Ty said, “Stop the truck.”
“No!” said East. But Ty didn’t wait. He threw back the side door and took the street at a leap. East popped his door too, but the seat belt caught, and then the van bounced as Walter pulled it over, and he cursed and fumbled with stinging fingers. Ty darted between houses and was gone.
Back on the seat he’d left two guns. He had the Glock. There was no chasing him.
East slammed his door. “Are you stupid? Never do what Ty says.”
“What’s he doing?”
“We’ll find out,” East said grimly. “Take us back. Go.”
Lights were waking now in the kitchens, behind the porches with their hollow Christmas lights. Walter downed the windows: no dogs barking. Nothing. No sign of Ty. Silently they rolled toward the gun house.
“You want me to stop here?”
“Not right in front,” East said. “Don’t want them noticing us and wondering.” He scanned the block, eyes burning.
“Do we go look for him?”
“No. Not yet.”
Walter said, “What’s he gonna do? Walk in and ask for a refund?”
“Walt,” East steamed. “Nobody knows what Ty’s gonna do. He don’t plan things. It’s always pow with him.”
“Ty saved our ass,” Walter reasoned. “Got us out of Vegas all right—and when Michael was latched on to you? Ty improvises.”
“Listen to you, man. Last night you were saying he was trouble. He’s an animal.”
“Maybe he’s lucky,” said Walter. He pulled a three-point turn at a cross street. Jubilant accordion music spilled from a parked car there, all four doors open. A short Latin man was shining his dashboard in the cold.
They made one more flyby. East’s stomach burned cold. He wished he’d marked the time. Walter pulled the truck up fifty yards from the house, and they quieted and watched.
Six-eleven on the clock. Six-thirteen. How long did they give? The pink of the morning clambered across the ceiling of the sky.
East knew this hour from years standing yard—in minutes, light would ooze down the treetops, color the chimneys, charge through the yards. The shabby street dawn tightened East in the way he had tightened for years—the standing there, regardless; the watching everything that moved. The not blinking.
The molding a group of boys you’d maybe met yesterday into the people your life depended on. And never to know whether you’d succeeded. Only to await the moments of test. Like this one.
Six-sixteen. A work truck with a big white Reading box mounted in the bed rumbled by slowly like a cart drawn by invisible horses.
Walter said, “How long you think we can wait?”
“I know,” said East. “I know.”
“Time is gonna come we have to decide.”
East kept his eyes on the gun house.
“He’s your brother.”
“Not that I’d die for,” said East curtly.
Six-eighteen.
He’d always been bigger than Ty, stronger. Always been older, and also the good son, such as it was. Always the one who tried to put a good face on it for their mother. Always the one she could count on, even if Ty was her baby. He remembered the first time he’d tried to celebrate his mother’s birthday with a cake he’d bought with his own money. Brought it home and hid it, but Ty found out. He slipped out before dinner and stayed out, unaccountable, until three o’clock in the morning and her birthday was through. Just daring East to go ahead and serve it. Without him. And he didn’t. That night he cried bitterly at his defeat. Nine years old and just trying to be the man of the family.
That unaccountability was the trick Ty had. The way he’d found of taking those two years East had on him and shattering them.
At nine he’d begun tomcatting out in the street for nights at a time. Had left the house entirely at eleven. His mother’s baby.
“You decide,” said Walter. “He’s your brother. You want to gun up and go, I’m good. You want to drive away—either way. Who knows when one of these town ladies calls up the police—could be already. And then we’re in some shit.” He stopped and rolled his chin around on his knuckles. “Like, if he’s still there at seven? At eight?”
“I should have followed him,” East murmured.
“Let me ask you a question,” Walter said. “We’re supposed to have four guys. Without him, we got two. You and I, we’re the same type. We’re watchers. We manage. We ain’t gunners, particularly. If we went, two of us, who does it? Who shoots?”
“You mean the guy?” East was annoyed, distracted, keeping his eyes peeled. “I can shoot.”
“Yeah,” said Walter, “but are you gonna shoot? You ain’t that crazy about guns.”
“I can shoot,” said East blankly. “He’ll be back.”