Br’er Robert
He was still trying to think up the right words when Decker said abruptly, “I got a rock. There’s a rest area comin up. We’re pullin in.”
“Decker–”
“Shut up. One pays the same as two. I’ll take the big one, he’ll last longer.”
“I don’t know, Deck…”
“What’re you, jealous? Don’t worry, you’ll get yours.” Decker whipped the wheel over, hand-over-hand, and the van squealed up the ramp to the rest area.
The rest area squatted on top of a little rise, low sloped roof like a hardback book opened face down on a table. A single high-intensity lamp on a splintery wooden pole cast a pool of harsh white glare on the empty asphalt parking lot. Decker parked the van across a couple of the spaces marked in faded paint, rather than pulling in against the curb—Decker was like that, always thinking, always taking care of the little things. This way if someone drove up while they were here, state cop or something, they could drive the van off without doing any backing and turning.
That was the kind of thinking that could save their lives someday.
Decker killed the engine and hopped out, around the van, and threw open the rear doors. His eyes glittered even though he was backlit by the parking lot lamp. Without a word he reached in and dragged Bobby out by the arm. Bobby didn’t cry out or struggle, and Brian just watched.
Decker said, “Jesus Christ, what’s the smell?”
Frankie giggled, a little nervously. He could see the bulge in Decker’s pants; Decker had a little dick, but Frankie knew it got hard as a railroad spike and sometimes Decker didn’t care what he fucked. “He shit his pants.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Bobby asked in that tiny thin voice.
Decker’s face screwed up in disgust. “Nothing with you, you filthy little prick,” he said, and threw the littlefucker down across the asphalt. Bobby still didn’t cry out, even as the gravel skinned his elbows and face as he skidded toward the curb. “Don’t–” his whispery voice caught as quiet tears started, “please don’t hurt my brother…”
