“That don’t justify it, the way girls dress,” said Heather, hands posed cutely on her hips, putting on a show as usual.
“He didn’t say it justified it,” said Fred, “what he’s sayin’ is that that’s the reason these things happen so much these days. It’s the moral decline all over. Moral relativism.”
Heather turned and her eyes met Roni’s and held for a long moment. She called out loudly, “Ron, honey, did you need anything?”
All heads turned her way. Jaime whirled on his seat, his eyes widening unnervingly.
“No,” she said.
“You waitin’ on Shannon, hon?” called Heather, seemingly louder than before. Fuck you, bitch, thought Roni, seething.
“Don’t yell across the room, go on over there. S’posed to be a waitress,” said Fred, not looking away from the TV screen.
Heather pouted, jumped up and pranced around from behind the bar, approaching, still speaking at stage volume as she did. “You want a beer or anything, hon? A light beer?”
Light beer. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine. Really.” She set her teeth together and smiled at Heather for the briefest moment, then looked away. Come near me and I’ll rip your lungs out, fat little slutbag.
“Okay, hon, you just let me know,” said Heather. “He’ll be here, he’s just runnin’ late probably.” She turned and sauntered back to the bar.
To temper her aggravation, Roni thought of an anecdote Heather’s sometime friend, Krystal Horsley, told her three or four years ago, one that Krystal claimed Heather had tearfully confided in her. Heather was then shacking up with Bud Junior Tales, Jaime’s big and mean older brother. Heather’s complaint was that Bud Junior’s new-found favorite way of popping off was to bend her over the kitchen table and to place a copy of Hustler’s Barely Legal open to a compelling photo layout on poor Heather’s wide, desk-like back. He’d then pump her plump little jism-jar from behind while looking at the magazine for inspiration, leafing through the pages as he went.
Heather had made Krystal swear on a probably imaginary Bible not to ever tell anyone, but during one of the episodes when Krystal and she were feuding, guess what? Krystal went around and related the juicy tale to a few select girls in the neighborhood, including Roni, swearing each one to silence as well, but without citing the Bible. Later, when Heather and Krystal became friends again, temporarily anyway, Krystal claimed repentantly that she had just made the whole thing up, but to Roni it bore the ring of truth. Last she heard, Krystal was doing a stint in the workhouse for shoplifting, though she was likely out by now.
She lit up a fresh cigarette. Fuck yes, it was true, obviously. Bent over a table with a skin magazine open on her back, getting porked. What a sweet scene to contemplate. Bud Junior had since died in a one-car accident in which he drove his pickup into a stone quarry pool and drowned, under the influence of enough crank to give an elephant a stroke. Then came the demise of the eldest brother, Marlon Tales, who’d shot himself in the face with a pistol, twice—first accidentally, and after two months of sucking pablum through a straw, on purpose. That left only creepy retard Jaime among the brothers, whom even Heather didn’t consider an eligible bachelor.
She smiled at her thoughts, exhaling smoke, and glanced over at Heather, who was mopping the bar, looking a bit blue. The John Deere guy, she noticed, was gone from the bar. He might have left, or maybe just went into the men’s room. Perhaps he hadn’t witnessed Heather’s performance just now, disappointing her.
No way was Roni going to order a beer after that “light beer” comment. If she wanted one, she’d definitely have to go home. And she’d have to walk. Yet still she sat there, reluctant to go. All at once she felt like weeping and, at that, was furious again. Son of a fucking bitch, Shannon, asshole fuckhead loser, where are you? Out driving around with Dewey in Todd Dewolf’s fucking Hearsemobile. Shannon and Dewey and fucking Hobie Lautenschlager and all these other jerkoffs around here, with their dipshit Z movies and brain-battering heavy metal music…
She heard the door open, looked up. No, it wasn’t him.
Three kids came in, strangers, and quite out of place. Two were guys, both wearing leather jackets and jeans, one with wheat-colored dreadlocks, and the other with a spiky blond punk do. The third was a girl, with sticky, dyed-black hair, straight and shoulder-length, wearing a tight, low-cut black mini-dress with net hose: Morticia, from the hips up.
“Omigod, what a total hole,” said the girl, looking around her. All three wore chalk-white face paint with dark eyeshadow and mascara, making them look something like raccoons. Strays from the crowd at the marathon, probably. Everybody but Fred turned to watch as they approached the bar.
“Can I help you?” said Heather, interested.
“S’up. We’re looking for a guy,” said the kid with dreads. He sounded like he was imitating the voice of a tough street kid as depicted on TV dramas.
Heather bounced and cocked her head to one side. “Anybody I know?”
“Guy named Shannon. He said we could find him here, maybe.”
Something in Roni’s chest tightened. Oh fuck, he’s dealing again.
“Well, I know more than one Shannon,” said Heather, glancing Roni’s way. “What’s his last name?”
“It’s obvious she knows who we mean,” said the blond, and Morticia simpered out a kind of laugh.
“Chill, dude,” said Dreadlocks. “Chill.” Blondie shrugged, Morticia rolled her eyes in classic mall-rat style.
Shannon was back to dealing dope. For a job, he’d said. Yeah, this kind of job. God, what a scumbag.
“Why are you looking for this Shannon?” Heather glanced Roni’s way again, and Blondie followed her glance.
It’s probably just pot, she told herself. But no. It was worse. Ecstasy or some shit.
“We’re just trying to hook up with him,” said Dreadlocks. “Know where we might find him?”
“What’s he look like?” said Heather.
“Kind of a tall stocky guy, might be forty, has like real long brown hair parted in the middle,” said Dreadlocks. “Has a goatee, sort of. Wears shades all the time. Smirks a lot.”
Fred interrupted: “You kids wanna sit down, show some ID and buy a drink, that’s fine, but we can’t give out no information about customers here.”
“What do you want this Shannon for anyway?” said Heather.
“Just because we do,” said Morticia in a sweet, chirpy voice. Snotty little bitch.
“I ain’t talkin’ to hear myself speak,” said Fred. “You don’t wanna buy a drink, you gonna have to leave.”
Heather just wouldn’t quit. “But if you wanted to leave a message, we could—”
“No, we sure couldn’t!” said Fred. “Now,” he pointed with a gnarled finger, “if you three don’t have no other business here—”
“Okay, okay, it’s cool, we’re going.” Dreadlocks patted Blondie on the shoulder and, with both hands, turned him toward the door. “It’s all right, we’ll find him.”
“Thanks for everything,” said Blondie as they exited, and Morticia said, “God, no shit.”
Roni lit up the last cigarette in her pack. Dealing something that these wannabe hipster kids go for. Not just pot. Probably some weird designer drug. Something Clare’s husband, Todd Dewolf, might come up with. He was worse than Shannon. At least Clare had sense enough to get away from him.
“Well, they sure left with their tail between their legs,” said one of the Ms. Pac-Man geeks. “What were they s’posed to be, zombies?”
“They’re Goths,” said Heather.
“What? Golf?”
“Goth. It’s like horror movie stuff in rock music,” said his buddy. “Marilyn Manson, Alice Cooper, like that.”