Chapter 9 #2
Robert turned each steak over with a pair of tongs. “You flip once,” he said. “That’s it. You flip too much and you won’t get a well-seared crust.”
What if Robert brought me here to soften me?
To knead me with kindness, leaving me no choice but to come clean?
He was such a brilliant manipulator, anything was possible.
Then again, it was entirely plausible that it simply hadn’t occurred to Robert until now to invite me out here.
Like most powerful people with a lot on their mind, that’s how he worked.
The world around him functioned according to his whims.
“Now, you paying attention?” Robert removed all the steaks from the grill and set them on a cutting board. “You let them rest for about five minutes, it gives the juices time to circulate. And in the meantime you can refresh your drink.”
He stepped past me to the bar cart. “Another bourbon for you, Tina?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
When the five minutes of juice circulating were up, we all sat around the patio table to eat. I was seated between Robert and Dillinger, and across from Glen Wiles. It was difficult having to look at Wiles while I ate, but the steak was so unbelievably delicious that—
“This steak is unbelievably delicious,” Dillinger said.
Robert nodded, pleased with himself. He was so much more relaxed here than at the office.
Some of the wrinkles in his forehead had taken the day off, and his face had a glow about it.
He told the story of how he and Avery first met.
She was the prettiest cheerleader on the fifty-yard line, pretty as a pie supper, and I knew right then we’d get married. It’ll be forty-nine years in October.
Then he told another story, and another, and another.
Let me tell you something about crawfish . . .
We had a ranch hand once who . . .
My daddy back in his wildcattin’ days . . .
And like Aesop’s fables and the oeuvre of Eminem, many of these stories concluded with a moral.
There ain’t no such thing as the wrong bait.
And that’s why you never insult another man’s wife.
Just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.
I wiped the juice dripping down my chin with my cloth napkin. This was better than NPR’s Story of the Day podcast.
“See that barn over there . . .” Robert gestured in the general direction of the barn, which was actually too far away for any of us to see from where we were seated. “You know who painted that barn? Billy from the office, the mail carrier.”
Dillinger halted midbite. “Are you talking about Patchouli? The guy who skateboards down the building’s handicap ramps?”
Robert laughed. “He told me he used to paint houses, so I hired him. I paid him well, and I gave him a bottle of vodka. It was a three-hundred-dollar bottle of vodka, and he drank half the bottle before he left. That boy got drunk as a skunk, couldn’t see straight.”
Wiles forked at what was left of Carolena’s steak, which was all of it. “If that kid had any clue how much that vodka cost, he probably would have sold it.”
Yeah, to pay his rent, I thought, but everyone was having such a good time, I kept my mouth shut.
Robert refilled my glass again. “Tina, I have to say, I’m impressed by your tolerance. You can drink just like one of the boys.”
Wiles reached across the table and lifted the side of my empty plate, bloody with the memory of a buttery steak. “She eats like one of the boys, too.”
“I’m sorry, Glen,” I shot back without thinking. “Were you hoping to finish my leftovers?”
The table roared. Maybe the bourbon was having an effect after all.
Wiles was stunned to momentary silence, but Robert was clapping his hands. “Thatta girl,” he said. “You tell him!”
Robert’s overjoyed reaction kept Wiles quiet, but you could see in his eyes that he was seething. He didn’t have the self-confidence to take a joke.
I didn’t either, obviously, but whatever.
“All right now. That’s enough fraternizing.” Robert stood up. “We’ve got to get shooting while the light’s still good. Tina, Jason, you ready? Glen, you coming?”
I’d forgotten about the forthcoming guns-and-ammo element to this visit.
“Nah.” Wiles lumbered toward the pool. “I might be too tempted to teach Tina a lesson for mouthing off to me that way.”
Okay. Was that his way of, like, saying he wanted to shoot me?
“Leave her alone, Glen,” Robert said. “You had it coming.” He turned to Dillinger and me. “It’s just the three of us then. The truck’s already loaded up; come on.”
I admired that it didn’t even cross Robert’s mind to invite Dillinger’s wife along as we made our way across the property to the truck. Probably because she didn’t eat or drink or insult Glen Wiles like one of the boys. And because as far as I could tell she was mute.
I so wanted Robert’s truck to be a dusty old pickup, but it was just a regular shiny SUV, the kind that may have had bulletproof glass. Which could surely come in handy considering my deftness at sharpshooting.
Dillinger sat up front with Robert, who was driving. Driving. Robert. It was so insane seeing him perform such a normal, mundane activity. And he didn’t even drive like a grandpa. He drove like he gave orders, with precision, and not so much patience.
We sped around the side of the house, along a path to another field that wasn’t visible from the driveway.
It, too, was ringed in forest. Robert and Dillinger conversed about work, while I silently tried to gauge on a scale of one to ten just how drunk I was.
One being too drunk to hold a gun straight, ten being way too drunk to hold a gun straight.
We arrived in the middle of nowhere, stepped out onto the grass, and Robert opened the tailgate. Inside it looked like something out of the movie Goodfellas.
Robert tossed a rifle to Dillinger but strapped the one intended for me over his own shoulder. Then we walked a good distance away from the truck.
“Now, Jason, you just hang back,” Robert said. “Because I know you know what you’re doing, but Tina here needs a lesson.”
Dillinger sulked off to the side and kicked a rock, jealous that I was the recipient of all of Robert’s attention.
“Now.” Robert got organized. He demonstrated how to load the rifle, how to hold it. He showed me how to aim it, toward the forest. Then he held it out to me like an offering. “Go ahead now, give it a try, I’m right here, don’t be scared.”
I took the gun into my hands and tried to mimic his exact position, gripping it just as he’d gripped it, holding my body just as he’d held his.
“Good.” He arranged my arms and shoulders, reminded me to keep my feet planted. “Now, when you pull the trigger, you’ve got to be strong. Not weak, you understand? You’re like a sturdy oak tree.”
I swallowed hard. I could hear my own heartbeat.
“Firing a gun is all about power. You’ve got to acknowledge the power and harness it. You control it. You’re in charge. You can’t be a chickenshit with a gun in your hand,” he said. “Can you feel it, Tina? Can you feel the power?”
I did. And in that moment I wanted to turn it on myself.
“Now go on,” Robert said. “Fire.”