Another thumping off road behind her, and she turned about to see nothing but shadows, ragged, roadside trees and the dark.
“Get the fuck out of here, whatever you are,” she said.
Nothing answered. Nothing moved. It’s just Alabama, she thought.
Tony wondered if Lamesa was anywhere near the Gulf of Mexico, and if Burton ever got to go fishing. He would own a big boat, of course, bigger than any here at Martin’s Marina. Tony and Burton could take a day off from managing the farm hands and go out on the water and toss back some brews and smoke a few cigars.
The end of the privacy fence was a half-block down. Tony hurried to the corner. She wanted to put her feet in the Gulf and know what it felt like. At the end of the marina was another row of small houses. The first, surrounded by a weedy yard and scrub trees, had a seagull-decorated mailbox that read, “Martin, 3427 Perry Road.” This had to be the owner of Martin’s Marina. Crappy little house for someone who had such a big business.
Behind the house was the huge stretch of black water, small waves pulsing up and back and reflecting lights from the Marina and the back porches of the little houses down the lane. Other lights, farther out, dipped and swayed on boats and ships. Moonlight, dull and blue, streaked the water’s surface.
Tony sneaked around the Martins’ house, between a boxwood hedge, past a plastic child’s slide and swing set and down to the water in the rear. The Martins had their own dock, stretching out twenty-some feet over the water, but no boats were tied there. They must keep their boats in the marina. Afraid somebody from Virginia will come along and sink it just for fun. Ha! Tony walked onto the dock, glancing once over her shoulder to see that no one in the family was looking out through their back windows. No one was.
The dock was warped but solid. At the end was an Igloo cooler, upended, and some fishing nets hanging on the posts on either side. Lying on the planks were three oars, one cracked down the middle.
The air was cooler over the water, and Tony pulled her sleeves down. She stretched her arms out and took in the space and the salt water and the situation. She was the master, she was in control. She was going where she wanted to go, seeing what she wanted to see, making people sing her tune and dance her steps. Fuck them all. She’d set in motion some real trouble back home, and now she could sit back and enjoy it. She was Tony Petinske. Her father was Burton Petinske of Lamesa, Texas. Like the prodigal son in the Bible, which she’d heard about when she was in third grade and went to Bible Class as part of Weekday Religious Education during one school year, Burton would probably kill a fatted calf for her and they’d have a whoop-ass Texas barbecue.
She took the pistol from her jeans pocket and thought of firing one into the water to celebrate. Maybe with luck she’d hit a fish or a crab, if there were crabs in the Gulf. But that would awaken the natives. She didn’t want to push her luck, as lucky as she was.
She put the pistol on the deck, then lowered her jeans and held onto one of the posts. She swung back over the water and let go a stream of hot pee. She then lowered herself and splashed the pee off her privates by cupping water with one hand. It was bitingly cold and felt great. Her jeans were hoisted up, and she turned back toward the yard.
On the end of the deck were two boys. One was tall, the other Tony’s height. Both were smiling, though their eyes were not visible beneath the brims of their ball caps.
“Got a cigarette?” asked the shorter boy.
Tony’s eyes narrowed. Fuck this shit. She said nothing.
“I asked you a question. Ain’t polite, not answering.”
Tony put her hands on her hips.
“We seen that little pussy of yours, hanging out over the water,” said the tall boy. “Oooh, baby, shake that little beaver.”
Tony’s heart picked up, and kicked the inside of her chest. She looked at the pistol on the deck.
“Thought you was a boy, with that short hair on your head,” said the shorter boy. “But then we seen that pussy. Mmm hmmm. Nice golden shower, shoulda saved it for us.”
“Get out of her, mother-fuckers,” said Tony.
“Ooh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty,” said the tall boy. He chuckled darkly.
“Me, too,” echoed the other.
Then the tall one was striding forward, a near jog, with long, quick steps, and Tony dropped to her knees to grab the pistol but her fingers missed and it spun away, across the deck, where it stopped at the edge. She reached for it again with a war-whoop of fury, but a foot came down on the back of her hand and another foot kicked the pistol into the dark water. It struck the surface with a plop and vanished.
“Fuckers!” screamed Tony. She dove forward, her free arm plunging into the water and snatching but finding nothing but cold wet. “Goddamn mother-fucking fuckers!” She rolled over and away from the foot, jerking out from under, then sprang to her feet. Her knife was in her sock. Get it, she’d slice the grins and then the balls off these Alabama bastards.
The shorter boy was beside the taller one now, just feet from where Tony stood. Tony felt the sweat that had erupted on her forehead and her back, tickling, teasing. These’re assholes, she thought, these are Buddies and Leroys and Little Joes and Whiteys. These are goddmaned Dee Wees! “Get out of my way,” she snarled.
“Ooh, a little fightin’ girl,” said the shorter boy.
“Ain’t from around here,” said the other. “Talks funny. Where you from, sugar britches?”
Tony backed to the dock’s end, one hand out in a fist, and lowered herself slowly to reach the knife.
“Wants to give us a blow job, Ricky,” said the tall boy. “Kneeling down, just look at that.”
“Yeah,” said Ricky.
Tony reached for the cuff of her jeans, slid her fingers underneath and up to the top of the hiking boot. The handles was there, snug, between the sock and the skin.
The tall boy leaped suddenly at Tony and caught a scruff of her short hair in his fingers. “Kiss me, little girl!” He tried to jerk her head back, but she twisted from beneath him and drew the blade out from her sock then drove it against the post to snap it open.
“Joe, she’s got a blade!” cried Ricky.
Joe grabbed at Tony’s hair again, but she leaned forward and slashed it across his knee. It cut through cloth, into flesh, back out again. Joe whelped, let go of Tony’s hair and snatched at her knife-bearing hand and came up short. “Ricky!”
Ricky, his teeth bared, snatched at Tony’s wrist and missed. Tony was on her feet then, leaning forward, carving the air and growling. “Get out of here! Get away from me!”
“She’s got the rabies way she’s actin’!” said Ricky. “Damn, she’s a mad dog!”
“Back away now!” said Tony. “I’ll cut you to bits, you know I will!”
Ricky picked up one of the oars. “Yeah?” he said. “Your’s may be sharper but mine’s longer.” He laughed at himself, pleased with his little joke. “Get it, Joe? Your’s may be sharper, but mine’s longer. Gotta remember that!”
Joe tossed up an oar with his foot as if he was flipping a skateboard, and caught it with both hands. He was breathing heavily. “Don’t no bitch hurt me. Don’t no bitch never do that to me. Never!”
“Don’t no stupid rednecks do nothing to me,” said Tony. “You get out of my way, you know what’s good for you.” She waved the knife, thinking, My gun’s gone, what am I supposed to do without my gun? “Back off!”
Ricky laughed; Joe didn’t. Then Ricky swung his oar at Tony and it caught her on the shoulder with a crack. Pain exploded, but Tony kept her balance and her knife. Joe swung his oar the other direction, and Tony jumped back from it, nearly tipping over the edge of the dock. She grasped a post and pushed herself upright. Then both Joe and Ricky swung their oars at the same time, and they collided with Tony on opposite sides, knocking the breath out of her and driving her forward onto her face. It felt as if her ribs were broken. She groaned and scrabbled at the splintery wood to push herself up enough to see. The knife was no longer in her hand.