Dirty Work | Page 8

quite so bad. Then I went
home. I wasn't shaking this time, not outside. It was all inside. It's like
the constant vibration from the rotary table out on the drilling platform.
It goes right through you. The kids were already there so I went out in
the back yard and looked at the dead yellow grass. There were patches
of green coming through and every one was a weed.
Call Dennis. He can get the note fingerprinted.
Sure. Students use legal pads, but so do lawyers. Maybe it was his
cocaine buddy Javier did my tires. I can handle him one on one, but I
know he's the kind of guy carries a gun.
The house needs a paint job, the lawn needs a gardener. The kids are
nearly old enough for college and I got no money to send them. I wish I
had a Mercedes SL instead of a Pinto wagon and a Ford pickup truck. I
need a drink but I don't dare start. When was the last time I thought
about who I am, instead of what I have? When did it start being the
same thing?
In the bedroom, on the bottom of my undershirt drawer, was my
daddy's gun. A Colt Woodsman .22 target pistol, loaded, because my
daddy taught me an unloaded gun is worse than no gun at all. I went in
the bedroom and locked the door and got it out. It smelled of oil and a
little bit like cedar from the drawer. It felt great in my hand. I made
sure the safety was on and stuck it in my pants. No, that was stupid. It

would fall out or I would shoot myself in the foot. I folded it up in an
old Dallas Cowboys nylon jacket.
Charlene was home. I heard her try the bedroom door, then knock
quietly. I opened it. "I need to use the wagon," I said.
We never ask each other a lot of questions. It's like we don't really
know how to go about it. I could see her try to make up her mind if she
wanted to ask now. She must have decided not because she gave me the
keys and got out of my way.
Judy said, "I need the wagon tonight, Dad, I got choir."
"Take the truck."
"I hate the truck. I don't like that stick shift."
"Just take the truck, all right?"
Now Judy was ready to start crying. I put the truck keys on the little
table by the door and went out.
I was starving to death. I hadn't eaten anything since those two eggrolls
before noon. I bought a hamburger and fries and a chocolate shake at
Gaylord's there on Airport and ate them in the car. Then I got worried
about Lane recognizing me, even in a different car. I looked around and
found a bandanna in the back seat. I took off my tie and rolled up my
shirt sleeves and put on my sunglasses. Then I tied the bandanna over
my head, pirate style, the way I'd seen some biker guys do. Looked
stupid as hell in the rear view mirror, but at least it didn't look much
like me.
I made a pass all the way around the apartments and then parked out of
sight of Lane's window. No sign of the Trans Am. The lights had been
on behind her mini-blinds when I drove by. It was seven-thirty and full
dark. A little after eight my bladder started to kill me. I got out and
peed against the back of the apartments, which didn't have any
windows. From the smell there I wasn't the first.

A little after nine it started to rain.
By ten I thought maybe I'd made a mistake. That old Pinto wagon is too
small for me and the springs in the seats are shot. I hurt like hell after
ten minutes, let alone two and a half hours. I could have been in bed
asleep. Worse yet, Javier could have showed up without me seeing him,
or in another car.
I got out and walked up and down the parking lot. No Trans Ams.
Lights still on in Lane's apartment. The rain soaked my bandanna and
got in my shoes. Half an hour, I thought. Then I either go home or I go
upstairs for a look. I was about to get back in the wagon when a black
Trans Am pulled into the lot.
I ducked down and listened. The engine revved, then stopped. I could
hear the hot metal tick and the rain make a softer tick against the hood.
The door opened, the springs groaned, feet scraped against the asphalt.
The door shut again. Silence. What if he can see me?