Skunk Hunt by J. Clayton Rogers Page B

seen. A few vans parked nearby had
ominous potential. One or all of them could be packed with
eavesdropping equipment. At least Yvonne Kendle's heap was nowhere
in sight.
    I looked back at my sister and suddenly
understood her secret sorrow. She couldn't keep a man because she
stank of helicopters. I took a step back. Jesus, a mutant! I half
expected her to sprout rotor blades. With me, understanding and
empathy occupy opposite ends of the field.
    "I can't find my Sentra," Barbara said,
bangles clanging on the side of her head as she twisted around.
    "Aren't we supposed to talk, first?" Jeremy
danced into her line of sight. "Do you understand the message? Is
that why you're trying to get away?"
    Barbara jerked as she came on-topic. It was
like seeing a cat respond to a can opener. Then her eyes as quickly
faded, and we could see that she had already forgotten half of the
message.
    "Shit," said Jeremy.
    "Don't swear at me," Barbara scowled. "Did I
swear at you?"
    "'Ammo lockers into ploughshares'," I quoted,
watching both of them closely.
    "Hey Mute, you have a memory." Jeremy shot me
a jalapeno grin.
    "'The leftovers of the old war include
socks and underwear, not very well cleaned'." My face was a
mediocre Tums. "Do you know
what it means?"
    But now Barbara was staring at me. How could
she guess what I was thinking? Was it feminine intuition, or did
brain farts clear the mind?
    "Doubletalk should know," I said, then
tumbled down a mental hole. Crap. I had not had enough practice
disconnecting my mind from my mouth. Too much time spent alone.
    "If you know what I should know, then you
must know." This was not the old Jeremy speaking, who would have
stumbled after two words of reason. Prison had really honed his
thought processes.
    "Come on," Jeremy needled. "What's the
rest?"
    I tried to dodge. "Why didn't we bring a
notepad?"
    "What happened to your whoop-de-do printer?"
Barbara said.
    "You saw how small the tables are there,"
said Jeremy. "I couldn't fit it alongside the laptop. Damn!"
    "We should have written it down," Barbara
moaned.
    "But we don't need to take notes, do we?"
said Jeremy, leering at me. "We've got you. Come on..."
    I took a deep breath. "'Hidden away, the gin
bottle scrambles the scrambled brain. A nip here and there from the
secret compartment.'"
    "Yeah, that's it," Jeremy nodded.
    "Then you remember it word for word, too," I
said.
    "Redundancy can't hurt."
    Okay, they had a dictionary at the
Powhatan School for Scoundrels. One that included definitions. I
didn't look at my brother with more respect. Actually, it was more
fear. A punk with a jailbird education was an awkward joe to deal
with. Before prison, they knocked you over the head with tire
irons. After prison, they knock you down with
words— then bring out the tire
iron.
    I was like a crumpled piece of paper and
Jeremy and Barbara were busily unfolding me. No matter which way I
turned, it was my two hands against their four. They bracketed me,
Jeremy's hard chest heaving up against one shoulder while Barbara's
venomous jugs weighed down on the other.
    "Okay, okay," I said.
    "Yeah," said Jeremy. "Okay."

CHAPTER 9

    The so-called door to Flint Dementis' house
was a piece of plyboard that sagged beneath Jeremy's knuckles with
each hairy knock. This was old-style Oregon Hill architecture,
where keeping up with the Jonses meant clearing a path through a
museum of cans and bottles and other assorted garbage (not to
mention the occasional drunken derelict) to reach the front
porch—and even that was considered the height of hoity-toity.
Thirty years ago the entrance to Flint's house would have been
indistinguishable from most other doors facing the street. My own
house, a couple of blocks down, had the same flaked paint and
sagging exterior, but some nutcake inspector had threatened to
invoke a dozen city ordinances against me. I caved in and swept the
catshit off my steps.
    There was a soft murmur from inside which
sounded like "Get the door!" I