What the fuck? Rick said. You just picked up your check two days ago.
Still Nat did not respond. He could feel himself falling out of his body somehow and he could feel himself stuck inside it, not only his body but the town, the desert, the basin from which no river reached the sea.
This is starting to get pretty old, Johnny said.
Whoa whoa whoa, Rick said. Hang on.
Nat looked up now. Johnny held a black pistol in his hand, its angles square and sharp.
We’ll get you the money, Rick said.
Yeah, I’m sure you will, Johnny said.
He stepped forward then and with one quick fluid motion struck Nat in the side of the face with the pistol. Nat went down all at once, the pain sharp and terrible, and in the red darkness he could hear Johnny’s voice: Get the fuck back.
Jesus Christ, Rick said. I told you we’d get you the money.
Keep your hands where I can see them, Johnny said.
Let me give you what I have in my wallet. Can I do that?
He opened his eyes then. His face felt warm and he knew he was bleeding. His finger throbbed where he had jammed it when he fell and his face felt like it had simply exploded, the pain arcing into his jaw, his eyes, his skull. Above him, Mike had taken Rick’s wallet.
Eight dollars, Mike said.
Eight dollars? Johnny was smiling now and when he said the number again his voice broke into a laugh. Eight dollars? You two are like peas in a pod. Un-fucking-believable. Eight dollars?
The door behind them cracked open and the other man said, Bathroom’s closed for cleaning, and slammed the door with a loud crack.
What’s your name again? Johnny said.
Rick Harris.
Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Rick Harris?
No, he said. But listen—
No, you listen, Johnny said. I’ve heard all the excuses I want to hear for today.
Nat looked up at them from the floor. Rick and Mike and Johnny Aguirre. The other man. Behind them the urinals covered the back wall. Rows of sinks. The toilet stalls lining up beyond them into the room.
Get him up, Johnny said, and then Mike was crouching over him, pulling him to his feet. I’ve given you plenty of time, Johnny said, his voice calm and clear.
Nat managed somehow to continue standing, even though his body felt limp.
Just give us a little more, Rick said.
Listen you little faggot, Johnny said, turning to him now, the gun barrel floating between them in the air. You can go fuck yourself.
We’ve got some stuff we can pawn, Rick said. We’ll get the money together. I promise.
You promise? Johnny stepped forward toward Nat, his face only inches away now. The thing is, I don’t hear you saying anything, Nat. Not a word.
His hands were shaking so hard now that they seemed separate from his body. Flapping like the wings of birds.
Tell him, Nat, Rick said.
Yeah, Johnny said, tell me. Tell me you’re gonna pay me back. Because I haven’t heard that before.
Please, Johnny, Nat said. He had begun crying, weeping, his body wracked with the force of it. Please.
Please please please, Johnny said. He stepped back now and nodded and Mike came forward.
I told you, kid, Mike said. Nat tried to speak but the words were a mumbled whisper and Mike leaned in to his face. You got something to say?
I gave you the Atari, Nat whispered. What about Pitfall?
Ah Nat, Mike said, his own voice quiet and soothing like a parent calmly sympathizing with an errant child, his hand coming up to lay for a brief instant against Nat’s cheek. We’re way way beyond that now.
And then the first blow came and Nat doubled over. There was no air. He could see Mike’s legs, watched as the blue shape of his pants cocked back and the foot came blurring forward. He could not understand what was happening even though it was all clear and plain and obvious. He was on the ground and he was in pain and he deserved it all. Christ, he’s pissing himself already, Mike said. I’ve barely even started.
Fucking leave him alone, Rick said, you fucking cockhole.
What’d you say? Johnny asked.
I said leave him alone. Rick’s voice was clear and sharp and angry.
What did you call me? Johnny said. A fucking cockhole? That’s not very nice.
Nat’s eyes were cracked open now. In the tear-blurred bathroom before him he watched as Mike grabbed Rick by the shoulders and dragged him backward toward the stalls, Rick’s hands flailing and his voice coming hard and fast: What the fuck? What the fuck are you doing?
He could see their feet under the stalls and then he could see Rick’s knees and his hands, his friend steadying himself against the tile floor. He was facing the toilet, Johnny Aguirre’s slick leather shoes and Mike’s black loafers behind him. Then the sound of gurgling followed by the gasping of Rick’s breath and then the gurgling once more, his feet kicking everywhere against the tiles as water splashed out all around him.
What’s that, Rick? You want another drink? Sure, Rick, you can have another drink.
And then the gurgling resumed, his feet kicking out, the partition banging and banging.
When Rick’s voice came again it was between a series of choking coughs. Why are you doing this? he said.
And then Johnny’s voice: Because you have an attitude I don’t like.
I’m sorry, Rick said.
I’m sure you are, Johnny said. There was a brief silence and then Johnny said, Hold him down.
No, wait, wait, Rick said, his voice both muffled and amplified.