store. When his wife came to the garage on Thursday nights for her bingo money her hair was usually done up in large green rollers under a green chiffon scarf. This made her head look like a futuristic AM/FM radio. Once, near three in the morning, he had wakened and looked at her slack paper face in the soulless graveyard glare of the streetlight outside their bedroom window. He had thought how easy it could be—just jackknife over on top of her, just drive a knee into her gut so she would lose her air and be unable to scream, just screw both hands around her neck. Then just put her in the tub and whack her into prime cuts and mail her away someplace to Robert Driscoll, c/o General Delivery. Any old place. Lima, Indiana. North Pole, New Hampshire. Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Kunkle, Iowa. Any old place. It could be done. God knew it had been done in the past.
“No,” he told Rocky, “I guess it doesn’t say anyplace in the regs that they have to work on their own. Exactly. In so many words.” He upended the can and the rest of the beer gurgled down his throat. It was warm in the garage and he had had no supper. He could feel the beer rise immediately into his mind.
“Hey, Stiff Socks just came up empty!” Rocky said. “Hand up a brew, Leo.”
“No, Rocky, I really . . .”
Leo, who was seeing none too well, finally happened on a can. “Want a wide receiver?” he asked, and passed the can to Rocky. Rocky handed it to Bob, whose demurrals petered out as he held the can’s cold actuality in his hand. It bore the smiling face of Lynn Swann. He opened it. Leo farted homily to close the transaction.
All of them drank from football-player cans for a moment.
“Horn work?” Bob finally asked, breaking the silence apologetically.
“Sure.” Rocky hit the ring with his elbow. It emitted a feeble squeak. “Battery’s a little low, though.”
They drank in silence.
“That goddam rat was as big as a cocker spaniel!” Leo exclaimed.
“Kid’s carrying quite a load,” Rocky explained.
Bob thought about it. “Yuh,” he said.
This struck Rocky’s funnybone and he cackled through a mouthful of beer. A little trickled out of his nose, and this made Bob laugh. It did Rocky good to hear him, because Bob had looked like one sad sack when they had rolled in.
They drank in silence awhile more.
“Diana Rucklehouse,” Bob said meditatively.
Rocky sniggered.
Bob chuckled and held his hands out in front of his chest.
Rocky laughed and held his own out even further.
Bob guffawed. “You member that picture of Ursula Andress that Tinker Johnson pasted on ole lady Freemantle’s bulletin board?”
Rocky howled. “And he drawed on those two big old jahoobies—”
“—and she just about had a heart-attack—”
“You two can laugh,” Leo said morosely, and farted.
Bob blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Laugh,” Leo said. “I said you two can laugh. Neither of you has got a hole in your back. ”
“Don’t lissen to him,” Rocky said (a trifle uneasily). “Kid’s got a skinful.”
“You got a hole in your back?” Bob asked Leo.
“The laundry,” Leo said, smiling. “We got these big washers, see? Only we call ‘em wheels. They’re laundry wheels. That’s why we call ’em wheels. I load ‘em, I pull ’em, I load’em again. Put the shit in dirty, take the shit out clean. That’s what I do, and I do it with class.” He looked at Bob with insane confidence. “Got a hole in my back from doing it, though.”
“Yeah?” Bob was looking at Leo with fascination. Rocky shifted uneasily.
“There’s a hole in the roof,” Leo said. “Right over the third wheel. They’re round, see, so we call ’em wheels. When it rains, the water comes down. Drop drop drop. Each drop hits me—whap!—in the back. Now I got a hole there. Like this.” He made a shallow curve with one hand. “Wanna see?”
“He don’t want to see any such deformity!” Rocky shouted. “We’re talkin about old times here and there ain’t no effing hole in your back anyway!”
“I wanna see it,” Bob said.
“They’re round so we call it the laundry,” Leo said.
Rocky smiled and clapped Leo on the shoulder. “No more of this talk or you could be walking home, my good little buddy. Now why don’t you hand me up my namesake if there’s one left?”
Leo peered down into the carton of beer, and after a while he handed up a can with Rocky Blier on it.