2
He has both windows down, breeze biting at his skin, racing through stop signs and skipping over curves. Doesn't slow down, not even for the flock of teenagers trying to cross over to the burger joint. A few scream, one flicks him the bird, another tries to chase after him. The corners of his mouth tilt a bit. He feels alright today.
"What a bunch of candyasses," A dry voice beside him remarks, narrowed eyes gleaming with humor. "Ain't they aware jaywalkin' is a very serious crime?"
Some might call them reckless. Just as stupid as they are dangerous. They never seem to mention experienced. Dallas knows that his passenger has been routinely checking the rearview mirror. Cautious and calm. Always expecting sirens. He likes that.
"Reckon we go back and let 'em know? Sell a couple Bibles while we're at it."
Mac chuckles, holding a bottle of whiskey hostage at his lips. "Hell, Winston, I doubt we'd even be able to get our hands on a Bible without lightnin' strikin' us dead." He takes a gulp, wincing through the burn. "'Sides, these days I'm sellin' a different kind of faith."
"That right," Dallas mumbles, his fingers yearning to find a loose cigarette.
The bottle almost hides his smirk. "Ya know how it is."
The hood does know how it is. You won't lose it. That restlessness. It's like a sore that never stops oozing. They call it freedom - when they finally let you walk out those barbed wire fences. Both of them know better. It's doesn't last long.
"Trust me, man, it's no Jesus but it just might save that rotting soul of yours."
He doesn't trust him. Doesn't trust anyone.
"Redemption ain't an interest of mine."
With a crooked smile, Mac reaches for his jean pocket. "Ya sure 'bout that?"
From the corner of his eye, they look like cigarettes. He knows they aren't. Not the kind of smoke he's always craving. Dallas glances at the bottle of whiskey nested between his legs. He was alright today. His head felt right for once. Quiet.
It won't last long.
"How much?"
"On the house."
The hood can't help but laugh. He considers slamming the breaks and dragging his friend out of the car. Knocking his teeth in. Dallas likes cons - he really does. They know how to amuse him. The sweet talk, the lies that are as smooth as velvet. It's when they finally realize who he is, what he is - that's his favorite part.
"Don't give me that, Winston." He looks him dead in the eyes. Placid. "No foolin', man. I owe ya, and what you did for me...this ain't nothin'."
They don't talk about it. Mac refuses to look at him, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. Shame, anger, disgust. He doesn't need to look at the guy to know it's consuming him.
Rough fingers. Steady, experienced. They clench a homemade blade, push against the curve of his neck.
"Asked you once, boy. Won't ask again."
He shrugs. "Was a long time ago."
"Must've been, cause the Winston I knew wouldn't think twice 'bout a good time." It should be funny. Neither laugh. "But I get it. Ain't gonna force ya or nothin'."
The irony has one hell of a right hook, Mac winces at bit. It disappears as quick as it came. Dallas doesn't say anything. Doesn't see a point. Trauma like that doesn't heal. It'll bleed and fester and scab - but it won't ever heal.
They've been driving for hours, no destination in mind. But the air changes. It bites harder now, specks of their past lingering. The hood watches Mac - leg bouncing anxiously, jaw locked. Yet his face stays the same. Careless, hard. Just another delinquent from the wrong side of town. He sees right through it.
Mac ducks when he throws his pack of matches at him. They smack against the window and onto the floor.
"What? Thought you said somethin' 'bout a good time."
A boyish grin grows across his face. Makes him look young. Innocent. Both of which they both should be, but really aren't. Not anymore.
"I sure did."
The sun is barely peeking over the horizon by the time he speeds up to the gas pump. The only remnants of his day are the empty whiskey bottle on the floor and some stubborn ash on the leather seats. His head feels fuzzy.
The guy looks at his ride and whistles. His hand reaches out to stroke the paint, but he stops himself. "Golly, sir, she sure is a beauty."
The hood recognizes the voice instantly. He smirks. "Think ya can fuel her up without gettin' a woody or do I gotta find somebody else?"
Soda tenses up, turns his head a little too quickly. "Dallas?"
"No, it's Houston, his twin fuckin' brother."
He smiles, it's gentle and effortless. Nearly contagious.
It doesn't last long.
"It's been a while." Soda starts to pump the gas, eyes looking anywhere but him. "The gang started thinkin' we'd never see ya again."
He can't help but shrug. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Who'd ya snatch her from?" He has the guts to ask, but keeps his attention focused on the pump.
Dallas digs for some cash, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Don't think I like what you're implyin'."
His old friend says nothing. He's too quiet, too still. Uncomfortable. Doesn't pester him with any questions about his car - doesn't ask to take it for a spin down the block. Hell, he doesn't even try to open her up and look at the engine.
The hood stares him down. Makes him squirm a bit, a nervousness that just doesn't fit Soda.
"What ain't you tellin' me, Curtis?"
He remembers shifting gears too fast, the engine groaning. The smell of burnt rubber. Knuckles sickly white, clenching the steering wheel too tight. Swerving too quick, side of the front tire rubbing on the curb before jumping over onto grass.
He says nothing at first. Forces their front door open, it swings wide, the handle smacking a dent into the drywall. The television is on, some childish cartoon, and the air reeks like chicken.
A sharp shriek pierces his ears, along with the sound of glass shattering. Both equally annoying to him, like nails on a chalk board.
It takes him by surprise. Not the cooking pan she has secured with both her hands, holding it like a baseball bat. A weapon - like he's the intruder.
"Who the hell are you?" The woman demands, her tone weary.
The hood ignores her question. Barks out, "Where is he?"
"Where is - " She shakes her head with disbelief, her big eyes refusing to wander away from him. "If you aren't out that door in two seconds I swear -"
He laughs. It's humorless. He can feel his jaw clenching uncontrollably. "What? Huh? What the fuck are ya gonna do, sweetheart? Swing your little frying pan at me?"
A flush creeps across her cheeks, her stance weakens a bit. Dallas can practically see the fear taking control. He's never laid a hand on a woman before. Not even when Sylvia tried to whack his brains out with a tire iron. He's done plenty of horrible, unforgivable things in his life. That's never going to be one.
He tries to calm himself down.
"I'm lookin' for Johnny Cade."
The energy changes. Her face twists with anger. She opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance.
"Dally?"
The youngest Curtis looks about the same, but his voice is a little deeper. Rusty hair a little longer. His eyes are wide, unnerved, shifting between the two.
"Laura - it's okay. He's a buddy of ours."
They start to talk.
The hood hears none of it.
It's awkward, tense, but the kid forces out, "Hi, Dal."
It goes something like this.
"Who?"
It's a simple question, blunt. Empty. Yet his icy eyes are burning and burning and burning. The kid must feel it - tries to fold into himself. It looks uncomfortable. Agonizing.
Johnny won't look at him. His voice is coarse. "Pony was just talkin' 'bout some new movie they're gonna be showin' tonight. The one with Clint Eastwood, I think."
The hood feels his jaw clenching too tight. Sharp pain starts shooting to his temples, to his knuckles - he punched something, doesn't remember what, blood drips down his fingers onto the porch.
They sit there quietly. The street lamp in front of the Curtis house is flickering.
"You oughta get that wrapped," the kid says, eyes still refusing to meet his. "Laura, she's a nurse or somethin'. Sure she wouldn't mind lookin' at it for ya."
Dallas felt alright today.
He looks over at the boy. His one arm is in a sling, his left leg is smothered inside a thick cast. A pair of crutches are awkwardly sprawled next to him. The hood knows Johnny is trying not to let him see the damage done to his face - but Dallas grabs him by the chin as gently as he can. Shades of blue, purple, yellow, red. They blend like watercolors. His one eye is completely swelled shut, the other bloodshot from bursting veins. A busted lip, swollen knot at his temple. A concussion, no doubt.
The Cade boy pulls away from him a little too quick, hisses in pain.
He looks empty. Drained.
"It wasn't your old man. Know how I know that? 'Cause the last time he touched ya - you know what I did, Johnny?" He laughs. It feels good, remembering. The sound it made - bone against metal. "I bet you could guess. He didn't look too good the last time you saw him, did he?"
Johnny doesn't react.
"I ain't gonna ask again."
A minute passes. Then another.
"Darry ain't gonna be too happy 'bout those tire marks on the lawn. Or the hole in the wall."
The hood is too familiar with this game. Avoidance. But he plays, each and every time, and he always wins.
"Yeah, I bet Superman is gonna be cryin' real hard that his house won't be on the cover of Homes and Gardens."
The kid shakes his head, sighs. "Don't joke 'bout him, Dal. Darry works real hard. He's got enough goin' on, it ain't right. He don't deserve it."
"But you deserve gettin' beat into a fuckin' pulp like clockwork, is that it Johnny?" He can feel himself loosing his control - he doesn't care anymore. "Have ya seen yourself? Huh? You look like somethin' they found in barn of the Plainfield Butcher, and I'm just supposed to turn a blind fuckin' eye? Fuck that. Start talkin'."
Intimidation, exhaustion, pain - Dallas can see it overwhelming his friend. Watches him rub the tender bruise on his cheek with his good hand. Nervous habit. The hood manages to get Johnny to mumble, "It don't matter, alright? It just - it was my fault and this is my problem, okay? Just drop it."
"It don't matter?" He almost wishes Johnny didn't say anything at all. It fuels him, scorching white heat pumping trough his veins. "Don't fuckin' matter? Ya could of been killed, for fuck sake. And then what, huh? It just won't fuckin' matter none? I don't ever wanna hear you say that shit. Ya don't wanna talk - I ain't gonna make ya. 'Cause I will find the son of a bitch and I'm gonna make 'em look real fuckin' pretty. That's a promise, kid."
Both his hands start to tremble, his one knee begins to bounce in a trance. "I ain't a kid! Ya hear? I'm seventeen I don't - I don't need ya to fight my battles for me no more. I can't - I ain't a kid, so just...just stop treatin' me like one."
The wind starts to pick up. Dead leaves and loose trash get trapped and dragged across the street. The dingy old window shutters creak. The Cade boy flinches when they slam shut. Dallas acts like he didn't notice. It might be the one thing he always does that the kid appreciates.
The hood grabs the keys out of his pocket, fumbles them around in his palm.
"Seventeen or seventy." Dallas takes one last look at him. "It makes not one goddamn difference to me."