C4 antho - Chamber Four

~148~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology
“Could be him,” I say.
“Could be? Look at the blessed tattoos.”
Yes, indeed.
“That son of a bitch,” Gordon snarls. “He probably gave
Sarah Jane the AIDS.” He pounds a fist on the counter,
knocking movies to the floor. “That hippie son of a bitch.”
* * * *
Cheetah explains the scam as we leave the porn shop. It
involves a rich old widow, a bogus contract for a new roof, a
huge payment. For an easy hundred, all Gordon and I have
to do is wear hardhats and circle the mansion, pointing up
and looking dour. Her eyesight is so bad, Cheetah says, the
old bag will think we’re seasoned roofers.
Now, I don’t consider myself particularly naïve. In the
two months he lived with us Cheetah made only one crosscountry
run with his rig, yet he was always flush with cash. I
knew he was up to something, but swindling old ladies?
Man-on-man porn? I almost wish he was dealing.
This is the point where Gordon should be raising holy
hell, lecturing Cheetah about responsibility and all that, but
the kid’s in a zone: jaw set, fists clenched, eyes locked on the
dirt lot. I haven’t seen him this livid since Billy Berbin called
his father a Nazi and Gordon got after him with his
nunchucks.
He bends to tie a shoe, letting Cheetah get ahead. “We’ll
take the work van,” Cheetah says, heading toward a nondescript
white vehicle. Gordon rises, takes several long strides
and trips Cheetah from behind. He goes hard to the ground
and turns with a scowl. I’ve never seen the scowl―it’s menacing,
a grownup scowl, a scowl that promises pain―and I wish