Patrick and John 8

Fourteen is nervous, back to shuffling his deck of cards. New hands of Blackjack keep falling simply to be swept up for another hand. John pitched Fourteen into the back seat of the Bronco before the line of semen had dried on the back of his thigh. They left Alice and Fourteen’s virginity behind before the first rose of dawn, heading northeast toward Hershey. First John, then Fourteen drifted away into deep sleep, rocked by the Bronco’s bad shocks. Sun-high awareness came to Fourteen near Gettysburg. John was behind the wheel and when Fourteen had wiped the saliva from his cheek, he noticed Patrick was back on his phone. “Nothing yet.” Patrick commented absently to John.

“Gettysburg,” Fourteen pipes in. “Can we stop and look around?” He shifts back up and puts his seatbelt on. Busy traffic, Pennsylvania flashing by. Cop car by the side of the road and Fourteen wonders idly if John is speeding. Not likely, there is a semi in front of them chugging along behind another semi. “I need to pee guys. It must suck being from Hershey. Are there chocolate shops on every corner, you know, like Starbucks  or something?” Silence from the front.

“Who texts and drives?” John points out.

“So if he is a know-show.” Patrick begins flatly.

“No, stick to the plan. It’s good.” Cutting off that thought. John’s mirror catches Fourteen’s face the jiggling in the corner, checks the Chevy tailgating him like it wants to pass the whole convoy. John is invested in Patrick’s risky deal. It is not a good plan. It is an undercover sting of a bad plan. Only, John thinks it is a better plan than marching Fourteen under a bridge and what happens after that. The kid flashes him a tangerine grin from his bruised mouth, all white petal spring blossom teeth.

“So do we already have a place in Hershey?” Fourteen asks, encouraged by the look. There is no answer from the front of the car. He glances out the window, watching life flash by.

“I’m a Bengals fan. Are you guys going to be Steelers fans? We lost to the Steelers in the playoffs. Andy Dalton did okay. Not Cam Newton, but whatever. Dad took me to a game in Cincinnati. What’s your favorite team John?” John’s eyes are on the road.

“Fuck! There is that rattle again.” Patrick blurts out.

“I think it is something loose in the wheel well.” Lost sleep is catching up with him. He is beat. Nothing to do but push on, sleep later. Patrick keeps checking his phone for messages. John does not want to think about it. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, well he knows what has to happen then.

“I don’t watch hockey. Do you watch hockey John? Pittsburgh Penguins, the Flyers? Hershey Bears, I remember that one because it sounds funny. I mean, what’s with that? Any team that starts with Hershey has to suck. The Hershey Bars, the Hershey Nuggets, all I can think of is chocolate.” Fourteen’s laugh is not so innocent-carefree. “Dad said I could try hockey. I don’t know.” Fourteen shrugs the thought of home away.

“Basketball, now that is my sport.” Fourteen does not have the height advantage, but he has a good eye and a strong arm. It makes him think of one-on-one with Shane, or teaming up with him against the others. He takes an imaginary free throw right over Patrick’s head, then his hands fall limply in his lap. “So do we already have a place in Hershey?” There is no answer from the front of the car.

He has a piss outside New Oxford with Patrick, and a Burger King with John before Fourteen admits it to himself. The men are not talking to him. Past Dylan’s Diner and over Conewago Creek, Fourteen has his deck out, feeling jackrabbity, dealing blackjack hands and wishing the cop by the side of the road had pulled them over. “I want to go home.” He admits softly, just so the two men know he is ready to see the back of them if that is what they want. John is watching him in the mirror. Fuck John. Fourteen stares at the Pennsylvania sprawl, trying not to think about the hand he has been dealt, or Patrick, or John.

Trees, small lake with last-minute boats, clipped grass, and families everywhere. Not a dark alley trade off. Fourteen is riding shotgun low nappy time, Bronco furtive at a picnic spot. Clear of the park gate, first  words to Fourteen in a hoarse whisper, “Lean forward.” John all business binds Fourteen’s hands behind his back, snapping the extra chain about his thin neck to the wrists. Not comfortable, and John does not seem to care. Vinyl ties daisy chain his wrists, then the chain.

Patrick wanders back with coffee and some greasy food he found about the park. John is sitting on the picnic table, empty beer watching the state park settle into evening. Caffeine is a better choice than the half case of beer stashed in the back. “What if he yells for help?”

“I taped his mouth.” John accepts the coffee and sets it beside him. Patrick strokes John’s back apologetically, noticing the gun tucked into his belt, come what may. “How are you feeling?” John asks him, examining a hotdog.

“I’m looking forward to settling down. We need a new car.” Patrick pulls his phone out once again. “Look at this John. It is five blocks from work. I found a few bars we can walk to. Two bedrooms and a small balcony.” John glances at the screen. Patrick knows John is distracted. “It won’t be a cop.” Patrick switches directly back to Hershey. “You need a girlfriend John.”

John rolls his eyes to heaven. Women fall all over Patrick. Men hit on Patrick. John finds it harder. He is thinking about Fourteen’s advice, Fourteen hogtied in the Bronco. “What’s the time?”

“It’s time.” Patrick replies breezily. He has such confidence in his dark network. Patrick is manic now, ready for the Hershey makeover. It is John who always notices the ghostly line of missing boys. Patrick makes the better heartless assassin. Fourteen has been sitting too long, but there is nothing John can do.

It is a late entry to the park, cruising slowly toward them. Luxor has seen better days, but despite the mileage it glides past them with a healthy thrum. Patrick nudges John. “Could be him.” John finishes his hotdog slowly then picks up the cooling coffee. The huge RV has picked a loop somewhere in the dusk and it is heading back their way.

“Go sit in the car. Turn it over so you are ready.” John orders. He finishes his coffee in a long draw. Patrick does not like this. It is his sale. “I’ll decide if it is safe.” John replies patiently. John facing down the four angry boys in their room, explaining Patrick was exclusive now. It’s that way between them, except the boys. Patrick picks the boys, sets the pace. Trust John to manage things. Patrick heads back to the Bronco, starts the car. Fourteen is staring at the dusty window, blinking, blinking, one knee bouncing up and down.

Emerald Green Winnebago edges off the roadway closer to where John sits. The Saturday Night Special comes around 2 rows of ½” silver eyelet grommets on 3” of black leather before settling tight against John’s belly. His heart beats slowly, waiting, as the old Winnebago stops, streamlined door directly facing him. Patrick ignores the frightened young cardshark hyperventilating beside him. The boy is safely in the after now and Patrick is high on that. “Hey Patrick, there’s gonna be a new boy in your room tonight. Are you getting boned up, Patrick?” Patrick is singing it to himself in a wavering falsetto that calls up dark haunting memories.

♪♫♬ “Somebody's gonna hurt someone before the night is through.

Somebody's gonna come undone. There's nothin' we can do.” ♪♫♬

Everybody wants to touch somebody if it takes all night.

♪♫♬ Everybody wants to take a little chance, ♪♫♬ Make it come out right.

There's gonna be a heartache tonight, ♪♫♬ a heartache tonight, I know.

There's gonna be a heartache tonight, I know.” ♪♫♬

Fourteen stares past Patrick’s haunted face. This is an unexpected card in his shitty now of a hand. John sits on the picnic table waiting, gun ready for anything, as the Winnebago door opens.