Dead Ends (26 page)

“Greasy” didn't actually begin to cover it. There was no word for how nasty the place was, with its wood-paneled walls stained by smoke and its floor with every single tile chipped or missing entirely. We picked two stools at the counter and pried apart a couple of menus stuck together by grease and some other unidentifiable gunk.

A guy in suspenders and a shirt as dirty as the diner was on the opposite side of the counter, at the far end, talking to the only other customer—a man missing two of his front teeth and half of one of his fingers. He had the half finger wrapped around a mug of coffee and his eyes straight on us. He nodded in our direction and said something to the guy behind the counter, who finally came our way, moving like a slug.

“You boys need some breakfast?”

He addressed us both but looked only at Billy—stared is more like it.

Billy was either oblivious or so used to unnatural staring
that he overlooked it. “I want bacon—lots and lots of it—like this much.” Billy pantomimed a mound of bacon in front of him. “And orange juice.”

“OJ and bacon,” Dirty Shirt repeated. He tore his eyes off Billy to glance at me. “You?”

“The sausage-and-cheese omelette and a coffee.”

I despised coffee. The awesome smell was a big lie about the taste. But something about the way this guy held himself stiff in front of us, the way he stared at Billy, made me feel like I had to do something grown-up, like order coffee.

He looked once more at Billy, then at his friend down the counter, before moving to the kitchen to fry up our food. Apparently he was the cook, the host, and the waitstaff all in one.

The silence that followed would have been comfortable if it had just been between me and Billy, but the freak show at the other end of the counter made it awkward. He must have been uncomfortable, too—or just bored—because he broke the silence first.

“You guys travelin'?” He had a coarse voice, like tires skidding on gravel.

“Why?” I asked, at the same time Billy said, “Yeah.”

Old Half Finger slid off his stool and moved toward us. He stopped right next to Billy and leaned deep over the counter, getting a good look at Billy's face.

“Where ya headed?”

“Kentucky,” I said quickly, before Billy could spit out anything more specific.

“You special?” Half Finger asked Billy.

I sat up straighter on my stool and gripped the edge of the counter. I wished there were more people in the diner. Something told me this guy wouldn't be so “friendly” if there was an audience.

“I guess so,” Billy said, casting his eyes away from the stranger.

“Yeaaah, you're special.” The guy drew it out long and slow. I couldn't tell if he was talking like that because he thought Billy was stupid or because
he
was just stupid.

Dirty Shirt came out of the kitchen with our plates, and I noticed Billy's had less than half the amount of bacon he'd asked for.
Not that he asked for a reasonable amount.
I coached myself not to read too much into anything. We were just strangers in a small town, which would make us interesting anywhere, I figured—but especially since one of us looked a little different.

“This one's special,” Half Finger said to Dirty Shirt, pointing a thumb at Billy.

Dirty Shirt stroked his jaw and leaned on the counter. “Oh yeah? Why you so special?”

They both laughed like he'd told some great joke.

“I don't know.” Billy munched on his bacon.

My own plate was untouched.

I cleared my throat. “Uh, my coffee? And he ordered an orange juice.”

Dirty Shirt shot me a look. “Coffee's brewin'.” He looked back to Billy. “And you don't mind waitin' on your OJ right, special? What's your name?”

“Billy Drum. But everyone calls me Billy D.”

“Is that right?”

“That's right.” Billy tried to smile, but it wasn't his usual ear-to-ear grin.

I braced my feet against the bar at the bottom of the stool, poised like a cat ready to pounce.

“You don't like them eggs?” Dirty Shirt nodded at my plate.

“Just want to wait for the coffee,” I said.

“Hey, I know what he is!” Half Finger said in that gravelly voice. He was looking at Billy but talking to Dirty Shirt, as if they were in a museum or a circus staring at something they'd never seen before. “I heard about these guys. There's always somethin' that freaks them out—like a … a … whadayacallit? A trigger.”

“A trigger?” Dirty Shirt asked. I didn't like his tone of voice, like he was in on a joke I didn't get.

“Yeah,” Half Finger said. “A trigger, like … like the color
yellow
!” He shoved his ugly toothless mug right into Billy's face and barked the word. Then he pulled back quick like something was supposed to happen. When nothing did, he tried again. “How do you feel about
yellow
?”

Billy stared back. “I like yellow.”

“Knock it off,” I said.

I kept my voice steady and tried to control how much my chest rose and fell as my breathing quickened. I should have started kicking some ass right then and there, but here's the thing about sizing guys up for a fight: it's not just about how big they are. It's about deciding whether they've thrown punches and taken hits before. The more guys fight, the more willing they are to take a beating and keep coming for you. And there was no question these two had been in their share of scrapes.
Plus, despite those big, round guts from years of filling their bellies with beer, they looked pretty muscular. I might have been able to take either one individually, but together—and with Billy to look out for—I wasn't so sure. And I wasn't in the business of starting fights I couldn't win.

I dropped one of our hundred-dollar bills on the counter, hoping that would be enough to get us out the door and back in our car without a scene.

Dirty Shirt didn't even glance at it.

“Yeah, what are them guys called?” He looked right at Billy. “What are you guys called?”

“And they're geniuses, too! Wicked smart,” Half Finger said.

Dirty Shirt snapped his fingers. “Autistic! That's what it is.”

They were talking to each other like we weren't even there.

“Oh, maybe it's not a color,” Half Finger said. “Maybe it's like a sudden movement or something.”

“Like this?” Dirty Shirt dropped below the counter quickly and popped back up even faster.
“Boo!”

Billy flinched, but so did I. So would anyone.

The guys laughed their asses off.

My palms were really burning now, but I still just wanted to go before things got ugly.

“He's not autistic, all right, man? Leave him alone.”

But I was speaking so low under my breath that maybe they just didn't hear me, because Half Finger was already taking a saltshaker and sprinkling some salt onto the counter. As soon as it touched the Formica, he turned the shaker right side up and set it down flat, covering the grains he'd just tossed out.

“Quick!” he said to Billy. “How many bits of salt were there?”

Billy said nothing. To the guy, Billy's face must have looked like it first looked to me—blank, uncomprehending. But I knew that face so well by now, I could see the subtle shifts—the twitch of an eyelash, the faint flush of a cheek, the tongue that usually stuck out pulling back as he sucked his lips.

And I recognized fear.

“Come on,” Half Finger said in what he probably thought was an encouraging tone of voice. “Just tell me how many bits of salt—”

“He can't,” I said, and it came out louder than I'd intended.

Half Finger cocked his head to me, and I could see in his face all the evil that really simmered under the sickly sweet tone he'd used with Billy. I wanted to use his ugly mug as a scratching post for my palms.

When he spoke to me, his voice was full of grit again.

“Oh yeah? Well, if he's not a genius, he must be a regular old retard.”

“I'm not a retard.”

I could hear the stress in Billy's voice, could hear him breathing in and out.

“Well, then?” Half Finger was now issuing Billy an out-and-out challenge. He inched closer to Billy with every word. “How. Much. Salt?”

“He's not Rain Man, you fuck!” I punched the saltshaker right off the counter and heard it shatter on the tile floor.

Everything happened really fast after that.

My first move was pushing Billy out of the way so I'd have a
clear shot at Half Finger's face. Then, there was my fist connecting with a jaw and a tooth dropping right into a cup of coffee.
Easier to knock 'em out when there're already holes on either side.
I opened my fist to grab the back of a stringy-haired head and slam it into the counter. There was a sick cracking sound as a nose caught the counter's edge. Something sliced open my right earlobe, and I knew it was my cue to turn and punch.

I dodged the return swing from across the counter and grabbed a ketchup bottle on my way back up. I didn't really plan to do anything with it. I just wanted to show that I had a weapon. Unfortunately, Dirty Shirt had a better one. His back was to me, opening a cabinet, and I saw it—all shiny and black with one of those chambers you can spin after you put the bullets in. Instinct kicked in. I flipped the ketchup bottle in my hand so the heavy bottom was aimed out, dove across the counter, and lowered the bottle as hard and fast as I could.

Dirty Shirt went down like a bag of rocks. I winced as his head smacked the tile floor. I spun around, ready to finish off Half Finger, but he was already done. He was flat on his back on the floor, with his head twisted to the side, blood gushing out of his nose. I knew there were ways to hit a guy's nose that could be deadly, and I could only hope I hadn't accidentally figured out how to do it. As it was, I'd caused more damage in two minutes than I'd ever caused before. Two guys sprawled on either side of the counter—two guys who probably had friends. We needed to get out of there.

“Billy, come on!”

I spun—then spun again.
Where did he go?

A glance around the diner told me he wasn't hiding under any of the tables. And he wasn't stretched out on the floor like the other guys, so I was pretty sure he hadn't been hit. The guy behind the counter groaned. Chances were good they'd both be awake in a minute and on their feet shortly after that. I didn't think I'd knocked anyone out cold—probably just stunned the shit out of them.

“Billy D.! Come on!”

No answer.

I tore out the front door, praying he was already back in the car. No luck. I was too freaked out to shout, afraid the noise would draw people. Finally, I heard him—first a sniffle, then a long whine and a choked-back sob. I followed the noise around the side of the diner and spotted him crouched between a filthy Dumpster and a paint-peeled wall.

“What are you doing? Let's go!” I called.

Billy only leaned away from me, tucking himself farther back into the narrow space and crying harder.

I crouched at the opening and almost gagged from the smell of garbage.

“It's over, okay? But we gotta get out of here.”

I reached an arm into the space, offering Billy my hand, but he smacked it to the side and let out a cross between a wail and a scream. The noise reverberated off the metal Dumpster and soared out into the parking lot. I clutched my ears and fell sideways against the wall.

“What the hell, man?”

Billy's scream died down to a hysterical high-pitched cry, and he started to hyperventilate.

“Billy D., it's me. It's Dane. It's okay.” I forced myself to sound calm, but I wanted to wail like Billy. If he kept making that noise, we were dead. It didn't matter how isolated the diner was. That sound could carry all the way across a cornfield. I was desperate to get back in the car.

“Are they dead?” Billy cried.

“No, they're not dead. Shh.”

“They're dead!”

“Dude, stop saying ‘dead.' Someone's gonna hear you!”

“I don't care.”

“I promise they're fine, but we have to leave. If someone comes, we won't be able to leave. We won't be able to go to Kentucky.”

Billy swallowed a sob. “We won't go to Kentucky?” he said between breaths.

“Not if you stay in there. Not unless you come out right now. Come on.”

But Billy still didn't move. He crouched on the ground, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Why do you hit?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“Why do you hit?” He raised his voice this time.

“Shh. What do you mean, why? I hit them because they were messing with you—because they might have hit
you
. I was looking out for you, see?”

“No.” Billy shook his head. “Why do you hit
everyone
?”

“I don't hit everyone. I don't hit you.”

“Why do you hit
any
one?”

“Can we talk about this in the car? We really have to—”

“If your dad didn't hit you, why do you hit?” Billy's voice was fierce and desperate.

“I don't know, Billy—”

“Why do you hit?!”

“Shit! We don't have time for—”

“Why does he hit?”

“We have to go—”

“Why does he hit?”

Wait. What?

“Why does he hit, Dane? Why does he hit?”

Billy was sobbing openly again, and this time he collapsed like Jell-O on the ground. I reached deep into the crevice between the Dumpster and the wall, holding my breath against the smell, and grabbed Billy by the collar of his jacket. He let me pull him out of his hiding space and stand him up, but once he was on his feet, he pushed away from me.

The question was still there in his eyes, but he didn't ask it again.