The only light in the living room was a flat--screen TV. A guy sat in a chair staring at it, watching an infomercial, his right knee drawn up under his chin, rocking like a mental patient. He didn’t acknowledge Nessa or even seem to notice she’d entered.
Her guide made a forward motion with her hand, and Nessa followed her into the kitchen.
Two men sat at the table playing cards, an overflowing ashtray in front of them, beer cans and a half--empty bottle of whiskey surrounding it. One of the men sat facing the doorway, the other opposite him. He didn’t look around when she entered.
“You want a beer?” the old lady said.
She thought about making some excuse, saying she was allergic to hops or something like that, but didn’t want to make them suspicious. “Sure.”
The woman pulled a Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the filthy refrigerator and handed it to her. What do you know. PBR, the choice of drug dealers and hipsters everywhere. Otto would be impressed. As much as a hipster can be impressed anyway. She got a kick out of thinking about Otto in a place like this. He’d shit himself.
She popped open the can and took a long swallow. It tasted so good and went down so smooth she couldn’t help but think, It wouldn’t be so bad to go back to this.
The man facing her stuck his cigarette between his teeth and held out his right hand to her. “I’m Allen,” he said in the voice Nessa recognized from Tyler’s phone call. She tentatively reached for his hand and he yanked her forward and spun her toward his card partner. “And this here’s Smearface.”
She stifled a scream as Allen laughed uproariously.
“What, you never saw someone with a shot--off face before?”
“Allen,” the old lady said. “Cut it out.”
The bottom half of Smearface’s face was sheared off, his nose just two slits in his head like Voldemort. He wore mirrored sunglasses and he whistled and wheezed when he breathed.
“Hi,” he said, and Nessa saw that his tongue was about half the size it should be with few teeth. It was like looking at a horrible Halloween mask.
Allen turned her loose, and she staggered to the counter and leaned against it, her arms crossed tight against her stomach. She was afraid she was going to throw up.
“So, yeah,” Allen said to Smearface, “so this security guard at the school, he was born with a fucked up hand, and they had to amputate it up to the elbow, and he wore his sleeve pinned up like this, and so we called him the long arm of the law.”
Smearface laughed, or at least she thought he did—-the grunts and snuffling must have meant amusement. “Long arm of the law!” he repeated. He could speak incredibly well, although his missing nose provided a nasal quality to his speech.
Just then, Allen brought his booted feet down on the ground hard and started. “Did you hear that?” He looked at Nessa. “You heard it, right?”
She shook her head.
He jumped to his feet and knocked over his chair, pulling a shotgun off the top of the refrigerator. He went to the window and looked out, the shotgun dangling at his side. Nessa’s heart beat like a rodent’s, fast and shallow.
“Those fuckers come around here again,” Allen said, “that’s it. I’m gonna blow a hole in them.”
He sat back down with the shotgun across his lap.
“Mom, would you look out front?”
The old lady appeared in the doorway with a matching shotgun. “Can’t see anything,” she said.
So it was a family business.
“Look again!”
“Hey,” Nessa said.
All three of them turned their paranoid gazes to her.
“Are you the guys who sell sunflower?”
They looked at each other.
She reached for her phone and they pointed their guns at her.
“Just getting my phone,” she said, digging in her pocket with her right while holding her left aloft. She thought she might faint. With shaking hands, she scrolled to the photo of the glassine bag.
“This?” she said. She held it in front of Allen’s face, then Smearface’s.
“Yeah,” Allen said.
But Smearface said, “Let me see that.”
Nessa froze, couldn’t make herself hand it over.
He snapped his fingers and she gave it to him. He pinched the screen outward, enlarging the image.
“Did you sell to a guy named John?”
They looked at each other.
“John,” Smearface said.
“I know lots of Johns,” the other said.
“Wouldn’t have been one of your regulars. He’s more of a rock man. He’s about five--ten, dark brown hair and blue eyes.”
“Yeah, we had a guy—-remember the guy like five days ago, maybe a week? Came in here acting all squirrely?”
“Beard?” Smearface asked her.
Well, he hadn’t had one when she’d thrown him out but he’d have no reason to shave now.
“Can I show you a picture of him?” She held out her hand. Smearface handed her the phone, and she scrolled through the photos until she found one of John and Daltrey, then held it in front of their bloodshot eyes.
“Is that the squirrelly guy?”
Smearface held up a thumb over the lower half of John’s face. “Could be him, I guess.”
Allen nodded, losing interest.
“What did you mean by ‘acting squirrelly’?” she asked.