Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,37

work. They’ll find it. They’ll have dogs.”

Noah’s eyes brightened, became intense. “Then we drive it somewhere, somewhere far away.”

“There’s blood all over the floor.”

“We can clean it up,” he said urgently, almost manically. “I’ll clean it up right now.” He jerked his head about, as if searching for a mop.

“No,” Steve said, aware his dithering was encouraging his friend. “No,” he added more firmly. “Forget it, Noah. Forget it.”

“Dude!” Noah grabbed his arm. “We can do this!”

Steve tugged free. “We have to report this.”

“We can’t—”

“We’re reporting this!”

“Jesus! Don’t you—”

“Yeah, I do! I understand!” Steve said, stepping away, putting space between them. “And I’m sorry, Noah, but we’re doing this right. We start lying, it’s only going to get worse—a lot worse.”

Noah shook his head disgustedly.

“It’ll be okay,” Steve told him. “It will.” He softened his voice. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll sort this all out.”

Then he was gone around the corner, back upstairs.

Noah remained where he was, thinking.

Lonnie Carlsbaugh shoved through the front doors of Randy’s Bar-B-Q and tottered out into the cold, starless night to his car, trying his best to keep in a straight line. He had driven home from Randy’s beer-eyed too many times to count, and he had no reservations about doing so this evening, even after polishing off what must have been seven or eight pints of Coors Extra Gold. Given that it was that time of month again—that time being the end of the month—he had no cash on hand and put the beers on his tab. Randy knew he was good for it. One thing Lonnie did, and did well, was pay his debts. Every two weeks, after receiving his workers’ compensation check from the government, he would stop by Randy’s for a beer and to clear his tab. Keith and Buck and Daryl and his other pals would show up throughout the course of the evening to get away from their wives, and he’d square up with them whatever he owed them from their Tuesday night Texas Hold ’Em games. This would usually leave him with just enough money to pay any outstanding utility bills and pick up a few groceries. He didn’t eat much himself, but his son Scottie could eat a man out of house and home. Last week Scottie’s cunt of a schoolteacher had the nerve to call up Lonnie in the middle of the day, like he had nothing better to do than waste his time talking to her, and ask if Scottie was eating breakfast because he had been caught stealing his classmates snacks at recess time. She also blamed what she called “hunger pains” for his rowdy behavior and poor attention span. Lonnie told the stupid cunt Scottie was eating just fine, had eggs every morning. And that was mostly true. He ate whatever the hen laid. That was usually one egg, but sometimes it might be two. And on the days the hen laid a zero—well, how was that Lonnie’s fault? He couldn’t control the biology of a chicken. He wasn’t fucking God, was he?

It really pissed Lonnie off, Scottie’s teachers calling him up like they did. Didn’t they understand he was a single father doing the best he could for the boy? Georgina, his wife and the boy’s ma, had died in childbirth from something the doctors had a big fancy word for. That had been shitty luck. Georgina might not have been a looker, but her family had money coming out of their collective gazoo. Her parents bought him and Georgie the house for their wedding gift, and furnished it with stock from one of their furniture stores. Lonnie had been in the crosshairs to manage one of those stores. But when Georgie died the family didn’t want anything to do with him or Scottie. So he was stuck raising the boy by himself. And it hadn’t been easy either. No sir. But he’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d raised Scottie fine and well. So what if the boy had a few behavioral problems. Hell, all kids did. What was a parent to do about that? Let them live and learn and fend for themselves, was Lonnie’s mantra. That’s how you built character. That’s how Lonnie’s father raised Lonnie, and he’d turned out all right.

Lonnie made it to his rusted puke-green Buick Skylark without falling on his ass and spent a good ten seconds finding the right key to unlock the door. He dropped in behind the steering wheel with a great sigh of