And, man, it’s a mess in there. Boxes and shit piled all over. Stuff that just looks like garbage. A shitty old couch and a lamp. Not even a TV. What kind of stuff they supposed to find in a place like this?
Fuck it. Not his problem.
He peeks around the corner into the narrow space that runs between the far side of the house and the fence. One of those little louvered bathroom windows is cranked open. He goes back around the other side of the house and gets the guys.
He tells them what the deal is, and they all look at Andy.
Andy keeps his hands in his pockets, his right hand fingering the twenty sided die.
The Worst Thing That Happens
Bob Whelan stands at the foot of the stairs, sipping coffee and looking up at the door to his older son’s room. He thinks about going up and kicking the foot of George’s bed and getting his lazy ass up and dressed and out to the job site with him. Been weeks since the kid’s come out for a day’s work. It’d do him good to get out there and make a couple bucks instead of screwing around with his pals all day.
Cindy shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Barely looking at what she’s doing, she gets a mug from the cabinet, fills it with coffee, rips open two packets of Sweet’N Low, dumps them in the mug, pours in a drop of milk and stirs it with her index finger before taking a big swallow.
She looks at Bob at the bottom of the stairs.
– You should go get him.
He shrugs.
– Not gonna force him to make money he doesn’t want to make.
She reaches under the XL T that reaches halfway down her thighs and scratches her stomach.
– If you want his company all you have to do is ask.
Bob walks away from the stairs.
– Not about wanting his company. Doesn’t matter. He’d rather mess around with Paul and Hector.