Once You Break a Knuckle (19 page)

—That kid was on dope, I said.

—Yer on dope, he shot, and
thrump
ed his fingers on the Camaro's hood. He flashed his gums. —Go on, Skinny.

—What the fuck, Animal.

—Yer in muh way, Skinny, he said, and cocked his head to indicate Vic. —I seen better windows 'en you.

Then the station's stormdoor clattered and Vic yelped and I turned and saw the biggest goddamn Native man ever. He wore Carhartts and steeltoes and no shirt beneath
the straps. The buckles dimpled his collar. His hair gummied to his cheeks and his head tilted at an angle. This gruesome, spider-like scar spanned his chest and the whole left nipple was sliced off, snubbed like a button nose. He leaned an arm-length calliper on his neck. Then his face jerked into a smile, but not a friendly kind. —I never seen a Camaro can run on diesel, he said, stressing his
e
's.

For a second he stood there in the doorway as if he might say
gotcha!
Vic bunched excess sleeve in her fists and I sniffed the air to see if the place reeked like diesel engines. And there it was: the smell of carbide and tar and dirty steel. Animal stared straight at the Native guy, as if in a game of chicken instead of wrecking his engine with the wrong fuel, as if he just needed to overcome something besides the way things actually were, as if he could just
be
stubborn enough. Then he killed the pump and yanked the nozzle from his tank. —Where the fuck's et say?

The guy did a shrug-a-lug. —It's a trucker stop.

—Yeah well I'm notta trucker.

—Me neither, the guy said, and moved between Vic and me, toward the car, and the air that wafted after him stunk of B.O. His neck muscles strained to hold his head straight, like he was used to keeping it down. A scrapper's stance, almost. I caught Vic's attention and her forehead scrunched up and the skin at her eyes tightened like old leather. I'd never known her to be the worrying type.

—Nice car though, the guy said. He dragged a wide hand over the Camaro's cobalt finish.

—Yeah et is.

—I'm Walla, he said, and swung his head to Vic. —This your girlfriend?

Animal banged his commie hat against his knuckles. —Ya got a pump er sompthen?

—Nup, Walla said, and stressed the
p
.

—Or sompthen else?

—Buddy has a siphon.

—Ken we get et?

—Nup, getting too late, he said, and pointed with one sausage finger at the darkening sky. —Tomorrow, I bet.

Animal's mouth jawed in circles and I could all but hear his brain trying to find a way to make it all go right. —There a campsite nearby? I said, to buy time.

Walla twitched his head behind him. —The summit. Not like she's a real mountain, though. You owe me twelve thirty-seven for the diesel.

—The hells I do, Animal said, and crossed his arms.

Walla set the callipers on the Camaro's hood and their measurement end
tink
ed. He swung his gaze from me to Animal to Vic, then to Animal and then at the shop. He stood nearest Vic of all, a full two and a half heads taller than her, and I swear to God he had hands big as mudflaps. —No, he said, very slowly, —you do.

Vic dug cash from her wallet, fifteen bucks. She handed it over and Walla tugged the bills one at a time. —I'll get your change, he said, and stepped toward the station. Then, over his shoulder: —You can't leave your car there. He grinned at Vic and his teeth were white as gold. —Well, maybe you can. Push her outta the way of the pump.

I got behind the Camaro. Animal hung at the gas tank like one of those old guys who hope somebody'll come talk to them. —Put her in neutral, idiot, I snapped, and dug my toes into the ground and heaved and the Camaro rocked. Vic pressed her back to the bumper. —What's happening? she whispered to me, but I grunted and got the car rolling and hoped I didn't have to scrap with Walla.

We pushed the Camaro outside the clown face's shadow and I put myself between Vic and the station. Walla reappeared, horselike in his gait. He dumped the coins in my palm and ran his tongue over his teeth. He touched a notch under his jaw. —The summit'd be a helluva climb, he said. —Especially if you're taking your booze. I got a pickup.

—We can hike it, I said.

—Trade you a lift.

—Fer what, Animal barked.

—What ya got? Walla said, and rubbed his triceps. The scar tissue on his chest looked sun-dried, pinker than it ought to, and in the sticky neon light it shone raw and oily like a beating. —Aw hell, he said, —I'll help you out. Get yer stuff.

We grabbed our beer cooler and Vic took the sleeping bag and Animal pocketed
The Once and Future King
. Walla disappeared around the gas station and a few minutes later he came chewing up gravel in a green three-seater Dodge. He was sardined in driver with his shoulders hunched and his knees against his armpits. The truck had a bust-out rear window and poly duct-taped in the gap. Horse quilts blanketed the box, warm with the smell of dog.

—One of you needs to sit in the bed, Walla said, then dangled his keys, —and one of you needs to drive, cause I'm shittered and the fucking pigs have it out for me.

Animal lunged for the keys and me and him shared this moment between us, his mouth twisted like a grin, and I wanted to hit him so bad. But if I whaled on him I'd look bad to Vic, so I climbed into the mess of bedding while Animal drove the switchback. The truck whipped around bends and I imagined Walla's skunky B.O. sneaking through the patched-up window, how bad it must've been in the cab with him. Animal was goddamn lucky he'd pocketed his book. The whole way, Vic shifted uncomfortably, and I could hear her thighs brushing Walla on one side and Animal on the other.

WE GOT TO THE
summit when the sun tucked under the Rockies and everything went grey and dead-looking as the forest. Walla showed us a firepit ringed by skeleton trees where he'd piled some chopped wood. Animal collapsed near the pit to work a blaze. He waved Vic off when she offered to help, so she dug a mickey of Canadian Club from the cooler. Fifty feet off, a cliff dropped to the highway below, where the Ferris wheel keeled and the goddamn clown face smirked.

—Thanks for helping us, Vic said. She sat down on an upturned log, whiskey on her knee.

—My dad tells me if you're cooking stew, and you don't put meat in it, you can't bitch when yer eating it, Walla said, and he grinned to show his pearly teeth, and Vic
laughed and so did I, though I didn't know what the hell he meant. Then he said: —Now I need a lift down to the station.

Vic froze in the middle of sipping her whiskey and Animal looked up from his smouldering fire. —What'dya mean.

—I told you, I'm shittered, and the pigs have it out for me.

—I'm buildin the fire, Animal said, but Walla had his eyes on Vic, anyway. Vic glanced from Walla to me and I knew she wouldn't ask me to step in, because she won't do that, ever. One time she figured out how to fix a circuit fault on her Ranger all on her own, because she didn't want to ask her old man how.

—I'll do it, I said to Walla, and then I dumped my half-empty beer over Animal's wimpy fire and he threatened to beat me to death with the kindling.

Walla flicked me his keys and I palmed them from the air and got in the driver seat, and he swung into passenger like a buddy. Not thirty seconds into the drive his stench soured up the cab, but at least he smelled like a working man, like he just forgot to shower, and not like some hobo. On the way down, the poly over the rear panel smacked about and more than once he leaned sideways to inspect the tape. He spread one leg across the seat, draped his arm clear out the window, and I wondered if his knuckles bobbed along the gravel. In the distance, the horizon glowed from the park lights and the treetops resembled hundreds of heated needles. I kept the highbeams on and
scanned for marble eyes, since twilight is the worst time for hitting deer, but Walla told me that all the deer fled north with the beetles. —Nothin here but us and the flies, he said. —A thousand dead acres.

—The dead roads, or something.

—I don't mind that, Walla said. Then: —They're an odd couple, eh?

—Who.

—The girl and him, Animal.

—They're not a couple.

—The way he looks at her? Sure they are. Or gonna be, he said, and punched me on the arm like we were friends.

—He looks at all girls like that.

Walla smiled like a Mason jar. He had fillings in his teeth. —Her, too. She was lookin at him too.

The station and the clown face swept into view, and as I geared down my fist touched Walla's knee. Vic had about zero reason to go for a guy like Animal, so I don't know. But then I imagined the two of them bent together at that shitty fire, red marks scraped over Vic's neck and collarbones from Animal's barbed-wire stubble.

—You got a thing for her, eh, Walla said.

—No.

—Might be you need to take him down a notch.

—We're buds, I said, and parked the truck.

Walla extracted himself from the passenger seat. —Nah man, he said across the hood. —
We're
buds.

Whatever the hell he meant I'll never know, since I ditched him and started back along the road, toward the
summit. The whole way I thought about Animal and Vic and I tried not think about them at the same time. I'd known them so long – my two best friends, really. The outside smelled more like driftwood than a forest. Wind kicked dirt at my face and though it breezed around the treetops they just creaked like power poles. I wouldn't have been surprised if a goddamn wolfman came pounding out of the dark. A few times headlights tear-assed up the road and a few times I almost barrelled sideways and I just got madder even thinking of it.

Then the slope evened out, which meant I neared the summit, and then the trees flickered campfire-orange. The road looped our campsite so I cut through the forest. Never been so scared in my life, those last steps. Animal atop Vic, grinding away, probably still in his stupid commie hat and his Converses – no sight in the world could be worse. I'd rather get shot. Walla was right – Animal'd been gunning for her the whole trip. Right from the start when he kicked me to the backseat, some big plan – some big, selfish plan.

I got close enough to see the flames. Vic sat under her sleeping bag, off near the cliff edge, but I could only make out her outline in the orange light. Animal was MIA. They might have already finished, how could I know. I crept along the tree line, scanned for him. Not sure what I hoped to accomplish. It's not like he kept a dark secret.

I found him outside the campsite with his back to the slope and his cock in his hand and a stream of piss splattering on a tree. It was dark enough that I didn't get the
whole picture, thank God for that. He'd crossed the road to make use of a big pine that might have been a little bit alive – for some reason Animal really didn't like those dead trees. I had some things to say to him. Vic's old man once told me a guy needs to know when to pick his battles, and as I watched Animal, pissing as if nothing mattered, I figured it out: a guy needs to know what he cares about most, and Animal, well, he didn't care about stuff. But he had to know I did. Christ, everybody in the valley knew I did. It'd be like if I tried to steal his car for a joyride. I'm his friend, for fucker's sake.

Then a truck hauled ass up the road, kicking gravel in a spray. It had a good clip and its rear end fishtailed, out of control or so the passengers could get a laugh. Its headlamps swung around, but on that switchback the dead trees scattered the light – no way the driver would see Animal, not before clobbering him. Animal turned as if to check what the commotion was about. Either he couldn't see or he was too stupid to dive for cover or he figured no truck would dare to run him down. I saw the trajectory, though, loud and clear: the pickup's rear end would swing into him, knock him ass-over-teakettle into the woods, and that'd be that for Animal Brooks. But I didn't yell out. I didn't make a sound. Because all I could think of was his hand on Vic's thigh, over and over the whole trip, his wild grin in the rearview and all the stuff he'd pulled to be alone with her. So nope, I didn't yell out, and the truck fishtailed right toward him and he yowled like a dog and I lost track of where he went.

Vic bolted from the tree line, almost right into me, and I scrambled after her. She gave me a look, as if surprised, but I just nodded like I ought to be there. Animal had already clambered to his feet. Moss and dead twigs stuck to his face, and his commie hat had been biffed away and the forest floor was beat up where he'd rolled across it. He pulled a pinecone from his hair and stared at it in wonder.

—Animal, Vic barked. —You okay?

He flicked the pinecone aside, seemed to notice us. —Why the hell didn't ya say sompthen, he said, staring at me.

—What?

—Yuh were across the road. Why didn't ya yell out or sompthen. Fucken truck nearly killed me.

—I just got here, I told him.

—Ya just got here, eh.

—Yeah, got back right now.

Animal swiped his commie hat from the ground. He banged it against his thigh to dust it off. —Just en time to see my kung fu reflexes, he said, and grinned.

—So you're okay? Vic said.

—Shaken up, yeah.

Vic grabbed Animal's chin and turned his head sideways. His cheek was scraped and dirty and Vic licked her thumb to rub it clean. —Mighta pulled a groin muscle, too, he said when she stepped back, and Vic lasted a full two seconds of his leer before she punched him in the chest hard enough to make him wheeze.

AFTERWARD, BY THE FIRE
, Animal shook out his adrenalin. —Woulda sucked to run that truck over, he said, and laughed, a deep, throaty laugh like a guy does when he's survived an event that should have killed him. Then he dug into the cooler and started skulling beers to drown his jitters.