Mean Streak(51)

But Norman was in an expansive mood. “I did three months in county for lifting an old lady’s purse out of her shopping cart in the grocery store.”

He didn’t react.

“Another time, we stole some retreads from an old guy who runs the junkyard out on sixty-four. Then—swear to God if this ain’t the truth—we sold ’em back to him a week later for twenty bucks profit. Old coot never knew he was took.”

He drew a deep breath as though singularly unimpressed.

“Will got into a fight with this guy over a poker game. We lit into him good. Took four men to pull us off him. I got probation. Will served a few months for assault. But the other guy is still regrettin’ calling my baby brother a cheat. Right, Will?”

“And we ain’t done with him either,” Will said.

“Is that right?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, feeling it was time to exhibit some interest in their exploits. “What do you have planned for him?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Don’t be so touchy, Will,” Norman said. “He’s just making friendly conversation, remember?” Then, coming back to him, he said, “Turnabout’s fair play. Come on. You can tell us. What’d you do?”

He drank from his cup of coffee.

“Did you—” Holding his bowl in one hand, Norman aimed his other index finger at him and mimicked firing a pistol. “Put somebody’s lights out?”

“Your cereal is getting soggy.”

From the sofa, Will said, “Aw hell, Norman, he ain’t gonna confess anything to you. Besides, I’ll bet there’s nothing to confess. He’s not near as tough as he makes out.”

“Maybe you’re right.” But Norman continued to regard him speculatively as he held the bowl against his chest and shoveled cereal into his mouth.

Staring into his coffee, he asked, “What about you?”

Norman stopped chewing. “Whut?”

He raised his head and included Will in the look he divided between them. “Either one of you ever killed anybody?”

Norman shrugged. “Never had to.”

“Yet,” Will added.

“Well, I wouldn’t be too eager to if I were you.”

“Meaning you have.” Norman chortled. “See, Will? Told you.”

“He’s just talking big.”

Norman, eyeing him up and down, said, “I’ve known a lot of people who needed killing.”

“So have I.”

“But you don’t recommend it. Why’s that?”

“Killing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, like you said about the state of Virginia.” He’d dropped the bait. He wondered if they’d bite. With seeming nonchalance, he wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a refill. “You never told me what kind of work you did up there.”

“Worked for a freight company. Long-haul trucks.”

“Were you drivers?”

“Naw.” Norman wiped milk off his lips with the back of his hand. “Worked the warehouse.”

“Crap job,” Will contributed. He’d been channel surfing the muted TV. Finding a station rerunning an episode of Gilligan’s Island, he settled in to watch. The shotgun was now propped against the arm of the sofa, barrel up, close to Will’s head.

Norman picked at a cereal flake that had dropped onto his shirt and stuck there. “That company where we was working made history, though.”

With slow, measured motions, he returned the coffee carafe to the hotplate. “How so?”

“It was in Westboro. You ever heard of it? The shooting there? Guy with a grudge comes into the place, blasted it all to hell, killed a bunch of people.”

He turned back around and nodded at Norman. “I heard about it.”

“Well, we was laid off not more’n a week before it happened. Missed all the excitement.”

“You ask me, all the men on that island were pussies,” Will scoffed. “I’d’ve nailed Ginger soon as we got to dry land.” He switched channels.

Norman slurped milk directly from the bowl. “If I’d been ol’ Gilligan, Mary Ann’s ass wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.”

Will hooted from across the room. “You always did prefer the back door.”

“I’d like to go in through Dr. Smith’s back door.”

Both brothers eyed him, smirking, waiting to see how he would react. Rather than be goaded, he ignored them, and instead he looked out the grimy window above the kitchen sink as though checking the weather. Then, carrying his coffee with him, he headed for the bedroom.

“What’s going on in there, anyhow?” Norman asked, nodding toward the door, which had remained closed throughout the night.

“Your sister’s being seen to.”

“We know that,” Will groused. “What’s taking so friggin’ long?”

“Have we worn out our welcome?”

“Far as I’m concerned, you weren’t never welcome.”

“We’ll be on our way before long,” he said. “Oh, Norman?”

“Huh?”

“Better watch that chair.”

“Huh?”

He kicked the back legs out from underneath the chair. Norman went over backward, landing hard and splashing his enraged face with what was left of the milk in his cereal bowl.