Read Online A Single Shot by Matthew F Jones - Free Book Online Page A

Pick him up, maybe? He reaches down, puts his arms beneath Nolan’s back. He lifts him. The boy goes completely still. A moment later, he lets out such a scream John nearly drops him. “What’s the matter?” he asks, in a panicked voice that petrifies both of them. “Did I hurt you? Did someone else? For Christ sake. Show me where!”
    The wailing builds to a crescendo. John turns the boy over in his hands several times, looking for bruises or cuts, some sign of an injury. Then he thinks maybe it’s one of those scars you can’t see, some mental pain having to do with the fucking he must have overheard in the next room. He thinks about Moira leaving their son with these people. And he’d always believed she was a perfect mother. I’ll go for custody, he thinks. Raise the boy myself. “Stop now,” he begs. “Cut it out, Nolan. You’re scaring Daddy!” He puts the boy against one shoulder, starts patting his back. Then the woman, Carla, is there, her hands reaching out. “Easy now, John. Just give ’im over gentle.”
    She’s wearing blue jeans and a pullover black jersey. Her wild, frizzy hair is still sweaty at the temples. John says, “What’s the matter with him? What did you people do to him!”
    “He’s fine. Just a little scared’s all. And hungry. Poor little man.” John hands her the boy. She deftly cradles him in one arm. With her free hand, she places a bottle in his mouth. He stops crying, then starts making wet suckling noises. The woman softly rubs his back, rocks him to and fro, coos gibberish in his ear. John glares at her. He wants to say something but isn’t sure what. Reaching out a hand, he gingerlytouches one of his son’s socked feet. The whole foot is smaller than John’s finger. He touches the other foot. He counts five tiny toes through the cloth. There’s tears in his eyes. Incredible, he thinks. Absolutely unbelievable what Moira and I done. “He looks like you,” says the woman.
    John grimaces at her.
    “Yeah. You know, round the eyes.”
    “I’m gonna tell Moira what I found here,” says John.
    The woman shrugs.
    John places a hand on the boy’s head, feels the heat there, the silk-soft hair. He thinks about taking him back, but is afraid his son will cry again.
    “Got Moira’s long legs, though,” says the woman, “and gentle temperament.”
    John walks past her into the living room.
    His mouth drops open. Before the television set, holding the bag he brought for Moira, stands the lanky man with bulging eyes, veiny, tattooed arms, and collar-length, thin blond hair who earlier today John saw crossing the street with Waylon.
    “You remember me, John?”
    John doesn’t say. He looks for the gun and sees it protruding above the left side of the man’s belt.
    “Way you looked at me, I thought maybe.”
    “I seen you comin’ out a’ Puffy’s today.”
    “I didn’t see you.”
    “Maybe you was too busy watching somethin’ else.” John jerks his head toward the bedroom. Suddenly he is struck by the smallness of the world. He imagines himself the bull’s-eye at the center of a shrinking target.
    “We got something in common there, don’t we, John?”
    “I can’t guess what.”
    “Oh, come on, John. We fish in the same pond!” The man laughs. He’s clothes-coordinated with Carla, except for his steel-toed boots. “Old Puffy, that chain-smoking lard-ass, got himself some hired help, I’d say.”
    “Some reason you can’t fuck in your own place?”
    “You know how it is, John. My dick’s a basset hound.” He shrugs. “I’m just the poor sumbitch holding its chain.”
    “I can’t figure out why you’re still here.”
    “Nobody lives here’s asked me to leave.”
    “Most guys make assholes of themselves don’t wait to be.”
    “Hell, John, that was nothing. You shoulda come few minutes earlier—got the show the pizza man did.” He smiles, then holds up the bag. John wonders if he’s looked inside. “You want me to put this in the