Black Rabbit and Other Stories by Salvatore Difalco Page A

fuck are you looking at? Bert said without turning to him.
    The question, and the hostility underpinning it, took Presley by surprise. He sat up and stared straight ahead. What a fucking joke. These adults were so paranoid about everything. Like what did Bert think, that he was going to jack him for the cash? Fucking moron. So this guy, this so-called friend of his father, was a moron. He’d met quite a few of them when he was locked up, inmates and guards alike. People liked to jump to conclusions, they thought they knew what the fucking score was when in fact they didn’t have a clue.
    Bert wiped his nose with the back of his fat hand. His ugly beard could have used a trim. His ears looked like flaps, the lobes distended from years of bearing earrings. What kind of man was he? Had he ever done time? Had he ever killed anybody? Most bikers he had met were scumbags. He didn’t admire them. They had bullied his fatherin the past—he had witnessed them roughing him up on more than one occasion—and had ripped him off a few times. His father said it was the price of doing business with them, but Presley found that lame. Bert turned into a drive-through donut shop. Presley looked at him. What a fucking goof, stopping right now. The Dacunhas would be pissed if they were late. Bert leaned to the metal box on a post and ordered a large hot chocolate. Who the fuck drinks a large hot chocolate? Presley thought with scorn. He didn’t think Bert was going to order anything for him but at the last moment he asked him what he wanted. Presley requested a large triple-triple coffee, hoping to irritate him. But he didn’t react. The sallow girl serving them looked familiar to Presley; he figured he had probably sold her weed or crack before.
    The coffee was a good one. Presley drank it while it was nice and hot. Bert blew on his hot chocolate and sipped it carefully. He steered with one hand and gripped the paper cup with the other. Presley wished he would put on some music, but didn’t want to ask in case the guy got touchy. He figured if Bert wanted to hear music he would have put it on already. What a fucking stiff not to put on some music. People were funny. They liked to demonstrate power any time they had a chance. They liked to control things whenever they could. This guy Bert struck Presley as a control freak. Look how clean the truck is, he thought, admiring the polished black dash and leather seats—a pristine interior, except for the ass smell. Presley noticed a gold coin ring on Bert’s pinkie, a nice touch. He wanted a ring like that. It was cool.
    They turned onto a country road near the canal and drove a good distance in pitch darkness, the headlights beaming into nothingness. Bert leaned forward and squinted. Fucking dark, he muttered. Presley nodded. He drained the rest of his coffee, rolled down the window and tossed out the cup. Bert jerked his head around and glared at him. What the fuck was that? he barked. Presley didn’t know what to say. Well? Bert said, flexing his jaw muscles. I threw out the cup, Presley said. Bert slammed on the brakes and the truck fish-tailed to a screeching stop, its carriage creaking. Go get the fucking cup, Bert said. Presley thought he was joking for a second, but helooked serious. Go get the fucking cup, he repeated in a low voice. Presley climbed out of the truck, walked back in the darkness for a hundred metres and couldn’t find the cup. He continued backtracking, swinging his head left and right. In the distance the pickup truck’s brake lights glowed like a pair of red eyes.
    After five minutes, Presley abandoned the search. It was too dark out there. He heard rustling in the surrounding brush, and prayed it wasn’t a skunk, sniffing to make sure. Then he saw oncoming headlights and moved to the side of the road where his shoes crunched over glinting glass shards. As he bent down to inspect, a white van passed by, slowing as it