Poole caught the spark of light in his living room window while sitting in his car. He had spent eleven hours on the phone with a pair of separate clients, transferring server data and testing various security tasks. It was late in the evening and he had considered going to the bar for some interaction that didn't include feckless bank employees or spastic computer geeks but he had decided against it and headed home. Sitting in the drive, he had opened the door of his car and planted one foot on the cement then remembered he was supposed to have made contact with a man in Dallas, a colleague of the Buckneys'. He had begun composing a text to the fellow when a slight infinitesimal point of light winked at him from the window. Poole shut off the interior light in his car by pressing the switch with his foot. He sat completely still, knowing exactly what had made the spark. He didn’t own a gun. Never carried a knife. He knew how to break bones and that had always been enough.
Had they seen the headlights? If they were still moving as the flash of the tiny pin-light indicated, they hadn’t. He thought about the alarm for only a fraction of a second. If already circumvented, the alarm didn’t matter. The only missing detail that badgered him as he closed the door and began easing up to the house was the number of intruders with whom he might be dealing. He scouted further down the drive that ran the length of the short side of the building, ending at the overhead door on the garage behind the house. Nothing. He considered making that distance and entering the house through the rear but the motion sensor on the security light above the overhead door would give him away.
He thought about waiting for the intruder(s) outside but what if they were waiting on him? What if they saw the car in the drive? He had to act. Around the opposite side of the building, he could go through the gate in the tall security fence and enter the house through the rear door. He found the door open. Shards of glass from the one of the panes sparkled on the steps. He leaned inside, checking the angles for ambush and found the control box for the alarm opened and sprouting strange new wires. There was a device he had never seen hanging from them.
Evenin, DP, a voice he recognized sent a frosty ripple across him. Evenin, Ricky. Neither of them made a move in the thick black space of the room, Poole still leaning in the door and Ricky standing approximately ten feet to his right. Or so Poole estimated. You gonna come in or just stand there like an idiot? I'd rather you hit that light switch next to you before I do. Poole's eyes had adjusted to the blackness and he could translate Ricky's faint shape against the wall. Sure, why not? Ricky said and he flicked the fixture to life. He looked older for sure, thought Poole, but then, it was a face he could never forget, especially considering all they had been through together.
Poole closed the door behind him after determining Ricky wasn't wielding any weapons. Heard you had some trouble a few weeks back, Poole said, but I can't imagine why that would prompt you to break into my house. Ricky gave him a chuckle, You can't imagine; I spose yer gonna tell me you don't know where yer boy Tomahawk is. Tomahawk? Poole asked, knowing quite well how Ricky made up stupid nicknames for all of all his acquaintances. You know who I'm talkin about. I guess I do; you know the cops are looking for you, right, Ricky? All my life, DP, the cops are always lookin for folks; it’s what they do. Well, breaking into homes is no way to stay ahead of the law. Ricky grinned. Poole waited for him to press the issue of Hatchet's whereabouts but he didn't. Ricky just kept grinning and even lifted his eyebrows as if he was the one waiting for Poole to ask the questions.
So he asked, What happened in Fort Worth, Ricky? You don't know? It's pretty foggy. Yer boy killed my brother, DP, and I aim to return the favor. I don't believe you. Believe it. He would never have done anything like that unless it was in self-defense. Self-defense or not, yer boy's gonna die, DP. What the fuck happened, Ricky? you and I have been friends long enough that you owe me a full explanation.
Ricky's mood changed. He examined Poole from head to toe, looking for a physical reason not to recount the ghastly incident. He lifted his face to the ceiling, exhaling, releasing a tonnage of annoyance across the eggshell colored texture. Remember Larry McBrackenbough, Ricky? Poole said. Ricky's look went blank for a moment, Yeah, yeah, I guess I do, lived across the street from the shop. That mutherfucker never had a job, did he? Poole smiled back. Nope, never had a job, just sat on that porch, smokin Reds all fucking day. Poole reached for a tall wooden stool, pulled it under his ass and shook his head. Ricky chuckled, Mutherfucker owned six cars. Yup, and none of them ever moved unless he was towing them or pushing them or hauling them from one side of that stupid lot to the other. Remember that fuckin rooster he had and all those cats? Who could forget the Feline Assassin Squad? remember how he used to spit? How the fuck did he have all that phlegm? he was a bottomless pit of the shit! He would just sit and do nothing for hours and hours just staring at us. Epic sort of nothin like time-lapse photography! That weird sunuvabitch; I'm convinced he robbed us a couple of times. That's no shit; do you remember how you couldn't understand a fuckin thing he said? Oh fuck yeah and his boys were just as bad; those three inbred shits spoke like Samoans or something. They were pretty fucked up too, Ricky's humor began to fade.
He looked up at Poole. Poole had reached the point in the reminiscence for which he had been aiming. Remember, Poole asked him, that night he punched his youngest in the mouth, right in his front yard, in front of everyone? Yeah. Remember what happened next? Yeah. You went over there that night, broke into his house and beat his ass nearly to death. Yeah. He spent a month in the hospital, wore an eye-patch for the rest of his life, I think. Yeah. Remember what happened after that? Yeah. What happened after that, Ricky? You covered for me. Yup, the cops showed up and I gave them that cock-and-bull story about seeing a bunch of Vietnamese kids. Yeah, you saved my ass.
Ricky's static look and unblinking eyes showed his mind was traversing another place and time.
Had they seen the headlights? If they were still moving as the flash of the tiny pin-light indicated, they hadn’t. He thought about the alarm for only a fraction of a second. If already circumvented, the alarm didn’t matter. The only missing detail that badgered him as he closed the door and began easing up to the house was the number of intruders with whom he might be dealing. He scouted further down the drive that ran the length of the short side of the building, ending at the overhead door on the garage behind the house. Nothing. He considered making that distance and entering the house through the rear but the motion sensor on the security light above the overhead door would give him away.
He thought about waiting for the intruder(s) outside but what if they were waiting on him? What if they saw the car in the drive? He had to act. Around the opposite side of the building, he could go through the gate in the tall security fence and enter the house through the rear door. He found the door open. Shards of glass from the one of the panes sparkled on the steps. He leaned inside, checking the angles for ambush and found the control box for the alarm opened and sprouting strange new wires. There was a device he had never seen hanging from them.
Evenin, DP, a voice he recognized sent a frosty ripple across him. Evenin, Ricky. Neither of them made a move in the thick black space of the room, Poole still leaning in the door and Ricky standing approximately ten feet to his right. Or so Poole estimated. You gonna come in or just stand there like an idiot? I'd rather you hit that light switch next to you before I do. Poole's eyes had adjusted to the blackness and he could translate Ricky's faint shape against the wall. Sure, why not? Ricky said and he flicked the fixture to life. He looked older for sure, thought Poole, but then, it was a face he could never forget, especially considering all they had been through together.
Poole closed the door behind him after determining Ricky wasn't wielding any weapons. Heard you had some trouble a few weeks back, Poole said, but I can't imagine why that would prompt you to break into my house. Ricky gave him a chuckle, You can't imagine; I spose yer gonna tell me you don't know where yer boy Tomahawk is. Tomahawk? Poole asked, knowing quite well how Ricky made up stupid nicknames for all of all his acquaintances. You know who I'm talkin about. I guess I do; you know the cops are looking for you, right, Ricky? All my life, DP, the cops are always lookin for folks; it’s what they do. Well, breaking into homes is no way to stay ahead of the law. Ricky grinned. Poole waited for him to press the issue of Hatchet's whereabouts but he didn't. Ricky just kept grinning and even lifted his eyebrows as if he was the one waiting for Poole to ask the questions.
So he asked, What happened in Fort Worth, Ricky? You don't know? It's pretty foggy. Yer boy killed my brother, DP, and I aim to return the favor. I don't believe you. Believe it. He would never have done anything like that unless it was in self-defense. Self-defense or not, yer boy's gonna die, DP. What the fuck happened, Ricky? you and I have been friends long enough that you owe me a full explanation.
Ricky's mood changed. He examined Poole from head to toe, looking for a physical reason not to recount the ghastly incident. He lifted his face to the ceiling, exhaling, releasing a tonnage of annoyance across the eggshell colored texture. Remember Larry McBrackenbough, Ricky? Poole said. Ricky's look went blank for a moment, Yeah, yeah, I guess I do, lived across the street from the shop. That mutherfucker never had a job, did he? Poole smiled back. Nope, never had a job, just sat on that porch, smokin Reds all fucking day. Poole reached for a tall wooden stool, pulled it under his ass and shook his head. Ricky chuckled, Mutherfucker owned six cars. Yup, and none of them ever moved unless he was towing them or pushing them or hauling them from one side of that stupid lot to the other. Remember that fuckin rooster he had and all those cats? Who could forget the Feline Assassin Squad? remember how he used to spit? How the fuck did he have all that phlegm? he was a bottomless pit of the shit! He would just sit and do nothing for hours and hours just staring at us. Epic sort of nothin like time-lapse photography! That weird sunuvabitch; I'm convinced he robbed us a couple of times. That's no shit; do you remember how you couldn't understand a fuckin thing he said? Oh fuck yeah and his boys were just as bad; those three inbred shits spoke like Samoans or something. They were pretty fucked up too, Ricky's humor began to fade.
He looked up at Poole. Poole had reached the point in the reminiscence for which he had been aiming. Remember, Poole asked him, that night he punched his youngest in the mouth, right in his front yard, in front of everyone? Yeah. Remember what happened next? Yeah. You went over there that night, broke into his house and beat his ass nearly to death. Yeah. He spent a month in the hospital, wore an eye-patch for the rest of his life, I think. Yeah. Remember what happened after that? Yeah. What happened after that, Ricky? You covered for me. Yup, the cops showed up and I gave them that cock-and-bull story about seeing a bunch of Vietnamese kids. Yeah, you saved my ass.
Ricky's static look and unblinking eyes showed his mind was traversing another place and time.
Edit 12.4.2018