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 It don t matter, said Carnes.  If you re a true fan, none of that crap matters.
 True fan! said Penner disparagingly.  What the hell s that mean? The Red Sox front office screws
everybody over. Fans, players. They re no different from the government, man. They do just enough to
get by, just enough to confuse people into thinking it s all gonna be okay, when the fact is the storm s
coming and ain t no roof on the barn. They re not gonna be able to re-sign half their fucking players, their
best pitcher probably needs psychiatric help. Their manager looks like an old alcoholic and talks about
his freaking vegetable garden whenever you ask him  bout his problem at shortstop. You hafta go back
to prehistory to find when s the last time they won the Series. Nineteen-fucking-eighteen! And the
Celtics, man, they re just watching their players grow old. Fucking Larry Bird s starting to look like
Freddy Krueger with a limp. And the Patriots... Jesus Christ! Only thing they re good at s waggling their
dicks at female reporters.
They were almost at the turnoff, and a terrifying hilarity was mounting inside Penner. He heard the
reediness of fear in his voice, yet he had the idea that if he kept on ranting he might accidentally work a
spell that would abolish the need to kill Milchuk.
 And still you people keep going to the goddamn games, he went on, his voice shrilling.  You
support this crapola. I mean nothing stops you. The fact that these assholes in three-piece suits are selling
your dreams down the fucking river, it just doesn t sink in. Here they go gettin rid of your best reliever
 cause he s black, pickin up white guys with bad backs and dead arms, and you think it s wonderful.
They lose your best pitching prospect  cause they forget to put his name on the protected list. And
whaddaya do? You boycott? You try and change anything? Fuck, no! You go on buying your dumb hats
and your T-shirts, your shamrock jackets. You make stupid into a religion. Stand around chanting, Ooh,
ooh, ooh whenever the team wins, like those pathetic rejects on Arsenio Hall. You don t even notice the
whole thing s going down the toilet. You just sit there and babble about next year, while everything turns
to shit around you. True fans, my ass! Fans appreciate the game, they can argue the finer points, y know.
They wanta win, but they don t act like lobotomy cases when they lose. They understand when they re
getting jerked around. But you guys... Jesus Christ! All you guys are is a buncha fucking lemmings!
Carnes made no sound or movement, but his anger was as palpable as heat from an open furnace.
The silence grew long and prickly. The humming of the Caddy s tires seemed to register the increase of
tension.
 That Lisa Olson deal, said Milchuk tentatively.  Those assholes flashin her in the Pats locker room,
that was the worst, man. He glanced at Penner, his face stamped with an expression of concern.  I ain t
sayin I don t have problems with women in the locker room, y know, but geez!
 Now that s terrific, that is, said Carnes.  It s really great gettin an education on how to treat broads
from the guy cornholed Lori McDonough.
A look of bewilderment washed over Milchuk s stolid face.  What re you talkin , man?
Carnes slammed his hand against the steering wheel and shouted,  You raped her, you fuckin Polack
sleaze! You raped her, then you fucked her up the ass!
Milchuk sat stunned for a few beats. Then he said,  Fuck I did! Hey! He turned to Penner.  That
what this is alla  bout, man? I didn t do nothin to Lori. I been goin out with her six months. This is
fuckin nuts! We been talkin  bout gettin married, even!
Penner said, with unconvincing sternness,  Take it easy, and poked him with the muzzle of the gun as
a reminder. He felt queasy, nauseated.
 It was Lori s old man hired you guys, wasn t it? said Milchuk.  It hadda be. Look, I swear to
fucking Christ, I didn t do nothin ! It s her old man. He s against me from the start, he told me he didn t
want me sniffin around her.
 Guess you shoulda listened, huh? said Carnes brightly.
 I didn t do nothin , man. Swear to God! All ya gotta do is to give Lori a call.
 Maybe we should, said Penner, trying to hide a certain eagerness.
 Yeah! said Milchuk.  Call her, for Christ s sake.
 You musta done somethin , Carnes said to Milchuk.  Maybe all you are s a pain in the ass to
McDonough. But a guy like you, you musta done somethin .
Milchuk put both hands to his face.  This is crazy, he said into his palms.  Crazy!
 How you figure? Penner asked of Carnes.  You don t even know the guy!
 Oh, I know him, Carnes said.  He pals around with the Vitarellis down in Providence. He s a wise
guy. You better believe the son of a bitch got blood on his hands. Whackin him out ain t no worse than
steppin on a cockroach.
 He s with the Mob? Penner said, incredulous.  We re supposed to hit a Mob guy?
Without reducing his speed, Carnes swung onto a gravel road that wound away through low thickets,
the leaves mostly gone to brown. The Caddy soared over bumps and ruts, landing heavily, its rear end
slewing. Black branches slapped at the windows.
 Nobody said anythin  bout hitting a Mob guy! Penner yelled.
Milchuk gripped the front seat with both hands and began talking, half-sobbing the words, offering a
string of temptations and threats of Vitarelli vengeance, like a strange, primitive prayer. Carnes only
response was to increase their speed. The Caddy seemed to be trying to lift off, to go sailing up into the
sky of broken silver light and black clouds. The world beyond the side windows was a chaos of tearing
leaves and clawing twigs.
 So whaddaya wanna do, man? Carnes shouted.  Wanna let him go?
 Yes! said Penner.  Fuckin A, I wanna let him go!
 Okay, say we do it, say we let him go. Know what happens next? The son of a bitch goes to the
Vitarellis, he says, Chuckie, man, Chuckie, he says, that fucker McDonough tried to put a hit on me, and
Chuckie says, we can t have that shit, now can we, and he sends his people up to Southie. And you
know who gets it? Not McDonough. Nosir! It s you and me, buddy! We wind up on a beach
somewheres with our dicks hangin out our mouths. He swerved the Caddy around a tight bend.
 We re fuckin committed, man! [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]