She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap.
They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath street lights, hateful eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie's wretched life, his loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad examples, and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.
Brazil's early years weren't perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always welcome to visit their small brick precinct, and listen to their stories and gossip and exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal, from students picking up laundry and tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M amp;M soda shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.
tw Wheatie had never experienced any of this, and quite likely never would. At the very moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were four friends, all years older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns, and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high- fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow, hurtful spot in Wheatie's heart was full and feeling fine.
"Give me a gun, I'll go work for you," he said to Slim.
"Little piece like you?" Slim laughed.
"Uh uh." He shook his head.
"I give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing. "
"Bullshit," Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone.
"Nobody fuck with me."
"Yeah, you bad," said Tote.
"Yeah, you bad," Fright imitated Tote, while popping Wheatie on the head.
"Man, I gotta go get me some food," said Slim, who could eat tires after getting high.
"How 'bout we hit Hardee's."
He meant this literally. Slim and company were under the influence and armed, and robbing Hardee's was as good an idea as any they had come up with this night. All of them piled into his red Geo Tracker. They headed out with the radio so loud the bass could be felt five cars away. Wheatie plotted as they drove, thinking about Jerald and how proud he would be of Wheatie right now. Jerald would be impressed with Wheatie's buddies. Wheatie wished Slim, Tote, and Fright could meet Jerald. Shit, wouldn't they step back and give Wheatie a little more respect? Fuck yeah, they would. He watched telephone poles and cars go by, his heart picking up speed. He knew what he had to do.
"Give me a gun, I'll do it," he said loud enough to be heard over heavy metal.
Slim was driving, and laughed again, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.
"You will? You ever hit anything before?"
"I hit my mother."
They all laughed.
"He hit his mother! Woooo-weeee! Bad ass!"
They were choking, guffawing, weaving in and out of traffic. Fright slipped out his high-gloss stainless steel Ruger. 357 Blackhawk revolver with its six-and a-half- inch barrel and walnut grips and adjustable sights. It was loaded with six Hydra-Shoks. He handed his piece to Wheatie, who acted as if he knew all there was to know about guns, and owned plenty of them. They pulled up to Hardee's. The friends landed glazed eyes on Wheatie.
"All right motherfucker," Slim said to him.
"You go in and get a twelve-piece dinner, all white meat." He snapped out a twenty-dollar bill.
"You pay and wait. Don't do nothing 'til you got the food, you know? Then you tuck it under your arm, pull out the gun, clean out the registers, and run like hell."
Wheatie nodded, heart drilling out of his chest.
"We ain't gonna be sitting right here." Fright made that point, jerking his head at the Payless gas station next store.
"Back there by the Dumpster. You take long, motherfucker, we leave your ass."
Wheatie understood.
"Get the fuck outa my face," he said, tough and invincible as he tucked the revolver in the front of his pants and pulled his T-shirt over it.
What Wheatie did not understand was that this particular Hardee's had been robbed before, and Slim, Fright, and Tote were aware of it. They were laughing and lighting up another joint even as he walked in and they drove off. Wheatie's little butt was going to get locked up tonight. He'd learn about jailing honestly, his pants falling off because they took his belt, then dropping the rest of the way when some motherfucker got the urge for his sweet little ass.
"Twelve piece, white meat." Wheatie's voice didn't sound quite so tough now that he was at the counter. He was shaking all over and terrified that the fat black lady in a hairnet knew all about his plan.
"What sides you want?" she asked.
Shit. Slim didn't tell him that part. Oh shit. He got it wrong and they'd kill him. His furtive, hard eyes cast about, not seeing the Tracker anywhere.
"Baked beans. Slaw. Biscuits," he did the best he could.
She rang it up, and took his twenty. He left the change on the counter, fearful that tucking it in his pocket might draw attention to the gun. When the big bag of chicken and side orders were gripped under a frail arm, Wheatie drew the gun, not real smoothly, but he got it out and pointed it at the fat lady's startled face.
"Give me all your money, motherfucker!" he commanded in his crudest voice as
the gun shook in his small hands.
Wyona managed this Hardee's and was working the counter because two of her people were out sick tonight. She'd been robbed three times in her life and this little piece of motherfucking white meat wasn't going to make it four. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
"What you gonna do, cockadoodledo? Shoot me?" she sang.
Wheatie had not anticipated this. He clicked back the hammer, hands shaking harder. He wet his lips, eyes jumping. It was decision time.
No way he could let this fat chicken lady dis him. Shit man. He walked out of here without the money and that was the end of his career. He wasn't even sure he'd gotten the sides right. Oh shit, he was in trouble. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The explosion was incredible and the revolver jumped in his hands. The bullet smashed through large fries $1. 99 on the lit-up sign over Wyona's head. She grabbed the big. 357 magnum away from him, and he ran like hell.
V9 Wyona was a firm believer in community intervention. She chased Wheatie out the door. She thundered after him through the parking lot, across the way to the Payless, and behind it where a red Tracker was parked, filled with teenagers smoking weed. They locked the doors.
Wheatie tugged a handle to no avail, yelling, as the huge woman grabbed the back of his pants, yanking them down to his leather Adidas. He fell to the pavement in a tangle of red denim as she pointed the revolver through glass, at the driver's head.
wy Slim knew a determined look when he saw it. This bitch was going to shoot him if he so much as blinked. He slowly lifted his hands from the steering wheel, and held them up.
"Don't shoot," he begged.
"Oh please don't shoot."
"Get on your car phone and call 911 right now," Wyona screamed.
He did.
"Tell them where you are and what you done and that if they don't get here in exactly two minutes, I'm blowing your motherfucking head off!"
she screamed, her foot firmly planted on Wheatie, who was supine and shaking on the pavement, face down, hands covering his head.