– Keep your fucking mouth shut.

He releases him.

– Run.

Timo doesn’t move.

Bob slaps him.

– Run.

Timo runs.

And Bob Whelan walks into the house and he gets the boys on their feet and makes them help Andy out to the 4×4 and he finds the Coleman fuel in the garage and he spills it over the blood and the bodies and he sets it all on fire, burning the house the boys came to rob.

The phone rings.

– Hello. Yes? Hello.

– Cindy.

– Yes. Yes, what is it, what?

– Cin, it’s Amy.

– Amy. What? Amy, Bob’s.

She remembers what Amy’s job is.

– Amy, why are you calling?

– It’s OK, honey, it’s OK. They’re here at the hospital, but they’re OK.

– Oh, oh.

– Sweety, listen to me, don’t jump in a car. Wait for.

– Are they, what’s wrong with?

– Honey, listen, don’t drive yourself. You have no idea how many parents kill themselves rushing to the hospital. Get a neighbor to. Cin? Are you there? Cindy?

The phone dangles from its cord. Cindy Whelan is already outside getting into her car.

Bob knows the cop.

The cop that comes to the emergency room to file a report when he shows up with four beaten boys, Bob’s ridden in the back of his car. Old timer. One of the ones who knew him when.

– What’s the word, Bob?

– Same shit, different generation.

– What’d they get into?

– My oldest, George, tells me they scored some acid from some guys that were hanging around the bowling alley.

– Acid dealers are over at the Doughnut Wheel.

– Older guys, from over the hill, they all had Raiders gear.

– Black guys.

– Yeah.

– Probably from Alameda.

– Don’t know.

– So?

Bob takes a sip from his coffee cup and looks down the hall to see if his sister is coming back with any news. Hector’s mom and little sister are still sitting across the room, heads bowed, rosary beads passing through their fingers. No sign of the kid’s dad or brothers.

– George said it was just plain blotter paper, no acid on it. They got pissed. Rode around looking for the guys’ car and found them getting drunk in May Nissen Park. Started talking shit and saying they wanted their money back.

– The Cheney kid, right? Fucker’s got a mouth on him.

– I don’t know.

– Yeah, I’ve had him in the car. He likes to mouth off.

– Well, whatever it was, these dealers beat the hell out of them.

– And you?

– George called from a pay phone and I went and got them and brought them here.

– They didn’t call us.

– In a fight with some guys that ripped them off on a drug deal, they didn’t call the cops.

– Uh huh. OK.

Bob looks at him.

– So you gonna go find the guys or what?

The cop underlines something on his notepad.

Bob remembers how the fucker put a hand on the back of his neck and slammed his head against the door as he put him in the back of the car the last time he was ever cuffed. How he laughed about it.

– Tell you, Bob, I’ll head over to the park, take a look around, try to get over there before it gets too crowded, but what the fuck do you expect me to find? Think some coons from Alameda are gonna hang around after they did something like that to some white kids and one of our Mexicans?

Bob stands up.

– That’s bullshit, man. Did you see my kids?

– Easy, Bob.

– They. George’s hand is all fucked up. Andy.

He looks in his coffee cup.

– He’s a mess. He. Fucking do something.

The cop closes his notebook.

– Bob, I appreciate your kids getting hurt. I can only imagine. But, honestly, you should not be acting all outraged citizen with me.

– What the hell is that?

– Just saying, if you had boys that weren’t out scoring acid in parking lots at two in the morning you wouldn’t have a problem like this.

– Don’t fucking.

– Can it, Bob. You use that kind of language again, I don’t care what’s up with your family, I’m gonna remind you what it’s like to get booked.

He taps his index finger on Bob’s chest.

– Want to take a ride? Try on some bracelets again? One of those orange jumpsuits? It’s the weekend. Take you in now, no one gonna see you till Monday. Don’t got no friends at the station anymore, Bob. Those days are over. Your money’s no good over there now.

He shakes his head.

– Reformed punk or not, you’re still a punk. You got punk kids that hang out with punk friends and what they got was in the cards for a long time. So you just calm down and take a seat so you can be sure to be here if they need you. Yeah?

Bob looks down, takes a seat.

– Sure. Sorry.

– Yeah.

He tugs at his belt, shifts his holster.

– It’s a busy morning. There’s stuff going on. Got half the force and emergency services at that fire over by Junction. Another fucking crank lab. Town this size, we got two crank labs going at the same time. Damn drug war here. Me, I say we got guys like you to thank for that. So, when I get the chance, I’ll take a look at May Nissen. When the kids are feeling a little better, someone’ll get descriptions of the black guys and their car. And then we’ll decide if we’re gonna do anything about your kids being out after curfew looking to score. OK?

– Sure.

– Best to the family, Bob. They’re in my prayers.

Bob watches him leave, remembering the times they shook hands, the folded bills passing between their palms, and then goes to find George to tell him again what to say.

That night, in the ICU, he has to stop walking when he comes in and sees Andy, his head and face buried in bandages, his mom sitting next to him. He has to stop and remind himself where he is. When it is.

He remembers the way it was before. The bags of Colombian Gold shoved inside plaster lawn gnomes and jockeys and Christs, coming across the border at Tijuana, driving nonstop back up here, swapping shifts at the wheel with Jeff, chewing whites and drinking warm beer and shots of mescal the whole way. Dumping the shit at Geezer’s, the fat boy weighing and bagging and pinching off shit on the side that they never even fucked with him about because there was so much goddamn money.

The parties.

People cramming the house, spilling into the yard and the street, the cops closing their fists around the hundreds he slipped them and closing off the block with sawhorses. Football games at midnight in the middle of the street, high as hell. Cindy on the lawn, dropping the strap of her halter to nurse George while she tried to help Amy deal with her latest loser boyfriend. Cindy, just the best looking lady on the scene, baby or no baby. The best woman in town, and his pick of any others he wanted.

Always action at the house.

People coming by, scoring dime bags and quarters, shooting the shit as they rolled up a joint to smoke before they hit the road. Cash piling up. Until you spent it. Just blowing it like the fucking wind.

And the fights.

Guys saying they got shorted, getting in your face, learning the lesson that you don’t talk to Bob Whelan that way. Not in his house. Not nowhere. Dealers from the central valley trying to bring their Mexican Brown in from Tracy. Busting in the front door of their pad and running riot, swinging the bat, busting the place to shit, setting it all on fire and watching them run.

The changes.

Geezer showing them numbers and talking about smack and coke and speed. Talking about profit margins. Like it was supposed to be a business. Like it was supposed to be something where you punch a clock. Like he loved it for more than the fun and the freedom and the fights. Like he loved anything more than getting fucked up and fucking and blood on his knuckles.