“You have a wife?” said Walter.
Again Matt smiled. “Big boys get it done, junior. You’re on your way yourself.”
“Not that big,” Walter said. He pointed out the second gun. “Not much of a toss-in. Can’t you sell me a better one?”
“That little Ruger in the last round,” said Matt. “But it costs. Or you can have that Taurus.”
“How much, these two?”
“Five-twenty-five.”
“Four hundred.”
“Oh, I’ll say four-fifty,” Matt said. “But I will also say: I came down. I come down one time only. Take it or leave it.”
“Four-eighty,” said Walter, “and you take back this cracker box and give me that Taurus.”
“Five hundred and you can have all three.”
“I don’t want three,” said Walter. “I don’t want this leaky thing anywhere near me.”
“A man who thinks he can spot shit,” said Matt, “will still end up wondering why his shoes stink.”
Walter said straight, “Four-fifty for the Glock and Taurus.”
“Mostly now what I want, actually, is you to get out, actually,” said Matt. “I care less and less if I get your money or not.”
“Well,” Walter said, “right now you get to decide.”
East’s stomach rolled. He watched Walter with a low, grudging admiration. Trading was all it was, maybe. But not everybody could trade.
“All right,” said Matt with resignation. “Four-fifty for the Glock and Taurus.”
East could not stop the little leap his hands made in his lap.
“Deal,” said Walter. “And we stop outside town and see do they shoot. If they don’t, we come back.”
“You can look at them and see they shoot. A child can see they shoot. The question is, can you aim?” Matt made to stand up but winced instead. “Phillip, get that little Taurus gun off the top of the fridge.”
Walter counted out twenty-three twenties. “Got change?”
“Not if you want bullets. I got about a box and a half fits those both.”
“Oh, shit,” said Walter. “Yeah. Here’s another twenty. Gimme it all.”
Phillip opened a door in the dining room sideboard, near enough that East could watch. Red and black boxes were stacked beside vases. Phillip placed two in a bag that said Dollar General and walked them to the front door.
Walter said, “Where’s he going?”
“Putting it outside for you,” said Matt. “You think we invite boys into my house and hand them loaded guns?” He counted the twenties. “Four hundred eighty dollars. My handshake is my receipt.”
They stood, but none of them shook hands.
—
Outside, behind the steering wheel, Ty waited, quiet-eyed. He slid back in the van as they approached. East peered down into the plastic bag. New bullets, a sealed box and a half one — nice.
“Those guys had guns in every drawer in the house,” East said.
Walter snorted. “I know. A thousand guns. We could have been there all day.”
“What you get?” said Ty the moment they opened the doors.
“Now we’ll get schooled,” said Walter. He unpocketed his gun and passed it back. East fished the Taurus out too. Walter set the van moving as Ty examined them.
“This Glock, nice,” said Ty. “Other one, a piece of shit. You could smack somebody with it, I guess.”
Walter smiled. “See?”
“What you pay?”
“Four-eighty for all of it and bullets.”
Ty gaped. “Four-eighty? These guns? Four hundred eighty?”
Walter turned a corner. “That a good price?”
“I get Glocks like this in The Boxes, two hundred,” Ty said. “How many dudes were there?”
“Three,” said Walter. “And a little baby.”
Ty said, “Stop the truck.”
“No!” said East. But Ty didn’t wait. He threw back the side door and took the street at a leap. East popped his door too, but the seat belt caught, and then the van bounced as Walter pulled it over, and he cursed and fumbled with stinging fingers. Ty darted between houses and was gone.
Back on the seat he’d left two guns. He had the Glock. There was no chasing him.
East slammed his door. “Are you stupid? Never do what Ty says.”
“What’s he doing?”
“We’ll find out,” East said grimly. “Take us back. Go.”
Lights were waking now in the kitchens, behind the porches with their hollow Christmas lights. Walter downed the windows: no dogs barking. Nothing. No sign of Ty. Silently they rolled toward the gun house.
“You want me to stop here?”
“Not right in front,” East said. “Don’t want them noticing us and wondering.” He scanned the block, eyes burning.
“Do we go look for him?”
“No. Not yet.”
Walter said, “What’s he gonna do? Walk in and ask for a refund?”
“Walt,” East steamed. “Nobody knows what Ty’s gonna do. He don’t plan things. It’s always pow with him.”
“Ty saved our ass,” Walter reasoned. “Got us out of Vegas all right — and when Michael was latched on to you? Ty improvises.”
“Listen to you, man. Last night you were saying he was trouble. He’s an animal.”
“Maybe he’s lucky,” said Walter. He pulled a three-point turn at a cross street. Jubilant accordion music spilled from a parked car there, all four doors open. A short Latin man was shining his dashboard in the cold.
They made one more flyby. East’s stomach burned cold. He wished he’d marked the time. Walter pulled the truck up fifty yards from the house, and they quieted and watched.
Six-eleven on the clock. Six-thirteen. How long did they give? The pink of the morning clambered across the ceiling of the sky.
East knew this hour from years standing yard — in minutes, light would ooze down the treetops, color the chimneys, charge through the yards. The shabby street dawn tightened East in the way he had tightened for years — the standing there, regardless; the watching everything that moved. The not blinking.
The molding a group of boys you’d maybe met yesterday into the people your life depended on. And never to know whether you’d succeeded. Only to await the moments of test. Like this one.
Six-sixteen. A work truck with a big white Reading box mounted in the bed rumbled by slowly like a cart drawn by invisible horses.
Walter said, “How long you think we can wait?”
“I know,” said East. “I know.”
“Time is gonna come we have to decide.”
East kept his eyes on the gun house.
“He’s your brother.”
“Not that I’d die for,” said East curtly.
Six-eighteen.
He’d always been bigger than Ty, stronger. Always been older, and also the good son, such as it was. Always the one who tried to put a good face on it for their mother. Always the one she could count on, even if Ty was her baby. He remembered the first time he’d tried to celebrate his mother’s birthday with a cake he’d bought with his own money. Brought it home and hid it, but Ty found out. He slipped out before dinner and stayed out, unaccountable, until three o’clock in the morning and her birthday was through. Just daring East to go ahead and serve it. Without him. And he didn’t. That night he cried bitterly at his defeat. Nine years old and just trying to be the man of the family.
That unaccountability was the trick Ty had. The way he’d found of taking those two years East had on him and shattering them.
At nine he’d begun tomcatting out in the street for nights at a time. Had left the house entirely at eleven. His mother’s baby.