Where the dead lay

EIGHT

Holster up if you’re whacking it, bro,” Kenny said, entering his brother Charlie’s room. Charlie rolled over, the bedsheet at his waist. He’d been sleeping.

The Schlegels are hotties, Kathy thought. Not their faces, which are pocky, but their bodies. Then she saw his right wrist and forearm. It was all swollen and purple. Charlie moved a plastic bag of water, ice that had mostly melted, off the edge of the bed, where it left a wet spot.

“Why so fucking early?” Charlie said. He had a voice that was already getting roughed up by cigarettes.

Hot, thought Kathy, catching a glimpse of his package as he got out of bed and slipped on a pair of camo shorts, even though he is like at least twenty-two.

“Mom’s runnin’ her already,” Kenny said of Kathy, while polishing off his breakfast sandwich.

“What happened to your arm?” Kathy wondered. They both looked at her, as if surprised she knew how to speak.

“Fucking hood of my truck fell down on it.”

“Ouch,” she said.

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “So, give me your license, I’ll scan it in and change it,” he said, pointing at his computer.

Kathy didn’t move. “I don’t have one,” she said.

Charlie looked to her, then to Kenny. “She’s only fifteen,” Kenny said.

“Okay,” Charlie smiled, “nice.” He crossed the room and pulled a large piece of tag board out from behind a dresser. “We’ll go old school.” On the board was a blown-up version of a state of Illinois driver’s license. The name on it was Mr. Pat Mc-Corkle, with an address in some town called Orland Park. The space for the photo on the right, which was roughly the size of a head, remained blank. Kenny went to the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out an elaborate Polaroid-type camera attached to a folded-up tripod. Outside, the dogs were starting to bark.

“Photo comes out the size of the license and we have a laminating machine,” Kenny said, as he telescoped out the tripod legs.

“This is such coolness,” she said.

Charlie found a stenciled letter “S” among the rubble of newspaper, pens, pencils, and coffee cups on his desk. He affixed the “S” over the “R” in “Mr.” Charlie hung the board up on a hook that was already in the wall. She’d soon be Ms. Pat McCorkle, twenty-one and a half years old from Orland Park, Illinois, she realized.

“Okay, stand over here,” Charlie directed. Kathy crossed over and placed the back of her head against the empty photo space on the oversized license. Kenny finished with the camera preparations and zeroed it on her. He brought his face away from the eyepiece.

“All set,” Kenny said.

“Should I put on makeup?” she wondered.

“Where’s the fifty?” Charlie asked. Truth was, the Schlegels were into a lot better shit than selling fake IDs, but with Kenny still in high school, the IDs remained a steady source of fifty-dollar bills and fresh pussy.

The girl turned to Kenny. “But I thought…?” she said.

“That it’d be fifty? You’re right,” Kenny said. The girl stood there for a minute in a snit.

“Look, it’s either that or a morning blowdjie,” Charlie said, pointing to his groin. The girl looked to Kenny, who shrugged.

“Kenny, Charlie…,” their mother’s voice filtered in from across the house, “feed those dogs… And your father says it’s almost time for the morning shake.”

“Either way, hurry it up,” Kenny said.

She clenched her teeth and reached into her jeans for the money.