Page 12 of Spyder
“Yeah, she asked about you, bro. By name,” he says. “I may yank your chain about a lot of shit, but not about something like that. I know what she meant to you. I wouldn’t screw with that.”
I give him a nod. I believe him, and it’s a thought that sets my mind on fire. The thought that she asked about me is hitting me hard. But in a good way.
“Game face on,” Domino says.
I do my best as we climb the stairs up to the porch. Though there are hinges, there’s no steel security door, which makes things a lot easier. I step forward and drive my foot into the wooden door. It cracks and groans, blowing inward in a hail of splinters and pieces of the door’s hardware.
Domino and I follow the door in and rush into the living room. Wells is sitting on a battered and torn old La-Z-Boy recliner and jumps to his feet as we storm in. I drive my fist into his gut with all the force I can muster. Wells doubles over with a loud grunt as the air is driven out of his lungs. As he gasps for air, I push him backward and he flops into his recliner, wheezing, his face purple.
“Stay the fuck down,” I growl.
Wells is tall. Probably about six-three. He’s wide through the shoulders and chest, but he’s got a paunch around his middle. His hair is a dull, dirty blond that hangs limply to his shoulders. It looks greasy as if it hadn’t been washed in a while. Wells’ skin is sallow, his cheeks pocked with acne scars, and his eyes are a dull, lifeless brown. He’s not an attractive man, to say the least. Probably why he had to start dealing drugs. It’s the only way he could get laid.
Wells finally catches his breath and raises his head, glaring at me. He starts to push himself up from the chair again, so I wade in and deliver a haymaker. My fist connects with his face and I hear the satisfying crunch of his nose splintering as he flops back into his chair again. He gargles and sputters as the blood flows freely down his face. His porcine eyes are wide and filled with rage… but also with the first stirrings of fear.
“I told you to stay the fuck down,” I shout at him. “Listen this time, asshole.”
“Who the fuck are you guys?” he asks.
Domino steps forward. “We’re the welcoming committee,” he says. “We heard you moved into town recently, so here we are. Welcome to Blue Rock Bay.”
“And now, it’s time for you to go,” I say.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Oh, I think you are,” I reply.
“See, you aren’t welcome here,” Domino adds. “We know you’re dealin’ drugs out of this house and we have a very strict rule in our city.”
“You don’t deal within town limits, I say.”
Wells obviously isn’t very bright as he starts to get to his feet again. Tired of punching this brainless meat sack, I pull the .45 out of the holster on my hip and press the barrel to his forehead. His eyes widen and he wisely sits back down.
“See? You can teach an old dog new tricks,” I say.
“Hold him here,” Domino tells me. “I’m gonna toss this dump and see what I can find.”
“You ain’t got no right—”
I press the barrel of my sidearm to his forehead harder to get his attention, and when he turns his eyes to me, I put my finger to my lips.
“Quiet now,” I tell him. “Yellin’ makes me nervous. And when I get nervous, I tend to get a little twitchy. I’d hate to blow a hole in your melon the size of a Cadillac because you made me nervous.”
The corner of his eye twitches and his lips quiver, but he falls silent and leans back in his chair, his face a twisted mask of rage and fear.
“Good boy,” I say.
The sound of things crashing to the floor and breaking comes from the back of the house as Domino goes through everything, looking for the drugs. I sit down on a plastic lawn chair that, for whatever reason, is sitting in the middle of Wells’ living room, keeping my weapon trained on him.
I look around the living room and wrinkle my nose in disgust. There are empty pizza boxes, food containers, and beer cans everywhere. With everything happening so fast when we stormed in here, I didn’t notice it at first, but there is a serious odor in here. It’s the smell of rot and decay and I feel my stomach turning over on itself.
“Dude, how can you live in this?” I ask. “Do you have no sense of smell? I’ve been in Porta-Potties that smell better than this.”
“Fuck you,” he spits. “What gives you the fuckin’ right to bust in here like this? What gives you the right to do this shit you’re doin’?”
I point to my kutte. “See this? This is what gives us the right,” I tell him. “Blue Rock is our town, and we decide who gets to live here. More importantly, we get to decide who doesn’t get to live here.”
Something heavy hits the floor with a loud crack and a splintering sound in the back room. Wells’ face twists in rage.
