hris Jones took a deep breath, walked up to the front door, and knocked. The door had a WELCOME sign hanging on it, stained pine cut in the shape of the letters with a plaque with THE ANDERSONS deep-burned into it made from the same wood. The letters were disproportionate to one another and were spaced unevenly, like something a seventh grader would make in wood shop.
After a few moments, a tall, slab-muscled man opened the door. He had thick black hair in a bowl cut, sideburns, a handlebar mustache and a roofer's tan. His dark eyes were grim and humorless. "Yeah?" the man asked in a husky, raspy voice.
Chris put on his best grin and said, "Hi, I'm Mike. Um, Mike Thompson. I used to live here. I just wanted to come by and see the old place, ya know." Chris offered his hand.
The large dark man, presumbly Mr. Anderson, just scowled at Chris. His gaze shifted to Chris' hand briefly before it burrowed into his eyes again. Chris lowered his hand and looked around nervously. "Yeah?" the man asked in his scratchy voice. "Well, you see it, right?"
Chris stammered something like, "Yeah."
Anderson nodded and said, "I fixed this place up a lot, you know."
Asshole, Chris thought, but he looked at the house and said, "Um, I can see that. You did a great job, too. The paint job, everything."
"Damn right, I did."
A brief silence. Chris struggled to find something to say.
Anderson broke the silence with, "You were the one who moved out about two years ago?"
Chris nodded dumbly, knowing what was coming.
"You really let this place go to hell, you know. I threw out mounds of rotten clothes and porno mags. Juggs and Ass Lover, huh? Had to get all the car bodies towed out of the yard. And god-damn, all the roaches! Why'd you up and leave all your shit here? I oughtta make you pay for the towing and gas it took to take your shit to the dump."
Chris shifted uncomfortably and mumbled, "Well, you know, I'm sorry about that, but--"
"Speak up, won't ya?" Anderson demanded, scowling. He took a step toward Chris, and Chris took one back. "Talk in a normal tone of voice, where a man can understand you. And look at me. You ain't talking to me, you're talking to your feet now."
Chris managed to avoid smarting off. He didn't want to mess up his chances for getting the coke. He said in a clear, loud voice, "Well, I know about that. I'm sorry. Most of that mess was my two roommates' shit. Actually, that's why I moved out, because they were nasty. I'm a clean freak, myself. I keep a spotless place now. Um, with my wife."
Anderson glared at him for a few uncomfortable seconds, then, "Okay, great. Happy for ya. So that's all, then?" He stepped back from Chris, and started to go back in.
"Actually, no... I just kind of wanted to come in and look around. Just for a minute."
Anderson stopped and looked at Chris, his eyes darkening again. "You wanna come in my house and just look around?"
Chris laughed and said, "Yeah, I know it sounds weird. I just have a lot of memories tied up in that place, you know, and I just wanted to see it one last time before I move out west." Chris kicked himself mentally. Oh yeah, real convincing.
Anderson looked at Chris for a few moments, as if considering his offer. Then he simply walked back into the house and closed the door. The deadbolt clicked home. Heavy footsteps receded into the house.
Chris stood there for a moment. He cursed under his breath, though he wasn't really surprised. He kicked the stepping stone in front of the one he was standing on. He needed to get in there and get the coke he stashed, assuming it was still in there.
Chris hated that he ever got involved with that crap. He knew his new life outside of prison would be short if he couldn't pay Gerardo back right away. Chris just wanted to square with the bastard and get on with his life. He turned and walked back to his battered brown '91 Chevette.

Chapter Two ->