Right to Die

sake, man, the positions and people she associates herself with, I’m not surprised.”
    I got all the way up this time. “All right, Strock. Let’s leave things at that for now. But keep it zipped, okay.”
    “You have no right—”
    “I meant your mouth.”

= 20 =

    I hadn’t much enjoyed the session with Walter Strock. I figured to enjoy the next one even less.
    Most of Dorchester has never been upscale. The streets have terrific names; just the A’s include Armandine, As-pinwall, and Athewold. The structures, however, reflect the culture a little more exactly. Peeling three-deckers with decayed porches, burned-out storefronts boarded over with warping plywood, vacant lots full of rubble but free of hope. Working class launching welfare class, generations of experience greasing the skids.
    The clubhouse for the American Trust was just off Gal-livan Boulevard . From the outside it looked like it might once have been a laundry. Now there were reinforced metal shutters instead of plate glass and professional signs. The two hand-lettered messages on the shutters read: attack dogs on premmises and don’t fuck with us .
    I got out of the Prelude and locked it. Approaching the door, I could hear the rumble of a loud stereo. I knocked politely twice. Then I banged on the door until I heard the music stop.
    A “Joe-sent-me” slot opened on the other side of the door and one of the kids from the library looked out.
    “Yeah?”
    His eyes were bleary from being high, and he didn’t place me. “I’d like to talk to Gunther Yary.”
    “Ain’t here.” The slot closed with authority.
    I started banging again. The music came back on. I kept hammering away until it stopped.
    The slot reopened. The same kid said, “Get the fuck out of my face, awright?”
    “I want to talk with somebody about Yary.”
    “I said he ain’t here. You deaf or what?”
    “You can let me in, or I can camp out here and talk to the first one of you leaves or comes. Your choice.”
    “Aw, fuck. Just a second.”
    The slot closed again. I waited. The music didn’t come back on. Then the sounds of bolts and maybe a crossbar from the other side of the door before it swung open. A bit too inviting to be credible.
    The kid I’d been talking with was smiling. “Come on in, man.”
    I took a step with my right foot, then drove off it to the left, barging my left shoulder as hard as I could into the door. The metal hit something that gave, then crunched a little as the door wouldn’t go any farther.
    I jumped to the right as my greeter came at me. I grabbed him by the left arm and spun him around and over my outstretched left leg.
    Something sagged behind the door. Something else heavy and metallic clattered to the floor as the door itself swung back. I drew the Chiefs Special from the holster over my right hip.
    Rick, the guy who’d been feeding Yary set-up lines at the library, slumped forward, scrabbling for the Colt .45 Automatic that was between his legs, piood was flowing pretty freely from his nose and maybe a lip too. There was enough blood that it was tough to tell.
    “Don’t,” I said.
    Rick didn’t look up at me. He moved his hand toward where he thought the gun would be.
    I cocked mine. At the sound, the guy stopped, weighing things. He wasn’t deciding for peace yet.
    I said, “This thing makes only one more noise.”
    Convinced, Rick sat back.
    I moved toward him and edged the automatic away. My greeter was just about to his elbows on the floor. I slid the Colt into the pocket of my raincoat. Then I went back to the door, slamming it shut, but using only one dead bolt to secure it.
    Rick was gingerly touching his nose and cringing. My greeter was up to his knees, but wobbly.
    I took in the room. Hung ceiling with some panels missing, the rest stained. Posters on the walls of scabrous guys with long hair or no hair, done up in leather and gripping heavy-metal guitars like tommy guns. Two flags, a small Confederate war banner, and an even smaller Nazi swastika. The stereo system on sturdy plastic milk crates, incongruously scrubbed-looking in red, white, and blue. A blue crate held stacks of audiocassette tapes. The ones with printed labels were mostly Def Leppard, Motley Crue, and Aerosmith. The knockoffs were Skrewdriver, No Remorse, and Immoral Discipline.
    The floor, once nicely carpeted, was now burned and tom, smelling like stale beer. There were enough cans of Coors around the base of the walls to build an