When the old man called the cops, and they found Davis covered in gold paint, they called for backup and a video camera. At least, that’s what Davis said happened. The video ended up on the internet. Not sure how. Didn’t take long for the whole town to see it, though.
***
The mailbox quacked right where Larry said it would be. Green and brown mallard. Little wings attached that spun round and round. White tips. Davis had everything planned out from there. Stashed the car quarter-mile down in one of those field entrances used by a farmer before the field became a subsidy check.
I waited at the bottom of the driveway. Davis returned, handed me a ski mask, and we leapt to the house. Shitty little domicile, if you ask me. Turd brown in the moonlight. Clapboard. Probably nothing but faulty wiring and PVC piping. Good old Dallas County ingenuity. I gingerly opened the screen door.
“Hey, dummy,” Davis said. “He’s deaf.”
I laughed from embarrassment, tried the doorknob. It opened like the legs of a trusting woman. Inside. Living room. Crap strewn everywhere. Newspapers, dirty dishes, fishing poles, netting, and piles of books. Books in the walkways, behind chairs, on tables, everywhere but a shelf. Two bedrooms off to the right. A kitchen straight back led to a rear entrance.
“Go ahead,” I whispered, “open up the bedroom.”
“You don’t have to whisper,” Davis yelled.
The old man woke up when Davis pressed the dry washcloth covered in duct tape over his eyes as I restrained the old man’s withered arms, all flappy skin and retreating muscle. Davis smoothed the tape over the old man’s temples, using gentle perfection to erase the bumps and crinks from the tape. We didn’t stop there. Davis straddled the man’s chest, told me to hold his legs. Lifted the old man’s head, wrapped duct tape, once, twice more round the eyes. He became auditory, but incomprehensible, like sounds emerging from a cave full of pissed off poltergeists, enraged oooohs and aaaahhhs and the sick sound of impenetrable panic. Davis said, “Guess you can talk after all,” and silenced the mouth. I held the legs while Davis hopped off the old man and rolled him over, taped his hands behind his back. Poor man’s handcuffs. Feet next.
“Shall we restrain the old chap to his place of slumber?” I asked.
“You’re always giving too much effort,” Davis said. “Does he look like he’s going anywhere?”
“My mind ponders,” I said, “at this old man’s ruminations.”
“Rumi-what?”
“His thoughts Davis. You know, like, what the fuck is he thinking right now.”
“Who cares. Let’s get on with it.”
Pillaging is the fun part, though usually done in too much haste. Davis gave obligatory drawer swipes and mucked about in the closet, tossing out shoe boxes full of receipts and other useless pieces of paper. We flipped the mattress together. The old man knocked his head against the night stand. I yelled, “Be careful,” and laughed loudly. What was it like for him, the sensory deprivation? Did he feel our reverberations? Could he tell what we stole or destroyed through the tremors in his skin?