Laying Down the Paw (30 page)

Andro would never take anything from him again.

When Dub had told his mother what went down, she'd made excuses for Andro's behavior, as usual.
He panicked
, she said
. Nobody thinks straight when they're in a panic. Or maybe he was trying to draw the cops away in the van so Dub could escape on foot.

What a load of shit.

Dub's mother had given him a twenty-dollar bill and sent him to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Toilet paper. Soap. Soda. Frozen dinners. A loaf of white bread and a package of processed cheese slices. He could hardly believe it, but he missed the times he'd shop with Wes, who'd take forever looking over the apples and lettuce and tomatoes and bananas, checking them for signs of worms or bruising.

The cashier finished ringing up the items and turned to Dub. “That'll be twenty-one forty-three.”

He was short.
Damn.

He ran his eyes over the bags, trying to figure out what they needed the least. “Take the soda off.”

The woman offered him a look of both pity and judgment before removing the bottle of soda from the bag, punching a button on the register, and scanning the bar code again.
Bloop.
She eyed the register for the revised total. “That brings it down to nineteen eighty-two.”

He handed her the twenty-dollar bill and took the eighteen cents change in return.

He grabbed the plastic grocery bags and walked back to the apartment. The night was dark. There was no moon and a nearly frozen drizzle was falling. Good thing he had his tornado hoodie to keep him warm.

He walked around the corner that led to the apartment building and came to an instant stop.

His van sat at the back of the lot, its motor giving off small
tinks
as it cooled. There was a new dent on the back left fender. Andro must have backed into something. He'd also taped silver duct tape over the plumbing logo. Like that wasn't obvious and couldn't easily be pulled off. Paint would have been better.
Idiot.
With Andro's DNA, it was a wonder Dub had done as well as he had in school.

Dub felt fresh anger well up in him, but then he remembered the spare set of van keys in his front pocket. He let loose a laugh. Andro might have taken the van from Dub, but Dub was going to take it right back. That would teach Andro. His days of fucking up Dub's life were over.

Dub set the bags on the ground, pulled out the keys, and opened the van. The smell of alcohol greeted him. Sure enough, a half-empty bottle of whiskey lay under the driver's seat.

Dub wriggled the bottle out from under the seat, carried it to the garbage Dumpster, and hurled it in. He smiled at the sound of the glass breaking and the liquid running down the side of the metal bin. Returning to the van, he tossed the grocery bags inside and climbed in after them. He glanced into the back of the van. The rake, pruners, and hedge clippers were gone. Andro had probably thrown them out somewhere.
Dammit!
He could've used them as weapons against Andro.

He reached behind the passenger seat and stuck his hand through the seam.

Please be there. Please be there!

Aha! The remaining cash from the lottery tickets was still hidden inside the seatback. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He turned back to the front of the van. It took him seven tries to get the van started and it gave off a burning smell, but the engine finally caught. Dub would have loved to drive off and never come back. But he couldn't leave his mother alone in the apartment with Andro, especially when he knew Andro had been drinking. So Dub drove the van a few blocks over and parked it down a dark side street. With the streetlight broken, Andro would have a hell of a time finding the van here.

God, it felt good to give the bastard a little payback.

Dub grabbed the grocery sacks and jogged back to the apartment, his jeans and hoodie soaked with cold drizzle. He shifted the bags to his left hand as he stuck the apartment key in the door lock. As he jiggled the key, he heard Andro's voice from inside.

“Don't you talk back to me, bitch!” The words were followed by a
slap
and a
bam.

Dub dropped the groceries on the walkway and used both hands to get the door open. He ran inside to find his mother cowering on the recliner, her arms held up to block her face. Her eyes were glassy from meth and fear. Blood oozed from both her nose and her bottom lip. Andro stood over her, his face red with rage, his fist cocked for another blow. At least he wasn't wearing his brass knuckles.

“Stop it!” Dub launched himself at Andro. A sick thrill surged through him when he felt Andro go down beneath him.
He'd kill him. He would. He'd beat him until his head cracked open and his brains spilled out on the floor. And it would be too good for the man.

Andro looked up at Dub, his eyes bloodshot and shocked. He hadn't thought Dub had it in him to put up a fight. He'd been wrong. His days of pushing Dub around were over.

The element of surprise gave Dub an advantage. He wailed on Andro, beating him with his fists, each punch a small victory. “Don't you ever touch my mother again!”

Andro turned under him, trying to cover his head.
God, it felt good to see his father scared for a change.

As Andro squirmed, his work ID card fell out of his back pocket. For the first time, Dub learned his father's last name.
Silva.

Dub's mother jumped up from the recliner. “Stop! Stop it!”

She grabbed Dub by the shoulders. She wasn't strong enough to pull Dub off Andro, but she threw Dub off balance. Taking the opening, Andro shoved Dub's shoulders. Dub and his mother fell back to the carpet. Andro put a hand on the recliner and pulled himself to his feet.

He looked down at Dub with eyes so full of rage Dub was sure he'd lived his last day. “Boy, I'm going to make you sorry you ever touched me.” Hauling his foot back, he kicked Dub in the stomach with his steel-toed boot.

Dub felt as if he'd been gored by a bull. He bent in half, turned onto his side, and rocked back and forth.

“You gonna cry, boy? Huh? You gonna cry?” His father grabbed at him and yanked the damp hoodie off Dub, taking away what little protection the fabric provided. His father pulled his foot back again. This time he aimed for Dub's head.

Woo-woo-woo!
Before Andro could kick him again, police sirens sounded through the open front door. The sound seemed to be the soundtrack of Dub's life lately.

Andro put his foot down and pointed down at Dub. “This isn't over.” He ran out the door with Dub's hoodie in his hand, his footsteps
thud-thud-thudding
down the stairs.

Tires screeched in the parking lot as the police arrived. Dub was in no shape to run, but he couldn't risk being caught in the apartment and returned to juvenile detention. He wouldn't be able to protect his mother if he were returned to the lockup.

He crawled to the sliding door that led out to the balcony. “I'll be … out here,” he told his mother, barely able to get the words out. “Close the curtains.”

Arms over his bruised belly, Dub hunkered down in a dark, cold corner of the balcony. Through the glass, he heard a male officer holler, “Fort Worth police! Everyone on your knees!”

Dub's mother was the only one left in the apartment, but the police had no way of knowing that.

“It's just me!” he heard his mom cry. “I'm the only one here.”

“Check the bedroom,” the cop said, speaking to his partner over the sound of Katrina sobbing.

A moment later another male voice replied, “All clear.”

“How bad are you hurt?” the first officer asked. “Do you need an ambulance?”

“No,” Dub's mother said. “I'll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Dub heard no response, but he guessed she must have nodded because the officer didn't ask again.

When the cop spoke again, his voice was softer. “Who did this to you, ma'am?”

She didn't answer. She just continued to sob.

The cop tried again. “I know you're upset, ma'am. You have every right to be. But we need to know who did this to you.”

Leandro Silva
, Dub willed his mother to say.
LEANDRO SILVA! Say it! Say his name!

Her sobbing slowed, and Dub heard her sniffle.

“Please, ma'am,” the cop persisted. “We can't help you if you won't tell us who hurt you.”

When she finally spoke, her voice was so soft Dub could hardly hear it. “It was my…”

What did she plan to say? She couldn't refer to Andro as her husband. He'd refused to marry her. Did she consider him her boyfriend?

His mother paused for a long moment before completing her sentence. “My son. It was my son. He's hiding on the balcony.”

Splash!

Dub was over the railing and in the pool in an instant, instinct telling him to flee. Utterly confused and totally terrified, he hardly noticed the near-freezing temperature of the water. He swam to the side, climbed out, and took off running as fast as he could. He was a block away when he realized his wet clothing was leaving a trail that would lead the cops right to him. He hopped over a curb and ran into a yard, hoping the water drops would be harder to see in the dead leaves and grass.

After what seemed like years, he reached the van. He struggled to pull the keys from his pocket. The wetness had sealed the fabric shut and made it hard for him to get his fingers into the pocket. Finally, he got the keys free. With shaking arms, he pulled himself into the van. He tried the engine three times. Each time it died.
Come on, come on, COME ON!
On the fourth try, the engine roared. Dub put his foot to the gas and took off.

Four miles later, when he was sure the police weren't on his tail, his mind calmed enough for him to think.

How? How could his mother have betrayed him like this?

And why?

Dub had done his best to be a good son, to take care of his mother, to be a help instead of a burden. Yet she'd thrown Dub under the bus for Leandro Silva, the man who'd gotten her hooked on meth, the man who'd knocked her up then knocked her down, the man who refused to support her or the child he'd fathered.

Dub had never felt so alone and so helpless in all his life.

And—
God!
—he'd never felt so cold either.

The heater in the van was cranked full blast but the air coming from the vents was barely warm. Dub spotted the Walmart ahead and turned in, pulling his stash of cash from the seat. He went inside and headed straight to the men's department. Though it was warmer inside the store, his damp clothes kept the heat from getting to him. His entire body was shaking as he grabbed a pair of fleece sweats and a sweatshirt, along with more underwear and socks. He rang up his purchases at the self-checkout line and all but ran to the men's room, where he changed out of his wet jeans and tee and into the sweats.

He'd forgotten all about his cell phone until it slid out of the pocket of his pants and onto the floor. He picked it up, jabbed a button, and looked at the screen. It was still working.
Thank God.

His basketball shoes were soaked. He held them under the electric hand dryer for a full fifteen minutes. The warm air helped to dry his shoes and warm him up, too.

With his wet clothes in the plastic bags now, he went back into the store. His shoes were noisy,
skluck-sklucking
as he walked. The hand dryer hadn't been able to get all of the water out of the padding. He yanked a shopping cart from the line of nested carts and
sklucked
his way to the shoe department, where he picked out an inexpensive pair of sneakers. In the sporting goods department, he looked over the sleeping bags. He found a shiny black nylon one that was rated for outdoor temps as low as twenty degrees. He'd forego a pillow. He could make do without one. He needed his meager cash to last as long as possible.

In the home improvement department, he grabbed a can of black spray paint, another in a glittery silver shade, and a package of lettering stencils. He also picked up a bottle of cleaner guaranteed to remove even the most stubborn sticky substances, including tape residue.

In the health and beauty section, he grabbed the cheapest toothbrush and toothpaste the store offered. He could go without deodorant and shaving cream and shampoo for a while, but he'd feel nasty if he couldn't at least brush his teeth.

He rolled through the grocery department next, filling his cart once again with a jar of peanut butter, wheat bread, bananas, cereal bars, and a can of alphabet soup with a pull-top lid. He also picked up a box of assorted plastic eating utensils, a roll of paper towels, and a jug of drinking water.

This time through, he used a regular checkout.

The cashier was a girl of about eighteen. She was cute and flirty as she rang up his purchases. “Going camping? You forgot the marshmallows.”

Her happy smile was almost more than he could take. He forced a smile back at her when all he really wanted to do was break down and cry.

He left, down $119. He had only $31 to his name now, but at least he had warm bedding and enough food to last him for a few days.

He opened the back doors of his van, put his bags inside, and climbed in after them. The parking space was near the edge of the lot, away from the lights. Dub supposed it was as good a place as any to stay for the night. The store was open twenty-four hours. It was probably safer here than on the streets, and less likely the police would stumble upon him.

He removed his shoes, put on a dry pair of socks, and spread his sleeping bag in the cargo bay. Then he zipped himself into the bag and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

 

FORTY-SIX

OUTDATED