the Bruins on NESN.
“What’s up, gentlemen?” I asked.
The smaller guy looked up quickly, his eyes darting around for exits and weapons. The longer guy was more languid. Sloth-like. He looked familiar.
“Oh, hey,” said the scruffy character. “Uhh, Chick with you?”
He stood up, stuffed his hands in his pockets.
I shook my head no.
“Haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you guys.”
I looked at the smaller one.
“You LaBeau?”
He looked at me nervously, then nodded.
I nodded back and turned toward the other one, who was still lying on Chick’s bed.
“Feet off, please,” I said, pointing to his boots.
Dude said, “Oh hell yeah, sorry,” and swung himself up to a sitting position. A fat Beantown Buddha. Then I recognized him.
“You’re Robbie Golack,” I said.
Dude nodded.
“I know you?”
I shook my head.
“Naah. But I just had a beer with your brother.”
He tilted his head, not so much thinking as trying to remember.
“Well, you must mean Tim-Rick, because ain’t no beer where Ronnie’s at.”
The scruffy guy gave a courtesy laugh.
“Yeah,” I said. Whatever. “Tim-Rick. Down at the Heirloom.”
Robbie looked almost wistful.
“Yeah? I haven’t seen that kid in forever. How’s he doing?”
I shrugged.
“You all must be excited about the baby. Gonna be an uncle, huh?”
Robbie looked up, semi-sharp, a butter knife of attention.
“No shit?”
He looked bewildered and, for the briefest of moments, hurt.
“Little fucker never calls anymore. When I see him, I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Well, that should fix it.
LaBeau checked his pager even though it hadn’t buzzed. Dude had a pager.
“Yo, we gotta go,” he said.
Robbie shook his head.
“I ain’t leaving until that motherfucker shows up with the money.”
LaBeau blew air out of his cheeks.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Robbie Golack.
“You guys got something for him?” I asked.
LaBeau didn’t say anything but Robbie Golack did because he was dumb as a stump.
“Shit yeah, we got something for him,” he said, looking me over. Seemed like he was doing it more for my benefit than his own, like he wanted me to know I was dealing with a seriously bad dude. “And he already owes us from this afternoon.”
“How much does he owe you?”
Robbie shrugged.
“Fuck.”
He gestured to LaBeau without the decency to look at him.
“All in? Two fifty,” said LaBeau.
“Goddamn,” I said. “For what?”
This was one Golack could handle.
“For this,” he said, taking a small plastic pill jar out of his tracksuit pocket and rattling it. “Yahtzee.”
He put the jar back in his pocket.
“And for lunch.”
“Easy, Rob,” said LaBeau.
I thought for a minute.
“Okay,” I said. “You guys going anywhere?”
“Fuck no,” said Robbie Golack, swinging back onto the bed. “And I’m gonna put my boots up until that piece of shit comes back.”
LaBeau sank down into the desk chair but kept his hands on the sides, as if, should an opportunity present itself, he might get right back up. Any opportunity at all. Elvis LaBeau did not want to be there, which made two of us.
“Give me five minutes,” I said.
Golack shrugged. “Give you all night, fuck I care.”
I cut through the parking lot, stealing a glance at the Escalade’s interior. It was dark and still. I jogged across the Knotsford-Gable Road to the gas station, where there was an ATM. I took out $300 and slushed a large cherry Slurpee into a cup. I stuck a straw in it but left the lid on the counter. The attendant, a pockmarked woman in her early thirties, barely looked up.
On the way back, I could see LaBeau in the parking lot, peering into the passenger side of my truck.
I walked up.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He looked at me, and then whistled back toward the room.
“Hey, Robbie!”
“Give me the stuff for Chick,” I said.
LaBeau just fidgeted. Cars went by, and they were making him
“What’s up, gentlemen?” I asked.
The smaller guy looked up quickly, his eyes darting around for exits and weapons. The longer guy was more languid. Sloth-like. He looked familiar.
“Oh, hey,” said the scruffy character. “Uhh, Chick with you?”
He stood up, stuffed his hands in his pockets.
I shook my head no.
“Haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you guys.”
I looked at the smaller one.
“You LaBeau?”
He looked at me nervously, then nodded.
I nodded back and turned toward the other one, who was still lying on Chick’s bed.
“Feet off, please,” I said, pointing to his boots.
Dude said, “Oh hell yeah, sorry,” and swung himself up to a sitting position. A fat Beantown Buddha. Then I recognized him.
“You’re Robbie Golack,” I said.
Dude nodded.
“I know you?”
I shook my head.
“Naah. But I just had a beer with your brother.”
He tilted his head, not so much thinking as trying to remember.
“Well, you must mean Tim-Rick, because ain’t no beer where Ronnie’s at.”
The scruffy guy gave a courtesy laugh.
“Yeah,” I said. Whatever. “Tim-Rick. Down at the Heirloom.”
Robbie looked almost wistful.
“Yeah? I haven’t seen that kid in forever. How’s he doing?”
I shrugged.
“You all must be excited about the baby. Gonna be an uncle, huh?”
Robbie looked up, semi-sharp, a butter knife of attention.
“No shit?”
He looked bewildered and, for the briefest of moments, hurt.
“Little fucker never calls anymore. When I see him, I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Well, that should fix it.
LaBeau checked his pager even though it hadn’t buzzed. Dude had a pager.
“Yo, we gotta go,” he said.
Robbie shook his head.
“I ain’t leaving until that motherfucker shows up with the money.”
LaBeau blew air out of his cheeks.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Robbie Golack.
“You guys got something for him?” I asked.
LaBeau didn’t say anything but Robbie Golack did because he was dumb as a stump.
“Shit yeah, we got something for him,” he said, looking me over. Seemed like he was doing it more for my benefit than his own, like he wanted me to know I was dealing with a seriously bad dude. “And he already owes us from this afternoon.”
“How much does he owe you?”
Robbie shrugged.
“Fuck.”
He gestured to LaBeau without the decency to look at him.
“All in? Two fifty,” said LaBeau.
“Goddamn,” I said. “For what?”
This was one Golack could handle.
“For this,” he said, taking a small plastic pill jar out of his tracksuit pocket and rattling it. “Yahtzee.”
He put the jar back in his pocket.
“And for lunch.”
“Easy, Rob,” said LaBeau.
I thought for a minute.
“Okay,” I said. “You guys going anywhere?”
“Fuck no,” said Robbie Golack, swinging back onto the bed. “And I’m gonna put my boots up until that piece of shit comes back.”
LaBeau sank down into the desk chair but kept his hands on the sides, as if, should an opportunity present itself, he might get right back up. Any opportunity at all. Elvis LaBeau did not want to be there, which made two of us.
“Give me five minutes,” I said.
Golack shrugged. “Give you all night, fuck I care.”
I cut through the parking lot, stealing a glance at the Escalade’s interior. It was dark and still. I jogged across the Knotsford-Gable Road to the gas station, where there was an ATM. I took out $300 and slushed a large cherry Slurpee into a cup. I stuck a straw in it but left the lid on the counter. The attendant, a pockmarked woman in her early thirties, barely looked up.
On the way back, I could see LaBeau in the parking lot, peering into the passenger side of my truck.
I walked up.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He looked at me, and then whistled back toward the room.
“Hey, Robbie!”
“Give me the stuff for Chick,” I said.
LaBeau just fidgeted. Cars went by, and they were making him
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