Nightcrawlers

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“There he is,” Tommy said.

Bix squinted past him through the passenger-side window. “Yeah. Our meat, all right. Lookit that fag coat, fag mustache, the way he walks.”

“Nobody else around.”

“Perfect, man.”

“You ready?”

Bix giggled the way he always did when he was high, pulled his Giants cap down low on his forehead. “Hot to trot.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

They rolled on past, slow. Downhill a ways, the headlights picked out an alleyway between a couple of the big old houses, both of them dark. Bix wheeled the pickup over to the curb in front of the alley. Before it came to a full stop, Tommy was out and moving with the Little League bat under his coat. Bix had to yank on the emergency brake, cut the lights and the engine before he jumped out, and then he got his big feet tangled and almost fell down in the street. Christ. Slow and clumsy and stupid, stoned or sober.

Tommy moved up on the sidewalk, taking it easy, letting Bix catch up. “Hey, pretty boy,” he called, not too loud.

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