Free Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill Page A

silence, asked, “Guess you’s in the army?”
    Elbow’s entire hand disappeared down his gym shorts.
    Dodge told Liz, “Two fucking years in Iraq. Draw a pension now till our pagan lord lets me rot in a box forged by Chink hands that’ll read MADE IN THE USA .”
    Elbow’s wormy knees began to bend while he pushed his lower back forward, thrusting his crotch up like he was humping the air. His hand still lost down his shorts, gripping the bulge.
    Liz asked, “That what happened to your legs?”
    Elbow began opening and closing his mouth in a stiff yawn, lip-syncing a Slayer tune, “Reign in Blood,” that only he heard. His other hand balled into a fist and punched at the ceiling while he dry-humped the air.
    Cake-batter-thick spittle flew from the corners of Dodge’s mouth as he hollered, “You think happen to my legs, you stupid cunt? Goddamned fucking Hummer hit a IED!”
    Liz got red-faced, skipped the lighting of the fuse and ignited with, “You inbred paraplegic fuck! I didn’t tell you to go over there. Same as I didn’t name you after a goddamned truck maker.”
    Dodge had started to growl when Ned stepped back into the small house, several clear baggies of ghost-white crystal in hand.
    “Quit the fucking hollering,” said Ned. “I got your shit right here. Now cough up the grand of spare change.”
    Elbow lowered his left hand from the air, pulled his right hand from his gym shorts, bringing that big hard bulge with it. Aimed it at Liz and Ned. It was an onyx .38 handgun, and he told them, “Had to be sure you had the shit. Now we take the whole mess of what you got out yonder for free. After your nappy-headed bitch gets on her knees, takes that shirt of hers off. Lets me service them fun sacks while she tastes my ugly stick.”

 
    11
    Purcell pulled two fishing rods from the rusty nails he’d driven into the studs years ago. Grabbed his tackle box from a dust-deviled shelf, stepped from the wilted shed that was the color of pus, and started down the path to his johnboat. He kept it beached next to the Ohio River. He’d no idea how long he’d wait. How any of it would happen. He just knew that Jarhead would come from the wooded hillside. Stray from Alonzo’s place. For reasons he could only imagine. Those that corralled at Alonzo’s place were any and all manner of lowdown, without morals. Seeking sickness and carnage. Some said he’d tried to bring young girls from foreign lands, to sell their skin. Entertain those that were into the puerility.
    He lay his gear in the chipped boat and the sooty water splashed. Busted tree limbs, beer, and oil cans lay scattered along mushy earth. Purcell pushed the boat into the water, waded in until the wet lined the top of his rubber boots, and with the sun beating down on him he hopped in the boat. Pulled the cord on the small motor, glanced down the flanks of the river, checking for barges so he could cross to the other side, knowing the heat he felt wetting his skin beneath his clothing was nothing compared to what was soon to come.
    *   *   *
    Cans of gasoline surrounded Jarhead. He ran one hand through his sweaty locks. Thought about those lights from a few nights back. The truck’s gas pedal to the floor. The red-and-blue flashes that had opened the night. He took the back-road curves not knowing his way. But outrunning them.
    Now, Jarhead stood in a rusted tin garage, a grease-smudged rotary phone held to his ear, thumbing a creased and worn picture of Tammy and the boys. He hadn’t spoken to them in days, missed the boys watching him skip rope in the dirt yard and work the heavy bag in the late evenings. They’d clap their tiny hands in amusement. After training he bathed them and tucked them into bed for sleep. Showered, then went into his bedroom, wrapped his arms around Tammy’s warm innocence.
    He’d needed to let Tammy know he was okay. Make sure she and the boys were the same. Into the phone he asked, “Anyone hassle you?”
    The