Xander

 

Just one more whisky’ll do it, the sweet elixir sliding down my throat a way to forget every bad thing that ever happened in this shitty world. I pour the drink, slug the drink, and then immediately pour myself another one. Around me, music plays, something with a rock feel to it, but I don’t pay much attention. I just sit in the corner of the clubhouse bar, the table pulled across the way to block anybody approaching, slugging whiskies and trying not to think about Arsen. I fail. He was a good kid, man. I remember when we were little and he’d beg me to take him out on my dirt bike. I never normally would because he was a real pain in the ass back then, with his shoulder-length black hair, his bright eyes, all happiness and energy. But one time I did, and it was the best day of my life. I don’t reckon I’ve ever had fun like that before. I don’t reckon I’ll ever have fun like that again.

 

I look around the room, at the pledge at the bar, the few fellas in the opposite corner playing poker, the photographs on the wall. There are plenty of photographs with me in them, but quite a few with Arsen in, too. He’s always smiling in the pictures, always looks just as happy as he did that day on the dirt bike. He flew over the ramps like he was made for it, skidding in circles and laughing at me when I chased after him, telling him to give it back. He took me on one hell of a ride that day, my little brother, my little dead brother, my little burnt brother, so goddamn burnt that we couldn’t even see his face when we got him out of there. Ten months ago, a blackened husk, no features, just two pits where his eyes ought to be. His nose must have turned to ash; his face was flat.

 

“Xander.”

 

I glance up. Christopher stands with his old-man’s thumbs through his belt loops, as wrinkly as a crumpled-up newspaper. His face is just as wrinkled, his eyes hidden somewhere within folds of skin.

 

“Old man.” I take another drink.

 

The corner of his lip twitches. “It ain’t even lunchtime.”

 

“Ain’t it?” I ask, pouring myself another. The bottle’s almost empty. Pretty soon I’ll have to get up from the den I’ve made for myself here and get myself another. “I guess I lost track of the time. What’s it matter to you? I did my job last night, didn’t I? Any complaints there?”

 

He flinches, ’cause he knows I’ve got him on that one. “That’s not the point, kid. Maybe you did those pervert bastards. Maybe you got their shitty heroin off the streets. But this ain’t about them. It’s about you. We’re tired of seeing you do this to yourself. Arsen died a year ago now. How long is this gonna go on for? You goin’ to pull this for another year?”

 

“Ten months.” I brush my glass aside and drink straight from the bottle instead. Christopher is becoming a little blurry, two old men where there ought to be one. I reckon he looks ridiculous stood with his thumbs through his belt loops like that, like he’s trying to look father-like or something, like he’s trying to get through to me man to man.

 

“What?”

 

“It was ten months, not a year. It’s a year, come August.”

 

“Whatever.” He bristles. “You get the point. You’ve got some friends in this club, kid. The Asphalt Angels don’t abandon their own.” He turns toward the corner and two men stand up: Maxwell and Ranger. I must be drunker than I thought. They’ve been here for hours and I didn’t know it was them. Or maybe I’m not drunk enough, because I give a damn, even if it’s a small damn. “Fellas.” Christopher nods.

 

“Fellas,” I echo, nodding at Maxwell and then at Ranger.

 

Maxwell is an ex-soldier, baldheaded. He always stands like he’s about to meet his general, arms behind his back, back completely straight. His eyes are brown and hawkish, seeing everything. Ranger is the other way, fat in the middle with a slightly pregnant look, two skinny arms dangling down like string, but with an oddly thin face, a blond goatee, and a blond Mohawk haircut. He’s the weirdest looking bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on, has always been that way ever since we were teenagers.

 

All three of them pull up seats and surround the table, sitting close. It turns out boxing myself in back here might’ve been a mistake.

 

“What’s this?” I ask. “A fucking intervention?”

 

“Something like that,” Ranger says, smiling awkwardly. I know that smile. It means he’s sorry for what’s happening but is gonna do it anyway. It’s the same smile he gave me a few days before my fourteenth birthday when he stole Marie Keller from me, the hottest girl in school.

 

Sorry, X, but you’ve seen her. You know I can’t turn this tail down. You punched up, all right? She’s sixteen, man. You did a really good job.

 

He leans forward and rests his chin on his hands. I can’t believe how fat he’s gotten, and now he’s going to lecture me about vice. “You can’t keep doing this.”

 

“Doing what?” I toss the bottle back, emptying it. The whisky moves through my veins, rests in my belly, turns my body fuzzy and warm. It’s like there’s a blanket between me and the world. All these bastards want to do is tear that blanket to shreds. “I’m doing my job. How many fuckers’ve I killed since Arsen’s death, eh? By my count it’s nine, four of those biker fucks down from Vegas, three of those sick bastards who were raping those schoolgirls—I was even in the paper for that, remember, but they just called me a ‘local vigilante’—and those heroin-dealing fucks last night. That’s more than any one of you. So what’s the problem?”

 

“This isn’t about work,” Maxwell says. “It’s true. Operationally, you’re doing fine, better than fine.”

 

I tip an imaginary hat. “Thank you kindly, soldier.”

 

When Maxwell clenches his jaw, it’s like his teeth are going to shatter. “Don’t call me that,” he says. “You know I hate it when you call me that. We’re here to help, Xander. You’re going to end up addicted to alcohol.”

 

“It’s true, X,” Ranger says. “Just think about it. How many drunks did we know growing up? Do you think all of them were just born drunks? Nah, man, something bad happened to them. Something real bad, maybe, and so they turned to the bottle, and they started drinking, and … and they couldn’t stop. Don’t you get it? That’s how drunks are made.”

 

“Do you remember Marie Keller, Ranger?” I ask, smiling at him.

 

“Marie … that chick from high school?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“Goddamn, X, yeah, I remember her. What’s she got to do with anything? That was—what—that was more’n a decade ago.”

 

“Did I ever tell you that Arsen wanted her, too? He was real into her. It made no sense. He was ten and she was sixteen and it made no sense, but I was a mean bastard back then and I told him that I could get her for him. I told him I’d get talking to her and convince her what a good kid he was, because he was a good kid, always was a good kid. And then when he ran into us at the park, I kissed Marie Keller right in front of him and laughed at him when he ran home, crying his eyes out. Our old man beat him for that. No crying in the Black household, no, sir.”

 

“That was a lifetime ago,” Christopher says. “You were a child.”

 

“Aren’t you the one always calling me ‘kid,’ old man?”

 

“Because to me, you are, but in reality you’re a man and it’s about time you started acting like one.”

 

I shoot to my feet, knocking my chair against the wall. It’s one thing to come in here acting all high and mighty, but how can he stand there and tell me I’m not a man? There’s still blood under my fingernails, for fuck’s sake. “Careful,” I warn him. “I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

 

“Xander.” Maxwell stands with one leg slightly back. They must’ve taught him that in military school. “You’re talking to an old man, remember.”

 

“Who the fuck are any of you to tell me what to do?” I ask. “Get the president down here. If there’s a problem with my performance, let him tell me. Hell, get the vice president down here. Someone who has a problem with how I’m doing my job, anyway. Is there anyone? What is this, then?”

 

“We care about you!” Ranger snaps. “That’s what this is! Maybe you are doing your work, X, but there’s more to life than that. You don’t come to parties anymore. You don’t come for rides with us, just for the sake of it like we did before Arsen died. You don’t drop by mine to play some video games. You don’t do shit except get drunk and think about Arsen. And I get it. He was a good kid. But you’ve gotta move on, man …”

 

Maybe he’s right; his words penetrate my blanket and knock against my head. But then I see Arsen, tears streaming down his cheeks, little hands bunched into fists. His eye was already turning as black as our name from the beating our old man gave him. “You lied to me!” he squealed. “You’re just a big liar!” He came at me, fists flying. The kid was fast, but he was a kid and his arms hadn’t grown much yet. I grabbed him and threw him against the couch, laughing like a real bully. My little brother, my baby brother.

 

“I need a drink—”

 

“No.” Ranger darts his hand out, clamping it down on my shoulder. “You can’t just think about the bad shit. You’re going over and over all the times you did some mean shit to him, but you’re not thinking about the good times, or the times he did some mean shit to you. That’s what we do. We bust each other’s balls. Maybe sometimes we went too far, but whatever you did to him, he did the same. He loved you. You know that. How do you think he’d feel if he saw you now? What would he say to you? I know what he’d do. He’d walk in here with some leaflet about getting clean and he’d take away your bottle and just stare at you until you got the message, and then you’d stand up and hug him and that’d be that. Well, he’s gone. But we’re here, and we care about you, X. We don’t want you turning into just another drunk.”

 

Part of me wants to smash him across the face; another part wants to hug him; yet another part wants to leap over the table and get another bottle of whisky. But what he’s saying has some sense to it. That is what Arsen would do.

 

“I’ll cut the drinking,” I tell them. “All right? It’s not a big deal.”

 

“You have to come to a meeting with me,” Christopher says. “Tonight.”

 

“Goddamn …”

 

“X!” Ranger snaps. His eyes are watery. Is it the dust or is he getting weepy on me? I can’t tell. “Please.”

 

“All right.” I laugh it off, brushing his hand away. “We don’t have to get all emotional about it, goddamn. I’ll go to a meeting with the old man if that’ll get you all off my case.”

 

“I think this will increase your chances of becoming sober,” Maxwell says.

 

Ranger chuckles. “Why can’t you ever just talk, soldier? What’s with this debriefing shit?”

 

“What’d I say about calling me soldier?” Maxwell jumps at him, the two of them laughing as they wrestle with each other.

 

I join in with the laughter, although I can’t help but think the whole thing’d be funnier with a shot glass in my hand.