Br’er Robert
The littlefuckers looked at him with big eyes round as the moon tonight, red at the rims and trailing fat tears down over their cheeks onto the wide grey duct tape that covered their mouths. Two of them tonight, a sweet haul, boys maybe nine and maybe six, blonde, big dark eyes and round little butts.
Sweet.
Scared shitless.
Nobody could scare a littlefucker like Frankie.
They’d spotted them just across the Raccoon River between Jefferson and Scranton, riding double on a rusty Schwinn banana-seat. Decker’s blank expression hadn’t changed a bit as he sideswiped them with just the right fishtail to slap their front wheel and send them down. Decker was a real artist with the van.
He’d had a lot of practice.
Then came Frankie’s turn, to jump out the door and race back along the road—“Jesus, kid! You all right?” It went just like clockwork, like it always did, Frankie helping them up and calming them down while Decker came up behind with the big roll of duct tape.
“What’s your name, kid?” Frankie always liked to know their names. Made it more personal, somehow. Better.
“Bobby…” the older one had said. “Bobby Patch.” The little one hadn’t said anything, just looked at him with those big sweet eyes, looked at him like he already knew who Frankie was and what he was going to do. Gave Frankie a little chill, even though it was just that imagination of his. “This is my brother Brian—”
Then Decker was there with the tape. Decker was stronger than hell, did five years at Stateville lifting weights, even though he was a little guy he could turn Frankie into a pretzel if he wanted. The littlefuckers never had a chance. Tape around the wrists and ankles, first, always first, before the tape on the mouth—Frankie’s next-to-favorite part was when they start to scream and cry, gave him that warm feeling down below—then into the van, bike too, and away for the Nebraska border and the little airfield off in the corn near Kennard.
