Travis peeked through his fingers and saw Brant wielding a grimy stick. Said he was gonna fuck his faggot ass with it. Travis’s eyes pieballed in disbelief.
This can’t be happening.
Stabbed. Sparks of pain. Tears, hot with shame. Every curse word he’d ever heard, flung out in a spew and repeated.
Then the pain stopped. Their voices, loud and belligerent. Fired at someone else.
“The fuck you want?”
Travis’s eyes swam in tears, the alley a blur. He saw Emmet or Wyatt slapped to the ground by a hulking fog. Brant was snatched next and shaken so hard his head flopped like a snapped chicken. The voice booming in rage. “You filthy little cocksucker! Is this the kind of faggotry you little shit-stains go for?”
Mr. Corrigan’s voice.
Loud as thunderclaps and wrathful as God. Now it was Brant’s turn to kiss the pavement and curl up. Mr. Corrigan raised his boot high and stomped the boy’s chest. Brant screamed and screamed until a boot to the guts shut him up.
Emmet and Wyatt were halfway down the alley, leaving Brant puking onto the pavement. Corrigan snatched the boy by the hair and hauled him clear to his knees. The boy blubbering and the man nigh snarling into his face. “You interfere with my friend again and I’ll send you back to your father in a fucking box, boyo.” He flung the boy away like something soiled and the boy limped bandylegged towards the sunlight of the street.
Travis clawed at his pants, hauling them back up. His hand went to the stinging pain in his behind. Fingers came up bloodied. Eyes rolled white.
All she wrote.
A few slaps to the cheek and Travis’s eyes swam open. Why was Mr. Corrigan leaning over him? It all rushed back with the pain searing through his backside, the thrumming ache in his brain.
“You all right, son?”
Shame followed hot on pain’s tail. He lowered his eyes, looking for some dark hole to crawl into. He couldn’t even sit up, the sting was so bad. Hot tears welled up again and he scolded them back.
Corrigan watched the boy stifle back his tears. Man up. “Who were those boys?”
Travis spat onto the grit. “Cocksuckers.”
“Without a doubt.” Corrigan tapped the boy’s knee. “Hold tight.” He plucked a handkerchief from a pocket and folded it into a tight square. “Take this. Stuff it down your skivvies before the blood seeps your jeans.”
Travis froze up. Bad enough he knew, but this? Stuffing his jockeys with paper. Like a woman on the rag.
“Hurry,” said Corrigan. “No one’s looking.”
Travis took the wad and Corrigan turned away, allowing him privacy.
“Are you gonna tell my parents?”
“Why would I do that? Keep an eye on that, yeah? If it doesn’t scab over in a day, go see a doctor.” Corrigan cocked his chin in the direction Brant had fled. “Those boys? Takes a coward to gang up on someone the way they did. Remember that.”
Travis hitched his jeans back up. His face was still flushed but at least the tears had stopped. “What the hell am I gonna tell my parents?”
“The truth. You got jumped by a pack of cocksucking bastards.” Corrigan rose, knees popping against the strain. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to meet my mom at the Co-op.”
“Then I’ll drop you there. Get up.”
Corrigan didn’t help the boy stand, just waited patiently as he limped down the alley to where Corrigan had parked his truck. They rode in silence, Travis wincing at every pothole. Corrigan wheeled up to the double doors of the Co-Op and Travis cracked his door.
“Hold on.” Mr. Corrigan popped the glovebox and fished around the mess inside. He plucked something and held it out to Travis. “Here, take this.”
A thick wedge of tarnished brass, underpinned with four rings. Brass knuckles, heavy and lethal. Travis tried it on, his fingers small in the ring-hollows.
“Holy shit.” It was all he could think to say.
“Tuck it away out of sight but easy to reach when needed. Next time those little pissants hassle you, slip ‘em on. Do some damage.”
The boy was entranced by the brass weapon. Corrigan shooed him out of the truck. “Go on. Get outta here.”
Tom Carswell tapped his papers straight on the desk and tried not to look at the clock. Ten past five. The day just refused to end. He peered out his office door to the bank lobby. Cheryl was searching for her keys. Again. The doors should have been locked already.
Like every closing time, Carswell planned an exit that would avoid Cheryl. The woman loved nothing more than to prattle on at day’s end, an endless stream of petty complaints and grating gossip. But the bank was small and there was simply nowhere to hide. Sometimes, when cornered by Cheryl’s nonstop chatter, Carswell fantasized about locking his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyeballs popped out blue and bloodshot. Ahh.
A shadow blocked the light in his door.
“Mr. Carswell, you’ve been avoiding me.” William Corrigan leaned on the jamb, casting his eyes over the bank manager’s office.
Where the hell did he come from? Why couldn’t that cow ever lock the door on time? Carswell sat up straight, forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corrigan. We’re extremely busy here but I will get back to you in due time.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Business hours are closed so—”
“Perfect.” Corrigan helped himself to the chair, stretched his legs out. “Then no one will disturb us.”
“Mr. Corrigan, please. I just don’t have the time right now.” Where the hell was the security guard? What did he pay that fat turd for if he let people wander in past hours?
“This shouldn’t take long. If you’ve listened to my messages or read my request, that is.” Corrigan smiled, knowing almost certain the puffy-faced manager hadn’t. “I need the property assessment on my farm. The last two assessments should be enough to work out a current one.” He cast his eyes over the paperwork crowding the desk. “Let’s have a look.”
“There are no previous assessments, Mr. Corrigan. There hasn’t been one in ten years. More.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The land’s been held in trust since the dinosaur era.” Carswell made a show of looking at his watch, hoping the man would get the hint. “Any hope of selling it was abandoned ages ago.”
“Then give me an estimate on what the assessment would be. A ballpark figure.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can. What about Hawkshaw’s place next door? What’s Jimmy’s figure?”
“I can’t reveal that information.” Carswell sighed. Would the man ever go away? He sure as spit couldn’t take a hint. “Not that you want Jim’s assessment.”
“He’s in a bad way, is he? How much is he in the hole?”
“Mr. Corrigan, you know I can’t discuss that either. Now if you’d—”
“Here, I’ve got a killer idea.” Corrigan leaned forward, reaching into a pocket. “Why don’t you call up Jimmy’s info on your screen there and then go grab us a coffee?” He produced a roll, peeled off four bills and squared them up on the desk. Hundreds. The benign face of Robert Borden looking up at the bank manager.
Carswell blinked at the bills like he didn’t know what they were. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I could murder a cup of coffee right now.” Corrigan leaned in, a grin creasing his face. “What is it? You and Jimmy good friends?”
“No. Not at all.”
Corrigan laid another bill atop the others and pushed them forward. All in. “Go on, Mr. Carswell. All I need is a peek.”
The clock ticked. Carswell wanted to go home. His eyes went to the lobby. It was empty. He tapped a few strokes on the keyboard and then rose from the chair. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”