The Blues & Billie Armstrong 63
PREACHER'S ALLEY
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
I asked him, ‘Pop, what does a man know that makes him a man?’ And Pop said, ‘Boy, a man knows the difference between shoveling dirt and hitting hardpan.’” Valentine said, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” And I said, “It means I need to see Billie.”
This is the part that could ruin me.
The bat lay on the ground in the space between us. Moonlight struck the fat part of the barrel. Hank loomed almost as a silhouette, standing with the moon over his shoulder and his features muddled in shadows. A cool drop of sweat slid down my nose and I wiped it away.
“Bullseye, where’d you come from?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did you see,” he said. “Did you see what she did?” He steadied himself with a hand against the wall. “Hey, bring me that bat, okay,” he said, and he waved “come here” with his other hand like he was calling me off the pitcher’s mound to discuss strategy.
He stood twenty feet away, but I still felt his hand on my shoulder—that light, firm grip of a coach focusing your attention. “Bullseye, come on. We gotta catch her. Did you see what she did to the Mustang? The Mustang, man! She stole my keys too—we can’t let her get away. I gotta report for duty.” He winced and wavered and looked dizzy drunk. “Man my head hurts,” he said, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples with his eyes shut tight.
My head hurt too. I was sober now, but a headache had come on during all the running, and the pain drummed behind my eyes. I took a step toward the bat and saw Hank flinch as if he had a momentary thought that he might beat me to it. But he relaxed, leaned his back against the wall, and I took several quick steps and picked up the bat. I held it loosely in my right hand and let it hang down beside my leg.
“Give it to me,” he said, uncertainty rising in his voice. He took two steps with his hand out. His long shadow reached my feet.
I raised the bat with both hands and he stopped. My voice trembled and cracked. “I know what you did, Hank.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I know you raped her.”
“What? That’s a fucking lie.”
“No it’s not. I was there. Outside the trailer that night. I saw the whole thing through the window. I saw.”
He rubbed his forehead and looked at the ground for a response. Turned his face up to me with a false smile and open hands. A swath of blood colored the side of his face. “Aw, we were just having some fun, Bullseye. Free love, right? You seen the way she struts around.” He even winked.
“All that time I thought you liked her. But you didn’t like her—you just wanted her. Like some kind of trophy.”
His smile twisted into disgust. “Okay… yeah, that’s right. And you know what, a real man takes what he wants. Now give me that bat.”
He took another step and I raised the bat higher and shook my head, “No, Hank,” I said. “Stay back.” Tears and sweat stung my eyes.
“Well, look at you—all of a sudden you’re some kinda knight in shining armor? You’re gonna play hero?” He jabbed himself in the chest. “I’m the hero here.”
“You’re not my hero.”
“Fuck you then. I’ll take care of her myself.” He turned and headed for the far end of the alley, where Billie had escaped.
I caught up in three quick steps and swung at his legs. He yowled and went down and rolled over and I held the bat over him, ready to swing again. He made a move to get up and I hit him in the leg again. He struggled to his feet and seemed unsteady but kept his eyes leveled on me. I backed up a couple steps and cocked the bat just like he’d taught me. Knees slightly bent, hands up, back foot loaded. I held the bat high and my hands shook with a rush I’d never felt before—some lethal cocktail of adrenalin and rage.
“Aw, Bullseye, you’re gonna ruin everything,” he said. He balanced on one foot and winced when the other one touched the ground. His shoulders dropped, and he shook his head in what looked like surrender.
Then he lurched toward me one big step and launched himself for a flying tackle. But his back foot slipped and he fell in front of me on his hands and knees and I swung the bat and heard his skull crack and saw his head snap to the side. His arms came out from under him like broken table legs and his body followed his head onto the concrete. Blood gathered in the gutter and gleamed in the moonlight.
And I ran.
Pop said, “Boy, there’s no telling another person’s why.” I look at these flickering memories behind my eyes, and they’re like jumpcuts from a movie of another person. A character I don’t know any better than the other characters—Billie, Hank, my own father and mother, J.R. Cole.
I’ll never know why the boy in the movie does what he does in this scene. Even though I watch it over and over again.
The Blues & Billie Armstrong is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
© All Rights Reserved