He had no intention of losing his son. No matter what happened in his life, he’d fight to the end to save Andrew, and he wanted him to know that. It was something he never had from his own father.
Rock sank down onto the couch and gestured for Andrew to do likewise. He looked fixedly at him. “We’re gonna talk. I’m gonna listen to you, and you and I are gonna come up with a solution. Why don’t you start first by telling me why you keep skipping school?”
Andrew hesitated, but Rock didn’t say anything. Then the teen cleared his throat and looked downward. “I’m not sure.”
It was going to be a long night, but Rock had time.
He had all the time in the world.
Chapter Ten
Banger
It was the seedy part of town. Pawnshops, junkyards, strip joints, and dive bars filled the spaces between the run-down homes and trailer parks. It was where the forgotten people lived, too strung out on drugs or booze to give a damn. It was the hiding place for the ones who gave up on living for whatever reason.
Banger drove up and down the icy streets. It didn’t look like a county snowplow had touched them. A rusty, crooked sign up ahead read “Buena Vista Mobile Village,” and he slowed down to take the sharp turn. The sign lied. It wasn’t a mobile village like the ones his cousins lived in, where the yards were pristine and the mobile homes were well-kept. Buena Vista Mobile Village was a first-class dump. Piled in front of several residents’ trailers were junk cars and a slew of broken appliances.
Winding around the narrow, icy roads, Banger looked out for lot number 356. Some of the men who sat on cold porch steps smoking cigarettes and joints eyed him suspiciously as he drove around. He knew his presence didn’t sit well with many of the residents; he was a newcomer, piercing their veil of anonymity.
Spotting the faded lot number on a blue trailer in disrepair, Banger parked in front of the curb, lit a joint, and took in Lynn Horace’s mobile home. Rust patches dotted the blue metal walls, and it looked like the wooden porch was falling apart, the white paint on the two pillars peeled and chipped. A beat-up old Buick sat under the carport.
He inhaled deeply, the anger he’d been feeling ever since he learned of Sketcher’s death bubbling under his skin, threatening to burst through. Whenever he thought of the young man, he got a burn deep in his stomach. The kid was only a few years older than Kylie. He knew Sketcher was trying to survive and help his mom out, and Banger respected him for that. Most of the punks he saw only gave a shit about themselves, leaving family behind, but Sketcher was there for his mom, supporting her the best way he could. Sure, he fucked up sometimes, but who the hell didn’t? All Banger knew was the Insurgents let Sketcher down. He let the kid down. He should’ve seen what was coming.
“We’re gonna get whoever did this to you, Sketcher. You got my fuckin’ guarantee,” he said under his breath, flipping his roach out the window. As he walked to the door, the neighbor next door, sitting on his porch steps, beer in hand, watched his every move. Banger rapped on the door and a woman’s voice, amid wheezing coughs, yelled out, “Come in.”
The stale, hot air hit him straight in the face when he walked inside. The house was messy and cluttered and in total chaos. Several cats scampered away, and the odor of grease, soiled kitty litter, and Bengay permeated the cramped quarters. Sucking in his breath, he took a few steps toward a woman sitting in a worn-out recliner and staring at him through weary and swollen eyes. She pushed back her lifeless gray mane that limply framed her aged face.
“Who are you?”
“Banger. I’ve come about Sketcher.”
“The police were already here.” She turned from him and stared at the dark TV screen.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about your boy. He didn’t deserve that.”
Tears filled the lines on her face, and she reached for a tissue from a box on a TV tray beside her. “He was a good boy.”
Banger stared at the carpet, wondering why Sketcher never had it replaced; it had worn through in many spots. He’d been on the club’s payroll, and they’d been generous. Glancing at the scratched kitchen cabinets and the broken wooden chairs piled in a small space he was sure was the dining room, he wondered what the hell the informant had done with all the money he’d earned over the last five years.
“Youse with that club he worked fer, aren’t you? I can tell by your jacket.” She blew her nose and threw the used tissue on the tray.
Sketcher was known to have a big mouth whenever he was drunk or high, but Banger didn’t figure he told his mother about his covert operations with the club. Instead of answering her question, he folded his arms and stared at her.
“He told me he had something big going on with youse. Told me youse would pay him real good.”
“What did you tell the badges?”
“Nothin’. I’m not stupid.” She coughed and wheezed, grabbing a tissue and spitting into it. “You wanna know what he said?”
Banger shrugged. “I just came over to give you my sympathies. I tried to help your boy out with some jobs at some of the businesses I own.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If youse wanna play it that way, okay. It’s just that Tommy was a good son. He took care of his mama. He knew my disability and food stamps didn’t go far in paying the bills. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him. I loved him. He was the only one of my kids who was worth anything.” Wet streaks trickled down her cheeks.
Prior to going over to Lynn Horace’s home, the brothers had agreed with Banger’s proposition to give her a lump sum of money. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a rolled wad of bills. Wiping her nose with the palm of her hand, she stared at the money. Banger handed it to her. “I hope this helps. I know it won’t bring your son back, but it’ll help you get by for a long while.”
Lynn took the money and shoved it down her housecoat. “It’s Chad Bridgewater and his no-good son who done this to my boy.”
Chad Bridgewater? Banger didn’t move a muscle or say a word. He simply stood there waiting for her to talk.
“Tommy told me he thought it was bikers bringing in the bad drugs to sell, but he found out it was Chad and the guys who stay with him. They bought the drugs from Texas, I think, and they’re making a shitload of money selling them. They’re already doing it in Silverton. Tommy smoked weed, but he didn’t do the hard shit. He was good to his mama. Very good.” The tears welled up in her eyes again.
“You take care of yourself. I’ll come around again. You had a good boy.” Banger turned around and walked to the door.
As he stepped out, Lynn yelled out, “Thank you. Youse a kind man.”