for long. Anything sounds better than sitting on his front porch. Whereas he started the spring planning his day around watching the sun set over the Blanca Massif, now he finds himself staring it down.
Patterson hadn’t expected to see Junior again anytime soon. As a matter of fact, he’d meant to make that a rule. There are many things a man of Patterson’s age shouldn’t be doing, and pulling guns on Mexicans in their own bars is probably at the top of that list. But sometimes events conspire against you. And after seeing those fucking pictures he figures he’s up for any trouble Junior can get them into.
He’s wrong.
J unior’s sitting on his couch with his cowboy boots kicked up on the coffee table, holding a remote control. When Patterson walks in through the screen door, he can’t tell at first what the remote control is for. But then he follows Junior’s eyes to the television mounted on the wall. It’s the size of a small movie screen. “I got satellite hooked up,” Junior says. “You wouldn’t believe all the channels I can get.”
“It’s a nice set,” Patterson says.
“It’s a boring piece of shit,” Junior says. “I been sitting here forthree fucking hours trying to find something to watch that doesn’t make me wanna take a pipe wrench to my own fingers. The only thing it doesn’t have is Wizard of Oz , and that’s the reason I fucking bought it.”
Patterson takes a chair. “You get baseball games?”
“Yeah, I get baseball games. Everybody gets baseball games.”
“Let’s see a game.”
Junior flips channels, stopping on a Reds game. “You want a drink?” he asks.
“I can’t dance and it’s raining too hard to haul stone.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It means yes.”
“Then say what you fucking mean.” Junior fetches a couple of glasses and a bottle of bourbon out of the kitchen, hands one of the glasses to Patterson. “You don’t happen to know any ladies with black hair, do you? About twenty years younger’n you? Better looking than you’d ever have any right to think about?”
“Not interested.” Patterson takes the bottle and pours himself a drink. “And I hope that ain’t what you brought me here for.”
“Not hardly,” Junior says.
“Then what?”
“You’re going to want to finish your drink first,” he says. “I can promise you that.”
24
nagging
C hase is tied onto a ladder-backed kitchen chair in Junior’s basement, clothesline triple-wrapped around each arm and leg, duct tape over his mouth. His tank top and jeans are stiff with dried blood and vomit, his face swollen and red. Patterson whistles softly, coming down the basement stairs, and Chase’s eyes try to leap out of their sockets and strangle him.
“You got yourself into a hell of a mess,” Patterson says to him.
“I wouldn’t have duct taped his mouth except he kept screaming.” Junior leans on the wall by the stairs. “Not that anybody could probably hear him on the street, but I could hear him over the television.”
“One hell of a mess.” Patterson kneels down in front of Chase. Chase’s arms strain at the rope.
“I didn’t know what you wanted me to do with him. He was nosing around Denver trying to figure out where you lived. Says you stole his drugs and ran off with his wife.”
“He’s full of shit,” Patterson says. “He had his wife hogtied in the bathroom. When I let her loose she took all his crystal meth. I ain’t seen her since.” From the way the chair starts hopping up and down, Patterson can tell Chase doesn’t believe him.
“He didn’t come to do you any good. So you know. He had a little Kel-Tec .380 on him and there was a shotgun in his car.”
“That right?” Patterson asks Chase. “You come to kill me?” Chase’s head bobs up and down sharply. “Jesus,” Patterson says.
“Shoot him,” Junior says. “Nobody’ll hear it. Hell, even if they do, nobody’ll give a shit.”
“I don’t think he’s going to give me
Patterson hadn’t expected to see Junior again anytime soon. As a matter of fact, he’d meant to make that a rule. There are many things a man of Patterson’s age shouldn’t be doing, and pulling guns on Mexicans in their own bars is probably at the top of that list. But sometimes events conspire against you. And after seeing those fucking pictures he figures he’s up for any trouble Junior can get them into.
He’s wrong.
J unior’s sitting on his couch with his cowboy boots kicked up on the coffee table, holding a remote control. When Patterson walks in through the screen door, he can’t tell at first what the remote control is for. But then he follows Junior’s eyes to the television mounted on the wall. It’s the size of a small movie screen. “I got satellite hooked up,” Junior says. “You wouldn’t believe all the channels I can get.”
“It’s a nice set,” Patterson says.
“It’s a boring piece of shit,” Junior says. “I been sitting here forthree fucking hours trying to find something to watch that doesn’t make me wanna take a pipe wrench to my own fingers. The only thing it doesn’t have is Wizard of Oz , and that’s the reason I fucking bought it.”
Patterson takes a chair. “You get baseball games?”
“Yeah, I get baseball games. Everybody gets baseball games.”
“Let’s see a game.”
Junior flips channels, stopping on a Reds game. “You want a drink?” he asks.
“I can’t dance and it’s raining too hard to haul stone.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It means yes.”
“Then say what you fucking mean.” Junior fetches a couple of glasses and a bottle of bourbon out of the kitchen, hands one of the glasses to Patterson. “You don’t happen to know any ladies with black hair, do you? About twenty years younger’n you? Better looking than you’d ever have any right to think about?”
“Not interested.” Patterson takes the bottle and pours himself a drink. “And I hope that ain’t what you brought me here for.”
“Not hardly,” Junior says.
“Then what?”
“You’re going to want to finish your drink first,” he says. “I can promise you that.”
24
nagging
C hase is tied onto a ladder-backed kitchen chair in Junior’s basement, clothesline triple-wrapped around each arm and leg, duct tape over his mouth. His tank top and jeans are stiff with dried blood and vomit, his face swollen and red. Patterson whistles softly, coming down the basement stairs, and Chase’s eyes try to leap out of their sockets and strangle him.
“You got yourself into a hell of a mess,” Patterson says to him.
“I wouldn’t have duct taped his mouth except he kept screaming.” Junior leans on the wall by the stairs. “Not that anybody could probably hear him on the street, but I could hear him over the television.”
“One hell of a mess.” Patterson kneels down in front of Chase. Chase’s arms strain at the rope.
“I didn’t know what you wanted me to do with him. He was nosing around Denver trying to figure out where you lived. Says you stole his drugs and ran off with his wife.”
“He’s full of shit,” Patterson says. “He had his wife hogtied in the bathroom. When I let her loose she took all his crystal meth. I ain’t seen her since.” From the way the chair starts hopping up and down, Patterson can tell Chase doesn’t believe him.
“He didn’t come to do you any good. So you know. He had a little Kel-Tec .380 on him and there was a shotgun in his car.”
“That right?” Patterson asks Chase. “You come to kill me?” Chase’s head bobs up and down sharply. “Jesus,” Patterson says.
“Shoot him,” Junior says. “Nobody’ll hear it. Hell, even if they do, nobody’ll give a shit.”
“I don’t think he’s going to give me
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