Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(21)

“No.” I look over my shoulder at the foot of snow that blanketed all of Lower Rockville this morning. “But we’ll do it for you if you need to get your car out.”

He shrugs. “Only traveling I’m doing today is on my magic broomstick.” He smiles and takes a deep drag on his mega-joint. “These your buds?”

“Coop and Matt,” I say, “this is my uncle Doug.”

“A pleasure and a privilege,” Uncle Doug says, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Come in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” He takes another toke, turns, and tromps down the hall.

Coop and Matt arch their eyebrows, looking a little worried as we enter the house.

“Take off your boots,” Uncle Doug calls from the other room. “And shut that f*cking door. You think I’m made of money?” He cackles like this is the best joke ever.

We make our way down the hallway and step into the messy kitchen. Uncle Doug is already planted at the table, a cigarette-butt-and-roach-mounded ashtray on one side of him, a Diet Coke on the other, and a ratty old barely breathing laptop — with a game of Texas Hold’em up on the screen — directly in front of him.

“So, to what do I owe this impromptu sojourn? You come to pay me back for my amplifier you totaled?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a glug of his soda.

“Uh, no,” I say. Crap, I forgot all about the amp we wasted during the Battle of the Bands. I take a furtive whiff of my palm. “We just thought . . . we’d stop by. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Is that so?” Uncle Doug gently places his joint down in the ashtray, then lunges out and grabs me in a headlock. “Come by to visit your crazy uncle Doug?” He cackles loudly as he gives me a hair-tearing noogie.

“Ow, ow, ow.” Damn it! I should have known this was coming. I just didn’t expect his standard reception with my friends around. I struggle to get free, but he’s way stronger than me. I can see Matt and Coop — upside-down — pointing and laughing hysterically.

“Say ‘uncle,’” Uncle Doug says.

“Uncle!” I shout.

“Say ‘Uncle Doug.’” He grinds his knuckle into my scalp.

“Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug!”

Finally he lets me go and I stumble backward, trying to catch my breath.

Uncle Doug laughs maniacally. He snatches up his joint and takes a deep hit. “It’s good to see you, Seanie. You always were my favorite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew,” I say, rubbing my sore head.

“That too.” He chuckles. “You boys want a drink? Diet Coke? Beer? Whiskey?”

“No, thank you,” Matt says.

“A sniff of this?” Doug waves the smoldering joint in the air.

Coop holds up his hand. “That’s okay. Thanks, though.”

“Good man,” Uncle Doug says. “Say no to drugs. I approve.” He takes another puff. “If I could go back and do it all again, well . . . ahh, who the hell am I kidding? I’d do it exactly the same way.” A giant plume of smoke escapes from his lips as he chuckles. “I mean, look at me. Successful businessman at fifty. Not a care in the world. Living the life of Riley.”

My gaze slides over to the stacks of takeout containers on the kitchen counter, the dirty dishes and empty soda cans piled in the sink, the towers of magazines and newspapers in the corner, and I can’t help but think he’s not being completely objective about things.

“Still,” Doug continues, “I respect your decision. Even if I don’t hold myself up to the same lofty standards as you kids. Although, Seanie my boy, I’m afraid you will not be getting off completely scot-free where drugs are concerned.”

I look from Matt to Coop, like maybe I’ve missed something. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When I meet my maker,” Doug says. “It’s in the will. I’m to be cremated and then the ashes are to be rolled up, passed around, and smoked by the whole family. No exceptions. If you want your inheritance, you take a toke. I’ve got so much THC in my bones, everyone should get a pretty heady buzz.” He howls with laughter before licking his fingertips and carefully squeezing out the glowing tip of the joint. “Would you guys take a seat? You’re making me nervous.”

Coop leaps in first, spinning one of the empty chairs around and sitting on it backward.

“So, what kind of business are you in, Mr. Burrows?” Coop asks.

Matt and me pull out the other two chairs and take our seats.

“Uncle Doug, please,” he says. “If I’m Uncle Doug to the ladies at the bank, and to the guys at the 7-Eleven, and to my dope dealer, then I’m definitely Uncle Doug to Sean’s pals.”

“Okay. Uncle Doug.” Coop suppresses a smile, like the words don’t feel natural on his lips. “So, are you, like, a stockbroker or something?”

“Rugs,” Uncle Doug says. “You’ve seen the Doug’s Rugs commercials on TV?”

“Oh, my God,” Matt says. “Fit it tight, Fit it snug. A rug from Doug’s is a big warm hug.”

“I’ll give you one guess as to who Doug is.” Uncle Doug winks at us, then busts up laughing as he takes a slurp on his soda.

“That’s cool,” Coop says. “It must be sweet to be your own boss.”