Eleven Thirty-Eight
by Charles King

There is only one sin left, and I know where she is waiting.

With those words, he gestures to follow.

William Joseph Pitts Junior slips out the window again, just like that.

My head has to cock just right to fit out the window Will uses the way most folks use doors. The March breeze is cold at this hour, lapping the stone of my shaved head in waves. A floor and a half down, he smiles up at me, a child with a dirty secret.

You coming, or not?

Eyelids slide down over sleep dried pupils, and reopen. Where? Do you know what time it is? Billie?

Smiling up at me, he asks again.

The grass beneath my boots cracks with frost. Billie Pitts, he calls me slow. Lighting a smoke, the first of it spilling from his mouth into the frozen air, hanging there, the ghosts of tobacco plantations. He grins around the ember of it, slipping the pack of Camels back into his surplus store field jacket; the one with some forgotten soldier's blood on the sleeves. Blood that leaves the picture of someone cradling his friend while the life drains out of him.

Right now, the roads are horror movie quiet. Dead. The crunch of us walking on the thin layer of ice, and a few dead leaves.

The red end of Bill's smoke turns to me and through the smoke of his last drag his voice says something about whiskey. He reaches in past his Camels and flashes a key. The alarm code is 1138. Uncle Victor is a sci-fi nut. Got Star Wars shit all over his house. No wife, but a life sized Princess Leia. Pretty sure he thinks George Lucas is God.

So what does that number have to do with Jedi Knights?

Nothing. You know THX sound, yeah?

Yeah.

Well, THX-1138 was the name of God's student film. It was later made into a real movie with Robert Duvall and freaky robot cops and shit.

So why is this the alarm code?

Bill sighs. Everyone picks the same shit for their codes. Birthdays, anniversaries, social security numbers. Uncle Vic is paranoid, and he thinks anyone who wanted to steal his money or his wine collection, someone like that would be smart enough to learn his birthday; his anniversary, if he had one; or root through his trash for the last four of his social. He trusts that wine snobs and people who snort meth, or people who say *niggah* would never know any George Lucas. Not beyond the usual *Long ago in a galaxy far, far away.*

Worked out well for him, I see.

We don't want his wine, though. He won't miss a fifth or two of Maker's. Not as long as his precious collection is still there. As long as we don't go Gordon Freeman on the cash register. He won't even know we were ever even there.

Wouldn't Vic just give you a bottle of Maker's, Will?

Isn't he? And don't fucking call me that.

You know damn well I only call you that when you're being a dumbfuck, Will.

Uncle Vic's Liquor sits at the opposite end of the parking lot as the mall. It was once a fast food place that went under when the town got it's first and only McDonald's. Victor Pitts signed the deed for what he called a song.

He left the drive-thru window and sign. For irony, he says. Even though Billie told him in some states, like Nevada, they actually have drive ups at the booze mart.

Billie Joe Pitts grinds the butt of his smoke into the parking lot with a small hiss from the ice. His breath the same as smoke and dragon fire, he says: Wanna bet that's the code?

Mission takes over and William Joseph Pitts walks to the front door with something to prove. Even from the mall side of the parking lot, I can tell when the key goes in, Billie's body centered on the door hiding what he's doing, looking down like all he's doing is pissing on Uncle Vic's piece of the American pie. He slips in, and from here, the beep of the alarm arming is just barely anything every ten seconds it beeps. He has six beeps. One minute until the cops come and rope him in. Through the plexiglass windows of the store, he moves at the same pace he did in the parking lot. The speed of determination and confidence.

Beep.

Beep.

Nothing.

Bill pushes the door open and throws his hands up. The way he does it is the way the soldier who used to own his jacket might have in anguish. The difference is he's smiling that ear to ear smile of victorious sin.

What did I tell you, Nick? What did I fucking tell you? George fucking Lucas!

Will, you're old enough to buy Maker's.

Fuck that. I'm old enough to do a lot of shit. Let's have a drink, Nicky.

Don't.

You know I only call you that when you're no fun, Nicky.

He slaps his hand around my shoulder, and the grooves around his fingernails are red.

What's that, Billie?

Let's drink. Confession is good for the soul, yeah?

Yeah.

The store is like any other. This shelf is vodka, this one whiskey, another for rum, same with tequila, liqueurs, and mixers. Just like every other bottle barn, it also boasts a rack of greeting cards for that *Look, I'm a good father. I didn't forget your birthday* card, or the *Sorry I got drunk and blackened your eye, Babycakes* message that can't be said any better than on a card you got with your fix for the day.

These places are sad. I tell Billie.

Not the place, Nick. Not the place. He points at the card rack. Not the place.

Yeah.

He uses the key to break the wax on a bottle of Maker's and takes a drink. William Pitts gets up, swallows some more whiskey and picks out a card. I got this one for my birthday every year until I was thirteen. He drops it and gets another. My mom gets this one when they fight. Another, this one when he hits her. It's always in the kitchen trash on days when she's wearing makeup.

He swallows again, and wipes whiskey from his lips. He holds it out to me with the bloody sleeve of his jacket.

I swallow a gulp. You never told me why your your finger nails are red.
He holds up a sleeve. Blood. Then he holds out his hands, and says: Blood here too. I killed him Nick. He's dead. No more I'm so sorry I beat you cards for my mom. My gift to her come the morning is a no hassle divorce. Deputy Dipshit isn't going to investigate this, either. He wishes the old man cirrhosis, anyway. Gone is gone, and he can spend more time doing whatever it is he does.

Fuck, Will. Fuck!

It's alright, Nicky. No one will miss him. Uncle Vic sure won't. Free is bad for business.

He sits down with me again, and he says this is it. This is the last time we'll do this. The last time we'll see each other, and the last time he'll climb up my drainpipes and in my window. The last time he'll call me Nicky.

He gets up and goes to the door, turns and says eleven thirty-eight. Don't touch the wine, and don't go fucking Gordon Freeman on the cash register. He tosses me the key.

That was the last time I saw William Joseph Pitts.