Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Thirty-Two





The night was so still, he recalled, even all these years later, the only sound he heard was the lapping of tiny waves against the sides of the pool.

They made their way through the ornate iron gate out front, snaking across the grounds in the dark to the sprawling house.

In back, there was the pool, kidney shaped, blue lit, a breeze blowing in from the sea. They heard laughter, the sounds of wineglasses clinking. Music playing. “Bad, bad, Leroy Brown . . .”

Through the glass doors that opened to the back, the sight of a man and a woman dancing a bit drunkenly, two others at the long wooden table who seemed to be into themselves. Decades from now, he realized, when everything else about them was forgotten—who they were, what they did in their lives, the piles of money they had amassed—what would happen here tonight would be the one thing that would make everyone remember.

Pigs.

Grunting sounds came from nearby, from the fancy pool house off to the side. The group of them snaked around in the shadows and saw a man with long dark hair in a white cotton shirt, his jeans down at his ankles, f*cking his blond cutie from behind, her palms supporting her against the pool table and her bare ass thrusting. With relish, the thought crossed his mind that he’d like to join in. Just drop the old trou and go, Surprise, kids—company! But instead he motioned to Carla and Squirrel to do what they had to do to them first and then to wait for their word.

That wasn’t who they’d come for.

He and Sarah Jane and Tel went around to the front, cutting through a row of yuccas and pines. The house was low, Spanish style, a sloping tiled roof and white stucco walls. He’d been there once before, trying to reason with the man, trying to make a proposition. Show them the way. But he wouldn’t listen. Now they were only doing what they had to do. The only course that was left to them, right?

The front door was of heavy wood with black iron hardware. Like a mission door, rounded on top. Sarah Jane wore a gauzy tie-dye top with a red bandana around her hair. Tel, his hair tied into a long ponytail, wore a dark poncho. They held at the door a few moments, the sounds of merriment dancing around them. He took out a blade. Tel tucked the gun into his pants. There was no sign of wavering in anyone’s eyes. He knew they loved him. They had ridden with him when it had just been fun and games, frolic and music.

And they were here with him now, when it was about to turn ugly and bad.

He always told them, nothing was evil if it came from love.

“Party time!” he said, and rang the bell.

Pig Number One came to the door—the man himself—in a floral shirt with a glass of wine, his grin evaporating as he saw who it was. “Russell?” He must’ve shit in his pants, knowing what they were there for and that his days were about to end. He looked so confused. “What are you doing here?”

“You told me, ‘Drop in anytime, Russ.’ So, guess what, Paul, we’re here!”

They pushed past him into the house, Tel dragging Pauly-boy along. The sounds of merriment came to a stop.

Suddenly all eyes fixed on them. Riorden’s pretty wife stopped dancing. “Who are they, Paul?”

Tel took out the gunny-gun-gun.

Suddenly everyone realized, which, he recalled, sent his dick to the moon.

Maybe one of the gals screamed. Who could recall? There was a lot of screaming later on. A shot rang out from outside, from by the pool. A woman’s squeal, pitched in terror. “No, no, please, no, no . . .”

Then two more shots. Followed only by the most delicious silence.

Carla and Squirrel appeared at the back doors. Riorden’s wife began to whimper.

“C’mon, everyone”—he looked around the room—“why so glum?”

“What do you want from us, Russell?” Paul Riorden asked, reaching for some kind of last authority.

He grinned. “What do I want?”

He never gave him an answer. Even now, all these years later, he really wasn’t sure what he wanted that night. He put his hands behind his head and rested a leg over his knee, light from the guard’s station darting off his yellow jumpsuit.

Maybe just to pay someone back. At last.

Maybe to take a piece of what he always felt was his. The good life. He’d never know it.

Maybe it was just to let the evil out. It had been in him so long.

He nodded to Sarah Jane, who went over to the stereo and turned the volume way up high.

“It’s time, everyone.” Party time.

Time for the devil to sprout his horns.