The Subtle Art of Brutality
Page 56
“She was pissed as hell, sure. But she’s gettin’ alimony from my folks while I’m jobless so she can go fuck herself.”
“Your mommy and daddy pay your alimony?”
“Fuck you. It’s my trust fund. My mom and dad died. After the divorce Autumn took everything but this house. Everything. I shoulda never married the bitch in the first place. As soon as we tied the knot she was going on and on about kids. Fuck that. No kids. Not ever.”
“Really?”
“Never. If she got pregnant I had made up my mind to drive her ass right to the abortion clinic. Right to it. If she said no, there’s always a stair case.”
“That a fact?”
“Fact.”
“Get fixed? Take care of the problem on your end?”
“Fuck no. My spunk is all man. I ain’t trimmin’ my shit just because.”
“You sleep with Boothe while she was here with the dope?”
“Yeah. Until we sold the shit.”
“You pretty heavy-handed on the meth?” I ask. This guy is not the father. That much is obvious.
“None of your business.”
“I just don’t get meth. When was the last time you actually blew a load?”
“Fuck you. Ain’t none of your business,” he says, fuming under his sore-riddled skin.
“Meth increases the sex drive but severely
lowers the ability to climax. But you already know that, don’t you?”
He just looks away. He hasn’t gotten up off his heroin mattress. Finally, eyes still examining the stains on his bed, he says, “Get out of my house, bro. I hooked you up already.”
“First things first before I leave. Name the buyers.”
“Dude, I don’t want—”
“Boothe isn’t around to take the hit, you won’t name names. You’re all I’ve got. You want to pay the price for it? Be my guest.”
He turns whiter than he was before. His sores and track marks glow like Christmas tree lights against his skin. He was getting comfortable there for a minute.
“Dude, if I tell you this then what’s gonna happen—”
“Worry about what’s going to happen if you don’t.”
“Danny, Blimpie’s older brother and some buddy of his. We call him Cherry but he hates it. That’s all.”
“Who is Blimpie?”
“Some fat retard over at Roscoe’s.”
“Last name. Address.”
“I don’t know the street. They both live with their mom. She makes lemonade and spikes it like you’ve never tasted—”
“Last name and address.”