Leverage (33 page)

“Now, the point of any good hunting trip is to get really shit-faced,” Scott says, cracking open his own can and sucking it down.

“Well, I'm about halfway there already,” Wally Peters chortles. He'll be Studblatz's replacement after Mike graduates. Wally will need lots more size and the temper of a rabid wolverine to equal Studblatz.

“Yeah, me too,” Pullman says. Pullman's been ass-kissing his captains ever since Chandre Jackson beat him up and put Scott's shoulder out of commission two weeks ago. Pullman knows he was manhandled all game. Might be my imagination, but I'm sure he's already added more bulk in just the last two weeks. I wonder if our coaches had a private meeting about the powers of D-bol with Pullman as well. To make up for the loss of Jankowski next year, he'll need something.

“Good,” Scott says. “Okay, rule one is the future captains have got to drink twice what the current captains drink. You've got to show us your fortitude, show us you have what it takes. Show us you're men, not pussies. We've got plenty of beer here, so don't be shy. Rule two is you've got to bag something before we leave. Lots of pheasants in the fields just past this tree line. They'd look real nice on the mantel. But if you get desperate and we're all getting cold, then, there's plenty of squirrels and crows hanging out, too stupid to run or fly away. It don't get much easier than that.”

“All right,” Wally cheers. “Gonna bag me a mean ol' squirrel.” He reaches into Studblatz's pickup and pulls out his shotgun from the gun rack mounted against the back window. He starts waving it around in a way that makes me real nervous. Studblatz frowns as he snatches the gun away from Wally.

“How about we get past our cars before you start shooting,” he says.

“But that's the spirit, Wally,” Scott encourages. “And I toast that. Drink up, men.” Scott holds his can up to his lips and empties his first beer, Adam's apple working like a piston. Finished, he wipes his sleeve across his mouth and power belches. “You know what that means, right, future captains? You each have to finish two cans. Now let's get drinking.” With a wink, Scott hands me another can, so I'm holding two. No way can I drink both of these this early, but everyone seems real interested in me at the moment. So I finish the first one, then make a face and belch. My headache does soften, though, I have to admit.

“ Attaboy,” Scott says. “One more to go. I'll even let you bring it with us.”

I sip from the second can. “Guh-guh-gotta take a puh-puh-piss,” I announce, and walk down the embankment to the trees. Facing the trunk of a big oak, I unzip and tip out most of the second beer onto the bed of leaves at my feet while relieving myself. I return, still holding my can, sipping air from it. By now everyone has a can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Except Scott. He holds a shotgun in each hand.

“Let's go,” Scott says.

I grab a dozen beers out of the first case and stow them in the gym bag Scott tosses me. Both Wally and Pullman sling their own bags of beer. I don't know how many Wally's already had before we arrived but he's already weaving a squiggly path through the woods. I ain't real excited about walking next to him while he swings around a loaded gun at anything that moves.

“All right, here's where it begins.” Scott stops us about two hundred yards into the thin forest. From this point, you can see the beginning of farm fields to our left. “Each captain, take your future captain off in a different direction. Stud and Wally, you guys head that way. Tommy and Pullman, you guys go due west. Me and Kurt'll go this way. Before we separate, another toast.”

Scott slugs down his can and drops it, forcing me, Wally, and Pullman to each take two cans for ourselves. Wally upends his and swallows it down no problem. He's either going to be sick or pass out, but no way is he shooting anything other than a tree or a cornstalk or sky. Pullman drinks his first one a little slower, and while everyone focuses on him and Wally, I pour most of mine into the ground, pretending to tie my shoe. I stand up and tip the can to my mouth, swallowing what I haven't spilled, about a quarter can.

“One more to go,” Scott says. Tom and Mike laugh. I drink half the next can and wait. Wally, it seems, isn't really worried about pacing himself, which fascinates the other guys. By the end of his second can, he stumbles backward as he's emptying it and falls on his butt. While everyone guffaws, I tip my can into the leaves. Pullman, too, starts to shuffle his feet while standing and swings his head around, trying, but failing, to track whoever's speaking.

“Okay, men. Go forth. Bring me feathers of fowl ... or at least a squirrel pelt,” Scott commands us. “Mike and Tommy, look after these guys,” Scott says. “They're the team's future.”

I'm guessing Wally's probably had a six-pack to himself already. Pullman maybe four or five. While I've emptied four, I've actually only drunk one and a half.

“Let's go, superstar,” Scott says. He holds out the shotgun with the walnut-brown stock and I grab it like I do this all the time. The steel barrel is icy in my fingers. I watch Scott tuck his gun so the wood stock wedges under his armpit and the barrel rests over his forearm; his hands aren't even touching it. I imitate him. It's easy to carry this way and even lets me tuck my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. I figure shooting the thing just means pulling the trigger. Scott must be reading my thoughts.

“Shotguns are simple,” he says. “Like a camera. Just point and shoot. It's a twelve-gauge, so you get a pretty solid shot pattern, about a foot across. There's a little safety switch by the trigger. See that?” He holds up his gun and shows me a little thumb lever that he slides forward and back. I examine my gun and find the same lever. “Push it forward and the safety is off,” Scott says. “Now you can shoot. Slide it back and the safety is on and the trigger is locked. That's about it. Now time for another beer.”

I dutifully reach into the beer bag and hand Scott a can and take one out for myself. Scott chugs it likes he's been in a desert for a week. I whistle like I'm impressed, my own can tipped upside down at my side, draining into the forest, while Scott's still drinking. When he finishes I bring my own can up and swallow back the remaining mouthful in my can. “You got one more to go,” Scott reminds me. “Chugalug that bad boy.”

I've got no choice with the next can since he's standing there watching me. I drink the whole beer and feel my stomach push out with air. I belch with gusto, like I'm calling out to a musk ox. Scott answers this by swinging his gun up into the air and not aiming or anything, just pulling the trigger.

The blast punches my ears, almost leveling me. I hear nothing but mosquitoes buzzing for the next minute while my head tightens up. No way do I want to be near that again or shoot my own. Scott looks supremely satisfied, like he just taught my dumb ass how to make fire or something. Two
boom-booms
answer us from the direction of Mike and Wally and then another
boom
off to our left from the direction of Tom and Pullman. Scott raises his barrel to the sky again. I juggle my cold gun and clap my hands over my ears just in time.

Scott's gun arm jerks with the sharp recoil of the blast. My ears, protected this time by my hands, are still jarred, but at least the explosion doesn't hurt.

“That's the call of the wild, baby.” Scott laughs. “Call of the wild.” The last full can of beer I just finished starts making me feel light, but not light enough to fly away from him and the others.

“Give me another beer,” Scott orders. He drinks this time without noticing I haven't pulled one out for myself. We continue walking through the woods. My hearing slowly returns. The ringing mostly disappears but the headache still hovers. After a while, I notice the sound of my footsteps again, crunching the dried leaves and snapping small twigs. The wind plays through the tree branches in shushing gusts that bring old leaves fluttering down on us like ashes.

“Where you going, superstar?” Scott calls out. I turn around. I've gotten about thirty feet ahead of him without trying. He walks a little unsteady, his gun tucked back under his arm, its barrel pointing down at the ground. “You trying to lose me out here?” Scott asks, then laughs at his own question. “I know this area real good and you're just the rookie.
You
should be afraid of getting lost.
Not me
.” I ignore him, turn forward, and keep walking, maybe even moving a little faster. “You're the one that needs my help,” he calls out again. “You think you can just waltz onto my team—
my team
—and take it over? You think Tommy and Studblatz will stand for that? You've got to pay your dues, rookie. You think just 'cause I'm on the bench, that I'm not the team captain anymore? The recruiting letters are still coming. Coach told me so. So I don't need some freak shooting off his mouth and making up stories about me and Tommy and Mike. Hell, if it wasn't for me, you'd've never gotten lucky with Marcia. Those girls drew straws and she lost. She had to down four vodkas at Mike's party before I could convince her to go with you. And she'll fuck anything.”

I say nothing. I continue walking, hoping he'll shut up. For about thirty seconds my wish comes true. Then it ends.

“Gunderson killed himself 'cause he was weak, like Coach said,” Scott hollers out suddenly, like we've been discussing the suicide all morning. “Had nothing to do with us.”

I stop for a second, but don't turn around. The sight of him, and that smirk I know he's wearing, will be too much, probably make me want to tackle him and pound his head against the nearest tree trunk. I hear the rush of alcohol in his words, hear how it slurs them together, hear how he's only able to speak Ronnie's name because of it.

“You know what you duh-duh-
did
,” I shout over my shoulder plenty loud for him to hear. “You and Muh-muh-muh-Mike and Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom. All of you know wuh-wuh-what you duh-duh-did.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott shouts back. He must have stopped walking because he sounds even more distant. I still can't bring myself to turn and face him. “Are you threatening to snitch on us? Because it's your word against ours. And no one's going to believe a murderer. We all know about you, K-K-K-K-Kurt,” Scott taunts. “Tom's dad found out. You may be the superstar right now but no one's gonna believe a psycho's word against your captains'.”

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you
know
what you
did
!” I shout again, unable to help myself. Wanting my words to hit home, I turn around in time to find Scott about seventy feet back with his shotgun lifted and aimed in my direction.

“What
you
did, Mr. Wolf. What
you
did!” he yells, and I know it's coming then. I drop just as the blast roars out from his gun. Twelve-gauge shot rips the branches and leaves over my head.

Son of a bitch
.

I lie there for a second, stunned, then hoist my gun up, intent on using it. I peek out from behind an old, rotted-out tree trunk and see Scott standing there, his gun tucked back under his arm, barrel facing down.

“Come on out, Mr. Wolf,” Scott shouts. “It was an accident. Hunting accidents happen all the time out here. Especially when guys are drinking and shooting. Probably more common than suicide, I bet.”

Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!
I stand up, my heavy cold gun trained on Scott. Slowly I walk toward him, keeping the gun as steady as my furious, trembling hands will allow.

“Don't be mad, now,” Scott says. “It was an accident. I thought I saw a squirrel in the tree above you is all.” He starts giggling. “I wasn't aiming for you. It just went off while you were near where I was aiming.”

“Sh-sh-sh-
shut up
!”

“Look, it's okay. As long as we understand each other.

As long as you realize this is real serious stuff: you talking shit in practice, shouting the little fag's name at Studblatz,
defacing
our lockers. And remember, their captain doesn't even know what happened. Unless you told him. He didn't see anything. He was tied up under the mats. It's your word against all of ours.”

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you're wrong!” I continue walking toward him. His gun is still pointing down. I can't remember whether the safety switch is supposed to be forward or back, so I keep my thumb on it ready to flick either way.

“Wrong about what, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott taunts, that smirk of his returning. I almost pull the trigger just to blow that smirk away forever. “About the fact that it was you that came into that room and did all those things to that little fag? That me, Mike, and Tom tried to stop you but it was too late? That you learned all that dirty crap at the orphanage where you killed that kid? Once you do somethin' like that you can't quit. You're a repeat offender. That's what Tom's dad calls it. And he's a cop. He knows how your sick mind works.”

“Suh-suh-someone else was in that stuh-stuh-stuhstorage room. Hidden in the kuh-kuh-corner. Behind the muh-muh-muh-mats. Suh-suh-suh-saw all of you. He knows the truh-truh-truth and he'll tuh-tuh-tuh-tell it.” My mind buzzes with possibility and threat. My clumsy words ricochet off Scott's drunk forehead and it takes a moment for him to consider them. Then he shakes off his doubt.

“
Sure
someone was in that room.” Scott sneers. “They were using an invisible cape, I bet. Just hanging out, watching us drill that faggot and not saying anything, huh?”

“Duh-duh-duh-Danny Meehan,” I spit. “Suh-suhsophomore. Suh-suh-small as Ronnie. Afraid if he tuh-tuh-tuh-tried to suh-suh-suh-stop you, he'd end up like Ruh-ruh-Ronnie. Probably right.”