Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles' shoulder and bent down beside him. "You did good today."
Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. "Yeah?" Knuckles' voice was small and timid.
Preacher squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah, man. Real fuckin' good."
Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.
"Get some girls over here," he said. "Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin' call me when Smokey and Jim get back."
When Joe didn't respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Hey, you hearin' me?"
Joe blinked several times. "Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it." He continued to smoke-quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.
"You headed home?" Joe called after him, "You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?"
"I'm goin' home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do."
"Preacher! Shit! Preacher!" Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. "Debbie had the baby!"
As if he'd been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher's lungs.
Max rushed down the hall. "Debbie, she had the baby! She's at the hospital! Sylvie's with her-Tiny, too!"
"She's at the hospital," Preacher repeated dumbly. His heart thudded in his chest. He shook his head as if to clear it. "Is she … okay?"
Max skidded to a stop and gripped Preacher's shoulders. "She's fine. They're both fine."
Preacher stared at his brother. "Both?"
Max grinned. "Yeah, both. Preacher, you've got yourself a daughter."
Chapter 30
Sandwiched between Max and Smokey on the sofa, Preacher swallowed the last of his beer and got to his feet. On a chair nearby, Crazy-8 held Louisa in his lap and was whispering something in her ear. Preacher winked at her as he passed, and she burst into giggles.
Across the room, Preacher stopped beside the group gathered around the television. A baseball game was on, the New York Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, but instead of watching the game they were arguing over which Hendrix album had the better lineup.
"Electric Ladyland tops ‘em all," Preacher interjected, smacking Bullet upside his head.
Knuckles raised his beer. "You know it, Prez!"
"Fuck you, you crazy white fools!" Bullet shouted. "The Jimi Hendrix Experience, hands down!"
"It don't count if he was already dead!"
"Dumbass kids," Jim complained. "What about the greats? What about Sinatra?"
"Here we go again," Anne muttered. "Sinatra this, Sinatra that."
Knuckles made a face. "Man, screw Sinatra. The only Frank I'm listenin' to is Zappa. And you, Ghost." Knuckles nudged Frank. "If you ever come up with somethin' useful to say."
"Nice shirt," Frank said wryly, eyeing the slogan printed across Knuckles' chest-MY FACE LEAVES AT 10:00. BE ON IT. "That about sums up your thought processes, huh?"
As more insults were traded, Preacher moved into the hall and turned the corner. He paused briefly as he passed the kitchen, hearing Debbie's soft laughter over the clanking and clattering of dishes. Preacher started to smile, then frowned as Sylvia's horse laugh drowned out nearly every other sound.
Up ahead, amid a cloud of smoke, Tiny and Joe were seated at the breakfast table, sharing a joint. A bag of chips and a small handheld radio sat on the table between them, Fleetwood Mac's Go Your Own Way playing.
On the floor nearby, little Frankie was pushing his toy trucks around a very frustrated-looking Trey. Not yet able to walk, Trey was relegated to making mad grabs for the trucks each time Frankie brought them near, only to have Frankie snatch them away at the last second.
Preacher bent down beside the boys and held out his hand. "How's it hangin' over here? You two gonna gimme some skin?"
Grinning, Frankie slapped his little hand down on top of Preacher's. Trey, his face screwed up in concentration, batted furiously at Preacher's arm.
"Preacher, brother, you look like shit," Tiny called out.
Feeling like shit, Preacher staggered toward the table and sat down with a thud. Resting his head on the tabletop, he said, "Man, I haven't slept in days. My kid does nothing but eat, shit, and scream."
A little over a week had passed since Preacher had brought Debbie home from the hospital. An entire week of feeling overwhelmed, completely out of his element, and borderline delirious from sleep deprivation-even more so than usual.