The way Boze’d known how to find the black guy was because he’d followed him. Saw the guy pulling away from the trailer one day and whipped around and followed him all the way back to Cedar Rapids. Twenty or so the guy was, no flashy black clothes bullshit or any of that. Kinda straight-looking, actually. But still a coon. Boze’d followed him right to his door. Boze wondered if he lived with his folks. Guy pulled into his driveway and never seemed to notice Boze at all. Boze just went right on by. But he sure knew where to come next time. He sure did.
This was next time.
Boze parked half a block away. They had to be careful of the gang members they’d seen here and there. Or maybe they weren’t really gang members. Just kids. But kids who’d gladly whump on two country boys like themselves.
Boze figured it’d be safer if they took the alley. In the moonlight the garages spoke of other eras, dating all the way back to the twenties when cars had been big and boxy. Cats sat on garbage cans watching them. Boze whispered to them. He liked cats.
“So when we get there—” Gunner was saying.
“Real simple, man,” Boze said. “When we get there, we try the back door. If his car’s there, we go inside and scare the shit out of him.”
“Scare him and that’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“And if he’s not there—”
“Then we leave him a note and tell him to leave Angie alone.”
“I just wish you didn’t have that gun, man.”
“The gun’s just for show, Gunner. Just fucking relax, will you?”
Boze recognized the house from the back. How many dark green houses were there on this block?
He also recognized something else. The dude’s car. The same one Boze had followed here.
“The lights’re out,” Gunner said, as if Boze was blind and couldn’t see for himself.
“Yeah,” Boze said.
The lights out and Angie inside... Well, just as Boze wasn’t blind, he also wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have to wonder much about what his sister was doing.
“You really sure you want to do this?” Gunner said.
“Really sure.”
“I’m scared, Boze.”
“You bastard.”
“I can’t help it. The gun and everything, man. What if he has a gun.”
“Yeah, but we’re gonna surprise him. He won’t have time to pull a gun.”
“I can’t help it, Boze, I’m just scared.” Gunner sounded on the edge of crying. Little-boy crying. The bogeyman was after him.
Then Gunner said, “I’m goin’ back to the car, Boze.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“I can’t do it, Boze. Not breakin’ in like this. And havin’ a gun and everything.”
“You really are a chickenshit.”
“I don’t even care if I have to walk home, Boze. I’m goin’. I really am. I just don’t want to do this.”
Boze just shook his head, couldn’t friggin’ believe it, and watched Gunner walk away.
Then he sighed. He was the dangerous one, after all, and he should’ve realized that a long time ago. Gunner wasn’t dangerous. He just liked pretending he was. But somehow Boze couldn’t hate him. They’d grown up together. He said, “Just wait in the car, man. I won’t be long.” Gunner, shambling moon-mined against the ancient sagging garages that smelled of so many dusty and decaying decades, stopped and turned back. “You better leave this one alone, Boze, I just got a feeling. A real bad feeling. The gun and all, man. That gun’s gonna get you in trouble. It really is.”
Then he was gone, caught up in shadows, and then he was vanished, one with the night.
Boze took the gun from inside his belt. He was gonna scare the guy. And kick Angie’s ass out. That was all. Nothing more.
He walked to the back door, ducking under a clothesline. The support poles were rusty. There were dried dog turds on the autumn-brown grass.
He heard it, then. Coming from inside. Music. Faint. Not rap but black. Definitely black. That heavy bass. That rhythm and blues beat. A sexy black song. For lovers. The fucker. The black fucker. He gripped his gun tighter.
There was a small screened-in porch, the screening old and brown and curling up from the edges. He went up on the steps and went inside. The porch was empty except for three flats of empty Budweiser cans waiting to be cashed in at a supermarket.
The music was louder. And for the first time, he heard voices. The voices were even fainter than the music. Coming from inside.
He peered between the curtains hanging in the back door. A kitchen. Dishes piled high. Beer cans all over the place. No, the guy didn’t live here with his mother. He lived here alone. Bachelor pad.
Boze tried the doorknob. Locked.
He stood still for a moment, considering the various ways he could get inside. Easiest would be just breaking down the frigging door. But he wanted to surprise the guy. Just to see his face. How scared he’d be.
Boze took out his switchblade and went to work. The lock mechanism was very old and vulnerable. There was no skill or grace in what Boze did. He simply jiggled and jammed and twisted and jabbed the point of his switchblade around inside until the doorknob turned all the way to the right. He went inside.
Cigarette smoke. Stale beer. Even staler wine. Pizza. Vomit. For sure, the guy lived alone. Nobody’s mother would put up with this kind of crap.
He heard them much more clearly now. The voices. Coming from the other part of the house. Boy and girl voices. Having-sex voices. Boze felt sick.
He gripped the gun even tighter and started walking carefully through the small house. Didn’t want to bang into something and give himself away. Not that they’d be able to hear. Not with the soft, sexy music going. Not with the sex they were having, the unmistakable sounds of pleasure that seemed at least occasionally to also include pain.
And then he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the idea of those black hands all over his little sister’s white body. He jerked his gun up and ran straight into the lone bedroom off the living room. Ran straight in swearing and screaming and threatening. Ran straight in and put the gun right in the guy’s face.
Right in the fucker’s face.
Then all three of them were swearing and screaming.
Angie got home right at eleven o’clock, the way Mom had told her to. She was sort of drunk. Her clothes were wrinkled and her make-up was a mess.
But Boze didn’t care. He just sat in the recliner staring at the TV — country western videos — and sipping from the fifth of Old Grandad he’d found up in the cupboard.
Even drunk, Angie could tell something was wrong. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” But he wasn’t all right and that was clear.
“I think I had too much to drink tonight.”
He raised his eyes to her. “Yeah? No shit? I could hardly tell.”
“I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”
He started watching videos again.
She stood and stared at him for a time and then she all of a sudden clamped her hand over her mouth and rushed into the bathroom and puked all over the place.
He wasn’t going to help her but then he stood up anyway and went into the bathroom and took down a wash cloth and got it hot and soapy and then he wiped off her face and got her all cleaned up. She was sagging, drunk and drained, against the far wall. He got her arm around him and half-carried her into her bed. He got her dress off and put her to bed with her slip and panties. He wanted her to be a little girl again. And him to be a little boy again. But time didn’t let you go back. It always pushed you on ahead in the darkness. And there was always something terrible waiting there for you in that darkness. Sometimes there were good things but they were never good enough to compensate for the bad things. For how people changed on you. For how people let you down.