She tried to stay up when they finished screwing around and realized the boys hadn’t come home, made it till a little after midnight, but couldn’t hang in there. Even after she conked out she was restless as hell. Well, she’ll sleep OK now.

He flushes and puts on his jeans and goes to the front door and out onto the porch. Whatever the sound was, it wasn’t the boys. But he knew that already. He knows exactly what they sound like sneaking in and out of the house. He walks to the foot of the driveway and stands there and looks up and down the street.

Goddamn kids.

Got no problem with them running around and getting in a little trouble. Learn more about life that way than by sitting around inside watching TV like so many other kids. Get in a few fights, that’s how you learn to stick up for yourself. Get the crap beat out of you, that’s how you learn what sticking up for yourself can cost you. Do a little drinking and smoking, that’s how you learn how much you can handle. Take a ride in the back of a police car, that’s how you learn the consequences of trying to get away with too much.

And that’s probably how they’ll be coming home. If he’s lucky the cops will drive them right up to the door. If he’s not lucky he’ll be getting a call from the jail on North L telling him to come get his boys that got picked up at some house party where the parents are out of town and their kids got their hands on a keg and a few bottles of Cuervo or something.

The more things change.

If it was just him, he’d wait for the call and let them stay the whole night in jail, pick them up tomorrow afternoon after the yard is rototilled, bring them home and put them to work on the rock pile right away. That’s how his pop would have handled it. Hell, that’s how he did handle it.

He scratches his stomach, his index finger running along the ridge of scar at the bottom of his rib cage. Truth be told, his pop handled it a hell of a lot harder.

Paul, he knows about that kind of thing. Seen those cigarette burns on his stomach. Only one place you get marks like those.

He takes a few steps into the street, looks down the block at the dark front of the Cheney house. Man, sometimes, see that little prick out there watering his lawn, like to stroll over and give him a good one. See how he likes it. Don’t even say anything, just walk up to him and put him on his ass.

A kid gets knocked around a little by his dad? Well, shit like that happens, nobody ever said life was fair. But cigarette burns? No way to explain that. Just that Kyle Cheney is a little prick. Probably ran his wife off by being a little prick. Now he probably blames his kid for her smashing up her car and dying, takes it out on him.

Prick.

Just one good punch right on the button. Might straighten him out.

No. Can’t do that kind of thing. That pecker brings assault charges, a whole can of worms gets reopened. Rules broken, rules he made for himself. Promises he made his wife. That’s not the way to handle it. That’s not the way he handles things. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

Ain’t none of his business, anyway. How a man raises his kids, that’s just nobody else’s business. And Paul’s gonna come out of it OK. Tough little fucker. They’re gonna love him in the Army. And he spends half his time down here anyway. No need to make a big scene out of helping the kid, just give him a place to go every now and then, that’s help enough.

He walks over to the 4×4 and boosts himself up on the fender. He leans forward and a roll of his stomach pushes over the waist of his jeans. He looks at it. Still don’t know where the hell that came from. Woke up one morning and there it was. Crap. Nobody stays young. But crap.

He freezes.

That the phone ringing inside? Nope.

If it was just him, he’d be asleep right now. But Cindy would worry. Got to put on a show for her. Make her think they’re home safe and sound. Damn them. Worrying their mother, messing with his wife’s sleep. And then she’ll be bitchy in the morning and he’ll be grouchy and they’ll end up bickering tomorrow. Damn them. George should be old enough by now to get himself out of trouble. And Andy is smart enough he shouldn’t be in it in the first place. Or he should be smart enough. Some days the kid seems like he’s not so much smart as he’s just from Mars. At least he hasn’t gotten as weird as Hector. Yet.

He slides off the fender and walks back up to the porch.

Not doing any good standing here. Go back inside. If Cindy wakes up tell her the boys are in bed. Doesn’t do anyone any good standing here getting worked up and worn out. The boys are fine. Probably in the police station right now. Getting the shit scared out of them. Do all four of them a load of good.

He sits on the edge of the porch.

Anyway, it’s warm and it’s quiet. Might as well wait a little longer.

– Where’s the other one?

– Other one?

– There’s four of them, right?

– Yeah.

– So, you got the Nobel Prize winning science project in the livingroom, you got that one comatose, and you got his brother here. Unless Ramon learned a different way of counting in the joint, that’s three.

Fernando pulls the front of his hairnet, shifts it slightly lower on his forehead.

– He ran away, man.

– He got out of the house?

– No, man, he was never in it.

Geezer takes off his hat, runs his hand over his head, and wipes the sweat on his thigh.

– And how, why was the kid outside when he ran? How did he know you were in here?

– He saw us.

– How? No. The point. This was a trap, right? I set up a trap. I saw some jewelry that should be in your possession and I did some pretty fucking clever reasoning and plotting. Impressed the fuck out of myself, to be honest. The point of it being to let them all get in the house before you did anything. Grab their asses in the house. It’s quiet, there’s no witnesses, it’s easy.

– Yeah, man, but they couldn’t break in.

– What do you?

– They were taking forever to break in. We.

– Why would they?

– They don’t know how to pick a lock or anything.

– What the? Why was it locked? We wanted them in the house. Why the fuck would you lock the doors?

– I thought you wanted. Well, you know, man, to make it, real. So they wouldn’t know it was a trap.

Geezer slaps his hat on the side of the bed.

– They’re kids, ’Nando, how the fuck would they? OK. Just. Never mind.

He puts on his hat and holds out his hand, slick with sweat from the top of his head. Fernando takes it and hauls him to his feet.

Geezer makes for the livingroom.

– Just bring the one that’s awake.

Fernando goes to the bathroom.

– Get up.

George looks at him.

– Hey. Hey, man. Fernando.

– Get the fuck up.

George puts his hands under Andy’s head and lowers it to the floor and stands up.

– Hey, whatever, whatever we fucked up, my brother is really hurt. No more fucking around here, man. This is no joke. We got to call, we got to get him some help.

– Get out here.

– Seriously, man. This shit between us, we can’t mess around, you know, whatever, take it out on me, but Andy’s. Look at him, man.

Fernando reaches out and swats the side of his head.

– Whelan, fuck you. Fuck Hector. Fuck fucking Cheney. And fuck your fucking brother. Get in the fucking livingroom and shut the fuck up.

George holds the side of his head, covering the bloody lump where Fernando hit him with the minibat while he was stuck in the window screaming. He looks down at his brother.

– I’ll be back, Andy.

But Andy doesn’t say anything and George steps out of the bathroom, following Fernando.