"The Shotgun Rule" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huston Charlie)

PROLOGUE The Sketchy House

It’s a bad house. Sketchy. They should know better than to go in. But if they were the kind of kids who knew better they wouldn’t be here in the first place.

George races down the street, hits his front brake, and leans over his handlebars, popping the rear end of his bike into the air and holding the wheelstand for a beat before dropping back to the blacktop. He turns circles in front of the house, checking it out.

It’s dark. The peeling Dodge Dart in the driveway sits over long dry oil stains, untrimmed juniper bushes edge the lawn and screen the bottoms of the front windows. The gate to the backyard hangs askew, a piece of yellow nylon rope keeping it from swinging open. The sidewalk streetlamp is broken, unrepaired from when he shot it out with the pellet rifle last night.

Yeah, the house is sketchy. But that doesn’t change anything. They’re going in. He whips the bike out of its circles, knobby tires buzzing on the asphalt.

The others wait for him. Hector kneeling next to his bike, fiddling with the chain, putting on a show as if it has become derailed. Paul straddling his own bike, lifting one leg to lean far over the crotchbar, rescuing a half smoked Marlboro Red from the gutter. Straightening, he flicks some grit from the filter and puts it in his mouth while feeling at his pockets for a light.

Andy sees the gesture and crams his hand in his own pocket, yanking out a cardboard fold of matches too quickly, flipping the pocket inside out and sending matches, loose change, and a small piece of plastic to the ground.

Paul shakes his head.

– Nice going, Andrew.

Hector smiles, but doesn’t say anything.

Andy drops his kickstand and climbs off his bike, snagging his pants cuff on the seat and sending it crashing down.

Paul drops his head.

– Man. No wonder that bike is such a piece of shit.

Andy tilts the bike upright and balances it on the wobbly kickstand.

– Yeah, it’s pretty crappy, man.

Paul leans and scoops the matches from the ground. His free hand stays half tucked in the rear pocket of his faded jeans as he folds one match backward over the matchbook and snaps it alight with his thumb before bringing the flame to the crooked halfsmoke in his lips.

– Heads up.

Still picking up his change, Andy looks up and sees the matchbook arcing easily toward him. He panics, any tossed object an opportunity for embarrassment, and rather than catching it bats it straight up, bobbles it several times, and finally slaps it at the gutter and watches it drop through the steel grate covering the storm drain.

Mid drag, Paul laughs so hard the butt shoots from between his lips and hits Hector in the back of his head. Already giggling, Hector falls apart now, laughing while running fingers over the shellacked crest of his bleached mohawk, making sure it hasn’t been bent out of shape.

Andy laughs, too. Worse things than being clumsy. At least they didn’t catch him picking up the little plastic twenty sided die that fell on the ground along with his change. He squeezes it in his hand, running his thumb over the little triangular facets, picturing an equation that would describe a twenty sided object.

Paul dismounts to reenact Andy’s fumble. He juggles his hands and skips in place, then freezes to watch an invisible matchbook cut a slow arc across the sky before dropping down the storm drain.

Hector raises his hand in the air and Paul slaps five as they both laugh.

Andy drops the die in his pocket, trying not to laugh at himself, and, failing, honks and snorts through his nose.

Paul picks the still smoldering butt from the ground, takes a drag and passes it to Andy to finish off.

– Here, spaz, put this in your mouth and stop that fucking noise.

Andy pinches his fingers over a slight tear in the paper and takes the last hit, sucking the smoke into his lungs, feeling it burn, but not coughing.

Paul grabs a fistful of Andy’s hair, jerking his head back and forth before letting him go with a little shove and a slap on the shoulder.

George rides up, kicking out the rear wheel of his bike and skidding to a stop.

– You fags done fagging around?

Paul gets back on his bike.

– Fuck you, queerbait.

Hector stops messing with his chain.

– We were talking ’bout fucking your mom.

Andy pats his pocket once and flips up his kickstand.

– Is it sketchy?

George is standing up on his pedals, fingers wrapped loose around black rubber handgrips, balancing perfectly on his chrome and gloss black Mongoose.

– Yeah, it’s sketchy. Let’s go rob it.