman.'

'After what he did to me?'

'After what he did to you? What about what you did to me? This is something special with Lally, I know it is. A woman knows these things. He already told me about an amazing investment company – over ninety percent return, virtually guaranteed. That's how much they offer, and he told me about it, not Leona or anyone else.'

'Yeah, like we have money to invest.'

'Well, I can take out another loan, I mean – ninety percent.'

'With that snake-oil merchant?'

'Oh baby – you're jealous,' she licks her fingers and rubs a trail of spit across an imaginary smudge on my cheek. 'I still love you the most you know, golly, I mean…'

'I know, Ma – even murderers.'

'Hi Gloria, hi Cletus!' She leaves me with a kiss, then sashays east up the stalls, dragging my soul in the dust behind her. Don't even ask me what the laws of fucken nature say about this one. I mean, you see reindeer and polar bears on TV, and you just know they don't get alternating rage and sadness over their fucken loved ones.

Next thing you know, my goddam heart stops beating anyway. Just clean fucken stops in its tracks, the whole damn thing. I immediately fucken die. There, less than ten feet away, steps Mrs Figueroa – Taylor 's mom. God, she's beautiful too. The waistband on her denims throws a shadow on her skin, which means there's space in there. Just the up-thrust of her butt keeps her jeans up. Not like my ole lady, who just about needs a fucken military harness. My mouth quivers like an asshole, trying to say something cool to win her over, to get Taylor 's number. Then I see a fucken choir gown on my body. By the time I look back up, the meatworks' barber has stepped in front of her. He doddles through the crowd towards the beer stand, dressed like he's at a fucken funeral or something.

He bumps into my stall on the way. 'Sorry, miss,' he says to me.

Mrs Figueroa laughs, to finish me off. Then she's gone. The barber catches another ole guy's eye across the beer stand. 'I'm gettin a posse up,' he calls, 'to hep the Guries find that weapon. Cleet, if you're interested, we're headin out in about an hour.'

'Where'll we meet?'

'Meatworks – bring the kids, we'll barbecue after the hunt. We're gonna cover the trail through Keeter's – word is, the teacher Nuckles said somethin about a gun out there, afore he went haywire.'

Jeopardy. I have to get to Keeter's. My eyes search the market for a window of opportunity, but all I see are drapes in the form of Lally, Mom and the goddam pastor. Then I just keep fucken seeing them; with Betty Pritchard, without Betty Pritchard. At Leona's champagne stand, away from Leona's champagne stand. I tingle cold in the heat for a whole hour, then another. Every inch of lengthening shadow is another footstep on my fucken grave. Georgette Porkorney arrives. Betty comes to meet her, they walk past my stand.

'Look, he's just so passive,' whispers George. 'Of course he'll fetch trouble if he stays so passive…'

'I know, just like that, ehm – Mexican boy…'

George stops to do a double-take at Betty. 'Honey, I don't think passive's the word, in light of everything.'

'I know...'

The only relief comes with Palmyra; she musses my hair and slips me a Twinkie. Finally, at two o'clock, the pastor goes into the prize tent with Mr Lechuga.

'Bless you all for supporting our market,' a loudspeaker blares. Clumps of people move towards the tent. You can see Mom, Lally, George, and Betty on the far side of the lawn, mooching by Leona's champagne stand. You can't actually see Leona, but you know she's there because Mom throws back her head when she laughs.

'And now,' says Gibbons, 'the moment you've all been waiting for – the grand prize draw!' Everybody turns towards the tent. My window opens.

'Hey dude!' I call a passing kid, of the kind that can't close their lips over their braces, like they have a fucken radiator grille for a mouth or something. 'Wanna job for an hour?'

The kid stops, looks me up and down. 'Not in a freakin dress I don't.'

'It ain't a dress, duh. Anyway, you don't have to wear it, just mind these cakes awhile.'

'How much you payin?'

'Nothing, you get a commission on sales.'

'Flat or indexed?'

'Indexed to what?' Like, the kid's only fucken ten years ole, for chrissakes.

'Vol-ume,' he sneers.

'I'll give you eighteen percent, flat.'

'You for real? These stupid cakes? Who ever heard of a joy cake anyway, I never heard of no joy cake.' He turns to walk away.

'And here's the winning ticket,' says Gibbons. 'Green forty-seven!' A sluggish frenzy breaks through the tent. The kid stops, and drags a mangled pink ticket from his pocket. He squints at it, like it might turn fucken green. Then Mom's voice occurs.

'Well, oh my Lord! Here Pastor, green forty-seven!'

The ladies and Lally clot around her, cooing and gasping, and hustle her into the tent. Boy is she boosted up. My ole lady never won anything before.

'Dude!' I call metal-mouth back.

'Twenty bucks flat, one hour,' he says over his shoulder.

'Yeah, like I'm Bill Gates or something.'

'Twenty-five bucks, or no deal.'

'Here's the lucky winner,' says the pastor, 'of this sturdy, pre-loved refrigerator, generously donated, without a thought for their own grief, by the Lechugas of Beulah Drive.'

That's the last you hear of my ole lady's voice. Probably forever. What you hear is just Leona.

'Oh – wow!'

'Thirty bucks,' the kid says to me, 'flat, one calendar hour. Final offer.'

I'm hung out to fucken dry by this fat midget, who could just about net crawdads with his fucken mouth. Or rather, I would've been hung out to dry if I was even coming back to pay him. But I ain't coming back. Today I'll give the gun a wipe, grab my escape fund from the bank, and blow the hell out of town. For real.

'It's ten after two,' says the kid. 'See you in one hour.'

'Wait up – my watch says quarter after.'

'It's fuckin ten after – take it or leave it.'

Whatever. I rip the gown off and stuff it into a box under the table, then I run crouched alongside the railroad tracks toward the green end of Liberty Drive. Preacher Gibbons's voice echoes down the line behind me. 'Speaking of refrigerators, did y'all hear the one about the rabbit?'

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Mom run crying to the rest-rooms behind the New Life Center. But I can't afford any waves. I have to grab my bike and fly to Keeter's. Strangers mill around Liberty Drive corner, next to a new sign erected in front of the Hearts of Mercy Hospice. 'Coming Soon!' it reads. ' La Elegancia Convention Center.' A real ole man scowls from the hospice porch. I pull my head in and start to cross the street, but a stranger calls out to me.

'Little!' I speed up, but he calls again. 'Little, it's not about you!' The dude must be a reporter. He breaks from a group of roaming media, and steps up to me. 'The red van that used to park next to your house – you seen it around?'

'Yeah, it's at Willard Down's lot.'

'I mean the guy that used to drive it…'

'Eulalio, from CNN?'

'Yeah, the guy from Nacogdoches – you seen him?'

'Uh – Nacogdoches?'

'Uh-huh, this guy here – the repairman.' He pulls a crumpled business card from his shirt pocket. 'Eulalio Ledesma Gutierrez,' it reads, 'President & Service Technician-In-Chief, Care Media Nacogdoches.,'

The stranger shakes his head. 'Bastard owes me money.'

'O Eulalio, yo! Lalio, yo! Lalio, share this fucken challenge now.' That's what I sing on the ride out to Keeter's. I feel Jesus with me in the breeze, happier than usual, not so deathly, maybe because I finally got a fucken break. I'm going to call the number on this card, and get the slimy lowdown on Yoo-hoo-lalio. Then, when that reporter turns up at home later, for his cash, everybody will discover the fucken truth. It means I can leave town knowing my ole lady's okay. This business card is all the artillery I need. What I learned in court is you need artillery.

Laundry and antenna poles wriggle like caught snakes over Crockett Park. This is a neighborhood where underwear sags low. For instance, ole Mr Deutschman lives up here, who used to be upstanding and decent. This is where you live if you used to be less worse. Folks who beat up on each other, and clean their own carburetors, live up here. It's different from where I live, closer to town, where everything gets all bottled the fuck up. Just bottled the fuck up till it fucken explodes, so you spend the whole time waiting to see who's going to pop next. I guess a kind of smelly honesty is what you find at Crockett's. A smelly honesty, and clean carburetors.

The last payphone in town stands next to a corrugated metal fence on Keeter's corner, the remotest edge of town. If you live in Crockett's, this is your personal phone. Empty land stretches away behind it into the folds of the Balcones Escarpment, as far as you can imagine. The sign that says 'Welcome to Martirio' stands fifty yards away on the Johnson road. Somebody has crossed out the population number, and written 'Watch this space' over it. That's fucken Crockett's for you. Smelly honesty, and a sense of humor.

I lean my bike against the fence and step up to the phone. It's twenty-nine minutes after two. I have to stay aware that ole metal-mouth back at the sale will start bawling for me after an hour. I wipe the phone mouthpiece on my pants leg, a thing you learn to do up this end of town, and call up CMN in Nacogdoches. CMN – CNN – Get it? Fucken Lally, boy. New York my fucken wiener.

The number rings. A real ole lady answers. 'He-llo?'

'Uh, hello – I'm wondering if Eulalio Ledesma works there?'

You hear the ole gal catch her breath. 'Who is this?'

'This is, uh – Bradley Pritchard, in Martirio.'

'Well, I only have what's left in my purse…' Coins clatter onto a tabletop at her end. You sense it ain't going to be a quick call.

'Ma'am, I'm not calling for anything, I just wanted…'

'Seven dollars and thirty cents – no – around eight dollars is all I have, for groceries.'

'I didn't mean to trouble you, ma'am – I thought this was a business number.'

'That's right – "Care" - I had cards printed for Lalo, "Care Media Nacogdoches," that's the name he chose. You tell Jeannie Wyler this was never a tinpot operation – we moved my bed into the hallway to make space for his office, to help him get started.'

Mixed feelings I get. Like Lally falling off a cliff chained to my nana. 'Ma'am, I'm sorry I troubled you.'

'Well, the president isn't here right now.'

'I know, he's down here – you must've seen him on TV these days?'

'That's in very poor taste young man. Why, I've been blind for thirty years.'

'I'm real sorry, ma'am.'

'Have you seen him? Have you seen my Lalo?'

'As a matter of fact, he's staying at my – uh – friend's house.'

'Oh heavens, let me find a pen…'

Another bunch of stuff clatters down the line. I stand here and wonder how you read and write when you're blind. I guess you etch lines that you can feel with your fingers, like in clay or something. Or cheese, carry cheese around all the time.

'I know it's here somewhere,' she says. 'You tell Lalo the finance company took everything, they wouldn't wait another second for payment on the van, and now the Wylers are suing over their video camera. Imagine that! – and I was the one who talked them into repairing it in the first place. Those cameras don't fix themselves overnight you know, that's what I told her. I just wish everything wasn't in my name…'

She finds the cheese, and I give her my phone number. My early joy has melted now, with the serious reality of things. I say goodbye to the lady and ride away towards the escarpment, to find the gun. Jesus rides with me in spirit. He stays silent. I've changed the course of Fate, and it weighs on me heavy.

Bushes on Keeter's trail are bizarre, all spiky and gnarled, with just enough clearing between them so the unknown is never more than fifteen yards away. Not many creatures come this far into Keeter's. Me and Jesus are the only ones I know. Last time I saw him alive at Keeter's, he was in the far distance.

Ole man Keeter owns this empty slab of land, miles of it probably, outside town. He put a wrecking shop by the ole Johnson road, Keeter's Spares & Repairs – just a mess of junk in the dirt, really. He doesn't even run it anymore. When we say Keeter's around here, we usually mean the land, not the auto shop. You might see some steers on it, or deer; but mostly just bleached beer cans and shit. The edge of the universe of town. Martirio boys suck their first taste of guns, girls and beer out here. You never forget the blade of wind that cuts across Keeter's.

In the thick of the property lies a depression in the ground, sixty-one yards across, with wire and bushes matted around it. At the steepest end is an ole mine shaft. The den, we call it. We rigged up a door with some sheets of tin, and put a padlock on it and all. It was our headquarters, during those carefree years. That's where I took a shit the other day, the day of the tragedy, if you need to know. That's where the rifle is stashed.

It's two thirty-eight in the afternoon. Hot and sticky, with fast-moving clouds bunched low across the sky. I get to within two hundred yards of the den and hear a hammer-blow. Something moves in the bushes up ahead. It's ole Tyrie Lasseen, who runs Spares & Repairs, sinking markers into the ground. He's dressed in a suit and tie. He jackrabbits before I can hide.

'Okay, son?' he calls. 'Don't be touchin nothin, could be dangerous.'

'Sure, Mr Lasseen, I'm just cruising…'

'I wouldn't recommend you cruise around here, maybe you better head back to the road.'

Tyrie is the kind of Texan who takes his time telling you to fuck off. He shuffles three steps towards me, and wipes some sweat from the top of his head. His eyes crinkle like barbed wire snagged with horsehair, and his mouth hangs open a little. Ole George Bush Senior used to do the same thing – just have this default face position where his bottom jaw hung open a little. Like these guys listen through their mouths or something.

'Sir, I'm just passing through to the San Marcos road, I won't touch anything at all.'

Mr Lasseen stands there and listens, through his mouth; his tongue lolls like a snake inside. Then these rusty sounds slither onto the breeze. 'The San Marcos road? The San Marcos road? Son, I don't recommend takin this way to the San Marcos road. I recommend you head on back to the Johnson road, and ride around it.'

'But, the thing is…'

'Son, the best thing I recommend is to get yourself back onto the Johnson road. I recommend that, and don't be pokin around here no more – this'll be a restricted area just now.' His jaw drops even lower, to hear any stray comeback, then he throws a finger at town. 'Go on now.'

Weeds blow across the trail home, corrugated metal sheets flap, and with their creaks come the sound of dogs barking. I have only one chance left to reach the gun. When Lasseen is safely out of sight, I edge my front wheel off the track and rocket through the wilds in an arc that will take me around him, to the back of the den. Bushes squat lower on this part of Keeter's, joined by tall grasses and chunks of household debris. I nearly smash into a nest of toilet bowls, abandoned in the undergrowth like some kind of vegetarian pinball machine. As I slalom through them, I see a Bar-B-Chew Barn cap up ahead. Voices waft down on a breeze.

'Who cares about ole nature,' says a kid.

'It's not just nature, Steven – there might be a gun.'

It's the meatworks posse. I know it even before the marching band strikes up. I lay down the bike and huddle into the nest of bowls, trying to gauge the distance between me and the dogs working their way from the town side. It's four minutes to three. Kids start to surround my position. I crouch low.

'Bernie?' says a little voice.

'Wha?' My nerves half electrocute me to fucken death.

I spin my head around. Behind a bush at my back crouches Ella Bouchard. She's a girl from Crockett's, who used to go to my junior school. Believe me, you don't want to fucken know.

'Hi, Bernie,' she says, shuffling closer.

'Shhh, willya! I'm tryin to rest a little here, God.'

'Looks like you're hidin out to me, that's what it looks like, to me anyway…'

'Ella – it's real urgent that nobody disturbs me right now – okay?'

Her smile falters. She watches me through big blue eyes, like doll's eyes or something. 'Wanna see my south pole?' Her dusty ole knees part a little, a flash of panty shines out.

'Shit, come on, willya? Hell,' I blow extra air out of my cheeks with the words, like a Democrat or whatever. I still look, though. It's automatic with panties, don't tell me it ain't. Ole cotton there, stretched gray, like fucken airplanes use her to land on.

'Can I just hang out – Bernie?' She closes back her legs.

'Shhh! Anyway, my name's not even Bernie, duh.'

'It is too Bernie, or somethin like that, it's Bernie or somethin like that.'

'Listen – can't I owe you or something? Can't we hang out another time?'

'If it's true, and for actual real, maybe. Like when?'

'Well I don't know, just sometime, next time or whatever.'

'Promise?'

'Yeah I promise.'

I feel her breath lapping at my face, Juicy-Fruit breath, hot and solid like piss. I turn my back, to invite her to crawl away, but she doesn't. I can tell she's staring.

'Fucken what?' I say, spinning around on her.

She throws a weak smile. 'I love you Bernie.' Then, with a thump of plastic sandal, and a swish of blue cotton, she's gone. It's five minutes after three. Your eyes automatically check when it's time for deep shit, in case you hadn't noticed.

'Okay team, stop here for the first item in your snack-packs!' yells a lady. 'That's the item with the red label, the red-label item only.'

'Don't go there, boys,' you hear Tyrie Lasseen call in the distance. 'That's an ole mine shaft, stay well away.' Relief scuds through me as Tyrie warns them away from the den. Then another cluster of voices comes near.

'Todd,' says a lady, 'I told you to go before we left the meat-works. Just use one of these bushes, nobody can see.' You hear a dorkball squeak something in back, then the lady says: 'Well you ain't gonna find one out here, this ain't the mall, in case you hadn't noticed.'

We don't even have a fucken mall, by the way. Notice how folks always throw in that extra smart-assed thing when the media's around. They just pick the first fucken thing to say, like the mall or whatever.

'Use those toilet bowls, over there,' calls some asshole in a fake girl's voice.

'Hey, yeah,' says a lady, 'I saw some toilet bowls around here somewhere – maybe that'll help you pretend.'

'Wait up!' says Ella Bouchard. 'You better not use them potties – snakes sleep in 'em.'

'Oh my God,' says the lady. Todd, wait! I better come with you.'

They crackle through the bushes into my nest. I stand out of the dirt and pick up my bike, casually, like I'm in the freezer section at the Mini-Mart or something.

'It's the psycho!' says the kid.

'Shhh, Todd, don't be silly,' says the lady. She turns to me. 'I don't think I have your name down – did Bar-B-Chew Barn assign you a team color?'

'Uh – green?' I say.

'Can't be green, it can only be a color from their logo.' She pulls out her phone. 'I'll call Mrs Gurie and check the list – what's your name again?'

'Uh – Brad Pritchard.'

'Brad Pritchard? But we already have a Brad Pritchard…'

There comes a wet rustle from the bushes, like a dog eating lettuce, then Brad tiptoes into the clearing with Mini-Mart bags tied over his Timberlands. He points out a cloud with his nose. That's nouvelle; having the convict look for his own gun.'

'Vaine?' says the lady into her phone. 'I think we need some assistance.'

I jump onto my bike and hit the pedals hard. Dirt spews across the clearing.

Girls giggle, camera tool-belts rattle, and in amongst them as I ride away, ride like the fucken wind itself, you hear Brad Pritchard faking a dumb girl's voice. 'Hey, Bernie – wanna see my south pole?'

I spin twisters along the track to town. My only option is to hit the fucken road. Right away. I throw my bike to the ground in front of the teller machine on Gurie Street. I love my bike, but I just crash it the fuck down. It ain't a fancy bike, but it's strong, and used to belong to my grand-daddy, back when the town still only had two roads. I crash it down. That's the kind of twisted shit this life has in store for you, guaranteed.

I put my bank card into the machine, and tap in the code -6768. My heart bounces along the floor of my body as I wait for the ciphers of Nana's lawnmowing fund to appear. After nine years, a message jumps to the screen.

'Balance – $2.41,' it says.

ten

I have no option but to spin home and grab stuff to pawn or sell. It's after four when I reach the house, willing it to be empty. Empty. Like: yeah, right. Lally's rental car is out front. I enter like a ghost through the kitchen screen. At first everything's quiet inside. Then there's a knock at the front door. An air-dam of perfume collapses into the hall. I freeze.

'Shhh, Vernon, I'll get the front door.' Mom scuttles over the rug like a hamster.

'Do-ris?' the kitchen screen opens behind me. Leona wafts in, flouncing her hair.

'Shhh – Lally's sleeping!' hisses Mom.

Get that. When my daddy used to doze on the sofa after a few beers, she'd put on high heels and clomp around the kitchen, just to wake him up. I swear to God. She'd pretend to be doing stuff that required clomping, but she wasn't actually doing anything at all. She'd clomp back and forth for no reason, instead of just saying 'Wake up'. That was in the days after he hit me, after things went kind of sour.

A bedspring creaks up the hallway. Mom gently opens the front door to the reporter Lally owes money to. 'Afternoon, ma'am, is Eelio Lemeda here?'

'Lally? Well, he's here, but he's indisposed right now – can I tell him who called?'

'I'll wait, if you don't mind.'

'Well he shouldn't be much longer.'

The toilet flushes deep in the house. The bathroom door bangs, and Lally stomps down the hall. 'Vanessa, have you seen my therapy bag?'

'No, Lalito – anyway, I think you're all out of your gin-sling things.'

Fucken Vanessa? I search her face for clues. One thing you notice is her cheeks are all proud and peachy, like when she eats ice-cream in important company. Her eyelashes flutter double-time.

'Vanessa?' says Leona.

Mom blushes. 'Well I'll explain just now.'

She hides another final notice from the power company behind the cookie jar, then goes to fuss over Lally, who only has his robe on, you can just about see his cock flapping all over the place. If you had a fucken electron microscope you could just about see it. He strides into the kitchen with this smile full of teeth, and grazes a hand to Leona's butt as he passes. She gives a wiggle.

'Lally,' says Mom, 'there's someone at the front door for you.'

'For me?' His smile stiffens. Joy wells up in my heart. As he turns to the door, I tackle Mom into the corner of the kitchen.

'Ma, go check Lally's visitor – fast! Go on now!'

'Well Vernon, what on earth's gotten into you? That's Lally's private business.'

'No it ain't, Ma, quick – it's real important.'

'Oh, Vernon – cope for God's sake.' She flashes her creamiest-pie smile as George and Betty clack into the kitchen, in the middle of one of their typical conversations.

'Honey, no way,' says George, 'just being a shareholder doesn't mean he has to buy that whole ridiculous SWAT thing of Vaine's. Can you imagine? She can't even keep her damn flab under control, let alone a team of gunmen!'

'I know, I know.'

I try to shunt my ole lady up to the front door, to witness Lally's shame, but her skin-tight pants don't make her any lighter; she won't budge at all.

Lally opens the door to the man. 'Don't tell me – you're on a recovery mission.'

'Yeah, if you can spare it,' says the guy.

'Here you go, fifty dollars – and thanks.'

Now Mom grabs me by the shoulders – fucken me, no less – and spins me into the corner. ' Vernon, don't tell your nana, but I had to raid the lawnmowing fund to help Lally. His camera equipment wiped the code from his Visa card. I'll put it back as soon as my loan is approved.'

'Ma, I needed that money…'

'Well Vernon Gregory, you know that's Nana's lawnmowing account, and it's supposed to be earning interest for your college fund.'

'Yeah, like you get a whole pile of interest off fifty dollars.'

'Well I know it's not much, but it's all I have – just a mother on my own.'

Lally finishes with the reporter, but he doesn't come inside. Does he fuck. Instead he stands on the porch and hollers: 'Park in the driveway, Preacher – the girls won't be leaving for a while.' He leaves the front door open, and swaggers into the kitchen, passing me by without a glance.

'Lally, I forgot to mention,' says Mom, 'a lady called for you, from the network I think.'

'A lady?' Lally's hand twitches over his crotch.

'Uh-huh, she sounded very senior – she'll call back later.'

'She didn't leave a name?'

'Well she said it was your office – I told her to call back.'

One of Lally's eyes snaps to me. A quivery eye. Then he grabs Mom around the belly and says, 'Thanks, Vanessa – you're indispensable.'

'Van-essa?' say the ladies.

Mom swells. 'Well, I can't tell you much now – can I, Lalito?'

'Suffice to say,' says Lally, 'the network was impressed with her appearance the other day. No promises, but we could be seeing a lot more of her – when the right strategies are in place.'

'I'll always be the same old Doris to you girls, though, you know I won't change a bit, deep down.'

Check Leona. Her mouth flaps empty of words for a moment, then she goes, 'Wow, it's weird because, did I tell you guys my new dialogue coach is sending my reel to the networks? Right after I get back from Hawaii – God, that's so weird, isn't it…?'

Mom just snuggles back into Lally's arms. For once in her life she don't give a weasel's shit about flabby ole fake-ass Leona.

'Vanessa Le Bourget,' Lally says into my ole gal's ear. 'Boor-jay,' he croons, like the cartoon skunk off TV, the one that always tries to fuck the cat. Mom just about shits on the floor when she hears it. Leona nearly bursts out fucken bawling. Lally's on a roll. I just let him roll. 'Tch, I can't wait to share you with the crew back in New York, you'll just love those guys.'

'Well don't be impatient, Lalito, everything has its time. Meanwhile you'll have everything you need, even though it's just lil' ole me, in this itty-bitty town.'

'You can say itty again – damn hole doesn't even have a sushi bar!'

'Not like Nacogdoches,' I say.

'Nacog-doches?' says Betty. Lally shoots me the devil's eye.

'Bwanas tardies,' booms the pastor, stepping through the door like he's a fucken Meskin all of a sudden. Bwanas tardies my fucken ass.

'C'mon in, Preacher,' says Lally. 'Can I fix you a loosener?' Lally's eye doesn't scan my way anymore. His eye has a new scanning pattern.

'Thanks, but no,' says Gibbons, 'I have to get that refrigerator moved into the media center – it's a mighty fine donation, I can't thank y'all enough.'

' Vernon, perhaps you'll explain to the pastor why you abandoned his charity stall today,' says Lally. Tension turns the air in the room to crystals.

'I got a stomach ache.'

'Surely,' he says, 'a person bailed for murder would do better to…'

'I'm not even on bail for murder, I'm a goddam accessory to Jesus Navarro's murders – fuck!'

Lally leans in like a whip and smacks the back of my head. 'Control yourself!'

I fill with acid blood. Mom starts to bawl in the corner, making it as difficult as possible for the ladies to maneuver her to the sofa.

'Such aggression in that boy,' says George. 'He was bound to fetch trouble, with so much aggression.'

'I know, I know – just like that, ehm – other boy…'

A dizzy feeling comes over me as I hit the ring-end of my fucken tether. I pull Lally's business card out of my pocket, and hold it up in the air. 'Everybody – I called Yoo-lalio's office today, and guess who answered? His blind momma, who just had her house emptied by the finance company on account of his van repayments.' Lally's eyes turn to coal. 'Now she's facing a lawsuit over the camcorder he stole. Did you know he's actually a TV repairman, who works out of his momma's bedroom in Nacogdoches?'

'Oh please,' says Lally. He squeezes his balls but forgets to let go.

I glance over the bar. The ladies are way perked up. Land of Daytime Milk and Honey for them. I pose dramatically, hog-anger makes me do it. 'You think I lie? I guarantee his mother's gonna call here just now, hunting his ass. I guarantee it. Just ask her the story.' A smile comes to my face, know why? Because Lally's turning white. Everybody stares at him as he leans into the corner, wiping his face with his hand.

'Tch, that's preposterous. The evil lies coming from this child's mouth.' He takes a heavy breath, then turns and spreads his arms to the ladies. 'Hands up who ever heard of a features reporter moonlighting as a repairman?' Everybody shakes their heads. 'And why might that be?'

'Well, because – there's more money in reporting?' sniffs Mom. 'He wouldn't need to repair TVs, with all that extra money?

'I rest my case.'

'Wait up,' I say, 'I didn't say he moonlighted as anything – he's just a repairman with a whole pile of trouble left back in Nacogdoches. Look at his card, go on.'

'Ladies,' says Lally, 'this is ridiculous. Do you know how many Ledesma Gutierrezes there are in this country? And have you ever seen me repair a TV?'

'No,' they say.

'Have you ever seen me on TV, presenting a feature report?'

'Well sure,' they say, motioning the pastor to join in. 'We were in it with you!'

'Thank you,' says Lally. He turns to stare at me. 'And now, in light of everything we've just heard, and, frankly, for our own protection – I'm calling the police.'

'Oh no, Lally, please,' says Mom.

'Sorry, Vanessa – I'm afraid it's my duty. The boy needs urgent help.'

Then, just as my world starts to slip through my fingers, Fate plays a humdinger. The phone rings. Mom gasps to a halt, mid-fucken-sob. Everybody freezes.

'I'll get that,' says Lally.

'I don't think so,' I say, diving for the phone. 'Mom, come take this call.'

My ole lady hunches off the sofa, all shiny around the nose and eyes, and does her finest victimmy shuffle to the phone table. She looks around at everybody, especially Lally, before picking up the phone. A pleading kind of look she gives Lally, real Kicked Dog. Then her voice smoothens like cream. 'Hello? Mr Ledesma, well sure – may I say who's calling?' She hands the phone to Lally. 'It's CNN.'

I grab it back. 'Mrs Ledesma?'

' Vernon!' snaps Mom.

'Remember me? From Martirio…?'

'Who is this?' asks the young New Yorker on the phone. Lally snatches the receiver and turns to the wall.

'Renee? Sorry about that – things are a little crazy down here. I got the series? fan-tastic!' He raises a thumb to the ladies. 'Conditional on what? Not a challenge, we still have the firearm piece, the suspect, and the townsfolk coming to terms with their grief. It can spin-off in a thousand directions.'

'Well you know,' whispers Mom to the ladies, 'I couldn't decide between Vanessa and Rebecca...'

'I was coping with Doris,' grunts George.

Lally finishes the call. He dangles the receiver over the cradle, taking a moment to gaze at everybody. The ladies stare into his eyes, Pastor Gibbons toys in his pocket. Then Lally drops the handset, 'Crack', cups his balls through his robe, and strolls to the middle of the room. 'Before we open the champagne, I guess we have a rather more – human challenge to share.' His eyes snap to me. 'Pretty outlandish behavior we saw there, Vernon. Damn scary, actually, in light of everything.'

'Fuck you to hell,' I say.

'Vernon Gregory!' snaps Mom.

Lally pushes a little spit around his mouth. 'Simple compassion dictates that it's time to turn this boy over to someone who can help. If we cling when he needs professional care, we may only damage his chances of recovery.'

'You're the one who needs care,' I say. 'Lalo.'

'You are under a psychiatric order, after all.' He pauses to chuckle, to reminisce. 'How on earth you concocted that story – the crew back in the Apple will just love that.' He checks his watch. 'Come to think of it, they're probably down at Bunty's right now.'

Mom hisses a footnote to the ladies. 'They have this bar called Bunty's, you probably heard of it – Bunty's?'

'Or at the Velvet Mode, for melon slammers,' says Lally. 'I might have to give them a call. Right after I contact the sheriff.'

'Well Lally, please,' says Mom. 'Can't we just wait till morning, I mean, he had a stomach ache – he does have this, er – condition…'

The phone rings. Everybody's face lights up, as if more big deals will trickle down the line. But Lally tightens. This is where the horse would stop doing math on stage. I reach for the handset. He beats me to it.

'Le Bourget residence?' He tries to flash a good ole boy's grin to the ladies, but a quiver beats him to it. 'I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number.' His breathing quickens.

I dive around his legs and hit the speaker button. Mrs Ledesma's voice wails out.

'Lalo, oh my God, Lalo? I ran out of groceries, Lalo, please…'

Lally's lips dance uncontrollably, his eyes flash across the room. 'Oh – oh it's you,' he trembles.

'How could you leave me so long,' cries the lady. 'Es que no queda nada Eulalio, hasta mi cama se lo ban llevado…'

'Tell us in English!' I yell toward the phone. Lally's foot whips off the floor, dislodging me backwards onto the rug. He switches off the speaker.

'Oh you poor souls,' he says into the phone. 'I left strict instructions with the network to keep up my charity visits while I was away…' I go for the speaker button again, but he keeps me at bay with his leg. 'Yes, I know, sweetheart – but mental illness can be cured, that's why I contribute, that's why I share myself with your cause – you and all the other beautiful ladies at the home…'

I reach the far side of the phone table on my belly, but Lally quickly says goodbye, and slams down the phone. It rings again. He rips the cable from the wall. All breathing in the room gets canceled, along with platelet aggregation and whatever else your body does for kicks.

Lally turns to face everybody. 'I guess I have – something to share.' I squint through a waterline of smoke, to the dark of the sofa where the ladies sit, riveted. Their knees stick tight together. 'Some time ago, I decided to share my resources with the less fortunate.'

'Amen,' says the pastor softly.

Lally's face falls. 'I surprised myself – I'd been so ambitious, so wrapped up in Me. Then I became involved with real people – real problems.' He pauses to dab a ringer at the corner of his eye. 'The voice you just heard is one of my ladies – one of my Sunshine Souls.'

'Wow, she sounded so together,' says Leona.

'Shhh, Loni, God,' says George.

'Tragic, isn't it?' says Lally. 'Confined through no fault of her own. They all are.'

'Bull-shit,' I say.

'Vernon Gregory, that's enough,' says Mom.

'Were you – supporting them?' asks George.

Lally sighs. 'Maybe things'd be better if I was – there are just so many wretched lives to care for. And I have so little to give…'

'No, son,' scalds the pastor, 'you're giving the greatest gift of all – Christian love.'

Lally shrugs helplessly. 'If you see me a little short of cash – you now know why. I just feel so guilty having anything at all.' His eyes crawl over the sofa, snuggling into the ladies' pouts, sliding down their weeping lashes, before collapsing on the floor. He shakes his head. 'I guess the real tragedy is – they now know where I'm staying.'

It takes a full second for Spooked Deer to take hold of Mom. She twitches. 'Well – why is that tragic?'

He flicks a glossy eye at me, sighs. 'The home's strictest rule is non-disclosure of carers' identities. If they found out about this, I could be prevented from giving in future. I don't know if I could survive a month without visiting my special girls. It means – I'll have to move along.'

There's a stunned silence. Then my ole lady implodes. 'Well God, Lally, no, I mean – no, God…'

'I'm sorry, Doris. This is bigger than the two of us.'

'But we can disconnect the phone, change the number… Lalito? You can't walk out after this whole month of bliss.'

'Week of bliss,' corrects Lally. 'I'm sorry. Maybe if Vernon hadn't called the home, maybe if he didn't harbor such a grudge – but no. Things'll only get more challenging after I call the sheriff.'

'Shoot,' says George, 'I'd call him myself if he wasn't tied up at the Barn meeting.'

Trickles then torrents of blood and vein soak through the bottom of Mom's legs, her brownest organs sweat through her pores. In the end just these pleading eyes poke up, the eyes of a well-kicked dog. Squished Kitten even.

Leona watches her quiver become a sob, then turns to Lally. 'There's space at my place.'

'My God,' he says. 'The pure charity of this town…'

Mom's eyes pop. 'Well, but, but, the home might find you there, as well – that woman, she could just as easy find you at Leona's as here…'

'I'm unlisted,' says Leona with a shrug. 'I have call-screening and closed-circuit security.'

Mom's eyes fall to the tan-line where her wedding ring once sat. 'Well but Vernon could just as easily give that number to the patients, you saw his behavior – couldn't you, Vernon, just give Leona's number to the home…?'

'Ma, the guy's a goddam psycho, I swear to God.'

'Well see? He could call them right now, see his attitude? I think Lally and I should take a room at the Seldome for a while… Lalito? And do all those other things you want to do, around town…?'

'Tch, the Seldome's full.'

'Well but they'd always find space for me, I mean, I was married at the Seldome.'

Leona picks her bag off the sofa and fishes in it for her keys. 'Offer's open.'

My ole lady's already halfway across the room. 'What's the Seldome's number?'

Lally reaches out to stop her. ' Doris – that's not all.' He fumbles in his shirt pocket and pulls out two crumpled joints. ' Vernon didn't do such a good job hiding these.'

'Cigarettes?' asks Mom.

'Illegal drugs. You'll understand now why I can't be associated with the boy.' He throws the spliffs scornfully onto the coffee table, leaning past me to whisper, 'Thanks for the story.'

In the background you hear Leona's car keys drop into George's lap. 'I guess I'll ride with Lally. Take the Eldorado when you're ready – it'll need some gas.'

'We have a spare room,' says Betty. 'We haven't used Myron's studio since he died.'

Lally and Leona clack out through the screen into a dirty afternoon. A promise of rain on dust puffs through the door behind them. To Mom I know it smells of their sex.

'I'll be back for my stuff,' calls Lally. Mom's skin has all melted together. Her face drips down her arms onto her lap.

I run a step after him. 'How'd you know it said Gutierrez on the card, motherfucker? How'd you know it said Ledesma Gutierrez, when you didn't even look at the card?' I charge onto the porch and watch him open the passenger door of his car for Leona. Then you see the Lechugas' drapes twitch open a crack. Leona flaps a little wave towards it, from behind her back. The drapes close.

I'm a kid whose best friend took a gun into his mouth and blew off his hair, whose classmates are dead, who's being blamed for it all, who just broke his mama's heart – and as I drag myself inside under the weight of these slabs of moldy truth, into my dark, brown ole life – another learning flutters down to perch on top. A learning like a joke, that kicks the last breath from my system. The Lechugas' drapes. It's how Mom's so-called friends coordinate their uncannily timed assaults on my home. They still have a hotline to Nancie Lechuga's.

eleven

I stand on the porch this Sunday evening and try to force Mexico to appear in front of me. I tried it all day from the living-room window, but it didn't work. By this time tonight I imagined cactus, fiestas, and salty breath. The howls of men in the back of whose lives lurked women called Maria. Instead there's a house like Mrs Porter's across the street, a willow like the Lechugas' and a pump-jack next door, dressed as a mantis; pump, pump, pump. Vernon Gridlock Little.

'Lord God in heaven please let me have a side-by-side, let me open my eyes and it be there…'

Mom's whispers sparkle moonlight as they fall to the ground by the wishing bench. Then Kurt barks from Mrs Porter's yard. Kurt is in trouble with Mrs Porter. He spent all day on the wrong side of the fence from the Hoovers ' sausage sizzle, and eventually destroyed Mrs Porter's sofa out of frustration. Fucken Kurt, boy. His barks cover the creaking of planks as I step off the porch. It's a well-upholstered barking circuit tonight, on account of the Bar-B-Chew Barn hayride. A hayride, gimme a break. We don't even have fucken hay around here, they probably had to buy it on the web or something. But no, now it's the traditional Martirio Hayride.

'Oh Lord God, bring Lally back, bring Lally back, bring Lally back…'

It's been a long day. Cameras pinned me in the house since Lally left yesterday. Now they went to cover the hayride. Mom senses me approaching her willow; she sobs louder, and gets a hysterical edge to her voice, to make sure I don't miss the implication of things. A large flying bug scoots behind the mantis as I step close.

'Wishing bench is airborne this end,' I say, to break the ice. 'Like the dirt's caving in underneath.'

'Well Vernon just shutup! – you did this to me, all this – all this fucking shit.'

She cussed me, boy. Hell. I study her ole hunched body. Her hair is sucked back into a helmet again, and she wears her regular toweling slippers with the butterflies on top, their rubber wings torn off by the white cat she used to have, before the Lechugas ran it over. I'm compelled to reach out and touch her. I touch her where the flab from her back dams under her armpit, and feel the clammy weight of her ole miserable shell, all warm and spent. She cries so cleanly you'd think her body was a drum full of tears that just spill out through the holes.

I sit down beside her. 'Ma, I'm sorry.'

She gives an ironic kind of laugh, I guess it's ironic when you laugh while you sob. After that she just stays sobbing. I look around at the night; things are liquid-clear, warm and dewy, with a snow of moths and bugs around the porch lights, and distant music from the hayride.

'Papa always said I'd amount to nothing.'

'Don't say that, Ma.'

'Well it's true, look at me. It's always been true. "Just plain ungainly," Papa used to say, "Ornery and ungainly." Everyone was head of the cheerleading squad, and homecoming queen, and class president. Everyone was Betty, all sparkling and fresh…'

'Betty Pritchard? Gimme a break.'

'Well Vernon, you just know everything, don't you! Betty was class president in the fourth grade you know, and had all the bubbly parts in school plays – she never cussed or smoked or drank like the rest of us; bright as sunshine, she used to be. Until she started getting beaten black and blue by her father, whipped till she bled. So while you're all critical, and know everything about everyone, just remember the rest of us are only human. It's cause and effect, Vernon, you just don't realize – even Leona was relaxed and sweet, before her first husband went, you know – the other way.'

'The one that died?'

'No, not the one that died. The first one, and out of consideration you shouldn't even ask.'

'Sorry.'

She takes a breath, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. 'I lost a few pounds for the prom, though. I proved Papa wrong, just that once. Den Gurie asked me to be his date – Den Gurie, the linebacker! – I slept under the shawl of my prom dress all week.'

'There you go – see?'

'He picked me up in his brother's truck. I almost fainted from excitement, and from hunger, I guess, but he told me to relax, said it'd be like spending a night with my kin…' Mom starts to hiss from the back of her throat, like a cat. It's another way to weep, in case you didn't know. The early part of a strong weep.

'So what happened?'

'We drove out of town, sang songs nearly all the way to Lockhart. Then he asked me to check the tailgate on the truck. When I climbed out, he drove away and left me. That's when I saw the hog farm by the road.'

A bolt of anger takes me, about the fucken Guries, about the ways of this fucken town. The anger cuts through waves of sadness, cuts through pictures of young Jesus, the one who nailed himself to a fucken cross before anybody else could do it. That's why this town's angry. They didn't get a shot at him. But they don't have anger like I have anger brewing up. Anger cuts through a wide range of things. Cuts like a knife.

After a second, I feel the dampness of Mom's hand on mine. She squeezes it. 'You're all I have in the world. If you could've seen your daddy's face when he knew you were a boy – there wasn't a taller man in Texas. All the great things you were going to be when you grew up…' She narrows puffy eyes into the distance, through Mrs Porter's house, through the town, and the world, to where the cream pie lives. The future, or the past, or wherever it fucken lives. Then she shoots me this brave little smile, a genuine smile, too quick for her to pull any victimmy shit. As she does it, violins shimmer into the air across town, like in a movie. Even Kurt hangs silent as a guitar picks its way out of the orchestra, and a Texan voice from long ago herds our souls up into the night. Christopher Cross starts to sing 'Sailing'. Mom's favorite tune from before I was even born, before her days fell dark. Type of song you listen to when you think nobody likes you. She gives a broken sigh. I know right away the song will remind me of her forever.

Fate tunes. This one breaks my fucken heart. We sit listening as long as we can bear it, but I know the song has sunk a well into Mom's emotional glade, and I guess mine too. Dirty blood will gush high just now. The piano brings it on.

'Well,' she says. 'George said she can only decoy the sheriff until tomorrow. And that isn't even counting the thing about the drugs.'

'But at least I'm innocent.'

'Well Vernon, I mean, huh-hurr...' She gives one of those disbelieving laughs, a hooshy little laugh that means you're the only asshole in the world who believes what you just said. Notice how popular they are these days, those kinds of fucken laughs. Go up to any asshole and say anything, say, 'The sky is blue,' and they'll wheel out one of those fucken laughs, I swear. It's how folk spin the powerdime these days, that's what I'm learning. They don't shoot facts anymore, they just hoosh up their laughs, like: yeah, right.

'I mean – surely the damage is done,' she says. 'You did have that awful catalog, and now these illegal drugs…'

Awful catalog, get that. Her closet is probably full of that lingerie, but now it's an awful catalog. I skip the catalog and move on to the drugs. 'Heck, plenty of dudes are into that stuff – anyway it ain't even mine.'

'Well I know, that catalog was mine – what on earth got into you? Was it something the Navarro boy put you up to?'

'Hell no.'

'I don't like to speak badly, but…'

'I know, Ma, Meskins are more colorful.'

'Well I only mean they're more – flamboyant. And Vernon, they're Mexicans, not Meskins, have some respect.'

The conversation is nano-seconds away from including the word 'panties', something you should never hear in conversation with your mom. Knowing her, she'd probably say 'underpants' or something. 'Interior wear', or something way fucken bent. A new resignation settles over me, that I can't run out on my ole lady while she's like this. Not right away, not tonight. I need to reflect, alone.

'I think I'll take some fresh air,' I say, stretching off the bench.

Mom opens out her hands. 'Well what do you call this?'

'I mean at the park or something.'

'Well Vernon, it's nearly eleven o'clock.'

'Ma, I'm being indicted as an accessory to murder for chris-sakes…'

'Well don't cuss at your mother, after all I've been through!'

'I ain't cussing!'

There's a pause while she folds her arms, and hunches her shoulder to wipe an eye. Clicking night bugs make it seem like her skin is crackling. 'Honestly, Vernon Gregory, if your father was here…'

'What did I do? I'm only trying to go to the park.'

'Well I'm just saying grown up people make money and contribute a little, which means getting up in the morning – I mean, there must be a thousand kids in this town, but you don't see them all at the park in the middle of the night.'

Thus, quietly, and with love, she reels me out to the end of my tether, to that itchy hot point where you hear yourself committing to some kind of fucken outlandishness.

'Yeah?' I say. 'Yeah? Well I've got live and direct news for you!'

'Oh?'

'I wasn't even going to tell you yet, but if this is how you're gonna be – I already talked to Mr Lasseen about a job, so, hey.'

'Well, when do you start?' A smile's shadow passes over her lips. She knows I just cut lumber for a cross. The motivation behind her higher-than-Christ eyebrows gives me the fire to carry it on.

'Tomorrow, maybe.'

'Doing what?'

'Just helping out, you know.'

'Well I used to know Tyrie's wife, Hildegard.' She ups the ante, makes me think she'll bump into Tyrie's wife. But I hold my course, I say anything not to lose another knife game. My ole lady doesn't lose at knife games. She ain't lost this one yet. 'Well what about Dr Goosens? I'll die if I see the police around here again…'

'I can work mornings.'

'What will Tyrie Lasseen think, if you don't do a full day's work?'

'I already fixed it with him.'

'Well you can pay me a little lodging then, now that you're so grown up and all.'

'Oh, sure, you can have most of it – all of it if you want.'

She sighs like I'm already behind with my rent. 'The power company comes first, Vernon – how quickly will you get paid?'

'Uh – I can probably get an advance.'

'Without any working history?'

'Oh sure,' I say, squinting into the sky. 'So now can I go to the park?'

She blinks dreamily, her ole innocent eyebrows rise up to heaven. 'I never said you couldn't go to the park…'

Needless to say, there is no fucken job. I stand insulated from my world by the buzzing tequila-ozone of what I just did. Lies scatter around me like ants.

'Well I guess I'll have to make lunches for you now,' says Mom.

'Nah, I'll come home for lunch.'

'From Keeter's? But that's miles away.'

'Twenty minutes, it takes me.'

'Oh goodnight, it's almost twenty minutes by car...'

'Nah – I know all the shortcuts.'

'Well maybe I better call Hildegard Lasseen and see what they expect, I mean it's ridiculous.'

'Okay, I'll take lunch.'

'Y'all die and nobody told me?' Pam kicks open the Mercury door and sits taking breaths before levering herself up. Something as big as a goddam bullfrog jumps out through her legs, I swear. 'Vernie, come help ole Palmyra with these bags – I've been calling your damn number since Adam & Eve.' She drops some sacks onto the driveway, then struggles over to the willow, pulling back the branches like drapes. Mom sits sniffling underneath.

'Lalito's gone,' she sniffs.

'Took his time about it,' says Pam. 'C'mon now, this food's getting soggy.' She begins the long haul up to the porch. I gather the Bar-B-Chew Barn sacks, and linger beside her.

'Vernie, look!' she says, pointing into the sky. I look up. 'Tsh,' she slaps my belly. She even makes the little sound, 'Tsh,' like a cymbal. It's just a thing we do, me and Pam. 'C'mon, Doris, or I'll call Lolly and tell him about your herpes.'

'Shit, Palmyra, God.'

Thunderclaps of laughter ripple through Pam's flesh. My ole lady struggles to keep her misery, squirms and wrassles with herself on the bench. In the end, she gets mad and scuttles up to the porch. 'You're just too damn perky – it's important to hurt sometimes.'

'Want me to push ya down the stairs? Haugh, haugh, haugh.'

'Well for God's sake, Palmyra. Anyway, we don't want your damn food.'

'Haugh, haugh, haugh. You should've seen Vaine at the hayride, she put away more corn than a truckload of empty Meskins.'

'But Atkins diet is supposed to be protein…'

'Barry's out for the night.'

'Oh?'

'A few of the posse owe him a beer. He found a gun yesterday, at Keeter's.'

twelve

It ain't my idea to leave before dawn. My ole lady decided to visit Nana, that's why the house stinks of hairspray. You know why she's leaving early: so nobody sees her scurry through town on foot. All she wants is for them to see her arrived, all hunky-dory. Not scurrying. It's a learning I made since the car went.

'Well I just can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns around town, I mean, I'll have to try down by Nana's.' She gives off breathy noises, and flicks her fingertips through my hair. Then she takes a step back and frowns. It means goodbye. 'Promise me you won't miss your therapy.'

An electric purple sky spills stars behind the pumpjack, calling home the last moths for the night. It reminds me of the morning when ole Mrs Lechuga was out here, all devastated. I try not to think about it. Instead I look ahead to today. Going to Keeter's is a smart idea; if anybody sees me out there, they'll say, 'We saw Vernon out by Keeter's,' and nobody will know if they mean the auto shop, or the piece of land. See? Vernon Gray-matter Little. In return, I've asked Fate to help me solve the cash thing. It's become clear that cash is the only way to deal with problems in life. I even scraped up a few things to pawn in town, if it comes to that. I know it'll come to that, so I have them with me in my pack – my clarinet, my skateboard, and fourteen music discs. They're in the pack with my lunchbox, which contains my sandwich, the two joints, and a piece of paper with some internet addresses on it.

As for the joints and the piece of paper, I heard the voice of Jesus last night. He advised me to get wasted, fast. If at first you don't succeed, he said, get wasted off your fucken ass. My plan is to sit out at Keeter's and get some new ideas, ideas borne out of the bravery of wastedness.

I ride down empty roads of frosted silver, trees overhead swish cool hints of warm panties in bedclothes. Liberty Drive is naked, save for droppings of hay, and Bar-B-Chew Barn wrappers. In this light you can't see the stains on the sidewalk by the school. As the gym building passes by, all hulky and black, I look the other way, and think of other things.

Music's a crazy thing, when you think about it. Interesting how I decided which discs not to pawn. I could've kept some party music, but that would've just tried to boost me up, all this thin kind of 'Tss-tss-tss,' music. You get all boosted up, convinced you're going to win in life, then the song's over and you discover you fucken lost. That's why you end up playing those songs over and over, in case you didn't know. Cream pie, boy. I could've kept back some heavy metal too, but that's likely to drive me to fucken suicide. What I need is some Eminem, some angry poetry, but you can't buy that stuff in Martirio. Like it was an animal sex doll or something, you can't buy angry poetry. When you say gangsta around here, they still think of Bonnie & fucken Clyde. Nah, guess what: I ended up keeping my ole Country albums. Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Paycheck – even my daddy's ole Hank Williams compilation. I kept them because those boys have seen some shit – hell, all they sing about is the shit they've seen; you just know they woke up plenty of times on a wooden floor somewhere, with ninety flavors of trouble riding on their ass. The slide-guitar understands your trouble. Then all you need is the beer.

Silas Benn has an ole washing machine for a letterbox. You have to watch out for it, because it's behind some trees as you approach his place from this end of Calavera Drive. I mention it because someday you might want to swing into Silas's driveway at speed. Watch out for the fucken washing machine. It's just one of the weird things about ole Silas. I know it's early to visit, but he always leaves his living-room light on, for security I guess, and it gives you the chance to say, 'Heck, Silas, I saw your light on.' He's wise to that ole line, but he still plays along. I nudge my bike up his driveway, and walk around to his bedroom window, tapping on the pane in the usual way. Then I stand back and hold my breath. A chink opens in the drapes. I tread softly to the back door. After some scrapes and rattles, Silas opens up and peeks out through crusty eyes.

'Pork my henry, son, what kinda time d'ya call this?'

'Heck, Silas, I saw your light on…'

'Ya dint see my damn bedroom light on. Dog-gone it, hell to berries…' Silas didn't have time to strap on his leg. He just hangs on a kind of crutch. Silas had a leg amputated, see.

'Sie, I got some real big business to run past you.'

He rustles through his robe for his glasses. 'Lemme see, whatcha find for me today…'

'Well y'see, that's the thing – I don't have any hard stuff, like on paper and all, on account of they took my computer away.'

'So what the…?'

'See, I have this plan how you can get all the pictures you want, hundreds of 'em – today even, when Harris's opens.'

'Aw hell, son, shill my wincer – ya dragged me up fer nothing.'

'Look,' I say, unfolding the sheet of paper. 'See these internet addresses? That's where all those hard-core pictures are kept, for free – even the Amputee Spree stuff that you really like. With these instructions, you can go by Harris's store, take the booth with the computer, and print out all you want. No kidding. With this list, you'll never have to pay for pictures again.'

'Shit, I don't know – I never got with them com-puder machines.'

'Forget it, it's easy. Everything you have to do is written here.'

'We-ell,' he says, stroking his chin. 'How much ya want fer it?'

'A case.'

'Git outta here.'

'No kidding, Sie, this list can save you a truckload of beer over the summer. A goddam truckload, at least.'

'I'll pay a six-pack.'

'We-ell,' I hesitate. You have to hesitate with Silas. 'We-e-ll. I don't know, Sie, plenty of kids'll wanna kill me, after I bust the business like this.'

'Six-packa Coors, I'll go git it.' He swings away into the house like a one-legged monkey. You can't drink till you're twenty-one around here. I ain't twenty-one. Good ole Silas always keeps some brews in stock, to trade for special pictures. Us Martirio kids are like his personal internet. He's our personal bar.

By seven-thirty this Monday morning I'm sat in a dirt clearing behind some bushes at Keeter's, sucking beer and waiting for ideas about cash. From where I sit you can watch the sun piss orange around the rims of those ole abandoned toilet bowls. I have my beers, my joints, and Country music pumping deep into my brain. I'm ready to howl like a coon-dog. I use it all to try and plot my position in life. There's me here, and Mexico down there. Taylor Figueroa in between. All I have to figure out is the rest of it. 'Get to the Nub of Things,' as Mr Nuckles used to say, back when his goddam mouth worked. To be honest, the only new information that comes to me is a whole swarm of lies about my so-called job. Take note of what happens in a lie-world like this; by the time you're in this deep, and you've invented an imaginary job, with an imaginary start time, and imaginary pay, and put your loved-ones through the sandwich routine, and 'Oh my God should I call Hildegard Lasseen,' and all – it doesn't matter anymore whether you admit the lie, or just get fucken busted doing it. People go, 'But he was so credible.' They start to realize you introduced them to a whole parallel world, full of imaginary shit. It's a pisser, I know it, I don't blame them at all. But it's like suddenly you qualify for membership in the fucken Pathology Zone, even though those same people immediately turn around and go, 'Can't make it, Gloria – my folks just flew in from Denver.'

Nah, my slime's so thick, it ain't worth coming clean at all. Take good note; Fate actually makes it harder to admit slime, the farther in you get. What kind of system is that? If I was president of the Slime Committee, I'd make it easier to come clean about shit. If coming clean is what you're supposed to do, then it should be made more fucken accessible, I say. I guess the shiver that really comes over me is that I just handed everybody the final nail for my cross. All they needed, on top of everything, was a credible lie. You can just see my ole lady on TV when they break the news, don't tell me you can't. 'Well but I even stayed up to pack his sandwiches...'

I fumble a lighter from my pocket, and spark up a joint. I ain't going by Goosens's today. Fuck that. My ole lady's safe with Nana. I'm going to find a way out of here.

'Bernie?' It's Ella Bouchard. She stops behind a bush at the edge of my clearing, and moves her lips the opposite way to what I hear in my ears, which is crawfish pie and filet gumbo.

Just let me say, in case you think I'm secretly in love with Ella, that I've known her since I was eight. Every boy in town knew Ella since they were eight, and none of them are secretly in love with her. Her equipment ain't arrived. You guess it maybe ain't coming either, when you look at her. Like her equipment got delivered to Dolly Parton or something. Ella's just skinny, with some freckles, and this big ole head of tangly blond hair that's always blown to hell, like a Barbie doll your dog's been chewing on for a month. Nobody yet figured out how to deal with Ella Bouchard. She lives with her folks, along the road from Keeter's Spares & Repairs. Her folks are like hillbilly types that don't move their arms when they walk, and just stare straight ahead all the time. The kind that repeat everything eighty times when they talk, like, 'That's how it was, yessir, the way it was was just like that, just like that, the way it was.' Probably explains why Ella's kind of weird too. Cause and effect, boy.

'Hi, Bernie.' She enters the clearing slowly, as if I'll run away. 'Whatcha doin?'

'Just hanging out.'

'Whatcha doin really?'

'Just hanging out, I toldja – you shouldn't even be here.'

'You're getting fuckin loaded and fuckin wasted off your ass. Anyway, you fuckin promised.'

Such a foul mouth on a girl probably shocks you. Then you must think: foul-mouthed girl, at Keeter's, alone with Bernie. Okay, yes, a bunch of us boys got our first whiff of nakedness from Ella Bouchard. It cured us of any horniness we might've had; you couldn't name the flavors of ice-cream it looked like she strained through her pants some days. Like, she probably set us back years in our sexual development. She just wanted to cuss, spit, and fart with us, and I guess the only currency she had was her ropey ole body. I know you're not allowed to say it anymore, about certain girls and all, but off the record, Ella was born with it. She'd always be the one doing messy tumbles on the lawn, legs flying open all over the place. Her underwear would always shine your way. When aliens land in town, Ella will be out front with her fucken dress up, I guarantee it.

She takes another step into my space, and looks down at me. 'Fuck, Bernie, you're just like an alcoholic.'

'My name's not Bernie, and I'm not just like an alcoholic.'

'What's your name then? It's something like Bernie, I know that…'

'No, my name's nothing like Bernie, not in the minimum.'

'I'll go ask Tyrie what the name of the guy is who's over here smoking weed and drinking beer.' She gets that fabulous edge that girls get to their voices, the edge that spells oncoming Tantrum From the Bowels of Hell, that says, 'I'll scratch the heavens down around you and suck the fucken air from your lungs and spit you to fucken hell and you know it.'

'Name's John, okay?'

'No it ain't, not John, it ain't John, it ain't John at all, not John...' You can tell right away she spends too much damn time around her folks.

'Ella, I don't want to make a big deal out of anything today, okay? I'm just trying to chill on my own, and just figure some shit out – okay?'

'Not called John you ain't, not with a name like John, uh-uh, you ain't John, no way…'

'Well – whatever, okay?'

'I knew it was Bernie. Can I have a beer?'

'No.'

'How come?'

'Because you're only eight.'

'I ain't too so eight, I'm nearly fuckin fifteen.'

'Still too young to drink alcoholic beverages.'

'Well fuck, you're too fuckin young to drink – and smoke weed, fuck.'

'No I ain't.'

'Yes you are! How old are you?'

'Twenty-two.'

'You are not, you are fuckin not twenty-two.' All this goes to illustrate the First Rule of dealing with edgy people. Don't, under any circumstances, get talking to them.

After a minute of clicking her teeth, and of me ignoring her, Ella starts to mess with the hem of her dress. She makes these noises, like a stroked snake or something, and goes, 'Fuck, it's hot out here.' Then she raises the hem up her legs, to where they start thickening and softening into thigh. You can tell she swiped this behavior right off some TV-movie. I hope it's not wrong to say it, but it's like watching a Japanese person barn-dancing, the credibility of it, I fucken swear.

'Ella, c'mon will ya?!'

No, here comes the dress on its way up her legs. I just grab my pack and start to stash everything back inside. So she turns to me, real polite. 'I'll go to the shop and scream. I'll tell Tyrie what you did to me, after all that weed and beer, Bernie.'

A learning grows in me like a tumor. It's about the way different needy people find the quickest route to get some attention in their miserable fucken lives. The fucken oozing nakedness, the despair of being such a vulnerable egg-sac of a critter, like, a so-called human being, just sickens me sometimes, especially right now. The Human Condition, Mom calls it. Watch out for that fucker.

I drop my pack and make a deal with Ella. It lasts until the ninth sip of the beer that we share. I know it's the ninth because she counts them. 'Every sip together makes our feelings grow,' she says.

And strangely, for a nano-second before the ninth sip, I do kind of start to begin commencing to like Ella, don't ask me why. I get a few waves about how fucked-up she must be, and how she just wants someone to pay attention to her. I'm loaded, I admit it. But for a flash I even kind of take to her, with her ole straw hair blowing across her face, and the smell of warm bushes around. My hand even brushes against her leg, making silk hairlets stand up. She wriggles until a wedge of underwear shows up on the dirt. But at the same moment the breeze grates this smell off her legs, like salami or something, and I pull right back. I try not to wrinkle my face up, but I guess I kind of do, and she sees it. She tucks herself back into a knot.

'Bernie, how come you don't fool around? You a pillow-biter or what?'

'Hell no. I just think you're too young, that's all.'

'Guys a whole lot older than you want to fool around with me.'

'Yeah, right. Like who?'

'Like Danny Naylor.'

'Yeah, right, I don't fucken think so.'

'Yeah he does, him and a whole shit-loada other guys.'

'C'mon, Ella…'

'Mr Deutschman'd even pay for it, I know that, I know that too well, too damn well.'

'Fuck, Ell, Mr Deutschman's around eight hundred years ole.'

'It don't matter, he's older'n you, and he'd still pay for it.'

'Yeah, right. Anyway, how do you know? You been over there and asked him?'

'I went by there once and he gave me a Coke, and touched me a little, on my ass…'

Don't even think it. A man has his honor, you know.

At the end of the day, I take all the gullies and back roads home, and keep my eyes lively to any roving cops or shrinks. I'm glad Mom's at Nana's – she'll have company, and food in her belly, if only macaroni cheese. I missed my date with Goosens, and have to leave town, see. I just couldn't abandon Mom if she was home sniffling, no way. That's how I'm programmed. By the time I get home, I'm ready to call Nana's and tell Mom the job didn't work out – really come clean, as a final gesture. Then, when I step inside my house, I hear an unmistakable set of squeaks and sighs. The wind falls out of my sails and stays at the door, like your dorky buddy on his first visit to your place. My ole lady's here. Bawling. I stand quiet, as if she'll ignore me. She doesn't though, and this is where her routine gets quite transparent, actually, because she clears her throat, loudly, then uses that energy to launch into a bigger, better bawl. It breaks my fucken heart. Mostly because she has to resort to these transparent kind of moves to get attention.

'What's up, Ma?'

'Shnff, squss…'

'Ma, what's up?'

She takes hold of my hands, and looks up into my eyes like a calendar kitten after a fucken tractor accident, all crinkly, with spit between her lips. 'Oh, Vernon , baby, oh God...'

A familiar drenching feeling comes over me, like when the potential exists for serious tragedy. One thing I take into account, though, is that my ole lady always wants my blood to run cold; she bawls more convincingly the longer I know her, because my blood-freezing threshold goes up. This far down the road, she even fucken hyperventilates. My blood is icy.

'Oh, Vernon, we're really going to have to pull together now.'

'Momma, calm down – is it about the gun?'

Her eyes brighten for a moment. 'Well no, actually they found nine guns on Saturday – Bar-B-Chew Barn disqualified the prize winners for planting guns along the route, there's all kinds of hell to pay in town today.'

'So what's the problem?'

She sets up bawling again. 'I went to cash the investment this morning, and the company was gone.'

'Lally's investment?'

'I've been calling Leona's all day, but he's not there…'

This so-called investment was with one of those companies with names chained together, like 'Rechtum, Gollblatter, Pubiss & Crotsch'. If you want to know who the real psychos are, take any guy who names a business to sound like a lawyer's company, and is still surprised when folk won't turn their back to him.

'Power's being disconnected tomorrow,' says Mom. 'Did you get the advance? I've been counting on your advance, I mean, the power's only fifty-nine dollars for goodness sake, but then when the deputies came…'

'Ma, slow up – deputies came?'

'Uh-huh, around four-thirty. They were okay, I don't think Lally said anything yet.'

'So what'd you tell them?'

'I said you were with Dr Goosens. They said they'd check you at the clinic tomorrow.'

The Lechugas' teddy farm seems ole and squashed when I wake up next morning. Another Tuesday morning, two weeks after That Day. The shade under their willow is empty. Kurt is quiet, Mrs Porter's door is closed. Beulah Drive is clean of strangers for the first time since the tragedy. June is barely underway, but it's as if summer's liquor has evaporated, leaving this dry residue of horror. At ten-thirty the phone rings.

' Vernon, that'll be the power company – when can I tell them you'll have your advance from work?'

'Uh – I don't know.'

'Well, do you want me to call the Lasseens and see what the hold-up is? I thought they promised it to you on your first day…'

'I'll have it tonight, tell them.'

'Are you sure? Don't say it if you're not positive, I can call Tyrie…'

'I'm sure.' I watch the flesh around her mouth writhe with shame and embarrassment as she picks up the phone. My head runs a loop of Ella's words at Keeter's. 'Mr Deutschman'd even pay for it.' Proof that my mind hooked onto the idea, is that I pretended not to be interested. I just changed the subject. That's how you know the demon seed was planted.

'Well hi Grace,' says Mom. 'He says he'll have it tonight, definitely. No, he's starting late today – he's studying marketing dynamics for work. Oh fine, just fine – Tyrie's real happy with his progress – says he might even get promoted! Uh-huh. Uh-huh? No, no, I've spoken to Tyrie personally, and he's definitely getting paid – Hildegard's an old friend, so it's not a challenge. Oh really? I didn't know you knew her. Oh, well – tell her hi.' Mom's eyes sink back into her sockets, she turns dirty red. 'What? Well if you could just hold them back until after lunch, I'd really appreciate it. The truck left already? Uh-huh. But if I give them cash when they get here, can't you stop them from…?'

Blood splurches like paste from both ends of my body, caking hard in grotesque spike formations that only happen to liars and murderers, and that my ole lady can see from the phone. Thoughts dance through my head that shouldn't be there. Simonize the Studebaker, for instance. Mom puts down the phone. Her eyes cut me loose in a raft.

'The disconnection truck already set off for the day,' she says. Razorfish slash the fucken raft. Mom's eyebrows lean up on one elbow to watch. 'I better call Tyrie.' She fumbles through the phone-table drawer for her address book. I stay on my stomach in front of the TV. Save me falling back down here when I'm fucken dead.

In between snatches of my video research, the news plays on TV. 'Overshadows events in Central Texas,' says a reporter, 'with official sources confirming this morning's tragedy in California as the worst of its kind so far this year. Condolences and aid continue to pour into the devastated community…'

' Vernon, do you have the Spares & Repairs number?'

'Uh – not right here.'

I don't look up. I hear you can get big money selling your kidneys, but my brain's stressed from wondering where to sell them. Maybe the meatworks. Who fucken knows. My only other plan, plan B, is the desperate plan. I browse through my daddy's ole videos for tips. For cream pie, actually, truth be told. Close the Deal is here, one of his favorites. One thing about my dad, he had every kind of plan to get rich.

'Here it is – Hildy Lasseen,' says Mom. She shuffles back to the phone, and picks up the receiver. An important-sounding fanfare accompanies her, as the TV jumps from global to local news.

'Mrs Lasseen doesn't work at the yard,' I say. 'That's just their home number.'

'No, the Spares & Repairs number is here too.' She starts to dial. All you hear is the TV in back.

'Don't write Martirio off yet,' says a reporter, 'that's the message from the team behind a new multimedia venture inspired by the struggle of our brave citizens – a venture its founder claims will spread the gospel of human triumph over adversity to every corner of the globe.'

'Martirio is already synonymous with sharing,' says Lally. Mom squeaks. She throws down the phone. 'Many a crucial lesson about loss, about faith, and justice, can still be shared, be made a gift of – a gift of hope and compassion to a needy world.'

'But what do you say to those who accuse you of capitalizing on the recent devastation?' asks the reporter.

Lally's eyebrows sink to their most credible level. 'Every tragedy brings lessons. Hardship is only repeated when those lessons aren't learned. What we propose is to share our challenge, share the benefits of our struggle, in the hope that others can avoid those hard lessons for themselves. If we can save just one life, wherever it may be – we'll have been successful. Also remember that, being an interactive project, individuals across the planet will be able to monitor, influence, and support Martirio in its efforts, twenty-four hours a day, via the internet. I don't think anybody would call that a bad thing.'

'Fair enough, but with the tragedy now behind us – do you really think there's still a market for a lifestyle show from what is, after all, only the barbecue sauce capital of Central Texas?'

Lally throws out his arms. 'Who says the lesson's behind us? The lesson is still to come, we have perpetrators to be brought to justice, causes to be found…'

'But surely the case is open and shut?'

'Things may appear so from a media standpoint,' says Lally. 'But if we share the expertise of my partner in the venture, Deputy Vaine Gurie, we'll discover things aren't always as they appear…'

Mom whimpers. 'Lalito…?' She stretches her fingertips out to the screen.

'So,' says the reporter, 'you won't be relocating to California for the experiment, in light of today's tragic events?'

'Certainly not, our investment is here. We believe the good citizens of Martirio will shine in their challenge, with the generous backing of the Bar-B-Chew Barn corporation of course, and in conjunction with the Martirio Chamber of Commerce.'

Leona's hamster-petting eyes leap to the screen. 'Wow, how do I feel? It's just such a challenge, I never presented a show before…'

Mom's hand snaps back to her body. We both turn to the kitchen window. Under the rattle of the pumpjack, you hear the Eldorado on its way up the street. 'Vernon, I'm not home if those fucking girls come up here – tell them I'm at Nana's, or no, better – tell them I'm at Penney's with my gold Amex…'

'But, Ma, you don't even have…'

'Just do it!'

She scurries up the hall like a blood clot, as Those Girls bounce into the driveway. The bedroom door slams. It's too fucken much for me. I just continue to flick through Dad's videos. Cash Makes Cash, and Did You Ever See a Poor Billionaire? I have to learn how to turn slime into legitimate business, the way it's my right to do in this free world. My obligation, almost, when you think about it. What I definitely learned just now is that everything hinges on the words you use. Doesn't matter what you do in life, you just have to wrap the thing in the right kind of words. Anyway, pimps are already an accepted thing these days, check any TV-movie. Lovable even, some of them, with their leopard-skin Cadillacs, and their purple Stetsons. Their bitches and all. I can go a long way with what I already learned this morning from my daddy's library. Products and Services, Branding, Motivation. I already know I'll be offering a Service. I just have to Position and Package the thing.

' Doris?' George lets herself through the kitchen screen. Betty follows. 'Do-ris?'

'Uh – she ain't here,' I say.

Leona wafts through the door behind them. 'I bet she's in her room,' she says, shimmying right up the fucken hall. Suddenly I feel like one of those TV-movie secretaries when some asshole barges into the chairman's office, 'Sir, you can't go in there…' But no, fucken guaranteed, Leona barges into Mom's room.

'Hey, there you are,' she croons, like they just met at the Mini-Mart. 'Did y'all hear – I got my own show!'

'Wow,' sniffs Mom.

'You ain't got it yet, honey,' hollers George from her armchair. 'Not until Vaine raises the capital to partner up.'

'Oh goodnight Georgie, she'll get it – she just got her own SWAT team, for God's sake.'

'Uh-huh, and then appointed lard-bucket Barry to it, who's only a damn jail guard. I just hope by "SWAT" they mean "SWAT flies".'

'Heck, you're just miffed because the Barn went over the sheriff's head.'

'Sure, pumpkin, like I'm sooo devastated,' says George. 'I'm just sayin, a SWAT team don't qualify Vaine for goddam internet broadcasting, and it certainly don't give her the cash.' She pauses to suck half a cigarette into her chest. 'And anyway – our lil' ole tragedy just got shot off its damn perch.'

Leona stomps back out of Mom's room, and throws her hands on her hips. 'Don't you throw cold water on my big day, Georgette-Ann! Lalo says they won't have time to set up the infrastructure in California, not if we move fast.'

'We-ell.' George launches a finger of smoke at the ceiling. 'We-e-ell. I'll just try not to blink, in case I miss ole Vaine movin so fast.'

'Look, it's gonna happen – okay?!'

'Take one helluva new twist, is all I'm sayin.'

'George – Lalo just happens to be aware of that fact, wow!' The thrust of the last word flicks Leona forward at the waist. She stays there awhile, to make sure it sticks. Then she chirps back into Mom's room. 'Hey, did I tell you we're setting up Lalo's office in my den?'

Mom scurries into the hall. 'Well I guess we've got time for one coffee, before I go to Penney's. Vern, isn't it time for work?'

'Hey,' says Leona, 'I can drop him.'

'Loni, stop it,' says George.

'But – he'll get there faster…'

'Le-ona! It's just not fair.' George excavates a tunnel to Mom through her cigarette smoke. 'Honey, I hate to tell you, but Bertram's sending someone to get the boy. The shrink turned him in.'

'Well, but – Vern's making money now, why, he's getting five hundred dollars, just today…'

Leona shakes her head. 'You shouldn't've told her, George.'

'Oh sure, so you could take him via Lally, and film the arrest. Doris is our goddam friend, Leona.'

Mom's face peels off her head and hangs in tatters from her chin. 'Well, but…'

I just get up off the floor. 'Either way, I should go brush my hair.'

'Well, there, see? He's a changed young man, with a high-powered job and all.'

I leave the ladies and slide up the hall, via Mom's room, to reload my backpack. I pack my address book, my jacket, and some small clothes. My player, and some discs. I remove the clarinet and skateboard. I don't think I'll be going past town anymore. I grab the pack and head out through the laundry door, without a word to the Forces of Evil. You can still hear my ole lady from the porch, struggling to pump cream into her pie.

'Well I have to get to San Tone for the new fridge, and I'm getting a quote on one of those central-vac systems too, that plug right into anywhere in the house – I guess it's time to think about myself for a change, now that Vern has a career.'

From the bottom of the porch stairs I see a power company truck idling past the pumpjack, studying house numbers along the road. It jackrabbits to me, and starts to pull over. I just creak away on my bike.

thirteen

Nobody will look twice at us, I'm pretty sure of that. A boy and a girl on a bike. A boy in regular jeans, and a tangled blonde in a bluebonnet-blue dress. No smells on us, just like TV. I have my pack with me, so it could even look like we're selling things. Selling things is a good excuse around here.

'Guess what?' yells Ella into my eardrum.

I stop by the side of the Johnson road to instruct her how to be a bicycle passenger without killing the driver. She lifts her dress to show me her clean white underwear. I only half pay attention, because it seems a troubled afternoon to me; gusts come threaded with thunder, and the horizon behind Keeter's is lit by a single strake of gold. Ella doesn't notice omens, you can tell she's just getting a kick out of today. Probably because she's in a business adventure with me. Fucken Ella, I swear to God. We're going to split the booty, although she says she ain't in it for the money. That's how fucken weird she is.

I get some waves about it. For all I know, Deutschman could be trying to quit schoolgirls, he could be on the schoolgirl wagon, taking one day at a time and all. And now – heeere's Ella. I make an effort to think more like my dad's videos. I mean, the client has an Unfulfilled Need, so – here's a Timely and Caring Service. What's more, part of our Extensive After-Sales Service is that nobody will ever know. It's a Market Gap, for chrissakes. But my conscience still calls me from Brooklyn. 'Nah, Boinie,' it says. 'Yez openin up a whole can a woims for da guy.' Then I think of Mom at home. Probably with the power off, probably getting laughed at, on account of her poverty, and her lack of fucken pizzazz. Localized smirking from douche-bag Leona. I'm committed.

The bike whirrs between flaky shacks and trailer-homes, down streets without edges, until the light almost disappears from the sky. We come to a cheap wooden house, of the kind you can build in a weekend, painted clean, though, with a neat little lawn, and tidy edges of bricks and gravel. Ole Mr Deutschman's place. We crunch past a clay figure of a sleeping Mexican, and carefully lay the bike in the gravel beside the house. Mr Deutschman ain't expecting us. This is known as Cold Calling, in the trade. I take hold of Ella's shoulders to give her a final briefing.

'Ella, it's just look and touch, okay? Nothing heavy – okay? Call me if he goes too far.'

'Chill out, Bernie – I'm the one with the poles, remember?'

God she's fucken scary sometimes. The plan is for her to be shy and sweet, and leave the initiative to him. Like: yeah, right. I told her not to even open her mouth if she could help it, but that's asking a whole shitload from Ella, you know it.

She crunches around to Mr Deutschman's door while I crouch in the gravel, out of sight. I pretend to rummage in my backpack. A couple of fat raindrops smack me like birdshit. Typical fucken Crockett's. Then I hear the door open. Deutschman's voice warbles out.

'Who's this here?' he says, all kindly and ole. He has the voice quality of genuine oleness, like he swallowed a vibrator or something.

After I hear them go inside, I unload my pack and crunch around to the door, scanning the street for neighbors. There's nothing to see, except an ole parked Jeep, and not much to hear except wire twanging in a gust. I try Deutschman's front door – it opens. I hold my breath until Ella's voice chimes out from deep in the house.

'Mama buys them because cotton's supposed to be – wow, your hands are cold...'

Game on. I close the door behind me, and creep into the living room. A new smell imprints on my brain; the smell of ole pickled dreams, like organs in a jar. Other people's house-smells hit you harder when you're not supposed to be there. I move down this narrow hallway toward Ella's voice, past the bathroom, where other industrial smells hang. Then a car turns onto the road outside. I dampen the sound of my heart with my hand until it hisses away up the street; the car that is, not my fucken heart. I shuffle forward again.

Deutschman and Ella are in the room at the end of the hallway. The door stands ajar. I flatten myself against the wall, and crane for a peek through the gap. Mr Deutschman sits on one of those hard ole beds that you just about need a ladder to get up to. The bedclothes are symmetrically draped under his symmetrical ass, which makes a neat little crinkle on top. Next to the bed is a polished wooden table, where a lamp stands on a knitted doily. A wallet, a Bible, and a black-and-white picture in a heavy brass frame sit alongside. A friendly lady shines out of the picture, with clear, trusting eyes, and curly, woolen hair that blows alongside blossoms in a breeze. You can tell that breeze blew a long time ago. On the other side of the room is one small window that overlooks junk in the back yard, including a rusty kind of love-seat.

Ella stands at the end of the bed with her dress held under her chin. 'Ha! That tickles – wait up, you wanna see my south pole – or my north pole?'

She pulls her panties down to her knees; doesn't inch them down, sexily or anything, but fucken yanks them, smiling like you just found her in the Mini-Mart. See what I mean about Ella?

'My, what's this here?' Deutschman's fingertips tremble onto her bare ass, his breathing gets jerky.

I take a deep breath too. Then I jump in with Mom's Polaroid. Snap!

'The psycho!' says Deutschman. His lips seem to quiver in midair, then his head slumps onto his chest, with shame I guess.

'Mr Deutschman, it's okay,' I say. 'Mr Deutschman? We're not here to make any trouble, the young lady is here by choice, and I'm just here with her. You understand?'

He raises dull eyes at me, and swallows some silent words. Then he looks back at Ella. She cocks her head like a game-show hostess, and fixes him with a grin. God she's bent, I swear.

'Mr Deutschman,' I say, 'I'm real sorry to barge in like this, I mean no disrespect. But, y'see, you and I have special needs, we can help each other out.' Deutschman hangs his mouth open, listens like a Texan. 'See the young lady here? I bet you'd like to spend some time with her. Your needs'll probably get well satisfied.' I copy the salesmen in Dad's videos, who always spread their hands out and chuckle, like you must be the dumbest fuck in the world if you don't see how easy things are. 'A little cash is all we need, in return for everything. Your joining fee today could be three hundred dollars, for instance – one flat, easy payment – and I'll leave the two of you to hang out some more. I won't even come back at all. And Mr Deutschman, you can have this picture, and we'll never come by again, or say a word. That's our solemn promise to you, ain't it, Miss?'

Ella puts her hands on her hips, grinning like a Mouseketeer, with her drawers around her knees. Deutschman stares at the floor awhile, then reaches for the wallet on his bedside table. He empties it of banknotes, and hands them to me without a word. A hundred and sixty dollars. My heart sinks.

'Sir, is this all you have? Just this money here?' I look down at him, all ole and shaken, and my heart sinks some more. I open out the wad of cash and peel a twenty off the top. 'Here, sir, we don't want to clean you out or anything.'

Some fucken criminal I make. He takes the note without even looking up. What suddenly stings me, though, is this: Ella's getting all the attention she craves, and getting paid for it. Deutschman's using up some stale ole cash, and getting the kicks he probably dreamed about his whole adult life. My ole lady's getting peace of mind about my so-called job, and a new little income. And all I get is the privilege of juggling this big ole mess of lies and fucken slime. The thing has me so bummed I just want to get the fuck out.

'I'll leave you two alone now,' I say, turning to the door.

When I reach the door though, I hear Deutschman groan behind me. I spin around to see him sliding onto his feet. Ella's panties fly back up her legs.

'Don't stop,' says Lally from the window. He turns from the camera to call over his shoulder, 'Leona – come see what we got for the show!'

I grab Ella, her dress half-scrunched into her panties, and pull her out to the hallway, fumbling and dropping Mom's camera along the way. Deutschman clatters into the bathroom ahead of us, eyes and mouth jammed open. I flick the photograph to him through the door.

'Destroy it, sir, and whatever you do – don't talk to that guy.'

Floorboards bounce as we charge to the front door and out over the steps. We're met by raindrops flying sideways through the porchlight, weaving at us like angry sperm. I yank Ella around the corner in a spray of gravel, to where my stuff is tucked in the shadows. And there stands Lally with his camera.

'Whoa, kids – wait up.'

I take Ella's shoulders and shove her away. She spins toward the road, one arm flailing, the other still adjusting the ass of her panties through her dress. Lally swaggers over to my pack, planting himself between me and the bike. He gives his balls a luxurious grope.

'My but you're such a career man these days.'

A thousand cusses jump to mind, but none of them come out. Instead I fix his leer in my mind, lower my head, and launch myself into his guts. 'Dhoof!' he flies back onto the bike, the camera spins through the air, then glances off his head with a crack.

'Sack of shit!' He unpeels his spine from the bike's frame and takes a swipe at my ankle. 'Wanna play in the real world, cock-sucker?' he snarls.

I snatch up the camera and rip out the cartridge. Then I take aim at him with my leg, and kick for all my life's worth. I connect hard, and he crashes back across the bike, dazed and bloody, in a shower of gravel.

'Wow, Lalito,' calls Leona, still out of sight behind the house. 'Your star just saw a spider back here – is this how the job's supposed to be?'

I haul up my backpack and sprint onto the road. Ella breaks cover from behind the parked Jeep across the street, lunging for my free hand. I pull her head-first into the dusk and we steam down the road, hand-in-hand, chased by fast-moving clouds.

'Lalo,' says Leona behind us. 'Be honest, now – as a name, do you prefer Vanessa or Rebecca?'

Our heartbeats trail us along rows of warped shacks, past makeshift porches dangling yellow light, into creekbeds, over bluffs; we suck air like jet-engines until we're spent. Lally will be back on the road by now, searching. Pissed as hell. And the law won't be far behind him. Feel the powerdime glow hot.

'Fuck,' puffs Ella when we finally stop.

I kneel next to her in the bushes behind her house. From here you can see down an overgrown alley that runs between her back fence and the shack next door. At the end of the alley, you can just make out the Johnson road. Keeter's, and the escarpment beyond, roll deep and black behind it. As my breath settles, I hear the first crickets, and the pulse of rustling grasses in the wind. Moist air from Ella's mouth strokes my face. I turn to look back through the bushes, where the outermost lights of Crockett's twinkle. In amongst the quiet you hear a soft bustle from town, then a car approaching. A learning comes over me gently, warm like a stroke. It is that I have seven fucken seconds to plan the rest of my life.

'Ell, I have to trust you with something important.'

'You can trust me, Bernie.'

'We got a hundred and forty dollars. That's seventy apiece.' I pull the cash from my pocket, and rifle through it for a ten-dollar bill. I stuff the ten into my pocket, passing the rest to Ella. 'Can you take sixty of this to Seventeen Beulah Drive? Can you do that for me? You'll have to tie up your hair, change your clothes, and sneak down there like a shadow. Can you do that?'

'Sure I can.' She nods like a little kid, you know how they nod too much. Then she stares at me through shining eyes. 'What're you gonna do?'

'I have to disappear awhile.'

'I'll come with you.'

'The hell you will. They'd catch us in a second.'

She presses her lips shut, and stares some more. I swear she's like your cat or something, how she just stares. A truck growls along the Johnson road. I tense until it passes. Ella just keeps staring. Then a door bangs in the middle distance, and a lady's voice screeches out.

'E-lla!'

Ella's face drops. I guess this was a real adventure we had just now; you can tell it broke the ice with Ella Bouchard. I squeeze her hand, for recent ole times' sake, and pick up my pack. 'If you see my ole lady, tell her I'm sorry, and I'll be in touch. Or, no, better – don't tell her anything, just slide the cash under the door. Okay?' I stretch out of the grass, but Ella's hand intercepts me at the leg. I look down at her face. It suddenly seems configured to make brave decisions in life, like willpower soaks through her pores or something. She leans up to my mouth and plants a clumsy kiss.

'I love you,' she whispers. 'Stay clear of Keeter's track, they's settin up that SWAT thing tonight.' She reaches for my hand and stuffs all her cash into it, all but my mom's sixty dollars. Then she springs to her feet and swishes away down the alley like a cotton ghost.

'Eee-lla!'

'Comin!'

I still feel her spit on my lips. I wipe it on my arm. As I melt into the dark on the escarpment side of the road, I see a figure bobbing through the light at Keeter's corner. It's Barry Gurie's unmistakable fat head. He ain't rushing. The hiss of a car approaches from the other direction. Lally's car. I run before its lights sweep the road.