Free Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill

that son of a bitch is spiny.”
    Pete nodded. Mouthed back, “I got it.”
    Lang walked to the other end of the bar. A hand met Pete’s shoulder. He turned his peach-fuzzed chin into Ned’s face and said, “Look what the Orange County sewage department shit out.”
    Ned offered, “If you ain’t the stain on a raped heifer’s bedsheet, don’t know who is.”
    Pete skipped Liz’s head of hair, worked his way down over her chest, then went back to her face. Complimented her with, “By God if you ain’t the sweetest thing since strawberries dipped in sugar.” Wiped his palm over ragged jeans, offered a hand. Told Liz, “Name’s Peter, but everyone calls me Pete.”
    Liz met his hand with her own, returned a shithouse grin, said, “Hear you take more peter than you give.”
    Pete’s pitted face burned like a candy apple and he mock-laughed. This was the best piece of ass he’d seen Ned run with, easy.
    Ned popped the back of Liz’s head with his hand, said, “Enough eye-fucking him.” Looking around the room, he asked Pete, “Who’s the people we selling some crank to?”
    Pete pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his front pocket. His index and middle finger offered it. “Here’s the directions. They’s waiting down the road a spell.”
    Ned wrinkled his scar-tissue brows, asked, “You ain’t going?”
    Pete grabbed his Miller High Life from the bar, took a swig, swallowed, said, “Naw, gotta give Lang a hand. But go ’head. They know you’s coming.”
    *   *   *
    Elbow heard the knock at the door. Hollered, “Don’t be shy, get your ass on in here.” The door opened and in walked Liz and Ned. The dank waft of the house’s interior pricked the inside of their noses. Made them want to spit pieces of the burgers they’d washed down earlier.
    Across from them, Elbow stood barefoot on a shag carpet that’d lost its vanilla tint to spots of his and his brother Dodge’s spilt beers. A black-and-white floor-model TV sat over against a wall. Dodge sat in an electric wheelchair off behind Elbow, one hand wrapped about his Pabst Blue Ribbon, his other pinching his crotch. His eyes were two bored-out barrels aiming at Liz’s chest.
    Ned wanted to get this deal done quick. Wanted out of a home that stank of more rot than his own. Told the two, “The price is a hundred dollars per gram. So how much you wanna procure?”
    Elbow rubbed the chest of his Lucky Charms T-shirt. Puckered a pair of tobacco worm lips covered in white donut powder. Then pushed a hand down the front of his green nylon gym shorts, let the thumb wiggle over the hem. His fingertips tickled the bulge that pressed beneath the fabric like a large spider under a dryer sheet. He twisted his neck over his right shoulder to the disabled war veteran, his mousy voice asking, “How much you wanna spend, brother Dodge?”
    Dodge lifted the can of PBR to his lips. Made a slurping sound that his thorny Adam’s apple moved with. Lowered the can and belched. Moved his eyes from Liz to Ned, asked, “How much you got?”
    Ned’s nerves were rattled by the dead pierce in Dodge’s eyes, and in a sarcastic tone he said, “Plenty more than you can likely afford, crip.”
    Dodge returned a smirk and said, “Why don’t you go get us a thousand dollars’ worth, pyorrhea-mouth.”
    Ned kept his eyes on the two brothers, clenched his fist, said, “Liz, go out to the truck, get these dingleberries they crank.”
    “No!” Dodge spit. “The girl can stay. You go get the fucking crank!”
    Ned hesitated, then turned around, twisted the doorknob. Went out the door. Liz took in the desert camouflage pattern of Dodge’s legs that sat useless, his feet covered by a pair of black Velcroed tennis shoes. He had on a gray T-shirt with stains across wide letters that spelled ARMY . His face was sharp-boned, jaundice-tanned, cactus-stubbled, topped with a head of mahogany hair, the ends of which looked singed by flame.
    Liz broke the uncomfortable