Page 115 of Bobby Green

“No,” Keith moaned. “Vern, don’t. Don’t beat him up. You know what he’s like—”

“Keith, man, you gotta move,” Bobby said, glancing at him briefly. “This piece of shit is not worth your loyalty.”

“Yeah, don’t hurt him,” Dex said absently, coming out from the other side of the truck. He had a sheaf of papers in one hand and a phone up to his ear. “Because if you hurt him, he can’t pay her damages.”

“What?” Frank sputtered. “I’m not paying that bitch—” Everybody—all the giant bodybuilders standing at Bobby’s back—moved in about six inches closer. “That woman,” Frank amended quickly. “I’m not about to pay that womanshit.”

“Keith?” Dex asked, like Keith was the guy holding the lights at a shoot. “Did Mrs. Roberts break her own windows?”

Bobby locked eyes with Keith Gilmore, daring him to lie about this.

“No,” Keith whispered.

“Did she poke the holes in her own floor?”

“No.” Keith closed his eyes.

“Now, I’m not even going to ask you who did,” Dex said reassuringly, patting his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. See, this is a classic rental agreement—every apartment complex in the world has one. It says that asswipe over there—”

“Frank,” Bobby ground out.

“Yeah, asswipe—he’s liable for pretty much everything. Do you know what that means, asswipe?”

Bobby had to grin at Dex—he was good at this shit. Then he went back to scowling at Frank Gilmore.

“It means I have to pay,” he growled.

“Why, yes. Yes, it does. And it also says that Mrs. Roberts here paid first and last month’s rent, doesn’t it?”

“Yessir?”

“So if she’s paid up for next month, that’s one month too long. So I’m just going to rip this up here”—Dex pulled out what was probably Bobby’s mom’s check and ripped it into confetti before putting the confetti in his pocket, but he kept talking while he was doing it—“and mostly, you guys can leave. I mean, we’ll have her stuff in an hour, hour and a half, most, and all we have to do is leave the key under the mat.”

“You can’t do this!” Frank howled, and Dex grunted.

“Oh yeah. Totally legal. In fact, hold on right there.” He held up his camera and took a picture of all of them, huddled around Frank, and Frank, looking pathetic and small, once-honed body rounded and stocky. Then Dex strode into the house, long legs confident, wide shoulders swinging like he did this shit all the time. Well, Bobby had seen him in action—he sort of did.

He came back in a few moments, still fiddling on his phone. “Okay now, so I’ve got a lawyer, sort of a catch-all type of guy, and I’m sending him the pictures. We’ve got two eyewitnesses that say the damage wasn’t caused by Mrs. Roberts, and we’ve got pictures of what damage there was—andwe’ve got pictures of the guys and you, and nobody’s hurt, and nobody has so much as a hangnail. So there you go. Can’t hurt anybody, can’t wreck anything in the house, and can’t give Bobby’s mom one more goddamned bit of trouble. In fact, the most youcando is get the fuck off the property and let us do our thing.”

“Fine!” Frank hawked and looked for a place to spit, but nobody was moving. Watching him swallow was both really gross and really gratifying.

Kane stepped aside just far enough to let him pass, and he sidled by, his back scraping the side of Bobby’s truck.

“You’d better be out of here by the end of the day,” he snarled. “Or I’m gonna make—”

“What?” Dex said, nose still buried in the papers. “She has until next week. What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna tell everybody in town her boy’s a faggot, and he’s got a whole passel of faggot friends—urk!”

Kane had decided not to let him through. “I. Don’t. Like. That. Word.” He punctuated each enunciation with a little shake; then he looked at Bobby. “Could it hurt your mom? You know, if he goes to town and uses that word?”

“She put in her notice,” Bobby said, eyes on Frank. “She’s commuting up to Truckee for a week, which is gonna suck, but then she’s looking for another job.” Bobby gave a small, mean smile. “My mom doesn’t have to ever visit this pissant town again, Frank. But you do. You’re stuck here. And that’s fine. You just keep throwing your money around and being the king of Dogpatch. I don’t give a shit. I’m living somewhere else now, where when I walk down the street, nobody knows me or gives a shit who me or my family are.” Bobby looked up at Keith again. “It’s liberating. Free as a goddamned bird.”

Keith nodded. “Dad, let’s go.”

“Shut the fu—”

“There’s a little kid out there with Bobby’s mom,” Keith said, his voice uncharacteristically strong. “What are you going to do? Mow down all these people in front of a little kid? They got a lawyer. Not a Dogpatch lawyer—someone outside. And they’re right. Why are we here anyway? It’s a rental property—why does it matter?”