The Dart League King (6 page)

Tristan sighed, and then sat there looking out the windshield with his lips puckered, blowing out air. “Russell, Russell, Russell,” he said. He combed his hair back with one hand. “I could tell you some shit.”

About what, Russell thought. The score sheets? It looked like more than that, and Russell didn’t really want to know. That was the thing about smart people—they always had shit on their minds, and whatever it turned out to be never made much sense to Russell. Kelly Ashton had been like that, sort of, Russell remembered. One morning after she’d stayed at his apartment, probably before she got up from bed to start burning the pancakes, she’d started talking to him about what was the meaning of life and was there a God or whatever, and he’d had to try really hard to just keep nodding his head like he was agreeing with her all the time and not fall back asleep. The thing was, though, he liked smart people for some reason, and he was always hoping he’d get better at this shit someday, at having these kind of intellectual conversations, but he usually just found himself nodding his head—it seemed like the safe thing. So that’s what Russell did now—sat in the seat and nodded his head, and he could feel Tristan looking at him, so he kept his gaze fixed to the windshield. “Yep,” he said after a while, still nodding. “Definitely some shit to tell.” He started to open the door. “We better get back inside.”

Tristan tilted his head up slightly. “Can we do another one of those first?” he said.

Russell laughed his big, jolly laugh and reached in the back for the mirror and started unfolding the bindle. They were going to be better friends from now on, he and Tristan. Russell could tell.

Vince Thompson
had a beer and looked at porn on the Internet and listened to the Velvet Underground and afterward lay down on the bed and jerked off and took a shower and put on his asshole father’s old camouflage pants and a long T-shirt and slipped the 9mm Beretta into a side pocket and a hunting knife into the sheath on his belt and three bindles of coke into the secret hip pocket in case anybody wanted to purchase anything. Then he headed down the stairs and out into the evening. Goddamn rain clouds on the horizon to the west, big fucking massive things that looked like they’d picked up the whole goddamn ocean and were prepared to dump it on him, Vince Thompson, specifically. He’d never seen clouds so tall, tall as fucking death, man, like the grim reaper dressed up and coming over the hills, and even at this distance you could see the fucking lightning rippling in sheets, Mother Nature was ready to make some shit go down, so he’d better take the car. It was a weird deal when you thought of it, making decisions like that based on the fucking weather, take the car or no, when you were getting ready to shoot someone in the head maybe, maybe not, depending. Depending on what,
though? He’d figure it out when the time came, he thought, getting into the car, clearing the shit out of the passenger seat, the couple of beer cans and the copy of
Spin
magazine and the month-old
USA Today
and the flier from the new pizza delivery place that they’d stuck on his goddamn windshield while he was at the fucking bar and there hadn’t been a trash can around, go figure, and he didn’t like to litter and shit if he didn’t have to, what with the hole in the ozone layer and that goddamn garbage scow from New York twenty years or so ago that couldn’t find a place to dump its load, he figured it was the least he could do, not litter, to help the world on its merry fucking way, but cleaning off the passenger seat right now because why, because he was thinking maybe he’d force Russell Harmon at gunpoint into the car and drive him out to the middle of fucking nowhere and waste his fucking ass and he didn’t want to inconvenience him by having fucking trash on the seat? He was being goddamn
polite
? Whatever. He tossed the shit in the backseat and cranked the car, pumping the accelerator because his goddamn battery was starting to go, goddammit, what a fucking car to have to make an escape in, Jesus Christ, what would he do, shoot the motherfucker and then stop at the service station on the way out of town? Fuck it though, the car would start, and if not he had jumper cables. The thing to do was to stay rational here, he hadn’t thought this out all that well, he could just leave all his shit at the apartment, the clothes and computer and stuff and even the guns, he didn’t care, but all the CDs and the records and the stereo, that fucking hurt, no lie, but if he left it all everyone would think he was dead, he’d decided this much, because anyone who knew Vince fucking Thompson would know he’d die before he’d leave all his
music, so it was a sacrifice he was going to have to make, goddammit all to hell, and what the fuck, he had forty thousand dollars in a box at his goddamn parents’ house to buy more music with, he’d have to go and get the box afterward, it would be late and he could slip in the back door and be real quiet and no one would know, but Jesus Christ beyond that he hadn’t given the goddamn thing much thought, he was letting his anger get the best of him again, anger at this dude Russell Harmon who, well, let’s be honest, he had thought of as a friend at one point, and this friend had fucked him, used him, sat around his apartment and talked to him about shit, about everything under the sun and moon, really, or Vince had done the talking mostly while this Russell Harmon sat there with the shit-eating grin on his face saying
fucking right, man
, etc.,
that’s some serious shit, man
, etc., snorting lines off Vince’s goddamn rickety kitchen table. All right, all right, but it didn’t have to be right
now
, did it, not
tonight
that he’d jack the dude, but he’d been telling himself the same thing every night for a month, not
tonight
, not
tonight
, and the thing to do was to have some balls, be a man, show people what it meant to fuck with Vince fucking Thompson, because if he shot the motherfucker he could choose his own time to get the fuck out of town, whereas if he waited around long enough for Russell Harmon to get all chickenshit and go to the police he’d never see it coming when it came and there wouldn’t be any time to hit the road, just the knock on the door, the fucking warrant, the fucking Miranda rights and what have you, so OK, OK, staying rational was the thing, but it was fucking hard with this shit about the apartment eviction was what it amounted to and fucking Fred getting all gung ho, all Mafioso or some shit, Mr. Big-Ass Drug
Lord Kingpin, and his goddamn father the asshole who should have helped him more, helped him get his shit straightened out but wouldn’t even fucking
talk
to him these days, all right, all right, stay calm, Vince Thompson thought to himself as he drove two blocks down Cedar Street toward the center of town. Russell Harmon, the dumbshit, would be at the 321 playing darts, that much he knew, that the goddamn penis-head freak wouldn’t even know enough not to show up as advertised by the dart league schedule Vince had seen in the window the other day. So that was where to go ultimately, OK, but maybe the thing to do first was stop into PJ’s for a drink, sit down, have a fucking drink or two, get
rational
, goddammit, because why, all of a sudden, was it so hard to
think
. It might actually be a good idea, when you thought of it, to dip into the stash, open a bindle, because you would get that kind of heightened concentration that would at least make things fucking
clear
for a goddamn
while
, but no, he’d given that up, it didn’t lead anywhere good and you couldn’t make any money that way Vince Thompson had discovered a long time ago. A couple of drinks, then, at PJ’s, and some time to get things straight. So he saw a parking space on the other side of the street and whipped over there in front of oncoming traffic with the drivers honking at him and shit, like
Oh my God, there’s an insane person
, the fucking weenies, and he went ahead and parked pointing the wrong fucking way because fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke, and he got out and looked up at the goddamn clouds again, big and black as a fucking old-time freight train, goddamn puffing and puffing, maybe an hour or so away, tops, and he walked into PJ’s hitching up his asshole father’s camouflage pants because they were after all too big for him blah blah, go ahead and admit
it, his father the big fucking muscle man whose pants Vince could never fill, fine, whatever, and
there was his goddamn father sitting there
, what were the chances, pretty fucking good, actually, he knew that, but sitting with of all people Clint Harmon, Russell fucking Harmon’s dad, who he was friends with because Russell Harmon’s dad, Clint fucking Harmon, was a veteran of the “Gulf War,” which in Vince’s estimation wasn’t much of a goddamn war at all but was apparently enough to make his father and Clint fucking Harmon, who was only a few years older than Vince, drinking buddies. This meant trouble, no fucking doubt. But OK, check the Beretta in the pocket, give it a little pat, sit down and have a drink or two, think, think, think, and ignore the motherfuckers, his goddamn asshole father who saw him come in and couldn’t even be bothered to glance more than a second or two. Order a Jack and Coke, lift it off the bar and make a toast, say, “Workers of the Fucking World Unite!” sitting all by himself with the fucking bartender, Gus, looking at him wary, just because he’d had an argument with some college-educated tourist shithead last time he’d come in about George W. asshole Bush and the motherfucking Iraqis and Palestinians and Israelis and the goddamn UN and the fucking Democrats and the asshole motherfucking U.S. military and this college-educated dude getting all whiny and shit,
You’re self-contradictory, you’re self-contradictory, you’re contradicting yourself all over the place and I can’t talk to you anymore
, and Vince Thompson had taken a bite out of his beer glass and spit it at the dude and all hell had broken loose, whatever, with the guy going
He’s totally out of his mind
and shit. And then another Jack and Coke and lift it high above the bar with his motherfucking father there trying to ignore him, trying to talk
to Clint fucking Harmon about their goddamn bowling league, this Clint fucking Harmon who didn’t even have the decency to raise his own kid, even barely acknowledge his own fucking kid, ran away like a chickenshit when he knocked up Russell Harmon’s mother, which Vince Thompson knew because Russell Harmon had done some talking, too, right, that was why Vince made the mistake of thinking they were friends, so he knew about Clint fucking Harmon who had been just a few years ahead of him in high school, knew about him in a way he didn’t know about the other asshole fathers his own age whose children showed up at his door to buy drugs from him, motherfucking Vince Thompson, because even though he knew, I shit you not, some of them just by sight, just by the goddamn family resemblance, they were all—except Russell Harmon, who had actually hung out with him, hadn’t he, because maybe he fucking wanted to a little bit—they were all like
Cool, dude, thanks for hooking me up
and shit,
This is my friend so-and-so
, and then friend so-and-so showing up next week on his own, saying
Cool, dude, thanks for hooking me up
, cycle, cycle, cycle, fucking cycle, the same shit over and over, so that after a while he’d started pulling out the fucking guns and shit just for variety’s sake, just to throw a fucking scare into the motherfuckers like that goddamn Matt, Russell Harmon’s friend who’d shown up a couple times when Russell didn’t know it. Fuck it, raise the glass and look right at that asshole son-of-a-bitch father and say, “Chairman Mao! Nikita Kruschev!”—why not, and then after a while another Jack and Coke, and raise the glass and say, “Ronald Reagan takes it up the ass from fucking Jesse Jackson!” and oh yeah, he’d hit a nerve there, there was the goddamn military asshole father unit out of his seat all puffed up and
coming at Vince,
You’re just a lousy piece of shit
and whatever, and Vince not even stopping to think, goddammit, there still hadn’t been a goddamn second to
think
about all this shit like the Beretta in his pocket and the plan to jack this Russell Harmon dude, he needed to
think
for one goddamn second if that was possible, but stepping up right off the bat and getting ready to plow the old man with a wicked right-hand cross, only Clint fucking Harmon, mister tough guy in his muscle shirt—how old was this dude anyway, like sixteen did he think he was with his muscle shirt and his gym shorts and shit?—this Clint fucking Harmon dude stopped him, and he didn’t even see it coming because as mentioned before about the goddamn eye thing, and
wham!
there came stars dancing and motherfucking shit and Vince was sitting on the floor, laughing and shit, and then he got up and did this karate thing like you see on TV, like saying
hee-yaw
and
ah-so
and waving his hands around and
wham!
there it came again, and sitting on the floor this time with blood coming somewhere from his face and he heard the old man saying
That’s enough, that’s enough, it’s all right, he’s not going to do anything to me, all right
, etc., he’s just a mess, and then Vince fucking crying because the old fucking man didn’t know this might be the last time they’d ever see each other, but still getting up and raising his fist like to hit him, but then thinking the old man looked too goddamn old now, didn’t he, he’d never noticed before, all wrinkled and shit, too old to beat up and Vince wanting to hug him instead, say
Dad
,
Dad
, and shit, motherfucker he needed some space to
think
, but Clint fucking Harmon hustling him out the side door into the alley, and him, Vince, saying
Asshole cocksucker, you didn’t even have the guts to take care of your kid, be a fucking man
, etc., thinking
of Russell Harmon and how they’d sat there sometimes in his apartment and watched football on TV, and how this goddamn Clint fucking Harmon wouldn’t even acknowledge his own son and how maybe Russell Harmon
needed
someone to acknowledge him before he got shot in the fucking head, and then blood, blood, blood, he was getting the shit kicked out of him for real now back in the alley by some dickhead forty-five-year-old muscle man who obviously thought he was still in high school, and Vince Thompson told him these things while he was being beaten. And then it was raining. And then he was walking down the street, holding his head up to the motherfucking hard rain, hoping it would wash his face clean. And then he was outside the 321 with the lightning coming down, and there was Russell fucking Harmon trying to make a run across the parking lot from his truck with that Tristan dude he’d met once at the record store and the Tristan dude knew a lot about music but if he knew what was good for him now, because Vince Thompson was tired of this shit, he’d better get the fuck out of the way, which he did, running on into the bar out of the rain, not seeing Russell fucking Harmon stopped dead in his tracks behind him, looking wide-eyed and shit at Vince Thompson, whose head hurt, who had no idea what he looked like standing there with the blood and whatnot. But he did know this, or suspected it—that Russell Harmon would be just fucking stupid enough to come on into the bar and play his fucking dart game even if Vince was there, even if the hand of motherfucking God was about to smite him right in the side of his goofy goddamn head, so Vince Thompson decided he might as well go inside and get out of the fucking rain.