I dedicate this dark entertainment to my wife, Karen, who through thick and thin has proved her love and devotion.

You are more than I deserve, darling. I am truly blessed.

Preface

Waltz of Shadows has a somewhat odd history. It was originally called Mucho Mojo. I wrote it for my then-publisher Mysterious Press, which was an arm of Warner Books, now Hachette.

I worked hard on it and spent almost a year writing it. It was a difficult book, and it seemed to go in all directions at once, or at least that was the case with the first draft. When I finished, I was unhappy with it, and wrote another book bearing the title Mucho Mojo. Totally different book, but I brought some of the themes from Waltz to it.

Mucho Mojo was published and was the second novel in my popular Hap and Leonard series. I was proud of that book, and it was a New York Times Notable book, and this led to several other novels about that duo, all currently available from Vintage and in e-book form.

Waltz, however, lingered in my files. I had worked so hard on it, and had felt so disappointed in it at the time, I decided it was a busted flush. In time, I gave the original manuscript to a university and pretty much forgot about it. But then a small press called Subterranean, which is now a major publishing house, asked me if I had something they might publish.

I didn’t.

Or I didn’t think so.

And then I remembered Waltz. I guess it had been in the back of my mind for some time, my subconscious most likely working on it without me knowing it. That’s the way I write best, when I’m not consciously trying to figure out what comes next, but instead let my subconscious sort things out while my conscious mind goes about the everyday business of living. Still, this book was different. I think at my core I knew I had something, but it was unusual for me in that whatever that something was, it hadn’t jelled early. Most of my work does. It hits me suddenly, and I start writing. It’s not that everything is clear. Quite the contrary; I am struck by a mood and the mood grows until I start writing. I usually have no idea what I’m about to write until I write it, and when I quit for the day, I seldom have any great idea of the next scene in my head. Perhaps a spark here and there, a bit of music, a rhythm to the story, but that’s it. I don’t know any other way to describe it.

I had a spare copy of the manuscript. I got it out and started reading, and saw right away what the problem was. It was too lonscrg and too busy and too wordy. I took a pen and started to cut. As I cut away the debris, like a sculptor chiseling away at a fine but oddly-shaped hunk of granite, a form began to reveal itself. I knew immediately what the problem had been. I had been trying too hard. I had written too much. I had tried to cover all the bases and had attempted to make it too complex. I cut out entire scenes and stretches of description. I realized that the novel was at heart exactly what I did well, that it encompassed themes that I’m passionate about, like brotherhood and friendship and family, duty and honor. But there was a lot of flack there too.

I was really brutal with the book’s editing, but as I said before, like a sculpture, it began to present itself, and when I finished cutting it, I was astonished to see the results. I liked it. I liked it even better after I read it in page proofs, and better yet when I reread it a few years later after it had come out as a novel. Oh, by the way. It was now called Waltz of Shadows, a very accurate title, I think.

Even though I have published many novels with Subterranean, as well as mainstream New York presses, this one I have always felt was one of those that fell between the cracks. Therefore, I’m excited for it to appear in print now, and for it to have the opportunity for a completely new readership.

It’s fast paced. It’s dark. It’s full of those themes I mentioned. And I hope it’s as entertaining as I believe it to be. So here it is. The leaner, meaner, harder-hitting version of that novel I wrote some years ago.

I’m glad to have it back out there in the world.

Acknowledgments

My respect and gratitude to my good friend and agent, Barbara Puechner, as well as Neal Barrett, Jr., Andrew Vachss, Jeff Banks, David Webb, and Ardath Mayhar for their kindness, advice, and support. But most of all, for their friendship and kinship.

Author’s Note

Just because I felt like it, I have played fast and loose with the geography of East Texas by blending the names of real towns and cities and rivers and lakes with those of my creation. I did this for story purposes. The character and terrain of East Texas, my favorite spot in the world, however, remains true to reality. Or at least reality as I see it.

Waltz of Shadows

Joe R. Lansdale

Part One

The Disaster Club

1

All the blood and disaster began on a Saturday morning when I thought everything was going just right. It was late October in East Texas, and from my recliner I could see out the tall glass that makes up two of our living room walls, and it was beautiful outside. A little cool looking, leaves gone gold and red and brown and starting to fall. Clouds white as angel’s panties could be glimpsed through the tops of the tall pines and oaks that made up most of our two acres. A cat squirrel jumped from one oak limb to another, then leaped out of sight. I felt like I was in a Disney movie.

Then I got the call.

I heard the phone ring, and was about to answer, assuming it would be some minor problem at one of the videos stores I own, when Beverly started downstairs.

I could see her through the stair railing. She was wearing her shorty white bathrobe and flip-flops and had a white towel wrapped around her head from having just washed her hair. Her legs were fairly pale since she didn’t go in much for the sun, and they were lightly freckled, the way redheads sometimes are, but they were long and smooth and muscled and I never tired of looking at them.

She was carrying the upstairs cordless phone, talking and looking at me over the railing and motioning me over, which meant she wanted me to rescue her and talk to whoever it was.

I put the paper down and got out of the chair and met her at the bottom of the stairs.

Our black German shepherd, Wylie, got up like it was part of his job, came over and sniffed my crotch, then went after Beverly, who popped him on the head with her hand. He went back to his spot and laid down with a groan. Crotch sniffing was hard work for a dog, but it was his duty, even if no one liked it.

“Well,” she said into the phone, “let me let you talk to him.”

She handed me the phone and shook her head.

Upstairs I heard the kids yell again about something on a cartoon show they were watching, and I put the phone to my ear and stood at the foot of the stairs and watched Beverly climb back up, enjoying the way her bottom moved beneath her bathrobe. Twenty years of marriage hadn’t changed that for me.

“Hello,” I said.

“This is Bill,” said the voice. I knew then why Beverly had wanted off the phone and why she had the sour face when she gave it to me.

“Hey, how you been?” I tried to sound as happy as possible.

“Not so good.”

He always said that. He’d go six months and I wouldn’t hear from him, then something went rancid, first person he called was Uncle Hank.

But he’s my brother’s boy, so what you gonna do? It’s not like he’s got anyone else. My brother, Rick, got killed in an auto accident when Bill was seven, and when Bill was a teenager his mother remarried and Bill didn’t get along at all with her new husband, then his mother got some kind of weird disease you read about in the back of medical books, and died.

Bill was in many ways like his father. Always certain he was merely a day short of the big success, though you couldn’t seem to put your finger on what it was he was doing to acquire it. And, like my brother, he had a passion for women that sent his judgment and sense of decency packing.

On top of all that, he was a bullshitter and had no more true ambition than a frog.

I hated to get it started, but I said: “Tell me about it.”

Silence hung in the air for a time.

I sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and waited. Wylie got up again and ambled over, nodded his head in the direction of my crotch, but it was just a feint, to keep me honest. He laid down at my feet.

Bill said, “I got to talk to you in private. I don’t want to do it over the phone. I need to see you. Can I come over? I’ll have to take a taxi, but I think I can swing it. We can have a couple of drinks in the study.”

I thought about that one. I wasn’t in the mood to get Beverly stirred up. Telling her Bill was coming over was like telling her I was going to stack and store a wheelbarrow load of fresh pig manure in the house.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Beverly doesn’t like me, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t have to. She talks to me like I’m a bill collector.”

“You two just don’t click.”

“We don’t click all right.”

“Look, what she’s got against you is ten thousand dollars you haven’t paid back. Ten thousand you don’t plan to pay back. Some of us work, Bill. Come over with the ten thousand in your hand, Beverly’ll meet you at the door in her panties playing a bass drum.”

“Uncle Hank, you know I’m going to pay that money back.”

“No, I don’t. You got a job? You’re twenty-four years old. It’s time you started footing your own bills.”

“Really, Uncle Hank. I’m not trying to borrow money. I need your help.”

I was going to tell him to find someone else, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. All I could think of was Bill at seven years old, right after my brother was killed.

“Listen,” I said. “Here’s the score. I got plans this morning, and I don’t want to get in dutch with Beverly.”

“I hear that.”

“I’m gonna take a shower and take the family to lunch, then I’ll meet you at your place.”

“I’m not at my place, and I’m not going back there. And if I did go back, you wouldn’t know where to go, because I don’t live where I used to.”

“What?”

“The place I moved to is the place I’m not going back to… Forget all that, okay. I have to see you now.”

“After lunch, Bill, or get someone else. Call Arnold, see what he says.”

Silence again. Arnold was my older half-brother from my Dad’s earlier marriage. Arnold’s mom had died in childbirth. My father was young then and hadn’t done so well with Arnold. Arnold didn’t so much grow up as he got jerked up.

“All right,” Bill said. “Let’s do this. I’m at a motel. Calls itself a tourist court, actuallyem"rt, act. I got it on a match book here… Christ, how could I have forgotten a name like this? Sleepy Time Tourist Courts. I’m in room forty. This place is a hole.”

“I know where it is. Another year or two without paint and repairs, they’ll be holding that place up with a stick. Couldn’t you have found something better?”

“Money.”

“Yeah, well, you did okay then. Listen up. We finish lunch, I’ll drive over. Might be as late as two or two-thirty. We go by one of my stores and pick up a movie for the night on Saturdays. Sometimes we goof around a little. Run a few errands. I’ll move things quickly as possible.”

“What I’m talking here is more important than fucking lunch and a movie. I’m talking some desperate shit.”

“It’ll hold,” I said. “See you after lunch.”

I didn’t give him time to complain. I hung up. I didn’t really think what he had to say would amount to much, figured no matter what he said, in the end it would all come down to borrowing more money.

I was mistaken.

2

I finally got the family home and swapped the van for my pickup, I drove over to Sleepy Time Tourist Courts. It was about two o’clock then.

Beverly hadn’t been too happy about me saying I was going over to see Bill, and threatened me with castration with the edge of a credit card if I loaned him any money.

The only thing I felt good about right then was driving my truck. I love that ugly bastard. It’s old and grey and scratched and runs like the proverbial scalded dog. Has a gun rack against the back window that sports a double barrel twelve gauge and a baseball bat, a loaded .38 in the glove box.

Before I started out for the illustrious Sleepy Time Tourist Courts, I had put the shotgun and the ball bat on the right side floorboard and thrown my old man’s hunting coat over them. The coat lived in the car, same as the twelve gauge and the ball bat.

I didn’t hunt anymore, not since I was a kid, and I didn’t carry either the shotgun or pistol out of fear, but I had a respect for those guns, as well as the baseball bat and the old hunting coat.

The coat, truck, guns, and baseball bat had been my Dad’s, and it was the all of my inheritance, that and the skills of a woodsman, which had now grown dim and rusty, but were still appreciated.

For his inheritance, my brother’s boy, Bill, Mr. Hard Luck, had gotten three-hundred-and-sixty dollars and thirty-eight cents, long spent.

Arnold, half-brother and redneck, had inherited my dad’s six bird dogs, ten acres of land and a mobile home, a fishing shack on two acres out at Imperial Lake, and my Dad’s bad temper. Except for the temper, you could say Arnold got the best deal, but then, the way my Dad saw it, he owed Arnold more.

· · ·

Sleepy Time Tourist Courts didn’t strike me as a place you/divali d get much sleep. Unless you’re talking about the permanent kind. It’s on the side of Imperial City where the poor people live, made mostly of blacks and Mexicans and poor whites, and on some nights, especially summer nights when the heat’s way up, and the desperation gets so high a fellow can hear himself sweat, guns and knives come out and someone gets hauled away to a pauper’s grave. I pulled up in front of the place and got out and locked the pickup.

The motel had been built in the fifties and remodeled to fit the more modern motel concept of the mid-sixties, which was about the last time I figured the rooms had been swept out. The place was painted asshole pink and the pink was peeling. It dripped and scaled all over. All the curtains on all the windows were drawn, lest a little sunshine get in.

Room forty was upstairs. I could see the door number plain enough from where I stood by my truck. It was one of the few rooms that still had a number on it. The metal railing shook as I climbed. Pigeon shit was all over the landing and there was a used prophylactic lying beside a hypodermic needle. Come next hard rain, however, things might be cleaner.

I knocked on the door and Bill answered. His dark blond hair was rumpled and greasy and his face was oily and set with lines.

His shirt was stuck to him and his pants had a snotty shine. He was banged up and a little bloody.

“Goddamn, Bill,” I said.

“Get in,” he said. “Hurry up.”

I went inside and he closed the door. It was dark and the odor of his body in there was strong enough to go buy groceries and lube my truck.

“Turn on a light,” I said.

“I prefer the dark,” he said, “but I’ll give you a little light.”

There was an old stuffed chair by the window, and I went over there and sat down. At my elbow, on the table, was a lamp with a towel draped over it. Next to the lamp was an open bottle of cheap wine with most of the wine gone. Next to that was a stack of newspapers.

Bill turned on the lamp, almost knocking over the wine in the process. The light, muted beneath the towel, looked like the glow from a jack-o-lantern.

“What now?” I asked. “Spooky noises, a flashlight under our chins?”

“I’m depressed and scared, Uncle Hank. Too much light makes me feel kind of sick. Don’t jack with me, all right?”

“What have you done?” I asked. “Cut through the bullshit and get to it.”

“It’s not that easy, Uncle Hank. There’s a lot to it… First, look at this. Tell me what you think it is.”

He went on the other side of the bed and picked a long, narrow, black photo album off the nightstand and tossed it to me.

I caught it and looked at it. There was no writing on the outside. It had a copper-colored clasp holding it together, and I unsnapped that.

Inside were cellophane windows and about a third of the book w Cof eigas filled with photographs. Two wide, six deep. At the top of the page was a photograph of a young man smiling, and beside that photograph was another of the same man, only he wasn’t smiling. He had a small hole in the center of his forehead and his right eye bulged out of its socket. His face was as white as bleached rice. His mouth was closed, but one broken top tooth hung over his bottom lip like a stalactite.

Below those photos, on the left, was one of a middle-aged man, very much alive. On the right was, I presume, the same man, only you couldn’t tell for sure. His face was a hole. A human jelly doughnut. Shotgun blast, I figured.

Below those, an elderly sour-mouthed woman sitting in a wheel chair, and on the right, the wheel chair overturned, the woman beside it in a pool of blood and scattering of brains.

Next page, a man’s face on one side, the other a close up rear view of a naked man with his ass facing out, something jammed up it. A poker, or a thin, lead pipe maybe. I couldn’t make it out. The object and the guy’s ass were smeared with blood.

The rest of the book was the same sort of thing.

I said, “What in the hell is this?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Bill said. “It’s how I got it that’s important. I mean, does that look like special effects to you?”

“No.”

“Because it isn’t. That woman on the bottom of the first page. Recognize her?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Maude Page.”

“The heiress?”

“Yeah. Remember, she was murdered? Pushed down a concrete embankment about a mile from her house. The house was burglarized. Happened a year ago.”

“I remember something about it. But why is her picture in here? Wait a minute! I know. This is a book of shots from the newspaper morgue. Or more likely the police morgue. Somebody is collecting this stuff. A ghoulish personality. Maybe had a contact at the police department. Gets them to steal the stuff for them… Isn’t you, is it?”

“No. That’s not what it is.”

“Well, what is it?”

“First, will you help me, Uncle Hank?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting a little nervous here. Tell me how you came by the book.”

“I been taking a few classes over at the college—”

“I paid for them, didn’t I?”

“I’m trying to get an education, Uncle Hank. Do something with my life.”

“Like when I paid for that goddamn trucker school for you.”

“I thought it was a good idea, but those trucks get boring.”

“You never made a run, Bill. You didn’t even finish the cour Cnisff for se. And remember when you were going to raise those Australian birds? What were they?”

“Emus. There’s a growing market moving into East Texas. Ten years from now everyone will be eating Emu steaks.”

“Not raised by you.”

“Want to hear this or not?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tell it.”

“I guess it begins with Sharon.”

“Figures. A woman.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, shook slightly, as if chilled, got a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, put it between his lips, produced a folder of matches from his shirt pocket, peeled off one, scratched it to life and lit up.

“Since when do you smoke?” I said.

“Since a pretty short time ago.”

He took another deep drag and held it in for a long time before he let it out. The cigarette was burned half way down.

He began to talk.

3

First of this semester, Uncle Hank, when you loaned me the money to start college, I decided then and there I wasn’t going to disappoint you this time. I started going to the University library to study nights.

Well, all right. I’m not going to bullshit you. It was a place to meet women. I admit it. I don’t think that’s so bad. I was doing some studying too.

So, I was sitting at a table near the elevator, eyeing the gals getting out of the car, and I saw this good looking blonde step out and start roaming the stacks.

I made my move, went over where I’d seen her go behind a stack of books, and as I was coming around the corner of the shelves, I came up on her. Just standing there. Not really looking for anything, you know. Just hanging.

So I keep going down the row, moving my finger over the book spines, working my lips like I’m reading titles, you know, and when I’m kind of close to her, she says: “You don’t give a fuck about books, do you?”

Well, I look at her with a full view, and man, she’s better yet. The fucking Goddess of Love. About twenty-two, twenty-three years old. Long, blond hair, kind of wavy. She was wearing this short black skirt that made you want to lie on the floor between her legs and worship.

I said something like, “Beg your pardon.” I don’t remember exactly, because I was, to say the least, startled. She said, “You aren’t looking for a book. You came down this row with one thing in mind. Me. Look at the bulge you got.”

I swear, Uncle Hank, she talked just like that, and it was turning me on. I mean, I had a dick hard enough to pop a tire off the rim. So I said, “Yeah, you’re right. I thought I could talk to you. I wanted to meet you.”

She said. “You thought you might get a little jelly roll, that’s what you thought.”

“That wouldn’t hurt my feelings,” I said, and she said, “Well goddamn it, let’s cut the crap and go over to my place and screw.”

She had this apartment off campus, The Village Apartments. Nice place. Kind of expensive. We went over there, and I tell you, there wasn’t any shucking or jiving or let’s-have-a-drink business when we got there.

Inside her apartment she hiked her skirt and got on the kitchen table, spread her legs and said, “Bon appetite.”

She wasn’t wearing any panties. I mean there was just the ole wet moon pie looking at me. I stuck my face between her thighs and started licking. After that I got her top off and my pants down, put the meat to her right there on the table. Half-hour later we were rubbing salad oil over each other and then we were in the bedroom rolling around on the bed. Fell off the night stand and broke the lamp. I got glass in my ass.

We finished in the tub, me with my butt in the air, and her getting the glass out of my ass with some tweezers, licking the blood off when she was through.

We showered and she put a Band-Aid on my ass. We got back in bed and lay there while she smoked a cigarette and poured beer on her belly for me to lick up, and while I’m doing this, I’m thinking: Damn, this is something. Then I’m thinking: Hey, why me? What did I do to deserve a babe like this? And about the time I’m thinking this, she says, “By the way, do you have AIDS?”

Now, I tell you. I could have gone all week without being asked that. This was the first time in a long time I’d made love without a rubber. Or put my head between a girl’s legs and licked her. I’m not normally a fool, but this one, it was like I was a starving wolf and she was a pork chop.

I said, “No, I don’t have AIDS. Do you?”

And she says, very cool like, “Well, I hope not. I’ve fucked six guys this week I’ve never seen before, and you’re the seventh, and I haven’t made a one of them put on a rubber. They had AIDS, good chance is, I got it.”

So, I’m considering all this, and she says, “Seven is the magic number, though. I don’t have AIDS now, I don’t plan to get it. We do it later, you use a rubber.” She looked at her watch then, which was all she had left on, and said, “Let’s go get some doughnuts.”

We got dressed, went over to the North Street Doughnut Shop, got a couple doughnuts and coffee. We’re sitting there eating the doughnuts, drinking the coffee, and she says to me, “I’m expecting somebody. Several somebodies,” and not long after that, these two guys and a girl come in and they came over to our table.

Guys were about her age, nice enough looking, blond, dressed to the nines, well built, athletic. Could have been brothers. Kind of guys you see and think they got it made. Money. Everything handed to them on a platter.

The girl with them was maybe a couple years older, I don’t know. Pale. Black hair. Gorgeous. Lean. All muscle. Had on those real tight, white, workout pants.

And Sharon, remember I didn’t know her name then, because we hadn’t bothered with introductions, said to me, “This is Dave and Bob K Da"0e and Carrie.” Then she looked at me and smiled, and I told her my name, and she got around to telling me hers, and that’s how I met Sharon and her friends and heard about the Disaster Club.

Turned out they were all rich kids, just like they looked.

We fell in with one another, Uncle Hank. I don’t know why. Maybe there was something there I needed.

Dumb as it may sound, I was Mr. Well Adjusted around this bunch. Maybe that’s another thing led me in with them. Being the one whose bread is most done in the middle for a change.

What motivated these people was the adrenaline rush. They didn’t have that, they crashed, like they were on the end of a drug high or something. They told me these things they’d done together. Said they started out doing what you might call pranks. Cheap thrills.

They put some green dye in the big fountain up by the University library. They put a sack of dog shit on the porch of the college president one night and put lighter fluid on it and set it on fire and rang the doorbell and the president came out stomping flames, throwing shit all over the porch and himself. They got some dead armadillos off the highway and put them in mailboxes around town. Egged some cars and houses. That kind of stuff.

After a bit, that business wasn’t getting them where they wanted to go. They decided what they had to do to get the rush they needed, was something dangerous.

First thing they did like that was go over to the highway at night, hide behind some shrubs, wait until the traffic started coming, then dart in front of cars. Letting the cars get close enough to be scary, but not so close there was no chance of making it across. By the time some motorist dodged all over the place and cussed and got collected enough to call the cops, they were gone.

Week later, they upped the ante. Took turns blindfolding one another, and the one that was blindfolded elected one of the others as his or her Indian Spirit Guide. Meaning the Spirit Guide was supposed to wait until the cars were close and say when their blindfolded partner should run. The runner had to depend completely on the guide this way. A bigger thrill. And after they’d gone across a couple of times, they upped the ante again.

They started wearing tennis shoes with strings. Tying the blindfolded runner’s shoe strings together so he or she had to short step and hop across. Sharon said they all looked like constipated ducks trying to run like that. Said too that Carrie called a car so close to her once, she felt the wind from it lift her hair up.

The blindfolded part got picked up by the news. Motorists reporting and all, and the cops got so they were hanging out there by the highway a lot, looking for the culprits. So the Disaster Club, as they began calling themselves, had to back off that idea. Which was okay with them. They were bored by it.

That’s about the time I came in, and I wish now I’d stayed home from the library the night I met Sharon, watched a little TV and took care of my urges with the old nimble fingers, because, to hear the Disaster Club talk about the thrill they got, the blindfolds and the cars and all, they were so goddamned animated, I couldn’t help but feel the spirit.

It’s a little like when you’re drivin Kut help g along and there’s a car coming from the other direction, and you realize that car is like three to six feet away from you as it passes. You’re that close to death. It’s kind of creepy—in a pleasant way.

Pretty soon we were hanging out together a lot, though I can’t honestly say I liked any of them, except for Sharon. And she was hard to understand. Even after I started living over at her place some of the time, she was kind of an ice maiden. Except when we were in bed. Then she’d growl and scream and hump till I thought my heart would give out. But outside of bed, she stood at the window a lot. Stared off into space for maybe an hour or so.

This Dave guy, he was the ringleader. The one came up with plans. One night we were all over at Sharon’s apartment, drinking beer, and Dave said, “Let’s take a ride.”

We got in his car and drove out of town, toward Busby, stopped off at that old bridge goes over the highway there. There’s a little road winds up to it, and it’s not easy going. The bridge is a railroad track bridge. We bumped up there and parked by it and got out and Dave said to me, “You want a charge, huh?”

I wanted to show Sharon I was a hard guy, so I said, cool like, “Sure, let’s do what we gotta do.”

Dave smiled at me and said, “Not we, motherfucker. You.”

Next thing I knew Bob was behind me. He looped a rope over my head and got my arms down to my sides with it. Carrie dove down and grabbed my knees from behind so I couldn’t run or kick, then they all brought me down and Dave started helping Bob tie my arms. Sharon unbuckled my belt and pulled my pants down.

So there I was, in my underwear and shirt, my pants around my ankles, my upper body tied. They carried me onto the railroad track and laid me on my back, my neck against one rail, my legs draped over the other.

I heard the trunk lid of the car open and close, and Bob came back with a sledge hammer and three of those steel spikes like what were holding down the track. Bob straddled me and Dave took a spike and held it by my shoulder, and Bob drove it into the ground. Then they did it on the other side. Took some more rope and fastened it to the spikes and ran the ends of it through the rope tied around me. That way I was held down and couldn’t roll off the tracks. They got another spike and drove it between my legs and tied my feet to it.

I was screaming like a sonofabitch while they were doing all this, but they didn’t pay me any mind. Wasn’t anyone around but us and the crickets. And pretty soon I gave up the yelling, tried not to show how mad I was. Started saying stuff like, “Hey, now, this isn’t funny. What if a train comes along?”

Me saying that got them to grinning, and I began to have a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. Began to think this wasn’t such a big joke. This was well-planned. They were all in on it, Sharon included.

Bob came back from the car with a video camera and a tripod, and he set the whole thing up on the side of the track.

Guess I was cussing pretty good by then, but finally I just tuckered out, and Dave squatted down beside me and took a penlight out of his pocket and turned it on and pointed it in my face and said, “You’re about to get a big rush. Biggest y Ksh.ft"ou’ve ever had.”

He reached in his pocket and got out a piece of paper and said, “I know a guy works over at the train depot. He gave me a train schedule for all the tracks around here. All the trains moving on them. And guess what? Thirty minutes from now, you’ll get to say howdy to one of those trains, a la The Perils of Pauline.”

He showed me the schedule then, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. I was too scared to try. I kept telling myself he was funning me, but deep in my heart I knew I was in some serious deep doodoo.

Sharon stood between my feet, smiling down at me. Carrie brought a boom box over and turned it on. Sharon started stripping off her clothes, slow-like, to this tune that was playing, and I tell you, even under the circumstances, I was getting a boner. I’m not talking battering ram material here, but there was some action going on down there at a time you wouldn’t think it.

Pretty soon she got it all off except her panties, and the panties were wet, man. I could see that with just the moonlight to show me. She’d worked herself up big time, lubricating all over the place. She was twisting around like she was part snake or something. And the moonlight loved her, flowed all over her. I mean, that woman was something.

The others were taking turns watching Sharon and my face, and after a while, Dave looked at his watch and nodded at Sharon. She eased out of her panties and used her fingers to spread herself and show the pink. Then she was bending down and pulling my shorts to my knees and taking me in her mouth.

Honestly, now, I like a little kink, but my idea of good sex isn’t being tied down to a railroad track with some gal swallowing my goober to boom boom music while an audience lurks over me with a video camera. Not to mention all that gravel grinding into my ass and my neck getting a crick and my legs starting to ache. Still, I was beginning to forget about the crowd and the camera and the tracks. That tongue of hers was driving me crazy and her pussy was calling my name in sweet falsetto.

Then, off in the distance, I heard the cold, hard voice of the train. That whistle jerked the iron right out of my Johnson, I kid you not. I went limp as a noodle and came out of her mouth. I began to feel the vibration of the rails on the back of my neck and legs. Dave moved Bob aside and took the camera off the tripod and bent down next to me and smiled and poked the camera in my face and said, “Hey, you hear something, Billy? Like a train?”

“Goddamn right,” I said. “Get me off here.”

“That’s the midnight whistle at the Highway 59 crossing up a ways. Sound carries good from there. Comes down between the pine stands like they’re canyon walls. That ole choo choo is fifteen minutes away.”

I started cussing him right and left, but he didn’t pay me any mind. He stood up and looked around at everyone and pointed the camera and moved it about slowly, getting us all in. I had the sensation he was pulling our souls into that video box, locking us away until he needed us later.

He finished up, said, “You want off these tracks in time, you want to get Sharon off these tracks in time, ’cause, man, she just don’t care, you got to do the job. Got to get off, and you got to get Sharon off before tha Kff imet ole choo choo gets here. You don’t, they find you tomorrow, or a week from now, they’re gonna discover you got this locomotive and a string of boxcars stuck up your ass. Hear me? You do this right, though, we can all watch this on the set later, eat a few chips, drink some beer, cheer you on.”

Any idea they were kidding was gone. I knew they meant it. And Sharon was lost. She was caught up in the idea of death, and she was loving it. She was trying to get me hard again and inside her, but there wasn’t anything fearfully frantic about it. She just wanted it.

That cold rail throbbed against my neck, vibrated my legs, and I could hear crickets in the weeds, playing their fiddles, and in the distance, down near the creek, I could hear a big bullfrog croaking. I could hear better than ever before. Cars off in a distance, racing along the highway. A dog barking.

The sky was rich and black above me and the stars were brilliant and the moon was shining bright through the tops of some tall pines. I could smell those pines and the sour weeds that grew along the track, the bittersweet aroma of Sharon’s pussy.

Everything. Sight and smell and sound were magnified. I realize this more thinking back on it, because at the time I was terrified, but it was being scared that heightened everything. Made it hot. Made it glow.

And God, Sharon was beautiful. Her breasts goose bumped. Her nipples dark and hard like chocolate drops. Her knees straddling me, my rod in her hand, trying to get me inside her, doing all this with her eyes closed, maybe thinking about the train coming, like it was entering her instead of me, maybe just thinking about death. I don’t know.

When that goddamn train tooted the next time, I closed my eyes and got down to business, started working my hips and thinking about one thing and one thing only, popping my cork, and Lord, but Sharon was working me, helping me, and that train and Dave and Bob and Carrie and the video camera went away, and there was only me and Sharon, and after a while, just me, working for the moment.

I came out of it when Sharon screamed. I opened my eyes to see her with her head thrown toward the sky, mouth open as if to suck in the dark, her teeth wet and white as piano keys. Her body trembling, starting to go weak. And then it was my turn. I let my load fly and the train blew again and its headlights bobbed over us.

Then Sharon was pulled away and Bob was slamming the spikes with the sledge, loosening them. He and Dave jerked me off the tracks. The train roared by, blowing its whistle, tossing gravel, nearly knocking us down with the wind from its rush. Sharon was left standing on the other side of the track, the train between us.

I lay on the ground quivering. Dave and Bob laughed, bent to untie me.

When they finished, I stood up, and it was like my knees were made of yogurt. I pulled up my shorts and pants and fastened myself, watched the train scream by. Another second or two, and Sharon and I would have been just so much goo.

Dave said, “Wasn’t that something,” and I hauled off and hit him with all I had. Caught him one on the side of the jaw and knocked him backwards down the embankment, bloodying his nose. I was all over him then. Had him pinned on the ground with my knees, punching him, and he wasn’t doing much to keep it f K to bloodyirom happening. He was enjoying it. I realized suddenly Bob and Carrie were standing over me, watching, Bob with video camera, filming every bit of it.

That took the fight out of me.

The train roared on by.

I got up slowly, pulled in some deep breaths. When I straightened up, Sharon, holding her hands out to her sides as if she had just missed hugging the locomotive, came across the track smiling. She kissed me on the cheek, like there had been nothing to it. Just an everyday good old-fashioned roll in the hay. Her eyes were huge, filled with the night. Her body was quivering. Her breath was dry and sour, copper smelling. Her thighs were wet in the moonlight; looked to have been coated with salve.

Carrie brought Sharon’s clothes to her and Sharon slipped them on and Dave and Bob patted me on the back and Carrie almost grinned, which was high humor for her. We got in Dave’s car and drove away from there, Sharon tight beside me, trembling all the way home.

4

Bill paused his story, took a deep breath. He looked clammy, like a man coming down with the flu. He glanced at the tattered carpet and dropped the butt of his cigarette there and put his heel to it. He had been doing that all through his story. The odor of smoke and burned carpet floated up, touched my nostrils, and went away.

He shook his cigarette pack. It was empty. He wadded it up and tossed it on the floor. He looked at me. “I’m gonna talk some more, I’m going to need some wine. My throat’s getting dry.”

I got the wine bottle and gave it to him. He took a drink from it, made a face like it was vinegar, set the bottle on the carpet next to the pile of cigarette butts.

“I tell you, Uncle Hank, whole thing was over, and I got to thinking on it, I began to feel good about it. Not mad anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to do it again. But I wasn’t mad. We went over to Dave’s place and watched it on video. I’ve never been so turned on in all my life, seeing me and the others on film. Shots of the train coming, throwing out its light. The sounds of mine and Sharon’s breathing and that train whistle, it was some kind of aphrodisiac.”

“I’ll stick to oysters,” I said.

Bill picked up the wine bottle and took a long gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said,” Don’t worry, Uncle Hank. I’m coming to the photo book. What I know, anyway.”

“Time you get there, I’ll be too old and blind to look at the pictures—provided I really want to.”

“I tell myself I don’t want to look at them either, but I keep looking. Last night I got up and went to the bathroom, got to thinking about that damn book lying in here, and I came back and turned on the lamp and sat there and looked at it for a half hour before I went to bed. Had bad dreams. Told myself never again. But this morning, before I called you, I got it out again.”

Bill shook the wine bottle and turned it around and around in his hand. “I should have told that Dave sonofabitch, all of them, goodbye. But I didn’t. I felt initiated into something. How many guys you know have got off with a N to bthat Da beautiful woman to the thunder and lights of a speeding train?”

“Want the short list?”

“Exactly.” He finished off the wine, and continued his story.

· · ·

So I’m hanging out with them, and one day we’re over at Dave’s apartment, and he says out of nowhere, “Now’s the time.”

Just like that. “Now’s the time.” And everyone goes quiet. Dave could do that to you. He was a psycho, but there was something about him. Just his voice could pull you up straight.

He starts laying out what he’s got in mind, and if ever I was born for a superior stupid moment, I was agreeing with what he wanted. His idea was we kidnap someone. Not kidnapping the way you’re thinking. Not for money. Least it wasn’t for money at first. And the plan wasn’t to keep them for any real length of time. Sort of a thrill kidnapping. That’s why I agreed to it. I thought of it as being pretty harmless.

Dave said he wanted us to pick some guy who looked kinda stiff. Someone this kind of thing would really jack around. Not that anyone I can think of, except maybe the crowd I was running with, would get a kick out of being kidnapped. But he thought we’d grab a real straight and give him a serious thrill. Make him think we’re gonna do something drastic. Scare him good. Then we’d paint his balls blue, and let him go. I mean, literally, paint his balls blue. Or something stupid like that.

I know, it’s ridiculous. But you got to understand the frame of mind I was in. My whole life, since my Dad’s death, has been kind’a screwed. Mom did her best. I know that. I’m not putting the Indian sign on anyone. I’m just saying, I feel kind of… out there. Like the airlock blew on the space ship and sucked me into space without my suit and I’m gasping for air.

Suddenly I’m getting balled by this gal looks like a movie star, and I’m around people who know how to make me feel alive.

We spent a few days figuring on how to choose our victim. We didn’t want to pick a kid. That was too mean. And what’s it take to scare a kid? No challenge in that. We figured on some guy fat and happy, cruising along with life paying him all the dividends.

Me and Dave were like the scouts for the victim. We decided to go over to the public library every day, hang out there in the morning reading the newspapers, pretending to study our books, and from the windows by the street, we could see Imperial Bank across the way. Figured if we wanted a fat cat, that’d be where we’d find him. Going in and out of the bank.

Me and Dave got our eyes on this guy we’d seen a couple days in a row. Or rather Dave did. He said right away, “That’s our guy.” I guess it was Dave’s show all along. I never got the impression he meant for me to pick anybody. It was always him. He was just letting me and the others go through the paces.

Guy we picked showed up at the bank every day about ten-forty-five. Real straight laced. Looked thirtyish. Well built. Grey suit one day, blue the next. Always a white shirt and a dark tie. Hair cut and combed and sprayed just right. Looked like the kind of guy if he wasn’t doing suit ads in the Sears catalogu Sear and a dae, he’d be reading you the news on TV. I remember thinking he probably had a blond wife with a nice ass and two kids and lived over on the good side of town. Made all the right parties. Most likely had his picture in the paper now and then.

· · ·

We watched till he came out of the bank, then we got in Dave’s car and followed him. Sure enough. The good side of town. You know where that great big house is on the hill overlooking the University on University Drive? One where the property trails off down that deep wooded slope, toward the creek, then rises up high on the other side?

That was the house. We watched our guy go inside, and it didn’t take much for us to figure who he was. It was on his mail box. Guy named Doctor Benjamin J. Parker.

Dave knew who he was, and when he told me, it rang a bell. The cosmetic surgeon. I’d seen the Doc’s ads all over. In the newspapers. On television.

Guy like that, all the titties he’s stuffed, we figured he had money enough to put on toilet rollers for wiping his ass.

Next day, third day in a row, we went back to our post to watch him. When he showed up, we knew we had somebody with a pattern. Ten-forty-five, every work day, this dude was at the bank.

Next time, we were waiting outside the library. Dave had his video camera, and was taping the historical marker by the library. One tells about the Texans turning back the Mexicans during the war for Texas Independence by firing a cannon full of gravel and nails, or beatin’ a hundred of them to death with turkey legs, or some such shit. When Doc showed up, Dave turned and pretended to be taking shots of the street and the old bank front. As he was doing that, he got Doc and this fat guy in the video too.

Fat guy was in his fifties. Gray haired. About five-nine. Must have weighed over two-hundred-and-thirty pounds. Wheezy looking fuck. Walked like he had tacks in his shoes. Wore a red and green suit coat looked like it belonged on a carnival barker. It was oversized in the shoulders so it would button around his fat belly. He had on these lime green pants, and scuffed brown shoes, and these stupid, thin, white socks you could see through. Wore a wide, red and green striped tie like they used to wear in the seventies. Big enough to dry off on after a shower. All that motherfucker needed to make him just right was some Christmas lights.

Anyway, our Doc is going up the steps of the bank, and the fat guy comes out of the bank then, and they nod at each other. Casual like. Nothing overly friendly. Just two guys being polite. Doc reaches into his coat and brings out an envelope, which he drops. The fat guy picks it up, brings it in close to himself, and smiles. Then he reaches out and hands Doc back the envelope. Good Samaritan stuff. Right?

We got home and looked at the video, to show the others that we’d found our perfect victim, and we noticed something funny. We ran it back a few times for a looksee. The envelope the fat guy hands the Doc, it’s not the one the Doc dropped. Doc’s envelope was slightly oversized. The fat guy handed him back a regular size envelope and pushed the other one inside his coat.

It was smooth. Magician smooth. But us running that tape backwards three or four times to get a good look at the Doc, Dave picked up on it, and af Son smoter it was pointed out, we all saw it.

A planned swap if ever there was one.

Next day we went to the Square with the video, took a position down by the old hardware store they’re remodeling, and used that as our focus. You know, like we’re filming some historical bit, which considering all the renovation going on down on Main Street and the Square these days, fits in for a good cover.

Doc shows up like usual, goes in the bank. No fat guy this day. So we don’t take any video. We wanted to know if there was something to really see before we got down to business, this stuff with the envelope being so intriguing and all.

Next day we hung out in my car. Parked across the street from the bank in front of the library. Got the video ready. Doc comes on time, and the fat man’s there again. They go through the same envelope routine. Doc dropping. Fat man picking it up and trading with him.

Comes to us then that possibly the fat guy’s got some pictures of the Doc doing something he shouldn’t do. Maybe when the fat guy switches envelopes, he’s giving the Doc negatives or something.

Whatever reason, this fat guy, he’s got Doc by the short hairs, and he’s giving them a tug, you know. And Doc, he’s got it arranged where he can pay off in a public place so he doesn’t have to be alone with the fat guy. Scared of him, maybe. Something like that.

So, we had a joker in the deck. That made it better. We decided to play the Doc like a fiddle. Kidnap him, make like we’re in with the fat guy. Tell the Doc whatever’s been paid isn’t enough. More’s got to come. Or else. He could make up his mind what “or else” meant.

I was thinking, guy like this, kind of money he’s got, we could put a serious bite on him. Maybe ten-thousand apiece. More. We get our kicks any way we go, and get a little money out of the deal, which personally I could use, and nobody gets hurt.

We set shifts following him. Me and Sharon doing one. Dave and Carrie one. Bob odd man out. Then we’d mix it up. We took turns parking nights down in the University lot so a couple of us could cross the highway, go into the patch of woods and work our way over the creek and up the hill. From there, we could watch the house.

We got damn good at shadowing. Got Doc’s pattern down perfect. Saw he did have a blond wife with a good ass, if no kids, and he and the blonde seemed to run in pretty different paths. When he came home in the afternoon, she went out and didn’t come back until late. Hour or so after she left, he’d come out dressed in tee-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes, and drive over to the Court Club.

Hour or so later he’d come out of there red and sweaty, drive back home. Stay until seven-thirty. Then he’d come out dressed the way he dressed during the day. Suit and tie. Most nights he’d go down to the Chinese restaurant on University.

I ended up following him there and watching him a couple of nights. He took a table at the back, semiprivate, halfway behind one of those screens with the butterflies and birds painted on it. But if you sat up front, looking in the big wall mirror there, you could see a lot of what was going on in the back, behind the partial screen.

Not that he was doing anything unusual. But there was this waitress always waited on him. College girl. Dark haired. Pretty. Tits like zeppelins. She talked to him extra friendly-like, showed a lot of teeth. They got pretty handsy now and then.

Didn’t take a genius to see something more than polite conversation was going on. Whenever he got ready to leave, he scooted a fifty dollar bill under his plate. I know, ’cause on my way to the restroom I took a look.

Saw too he wasn’t any thirty years old. He was quite a bit older, but those workouts kept him pretty well preserved, that and the fact I figure he’d had some of his colleagues pull his face up and tie it behind his ears.

After the restaurant he’d run a few errands, then go home. About midnight, the wife’d come home. Early in the morning, two or three, Doc’d go out the back door and down the hill into his private park in the woods by the creek. There was a wooden bridge over the water and stone seats and figures that look Oriental in design. There was a roofed, three walled pavilion.

Me and Sharon were the ones found the park, since we were the first ones to get the duty of hiding out back of Doc’s house. Finding the park was a neat surprise. The night was comfortable and the moonlight coming through the trees was kinda sexy. There were spots you could see through the woods and down the hill, watch car lights moving along University Drive, and beyond that, you could see the lights of the University itself.

It was like a little Never Never Land in the middle of the city. Protected from all the jokers down there that had to work and struggle to buy shoes for their kids and pay their electric bill. It was sweet and comfortable.

Me and Sharon were supposed to be watching the house, but I got to tell you, that time of morning, the whole idea seemed pretty stupid. We figured it was just Dave’s way of playing Secret Squirrel. So we sat on one of the benches there and got to necking. Few minutes later we heard brush breaking. Someone was coming from the direction of the highway, heading up the hill toward us.

We got behind some brush and laid still and peeked out. We heard someone cross the bridge. Pretty soon we could see her. It was the waitress from the Chinese restaurant. Big Tits.

She moved up the hill toward Doc’s house, and that’s when we heard someone coming down the hill toward her. Doc, of course. He had a bundle of blankets with him. They hugged and kissed and went down to the pavilion. He rolled out the blankets on the floor and they got naked and fifteen minutes later you could hear that pussy poppin’.

Me and Sharon laid there a long time, quiet as the dead, and watched them. Finally, they finished up and got dressed. Doc gathered up his blankets. They kissed, said something we couldn’t hear, and Doc went up the hill and Big Tits went across the creek and out of sight.

We crawled to the top of the hill and watched Doc go into his house, through the back door which he’d left unlocked. Then we went back down the hill, giving Big Tits plenty of time to get away. We went to my place and did some momentous fucking ourselves. Next morning we reported to Dave what we’d seen.

That’s the way it went all work week. Same schedule. Doc wrapping up each day doing the belly rub with Big Tits. Sth ng oWeekends, the Doc and his wife went around town together, shopping, the movies, eating out, that sort of thing. But it was all business, no smacky mouth, no holding hands. Two blocks of ice couldn’t have had less fun than those two.

This Doc, I had to admire him. Hours he kept, action he was getting, way he kept on keeping on. He had some kind of constitution.

After we got the Doc’s schedule down, Dave told us plans had changed again. We were going to jump the doctor in his house. We weren’t going to kidnap him and we weren’t going to do anything childish like paint his balls blue. We were going to point a gun at him and get some kind of payment plan going. Really scare him by making him feel vulnerable in his own home.

I didn’t like the idea much. Especially the gun part. Even if Dave said it would be unloaded. And I thought everyone else was taking this change of plans a little too smoothly.

Following Doc around, playing private detective was all right. The rest of it, I didn’t want to go through with. But I kept telling myself it would be okay. And there was the money, and I couldn’t stop liking that part.

Way we planned to do it was like this: We’d wait until the Doc left the house early morning to go down to the park to saddle up Big Tits, and since he always left the back door unlocked, we’d slip inside and wait for him. Jump him and talk our trash. Try to keep it quiet like, so as to keep the Mrs. out of it. But Dave said, she heard us, then too bad. We’d bring her into the business too. We figured she wasn’t going to go all to pieces we threatened to show her some photos we didn’t have of Doc dropping his goober in Big Tits. Pretty obvious she and the Doc weren’t cozy, but it was also pretty obvious she wasn’t squawking all that much about the arrangement, long as he was discreet. But word got out he was doing what he was doing, the local Baptists who hadn’t been caught in someone’s bed could cause repercussions, could affect her meal ticket.

Night before it all went down, we quit following the Doc. We felt we knew his agenda. We went over to Dave’s place and got drunk and toasted one another. About midnight, me and Sharon went back to her place, tried to make love, but she was too drunk, and finally passed out.

I did too. For a while. But it didn’t last. Normally I get drunk like that, I sleep like the dead, wake up with a head the size of the panhandle, only with a crack in it. But this time I woke up about three a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep and my head didn’t hurt. I didn’t feel drunk and I didn’t feel hung over. I felt frightened.

I didn’t go to bed that night or the next day. I felt like I’d never sleep again, and wouldn’t need to. I was running on high octane.

The night came to do it, we put on gloves and dark clothes, but nothing cute like black wool hats and blackened faces. We drove over to Dave’s in my car. We bagged up some rope and tape. Dave got his automatic and pushed a clip into it.

Things had changed again. I didn’t like that. I told him if he were going to take it, he ought to take it unloaded, use it as a bluff. But he wouldn’t do it. Said if he talked to this guy like he was going to shoot him, he had to believe he had something to shoot him with. The method acting approach.

We waited unt SWe had il the Doc normally went down to the park, then we drove over to the University lot and parked, got our bag of rope and tape and a flashlight, crossed the highway, walked along the border of the woods, up to the Doc’s property. It was bright enough we didn’t have to turn the flashlight on at all.

We weren’t too worried about anyone seeing us. All the houses up there are large and on big tracts of land, so we didn’t have to go across anyone’s yard to get to the Doc’s place, and the angle of attack we were taking didn’t make us highly visible.

We eased along the ridge where the hill dropped down into the Doc’s private park. We stopped and listened. We didn’t hear him and Big Tits down there, but we didn’t worry about it. We knew his schedule. They were probably just getting started, groping each other under a blanket. We went on ahead to Doc’s back door and Dave tried it. It was locked.

We didn’t know what to do. We’d planned everything down to the last detail, and now this. The Doc had changed his plans this night after being consistent for so many, and we didn’t have a backup plan. We stood there like idiots, trying to figure what to do next.

There was a scream from inside. It was short and ended almost before it started, but there was no doubt that a scream was what it was. Dave pulled his automatic out from under his sweater and looked at us and we looked at him.

I guess we stood there a full minute, looking at each other’s hangdog faces in the moonlight, not knowing what to do.

Suddenly, the door opened and a man was standing there looking at us. He was as startled as we were. He was real tall and broad shouldered and pale skinned and his head was shaved and there was a gold and blue tattoo that ran up from under his blue wind-breaker and along his neck and the side of his face and draped over his head. It was the tattoo of a cobra rising up to strike, and its fanned head terminated at the top of the guy’s bald head. We could smell the guy. He had a stink clung to him like glue.

Dave jerked up his automatic and Cobra Man reached out with a gloved mitt and grabbed the automatic and twisted it out of Dave’s hands and slapped him across the forehead with the grip. This took the guy less effort than it takes to wipe your ass.

Dave went to his knees. A trickle of blood streamed from under his hair and down in front of his ear. In the moonlight and the soft light from inside the house, it looked like a stream of lube oil.

Cobra Man lifted his other hand and showed us he had a silenced .38 automatic in it. He smiled some gold ridged teeth at us and said, “Come on in, cousins. Good to see you.”

His breath went along with his body odor. It came out of his mouth with his oily voice and caressed us. Garlic would have smelled like a breath mint compared to that shit. Bob got Dave by the arm and helped him up. Dave held his head with one hand and looked wobbly. We all stood in our huddle for a moment, not moving. “I invited you in, cousins, and I meant it,” Cobra Man said. He was pointing both guns at us now.

One by one, we went inside and stood in the foyer, which was about the size of a mobile home Mom and I once lived in. It was partially lit by warm ceiling lights, and the floor was blue and white tile made up like a giant chessboard, and it Sboae live wasn’t our move.

End of the foyer was a huge grandfather clock, and you could hear it ticking softly, like the beating of a heart, but not fast enough to match the beating of my heart. The house was full of Cobra Man’s stench.

The fat guy who had swapped envelopes with the Doc came out of a room unscrewing a silencer from an automatic pistol. There was a Polaroid camera on a strap around his neck. He wore soft, thin gloves. He looked at us and started screwing the silencer back on. He looked at Cobra Man, said, “What the fuck’s this?”

“Visitors,” Cobra Man said. “They were at the back door. Tricker-treatin’ early, I reckon.” Cobra Man smiled like he was really funny.

The fat man came down the foyer and stood in front of us. He looked at Carrie and Sharon for quite a while. Sharon especially. “Who the fuck are you people?” he said to no one in particular.

Nobody answered.

“You guys were going to rob the place, weren’t you?” the fat man said, then laughed. “Well, you picked a bad night for it, little partners. A hell of a bad night. All you peckerheads into the room there.”

We went into the nearest room after Cobra Man went ahead of us and turned on the light. It was a big room with a fireplace large enough to cook a steer in and white curtains over windows the size of ping pong tables. The center of the room had one of those long conference style tables. So long, you sat at one end and wanted to talk to someone at the far end, you’d have to have had a megaphone. Maybe give them a telephone call.

Cobra Man motioned for us to sit on the couch, and we did, our knees and elbows close together, like kids waiting for detention. The sweat started rolling out from under my arms like someone had turned on a faucet.

“What you want to do with them, Fat Boy?” Cobra Man asked.

“I’m thinking on it,” Fat Boy said.

“I think we ought to do something with this nice pussy here before we do something else,” Cobra Man said. “The guys I don’t care what you do, though you want to be consistent, I’ll fuck them too, provided their buttholes’ll stretch enough to take the old snake.”

“That kind of thing’s your department,” Fat Boy said. “I don’t want anything like that with any guys. We do something else here, it could screw things up. I think we got to take ’em out of here before you can do what you want, then you and me got to do what we got to do.”

I knew then, I didn’t try something, it was all over. I panicked. I hopped up and ran and palmed myself onto the long table in the center of the room and dove right into one of the big windows with the white curtains. The jump was close. I just barely made the window.

Hitting those thick curtains and getting wound up in them was what saved me from getting cut really bad. I struck the ground rolling and twisted out of the curtains and started up running, tripped, went down, then something went by my ear like a bee, and then I was dipping down toward the woods and the Doc’s park.

As I got into the pines there, Spinowaa piece of bark jumped off a tree next to me and puffed in all directions, then I was down the hill and tripping over a stone seat, tumbling into the creek. I waded on across and started running through the woods.

Behind me, I could hear someone coming, and I knew without looking it was Cobra Man. He had followed me through the busted out window.

I ducked and weaved under branches and jumped over bushes and briars, hoping if he got off another shot, I’d be a hard target to nail. One thing in my favor was he didn’t seem too good at hitting what he aimed at.

If he fired again, I never knew it. Few moments later I was out of the woods and stumbling onto the highway, not even looking for cars. One went by me and swerved and honked and someone screamed “Motherfucker,” but I was across the highway then, running like hell into the University parking lot.

I didn’t have Dave’s car keys, of course, so I kept running. Across the lot and down into the stretch of woods that grows on either side of Morgan Creek. I went along the creek a while and finally stopped to listen. I didn’t hear anyone following, but I didn’t come out. I laid down in the leaves and tried to be quiet and think.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t broken any law, really. I hadn’t busted into the Doc’s house. We had been let inside by a man with a gun.

What was the deal?

What was the fat man, Fat Boy, the other called him, doing there?

Who had screamed?

What in the hell had happened to Doc’s schedule?

And the others, Sharon, the Disaster Club, what was to become of them?

No answers came to me. I lay there and felt the water that had splashed on my legs turn cold. Where I had banged the stone seat with my shin ached like hell. I felt like a coward, running like that, but what else could I do? I figured what Fat Boy had in mind was going to be unpleasant, and had I hesitated one moment longer, I felt certain I would have found out how unpleasant. There wouldn’t have been any getting away.

Finally, couple hours later is my guess, I got my nerve up. I went along the bank where the creek travels through the heart of the University, under the bridge and along these deep concrete channels the city put in for flood control. I came out on the other side of the University and started walking home. I guess I had been down there on the creek bank for a couple of hours, maybe longer, scared, not knowing what to do. I figured now the thing to do was get home and call the cops.

I wasn’t very far from my place by then, and I started walking home. You haven’t seen this place, Uncle Hank, but it’s not the Ritz. It’s over by the University and I moved there when I started school. It’s down in the one area over there hasn’t been upgraded. There’s about six streets with rows of ramshackle, slumlord houses on either side, and one of those dumps is mine. There’s one street light at either end of the street, so unless you’re under one of those lights, or you have a porch light on, way all those oaks and elms along there droop, you won’t see much.

I got to my street and started down it. Dogs ba Sn iyou’re rked at me along the way, and a goddamn bat swooped down on my hair and scared the hell out of me. Time I got to my walk, I was a bundle of raw nerves. Everywhere I looked, I thought I saw Fat Boy or Cobra Man. My empty carport was full of shadows and all of them looked like people with guns.

But there wasn’t anyone. I got my key from under the steps and unlocked the door and slipped inside, still trying to figure what to do next, and it was while I was figuring that the smell hit me. The stink of Cobra Man. I tried to back out of there, but I went back too fast and slipped and fell. I tried to get up and my hand went into something wet. I lifted it to look, saw what I had slipped in.

Blood.

Then, between my bloody fingers, very close to me, I saw a face, eyes poking out of its head like a couple of golf balls with pupils painted on them. A tongue hung way out of its mouth and the teeth were clamped through it. I jerked my hand out of the way for a better look.

It was Dave.

I jumped up and skidded and fell back against the wall and stood there looking at Dave, smelling the blood on me and the sour stink of Cobra Man. I wanted to turn and dart outside, but I didn’t. All the noise I’d made, slipping and falling, it came to me that if Cobra Man or Fat Boy were in the house, they’d have been all over me. And with the front door open, the air had cleared out some of the stink. With that diluted, I felt stronger. I began to believe I was the only living thing in the house.

I slipped into the kitchen for a better look at Dave. He was lying on his stomach and he wasn’t wearing any pants. I could see the tip of an Old Hickory butcher knife hilt sticking out of his ass. He’d been sodomized with it. That’s where all the blood had come from. The knife belonged to me.

There was a coat hanger twisted around his neck so tight most of it wasn’t visible. One of his legs was cocked at the knee, the foot pointing at the ceiling. The other was stretched out on the floor, straight and stiff.

I had a feeling with all his talk about fear and dying, this hadn’t been what Dave had in mind. I think he expected something a little more noble; something not smelling of blood and shit.

Trembling, I went over to the open knife drawer and got another Old Hickory knife, eased around and looked in the living room.

Everything appeared okay, but it was dark enough in there to make me uncertain. I let my eyes adjust until I felt secure no one was hiding and waiting for me. Not that there were many places anyone could hide, small as the room was, and the only major pieces of furniture were a stuffed chair, a television set, and a couch with its back pushed flush against the wall.

I went in and looked around and didn’t see anybody, which of course is what I was pretty assured of, or I wouldn’t have gone in there.

The back door that led out of the living room and onto the little back porch was wide open and there was only the screen door between the room and the night. That door wasn’t much when it was locked. You leaned into it and picked up some, the latch would pop and you could come in. It was a strange time to worry about it, but I remember thinking to myself, after tonight I was going to get some kind of deadbolt and s Seadsn’ome latches for the windows.

I went over for a look through the screen door. The moonlight was falling over the tiny overgrown lawn and there was a dark-haired tomcat sitting on the wooden fence that bordered my yard and the neighbor’s, sitting there with one leg lifted, licking his balls.

I gingerly opened the screen door and went onto the back porch, jumping a little as the boards squeaked beneath my feet and the cat leapt with a surprised yowl into my neighbor’s yard. A dog barked. The cat hissed, and then the dog barked several times, moving away, pursuing the cat, I presumed. Finally, there was only the sound of crickets in the grass.

I went out and stood in the yard and sucked in some of the night air. It was so cold and clean it almost made me drunk. My wet pants legs felt cold as ice.

I went back in the house and noticed for the first time that there was a thin sliver of light slipping out from under my bedroom door and out of a needle thin crack where the door was pushed slightly open. I had concentrated on that open back door so hard, I hadn’t noticed it.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I squeezed the handle of the butcher knife so hard I felt it ridge into the palm of my hand, but I couldn’t let go. I kept squeezing, causing a slight cramp to run up my wrist and forearm.

Guess I felt like I had been such a coward before, I wanted to prove myself. Or to be more truthful, fearful as I felt, I didn’t believe anyone was in the house. It seemed obvious to me they had come in by springing the back door, and had brought Dave inside and killed him in the kitchen, which gave me an idea about what I’d find in the bedroom.

I touched the bedroom door and eased it open, stood in the doorway looking at an image in the corner of my dresser mirror. The image of a naked body standing very still. Or I thought it was standing. Another look showed it was hanging from a chinning bar I kept mounted between the frame of my doorless closet. It was a woman.

Her legs weren’t touching the floor. They seemed to be cut off at the knee.

I took in a breath and caught the fading odor of Cobra Man and another odor I didn’t like. I went in, looking in the direction of the reflection.

It was Carrie. Her legs had been pulled up and tied behind her and there was a coat hanger twisted around her neck and there were great strips of hair missing from her bloody scalp. The hair had been ripped out, and the tool for the ripping, a pair of pliers from my kitchen drawer, lay on the floor beneath her. Coat hangers had been taken out of the closet, straightened and inserted into her mouth at the edges of a cloth gag, and into her ears, nostrils, the corners of her eyes, her ass and vagina. Her face was spattered with blood. Her legs were coated with shit.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something behind the open bedroom door. I looked. Sitting naked, against the wall, hands pulled behind his back, was Bob. He had a wet spot between his legs and his dick and balls hung out of his mouth. He had a startled expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe how things had turned out.

I turned around slowly, not wanting to, having some idea of what I would find, and what I expected was there.

Sharon was on the bed, spread-eagled, ankles and wrists tied up in strips of sheet and fastened to the bed post. Her eyes were wide open and her pink panties were stuffed in her mouth. She had a bullet hole between her eyes. The pillow her head rested on was dark with blood. Her breasts and belly were covered with blue-black spots. Her pubic thatch was no longer blond. It was rich with blood. There was a car battery on the floor and a pair of jumper cables and a pan of water with a wet towel beside it.

That explained the spots on her body. She had been touched up with water and the bastards had fastened the cables to her and given her the juice. At the foot of the bed, between her legs, was an empty soda pop bottle covered in blood, the Polaroid camera Fat Boy had worn around his neck, and an open book—the photo album I showed you.

I went over to see if Sharon might be alive, not that I thought she might be, but I had to know. I touched her neck. No pulse. She was still warm. She must have been the last, and that meant they hadn’t been gone long. A few minutes, I reckoned.

I picked up the book. It was open to the last page. The top two pictures were of Doc’s wife. They were like all the others you’ve seen. One of her alive, one of her dead. I knew then that the scream we’d heard when we were standing outside of Doc’s house had been her.

Below that, same way, pictures of the Disaster Club, ending with Sharon. But why? And why had they left the camera and the book on the bed? And why had they brought the Disaster Club back here to do them in? What was the deal?

I closed the photo album and put it in my jacket pocket. I don’t know why exactly, but I did.

I looked at Sharon again and got sick.

I left out of there and went out on the back porch for some air. I heard something then, turned and looked through the screen, across the living room and down the hall, out the open front door.

A police car, not using its cherries or siren, pulled off the little street and up against my front yard curbing. I saw another come from the opposite direction and park across the street. A door slammed and I saw a cop coming around his car, heading for my walk.

I began to get the picture. Fat Boy and Cobra Man had talked to my compadres, used some persuasive techniques to find out about me, find out where I lived. They’d brought the Disaster Club back here to do their business and they’d left plenty of business around to make it look like this had all been my work. The frame was so good and tight I could feel it fastening around my neck.

I threw the butcher knife away from me and bolted for the fence and grabbed the top of it and pulled myself over. The dog the cat startled wasn’t there. I guess he was still chasing the cat. I ran across my neighbor’s yard, through another, and on out to the highway.

I went across the highway and walked down to a convenience store and called a taxi. Can you believe that? A fucking taxi? I wasn’t exactly thinking right then.

While I waited for the taxi, I pulled up my pants legs and tried to pick window glass out of my knees.

The taxi came and I got in, hoped in t Sn, div>he dark the driver wouldn’t see how bloody I was. I figured, with my dark clothes, and the blood dried on me, it wouldn’t be too noticeable. I had the driver take me here. I had seen this place before and thought it was the kind of place you might come to if you didn’t want anyone to ask questions.

I had enough money to pay the taxi and two nights rooming. After I paid the taxi, I took off my jacket and wiped as much blood off of me as I could with that, left it by the corner of the motel and went inside and gave the name Jack Frame, paid up, and didn’t get asked any questions. I got the room key and came back for the jacket.

I came in here and tried to go to bed, but couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and went out to the vending machines and got an orange drink, and later a Coke. Then I got some cigarettes and newspapers, like I really wanted to catch up on the fucking sports. I thought about calling the police. But the more I thought about it, less I liked it. Fat Boy and Cobra Man had me by the balls, and I didn’t even know who they were or how to explain what me and the Disaster Club were doing at the Doc’s house.

While I sat and smoked and thought, another truth came to me. Something I always knew deep down and wouldn’t accept.

Dave had planned to kill the Doc, his wife too. I’m convinced everyone knew the certainty of it, but me. It was like the night they took me out to the tracks and pulled the trick with the train. I was the patsy then, and they had plans for me again. This time, I was to have been the patsy to murder. They would have killed Doc and his wife and did me in and made it look like I came in to rob the place and got caught. Made it appear me and Doc killed one another. Me nailing him with the automatic Dave would leave in my hand, and Doc nailing me with… I don’t know, a fire poker maybe, supposedly right before he keeled over dead of a gunshot wound.

I began to feel that was the score all along, and the only reason I’d been brought into any of this in the first place. They’d laid out their plan for murder and a patsy before they ever met me. They may not have known who they were going to rob or kill, or who the patsy would be, but the plan got laid out and I got the patsy role and Doc drew the victim card. It was all so neat and well designed, just the way Dave would work it. Disaster Club business.

But it all backfired. They got killed and I got away, and then I got framed for their deaths. Something ironic in all that, I’m just not sure what.

Anyway, that’s about it, Uncle Hank. I haven’t been anywhere since then but here, and I haven’t slept or had anything on my stomach but that orange soda and that Coke, and I didn’t keep either of them down.

I think about what the Disaster Club planned for me, and I feel sick. Then I think about them in my house, all messed up like that, and I feel sicker. And finally, I think about how it looks like I did it all, and I feel sicker yet.

Christ, Uncle Hank. Help me out here. Tell me. What am I gonna do?

5

I sat there stunned for a moment, then picked up the photo album and opened it. I took a real hard look at the photos on the last page. They meant more to me than before. These were the people Bill had been telling me about. He had avoided revealing that bit of i Vn, dist pagenformation until he finished his story, to give added impact, and it worked.

I concentrated on the photos and picked out who was who from Bill’s descriptions.

The Doctor’s wife, on the left hand side of the page, wore a bikini that showed a lot of nice sun-browned skin. She was standing on the deck of a sail boat. Behind her, the sea glistened bright and blue. In the photo she might have been forty, but she wore it well, maybe a little too well. I guessed the Doc had helped her out some around the mouth and eyes, and had probably put some missiles in her titties.

It was a nice photograph and it hadn’t been taken with any snapshot camera. It was likely stolen from her own collection. The photo next to it was a Polaroid. It wasn’t as flattering. She was naked on a bed with her legs spread wider than was comfortable and her panties were around her right ankle. There were ropes fastened to her ankles and wrists, and the ropes ran out of sight of the camera. They were doubtlessly tied to the rails beneath the mattress. There was something bright stuffed in her mouth, and there was a tidy little bullet hole, looking as if it had been painted there, in the center of her forehead, and beneath her head was a blood stained pillow.

Beneath her photo, on the left, was a shot of a good looking young man—Dave, I presumed from Bill’s story—and beneath that, a photo of another nice looking young fella. Bob, of course. Neither looked happy.

On the right hand side were pictures that I surmised had been taken shortly thereafter of the same two. One was a down shot of Dave with has face against the floor, turned slightly to the side so that I could see his tongue hanging out and his teeth biting through it. His eyes bulged. His ass was pasty white, except for where blood was splashed on it from the knife in his rectum. He had a leg lifted, the sole of his bare foot pointing up. The other foot still wore a shoe.

The right hand side photo of Bob showed him with his genitals in his mouth, blood splashed beneath his nose like a red mustache.

The last four photographs, also taken with the Polaroid were: Left—a pale, dark-haired looker of a girl. Right—a dark-haired mess of a girl. Those two would be Carrie.

Beneath those: Left—an astonishing blond beauty alive and not happy. Right—same beauty, only dead, with an expression that indicated she knew it would end up this way, and so what?

I closed the book and sat and thought.

“Look,” I said, “first thing is you need to relax some. Take a shower.”

“A shower? That’s your advice? Take a fucking shower? We’re talking about murders here. Murders I’m pinned for, and you want me to take a shower. I don’t want a shower.”

“You stink.”

“I don’t care if I stink. A shower isn’t going to solve my problems, Uncle Hank.”

“No, but you got to perk up a little. Make it a hot one so it’ll relax your muscles. Run it hard against the back of your neck and your lower spine.”

“A shower. That’s great. Take a shower. Want me to wash my hair?”< [ myt a h/p>

“Why not? Doing it with bar soap won’t hurt you. While you’re doing that, I’ll get you a hamburger. You’re bound to be hungrier than you think. I get back we’ll talk some more.”

· · ·

I drove over to a Quickie-Mart and bought a large two-liter bottle of Coke, a razor and blades, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

By the time I came out of the store, the sky had lost its blueness and turned grey and cold as a tin roof. The air was nippier, and I could smell a hint of rain.

I drove through the drive-thru of a hamburger joint and ordered a large hamburger and fries. That just about depleted the money Beverly had allowed in my wallet.

I raced back to the motel and hammered on the door and Bill let me in. He was wearing a towel and had his wet hair pushed straight back. He looked a smidgen less tense.

I put the supplies on the table, and gave him the food. He sat on the bed and ate the hamburger while I went down to the ice machine and scraped what ice there was into the room bucket. I thought the ice looked suspicious in color, but not so much I didn’t figure on letting Bill use it. I went back with the bucket and filled a questionable looking glass with ice and poured him some Coke. By the time I did that, he was finished with the burger. He drank the Coke rapidly, and I filled his glass again.

“Listen now,” I said. “I’m going back to the house. I’ll come back later with some clothes, a little money, a few odds and ends. I’ll bring you some more food and some coffee.”

“Any ideas yet, Uncle Hank?”

“My instinct is to tell the police, tell them what you’ve told me. I don’t care how you feel the frame looks. You tell it the way you told me, and no matter how the evidence is presented, I think you got a better than average chance. I’ll see you get a good lawyer. I’ll do everything I can.”

“I don’t know, Uncle Hank. It looks bad. I start talking about a fat man and a stinky guy with a cobra painted on his head killing the Doc and the Disaster Club, who’s gonna buy that? I mean, that sounds like some comic book shit. Know what I’m saying?”

“Well, I’ve thought about it from that angle too. I swing from one feeling to another, but I figure whatever I decide it’ll come down to you going to the police. So, you can get ready for that. But before we go, we got to get our game plan together. For now, I’m going to see if there’s anything on the news about this, anything in the papers tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be back after while. I’ll bring you some clothes. Mine’ll be big on you, but you can get by.”

“I appreciate it, Uncle Hank. Really.”

“Watch some TV. Jack off. Take another shower. Whatever, but relax. Sleep if you can. You didn’t kill anyone, Bill. You never had any intention of killing anyone. Your biggest crime is you’re a dumb asshole.”

“Beverly’s going to [’atch some love this,” Bill said.

“I might not tell her everything right off. We’ll ease into this one.”

I got the photo album off the table. “I’m going to take this with me. You don’t need to look at it anymore.”

I started for the door, paused. “I don’t know if I’m being melodramatic or what, but you lock this door behind me. And don’t go anywhere.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Bill said. Then: “Uncle Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I love you. I’m not just saying it. I’m not trying to con you or nothing.”

“I love you too, you moronic little shit. Now shut up and lock up.”

“Sure.”

“Uncle Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you get me some cigarettes?”

6

I started out with home in mind, but didn’t keep thinking that way. It was like I didn’t know what I was doing, least not on a conscious level. I begin to feel the way Bill said he had felt. Driven. Not really wanting to do what I was doing, but doing it anyway.

The direction I took wasn’t even near home. I live east and I went west, right on out of Imperial City, out into the country.

The trees thickened and the roads narrowed. It had started to drizzle and the wind had picked up. Oak and maple and sweetgum leaves blew across my path so thick it was like a colorful snow storm. The wet ones stuck to my windshield, and I turned on my wipers to bat them away, but that only bunched them up.

I drove until I came to the blacktop I had been looking for all along, went down it until it broke into an unpaved road that wound its way into the depths of the east Texas woods.

I cruised along for a short ways until the trees grew thick enough to drape over the road and wind their limbs together. I went along that way for a while, then pulled over to the side of the road underneath a massive oak. I sat for a moment with my hands on the wheel, letting the lint inside my head spin around, then I looked at the photo album lying on the seat beside me and felt a chill jump up my spine and spread to the base of my skull.

I got out of the truck and didn’t slam the door. I walked around front and got hold of the leaves bunched on the windshield and removed them, even as more swirled out of the woods and twisted over the truck and planted themselves on the glass.

I pulled my collar up against the wind and drizzle and leaned on the bumper of the truck. About a hundred yards in front of me the trees were less thick and there was a partial clearing. In the center of the clearing was an ugly double-wide mobile home with a shiny aluminum skirt that went all the way aroun ^’atal cd the bottom, except for a large gap beside and underneath a set of black iron steps that led up to the front door. Jutting out of the opening at an angle to the steps was the rusty handle of a lawn mower.

Arnold’s place.

The home had once been brown, but was now grey with weathering and age and the little flagstone walk out front of it had dried weeds sticking up on either side of the stones. Underneath a carport/shed that had been built against the home was a dirty white Dodge pickup and a hooded barbecue grill that looked well used.

Hung by string, dangling like fruit from the branches of a barren iron wood tree at the edge of the car shed, was a batch of beer bottles. When the wind blew and went into the bottles, they gave out with a shake and a sound like haints moaning.

I had seen trees fixed up like that before. Mostly in the yards of old black people. Someone had told me the story behind the bottles when I was a kid, but now I couldn’t quite remember what it was all about. Something to do with spirits. I certainly hadn’t a clue why Arnold had fixed his tree up that way. That seemed out of place for him.

Beyond the double-wide, I could see the woods. It was very thick near Arnold’s place, because that’s where the creek ran through. I figured, come summer, the mosquitoes would rise off the water and muddy banks in a mass so thick and black they’d look like a fishing net being lifted, about to be dropped over the property.

Behind, and to the left of the trailer, at an angle from the woods, was a couple of acres of junk cars and car parts.

Way out back was a large, old-fashioned red barn that looked newer and cozier than the mobile home. That would be where Arnold’s wrecker lived.

I wondered what Arnold was doing inside his double-wide. Most likely sitting around in his underwear drinking beer, watching the wrestling matches, maybe racing the dial with his channel changer, scratching his belly, listening to the wind blowing through his bottle tree.

Or maybe he was having an early supper. Eating beanie-weenies out of a can. Spearing the weenies with his pocket knife, sucking the beans and juice straight from the container, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm as he watched thumb-sized roaches run out and around an oily-bottomed, brown paper sack at which he tossed his garbage.

I was taken aback by these thoughts. If that’s how I thought of him, then why had I driven out here to spy through the trees on Arnold’s trailer and suddenly wonder what he was doing after not speaking to him for ten years and not having the urge to?

When I was a kid, Arnold had been my hero, and I grew to love him the way a younger brother should love an older brother. He came around to our house some, but my mother was never relaxed with him. She tried to treat him right because of my father, but you could tell she wasn’t comfortable with the idea. My father didn’t know what to do about it. He loved Arnold, I know, but his firstborn was from a time when Dad had been a boy himself; hadn’t had the experience then that he had with his new family. I think seeing Arnold made Dad feel like a failure. When they talked to each other, it was around things, and Dad always had a kind of desperate look about him when Arnold was about, as if there was something he wanted to say, but c togs, the language in which it needed to be said was unknown to him.

One night, when I was twelve, a noise in the kitchen woke me up, and I got up and found Dad in there breaking up some cornbread in a half glass of milk, eating it with a spoon.

I got a glass, went over and sat down by him and took cornbread from the pan and broke it into my glass and chunked it up with the spoon and poured milk on it. He put a big arm around me while I sat there and ate the cornbread and drank the crumbed milk, and I saw then that he had a bunch of old school pictures of Arnold spread out on the table and was looking at them. I didn’t know where he got them or kept them, but they were well-creased and a little greasy.

I didn’t say anything to him, but all of a sudden, he said: “I keep thinking I’ll learn to do something right. You think you live long enough, you ought to learn something right. You have a kid, you got this pure little thing, and a chance to do everything right by it, and every day you just screw things up ’cause you don’t know nothing worth a damn in the first place. You end up teaching this pure little thing everything you don’t know, and nothin’ you do know, ’cause you don’t really know nothin’. You’re just putting dirt on a snowflake, and the harder you try to clean it up, dirtier it gets. Goddamn, Baby-man, I hope I ain’t making you and Rick so dirty.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and it worried me some because he had milk on his breath and not beer. Beer might make you talk like that, but milk and cornbread? It was as if he were speaking Greek. He had tears in his eyes, and I’d never seen that before. I didn’t know he could cry. I thought he was stone and wisdom rolled into one, and that night I knew he was neither. He was human as the next person, and I loved him all the more for it.

What he meant that night came to me later, of course, when I had kids of my own and saw that they were snowflakes that I was handling with dirty hands.

All I knew was what he said had something to do with me and Arnold, and mostly Arnold, but I didn’t know what that something was, except there was some kind of regret buried in his words.

When I was twelve, Arnold looked and seemed pretty neat with his greasy ducktails, tight pants, souped up Chevy pickup with the flame licks on the side, and he had money from little jobs he did here and there, and now and then he came over and had dinner with us, and afterwards he’d treat my little brother like a kid and me like a man. Me and Arnold would go out back of the house and throw knives in the dirt and he’d tell me about the girls he was seeing, and then he’d wink at me, just like I knew what he was winking about.

One time he gave me a pocket knife with a yellow handle that he’d burned my name into with a woodburning set, I kept that knife until the night my life got a thorn in it.

When I turned fourteen Arnold started coming around more, and Mama didn’t like it period. She saw what she called “a hole” in Arnold, and thought maybe she could hear the beat of leathery wings when he was around. She said to me, “You hang around with Arnold, you’re gonna catch something bad, and I don’t mean a cold.”

I listened like most kids listen. Not at all. One fall night, a few days short of Halloween, I went out with Arnold in his truck when I was supposed to cs sten have gone to the skating rink. He had some homemade hooch, and he gave me some in a paper cup. I got tight quick, because I’d never had any, and while we were sitting in his truck drinking the stuff, he said, “Let me show you something,” and he reached under his seat and pulled out a .38 revolver, said, “You know, we’re about out of liquor, and I ain’t got no money. But if we went over to ole Ben’s liquor store and I stuck this in his face, I bet we could get both from him.”

I remember thinking that idea was the funniest thing in the world, because I didn’t think he meant it. I was drunk and didn’t know it.

We drank some more and Arnold talked some more and smiled some more, and pretty soon we were on our way over to Ben’s liquor store, positioned just over the county line where drink was legal. I thought we were just playing a game. I figured Arnold had lied about not having any money.

Arnold had worked at Ben’s one summer stacking liquor crates, and he knew just where to go. There was a little road went off in the woods and came out at the back of Ben’s place. You could park out there behind some trees and walk up the back circle drive. Near the door was a key in a wide-mouthed pipe stuck down in the ground with a rock over it.

We parked in the trees and sat and waited for a while, looking at the dark store, because it had been closed an hour by the time we got there. Finally Arnold said, “He don’t go home for a while after he closes. Has some things he does after the stock boys leave. He counts his money and takes it home with him. He makes pretty good money.”

I still thought he was kidding, but he kept drinking until all there was to drink was gone, and I said, “You’re just funnin’. Take me home, Arnold. I’ve got nothing against Ben. You used to work for him. You don’t want to do nothing to him.”

“He skimmed on my hours some. I reckon I got a hundred, maybe hundred-and-fifty dollars coming. I could take a hundred-and-twenty-five and call it even.”

“He’ll know you,” he said.

“Not if we tie these shop rags over our faces, way they do in cowboy movies.”

We got out of the truck, and Arnold tied a rag around my face and another around his. We got the key from the pipe, and Arnold unlocked the door, quiet like. We slid inside, moved through the stock room, pushed open the swinging door that went into the store itself. There at the counter, sitting on a stool, bent over the register, a little gooseneck lamp beside him, was Ben, scrawny and birdlike with a nose the size of a hammer handle. He was rolling pennies into paper rollers. When he heard us come in, he looked up.

Arnold pointed the gun, said, “Give it up.”

Ben looked at Arnold and said, “Arnold Small. I know you. That mask don’t do you no good. You don’t want to do this. You go on now, I’ll forget this.”

Arnold jerked his mask down and said, “You owe me money. You owe me money.” Then Arnold said to me: “Git what’s in the register, up to a hundred-and-twenty-five.”

I moved toward the register as if in a dream. Arnold went around front of the counter, pointed the gun at Ben. Then the old man moved. He pushed ced.ist me back with one hand and with the other pulled a pistol from under the counter, thumbed back the hammer, pointed it at Arnold. I grabbed a bottle of whisky off the shelf and brought it down hard on his gun arm. The gun went down and hit the register drawer, went off. Bills flew up like butterflies.

I swung the bottle again, hit Ben solid across the forehead. The bottle broke this time, and down he went, unconscious, me standing there looking at whisky and blood flowing over his head and onto the floor.

Arnold got hold of me, grabbed a roll of pennies from the counter, and we were out of there, in the pickup, roaring away before Arnold realized he’d left his pistol on the counter, like an offering.

Arnold took me to the skating rink and parked out back. From where we sat we could see the skaters in the open rink, and the lights flashing out from the spinning bulbs didn’t seem like lights at all, but strips of brightly colored foil, and the skaters were musicbox figures, wound up tight, going round and round to a grating noise that was supposed to be music. The shrieks and laughter of the skaters mocked us.

Arnold said, “Git out, squirt. Don’t say you been with me. You came here to skate, but stayed out here and watched before going in. Let some people see you. Ben didn’t know you. Your face was covered.”

I untied the shop rag, which was pulled down around my neck, and tried to fold it, but my fingers wouldn’t do the job. Arnold snatched the rag from me, reached across and opened the door. I got out of the truck, and Arnold drove off slow and easy. Gradually, the world slowed down. The music in the skating rink became defined, the lights flashed as lights are supposed to flash, and the shrieks and laughter from the rink no longer seemed directed at me.

It was all over.

Mostly.

Arnold took the rap. The old man recovered with nothing more than a scar, and he couldn’t name Arnold’s accomplice, and Arnold wouldn’t name me. The judge liked the way Arnold had thrown the football in high school, liked the way he had run with the ball on his powerful legs, and he liked Arnold’s loyalty to his unnamed partner. The gun Arnold left on the counter turned out not to have been loaded, and the roll of pennies was worth fifty cents, not exactly big money. Arnold got six months on the county farm instead of a few years in prison.

I went my way, free and easy, and when I saw old Ben on the street from then on, I crossed away from him to keep us from passing, least he recognize the eyes that had looked at him over the top of a shop rag mask. I was secretly glad when he passed on some years later, attacked by another robber, but this time one with a loaded gun and a more severe design.

When Arnold’s time was up, I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t thank him for being silent, because I had come to believe that was exactly as it should have been. That he owed me because I wouldn’t have been in on the deal had he not taken advantage of my age, got me drunk and drove me over there. I came to believe I was better than Arnold. That I always had been, and had only been slumming. I put the knife he gave me in a Prince Albert tobacco can and buried it out back of our house and dismissed him from my life.

I have felt that way since, except on dark nights when it’s three a.m., an chren a d I view myself in a different light. A light that shows me to be less than the man I pretend to be. A man who has never quite taken responsibility for his own actions.

If the thing with Arnold was bad, there was another whammy to come. My father began to sleep less, drink and brood and argue with my mother. But Dad’s guilt and dissatisfaction didn’t last long. One afternoon on his way home from work at a construction site, he stopped off for a beer in his favorite bar on the other side of the county line. While he was having his beer, a drunk pulled a gun on the bartender for some reason, and my Dad lost his temper because the bartender was a friend of his.

He jumped the drunk and took the gun away from him and beat him to the ground with it. He threw the gun behind the bar and the bartender poured Dad one on the house and Dad drank it. The drunk dozed on the floor while the bartender called the cops. The drunk’s girlfriend, who had been sitting calmly in a booth watching the action, took a .22 pistol out of her purse and popped it at my father.

The shot caught Dad in the right eye and it was all over. She got a year because she was pretty, the drunk got six months because he was the sheriff’s cousin.

After all these times of driving out, just parking and looking at the mobile home, was this going to be the time I actually walked up to his door and knocked?

What was I going to say? Hey, Arnold, how’s the old hammer hanging? Haven’t seen you in ten years, and haven’t ever invited you over or called you or even sent you a Christmas card, and the knife you gave me those years ago I buried in a tin can along with you being my brother, and I know I owe you a debt I can never pay and I resent it, but our stupid nephew has his balls tacked to a board, and since it’s something illegal and dangerous, I thought of you immediately.

He’d probably have punched my lights out, and I wouldn’t have blamed him.

A big yellow dog came out from under the mobile home, squeezed past the lawn mower handle and looked in my direction and barked. I got in the pickup and pulled around in a tight half-circle, backed some, straightened the truck on the road, and started away from there.

As I went, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Through a parting in the trees, I saw the door of the trailer open and a huge, bearded man step out, then I was going around a curve and couldn’t see him anymore.

7

Before I reached home the sky grew death black and the rain slammed the truck and the wind rocked it. I drove along carefully through town and passed the city limits sign and made the subdivision called Black Oak just as the sky went strangely absent of rain and there was a split in the clouds, and the dying sun dripped off the pines and oaks and trickled over the ground as if being absorbed.

Black Oak isn’t really much of a subdivision. It’s practically in the country, and everyone out here owns anywhere from one to three acres. The residents are mostly quiet and like to pretend they’re in the suburbs, which is damn funny. A creek runs alongside our house, and behind us is a thick woods where curious deer stick their heads out now and then and cranes wade in the creek and spear minnows with their long, sharp bills.

I nosed the truck up our long drive to the garage, pressed the garage door opener, drove inside and closed up. I sat in the truck and felt warm and comfortable for a while, but the feeling passed.

I plucked the photo album off the seat of the truck and held it in my hand, but didn’t open it. I got the coat off the floorboard and wrapped it around the album and put the coat and what it contained on the floorboard on top of my guns.

I didn’t want to walk in the house with the album and have to answer questions. Not yet anyway. I knew I’d eventually tell Beverly, but not until I thought some things through and figured what to do.

When I came in the back way, Wylie met me at the door with his squeaking yellow porcupine toy. He poked it into my balls and jumped on me. I kneed him in the chest like you’re supposed to do to break a dog of the habit. He yipped in pain and dropped the porcupine and picked it up again. This time he just poked me in the balls with it and didn’t jump up on me. I patted him on the head, took it out of his mouth and prepared to toss it for him to catch, just as Beverly came in from the living room.

“I was about ready to send out the National Guard,” she said.

“We got to talking,” I said.

Wylie could see where this was leading. No porcupine tossing. I had my hand down by my side with his porcupine in it, and he mouthed it out of my fingers and left the room, looking for someone more sympathetic to a dog’s needs.

“I didn’t even know where to call or look for you,” Beverly said. “Billy moves so much I can’t keep up with him. He still in that place over on Rose?”

“No.”

“See what I mean? You should have called, you were going to be this long. I wanted us to go out to eat.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Have you eaten?”

“No, but JoAnn has. She was hungry.”

“Well, let’s go out anyway. JoAnn never likes anything except McDonald’s, and I’d rather have my dick cut off than eat there.”

“Shhhh, the kids will hear.”

“They in the living room?”

“Upstairs watching cartoons.”

“Then they won’t hear… Don’t they watch too much TV?”

“It’s Saturday. They always watch too much TV on Saturday.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m all turned around. I thought it was a school night.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been drinking. You’re acting more like an idiot than usual.”

“Well, we going out to eat, or what?”

“The weather—”

“It cleared off about the time I drove up.”

“I guess we could… You stay away that long again, weather’s like that, give me a call, okay?”

“I’m sorry, honey.” I held out my arms and she came to me and we kissed lightly and I ran my hands over her ass.

“Keep that up, Buster, and I’m going to do you the way we have to do Wylie, only I won’t knee you in the chest.”

“Promise?”

She pushed away from me with a smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Ah, come on. You know you married me because I’ve got a big dick.”

“You’re a legend in your own mind, sweetheart.”

“That hurts.”

“Good. I’m going to brush my teeth. You call the kids down and get them ready.”

“Oh, great. How about I go brush my teeth and you call them down and get them ready?”

“Uh-uh. I’ve been with the sweet little shits all afternoon. It’s your turn to have fun playing Leave It To Beaver.”

“But I’m scared of them.”

“Me too.”

She left the room and I poured myself a glass of ice tea. I leaned against the fridge and drank it. Everything seemed back to normal, I was home in my warm house with my kids upstairs gluttoning out on a video tape and Bev and I had talked ourselves into going out to eat, which suited me just fine. Beverly hated to cook, and you could tell it from her cooking which tasted as if it had been purposely mistreated and made to taste memorable, if not enjoyable. That’s why I did a lot of the cooking when I wasn’t working. I had a strong sense of survival.

I finished the tea and called the kids down, and they never knew I’d been gone. My nine-year-old, Sammy, came down the stairs his usual way. Sideways, both hands on the rail, hopping with both feet from step to step so hard his dark blond hair bounced as he came.

“Cut that out, would you?” I said. “You’re shaking the whole house.”

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t stop. He finished off the stairs that way. JoAnn came down a few moments later, taking the steps the way you were supposed to, but talking as she came. “Daddy, Sammy called me a turd and he hit me too.”

“Well, don’t do that, Sammy,” I said. “Listen up, kids. We’re going to go out to eat. I want you two to go brush your teeth… No. I want Sammy to go brush his teeth, and JoAnn, you go to your room and we’ll lay you out some clothes.”

We went into her room, dodging stuffed toys and kicking mounds of scissored paper scraps aside. I picked out a dress for her. She said, “Daddy, I don’t want a dress.”

“When I pick out pants you want a dress,” I said.

She shook her long, red hair. “Please, Daddy?”

“All right.” kAlllon

We picked out a shirt with a dog on it and some jeans.

I left her to dress, told her I’d be back to help her put on her socks, then I went to check on Sammy in the bathroom. I made him quit playing with his toothbrush and finally got him to get down to what he was supposed to do, and when that was done, we went to his room and waded through toys and books and got him some clean jeans and a flannel shirt out of the closet.

“Wear your slip-on tennis shoes,” I said, digging a pair of socks out of his sock drawer.

“I don’t know where they are, “ he said.

“Well, look for them.”

“I can’t find them.”

“You haven’t looked. Get down and look under the bed.”

“They’re not under there.”

“How do you know? You haven’t looked.”

The phone rang.

“You look while I answer that,” I said.

I caught the phone on the third ring. “Hello.”

“Uncle Hank. I’m scared.”

“Hey, I just left you.”

“It seems like a long while, and I just got this feeling things are going to get worse.”

“Take it easy,” I said. I looked up the stairs to see if Beverly were coming down.

The coast was still clear.

I pulled the phone antenna all the way out and went into the kitchen.

“You’re safe right now,” I said. “I’ll come up with something, I promise. I’m going to take Bev and the kids out to eat, then break it to her I got to go back and see you. When she’s hungry, she’s not in a good mood. Try to talk to her then, it’s like talking to a bear. I’ll probably have to sit through the movie we rented too.”

“Christ! Why don’t you just make it a double feature?”

“Lighten up a little. I want to have all my ducks in a row before I burden her with this. I’ll be over soon enough.”

“All right. Whatever.”

“You’re okay. Trust me. The worst is over.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Now, I got to go help Sammy find his shoes.”

“Uncle Hank…? Don’t forget the cigarettes, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

I went back and found Sammy’s shoes. They were lying in plain sight. I left him putting them on and went to hurry JoAnn along. She had the dress on, of course.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you different. Kids are wonderful, but they’re contrary as hell by nature.

Dogs are only a little better.

I hooked Wylie on his leash and took him out to do his business. By the time he was through and we were back inside, Beverly was ready. She came downstairs, her hair brushed into a thick, red brillo mane, and said, “Let’s go.”

8

We went to a hamburger joint where the kids got junk toys in a cardboard box along with a lame hamburger that could be distinguished in taste and texture from the box only by a taint of mustard and hint of grease. The french fries were so well cooked they were more like eating potato sticks. The soft drinks were mostly ice.

Damnedest thing was, we’d be back next week.

Bev asked me what the score was with Bill. I didn’t lie, I just sort of avoided the truth.

“Bill doesn’t want money this time?” Beverly asked. “What’s wrong? He sick?”

“He could use a little money,” I said. “Fifty dollars or so… Sammy, would you watch what you’re doing? You’re getting ketchup on my sleeve.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Sammy said. He went right back to squirting ketchup haphazardly out of the little package that came with the meal.

“Fifty dollars!” Beverly said. “That’s it? I thought maybe he had an armadillo farm he wanted you to invest in. Or perhaps a bee ranch.”

“Not this time. He just got himself in a jam.”

“What kind of jam?”

“Well… Sammy, you’ve got it on my sleeve, son. Would you move over a bit?”

“Sorry, Daddy… What you looking at?”

“What?” I said.

“Not you, Daddy. JoAnn. She’s looking at me. She goes like this.”

Sammy showed me how she went. It was a pretty ugly face.

“I did not,” said JoAnn. “He kicked me under the table.”

“Oh, for Christsake,” I said. “Would you two quit?”

“You and your sister have to stop this,” Beverly said. “Every time we go out, we go through this. It’s silly. You’re old enough to know better. It’s embarrassing. I want you to stop this minute.”

They didn’t, but for once I was glad. The subject of Bill’s jam didn’t come up again.

We finished and drove home, listening to the kids fight in the back of the van. By the time we got to the house, they had broken the toys from the hamburger joint, and as usual, left them on the floorboard along with past disasters.

I shuffled around the house nervously while Beverly read the news n ugly facpaper and the kids watched a cartoon show. When they finished that, the plan was we were going to watch the movie we’d rented.

I leashed Wylie and took him out the back so I could stop off on the back porch and get a pair of old paint-stained pants, some torn boxer shorts, and a flannel shirt out of the Goodwill box, and carry them out to my truck.

After Wylie did his business, I went upstairs, got a couple of shampoo samples Beverly had saved from motels, some shaving cream and stuff, and put them in my coat pocket.

I went downstairs. When I passed Beverly in the living room, I said, “I’m going to go out and clean up after Wylie. He left a big calling card.”

She slowly looked over the top of her paper. She wasn’t somebody who got much wool pulled over her eyes. “Thanks for sharing that,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “It was a real big one.”

She put the paper in her lap. “How big was it, Hank?”

“It was just big. You know? Big.”

Beverly stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. Poker wasn’t my game.

“That’s interesting,” she said. “Maybe we can compare this one to future shits. There might be a world record at stake.”

“I didn’t mean to stir you up,” I said.

“I’m not stirred up. Not yet, anyway. Just go clean it up, would you?”

I went out back and got the stuff out of my pockets and put it in the truck under my Dad’s old coat, got the poop shovel out of the garage, and cleaned up after Wylie.

So far, so good.

Clothes gathered.

Toilet goods gathered.

Dog crap cleaned up.

I went inside just as Beverly was carefully folding up her newspaper to go into the recycling bag.

“You too full for popcorn?” Beverly asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “but pop some anyway.”

She did. We took the corn and drinks upstairs and watched the movie. Between video pauses long enough to yell at the kids to stop fighting, talking, and picking at one another, it took about two-and-a-half hours for us to see a ninety-eight minute movie.

That was about standard.

I don’t remember what the movie was about. I was too nervous thinking about Bill, trying to figure what the hell the right moves were in a situation like this, and knowing damn good and well that no matter how long I thought about it, no perfectly correct answer was going to jump out at me.

When the kids went downstairs to have their bedtime snacks, I kept Bev upstairs a moment. I said, “Honey. That fifty dollars. I didn’t have it on me, and I told Bill I’d go back over there a s ovtaind give it to him tonight. He wants a little advice about some things too.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. I promised.”

“Can’t you call him and tell him you’ll do it tomorrow? I wanted to get in bed early. You got to get up and go to your mother’s tomorrow. You could drop it off then.”

“He really needs it before then,” I said.

“What could he do with it tonight?”

“It would make him feel better to have it. I understand how he feels. I’m like that myself. I got something on my mind, I want it solved as soon as possible.”

“What happened to the twenty you had?”

“I gave it to him, but he needs fifty beyond that.”

“Now the fifty is actually seventy.” She eyeballed me for a long suspicious moment, said, “But, I guess it’s cheaper than an emu farm.”

She got her purse from the bedroom and gave me fifty out of it, like it was an allowance. “I know you earned this money,” she said, “but I figure I earned it from you by dealing with our heathen kids while you went off to bring home the bacon.”

“No question,” I said. “In fact, you deserve a raise.”

“And since I earned mine the hard way,” she said. “I’d like to think this isn’t being spent foolishly.”

“Only a little foolishly,” I said. “He’s going to use it to eat with.”

“Well, I hate to think I’m helping keep him alive,” she said.

Any other time I would have thought of that as a joke, but this time it struck me hard, and I guess it showed on my face.

“Honey,” Beverly said, “is there more going on here than you’re telling me?”

“Some. Yeah. But I’ll explain later, okay? I got to think some things through, and I really need to get on over there.”

“He ought to start doing some of his own thinking… Never mind. Neither of you ever change. He’s always in need, and you’re always going to be there.”

“That’s why you love me though, right?”

“No, actually it bothers the hell out of me. But what’s the use, huh? Go on… and honey, don’t stay late.” She smiled. “I’m a little itchy, you know?”

I tried to keep things light. “I’m feeling a little itchy myself,” I said.

“When aren’t you?”

“Actually I can’t seem to recall. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll do some major scratching.”

“Not after midnight we won’t,” she said. “You want to get scratched, you got to be back here before Cinderella goes to sleep. Actually, sp. idth="1emI’m more like the coach in the story. After midnight, I turn into a pumpkin.”

“But a pretty pumpkin,” I said.

“Goddamn gorgeous,” she said.

I drove over to where Bill lived. Red Vine Street. It was as dark as Bill had said. The street light I passed appeared to be greased over. I didn’t know which house was his, but I remembered he said it had oaks in the yard.

I drove slowly down the street and noted all the houses had oaks in their yards. But only one had an orange ribbon across the front porch with, CRIME SCENE/DO NOT CROSS, written on it in bright, white letters. And only one had a carport with Bill’s car in it, and another car, a sporty model I didn’t recognize, parked behind it.

Bill told me he left his car at Dave’s, that he walked home, and when he got here the carport was empty, except for shadows. If that were the case, what were these cars doing here now? They were considerably more substantial than shadows.

I killed my headlights and drove on by the house with just my parking beams on. I turned around at the end of the street and came back up. I pulled over opposite Bill’s house and parked. I got my Dad’s revolver and put it in my coat pocket and got my flashlight and climbed out of the truck quietly and crossed the street and walked along the edge of Bill’s yard. I went around back of Bill’s house, onto the back porch.

There was an orange ribbon stretched across the back screen door. I stood there staring at it, listening. I didn’t hear anything that made me nervous.

I used the flashlight to break loose one end of the crime scene ribbon and let it drop. I slipped the flashlight into my coat pocket, crooked my finger through the hole in the screen, lifted the latch, and elbowed the screen open. I put my hand in my coat pocket and grabbed the back door knob with the coat and pushed up on the knob and leaned into it.

I heard the latch pop, and the sound was as loud as a firecracker. I stood for a moment wondering if anyone was going to rush out of their house and see what the sound was about, but nothing happened.

I twisted the knob, and the door came open. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and brought my Dad’s revolver out with it. I slipped inside and got the flashlight with my free hand and turned it on. Nobody moved in the light. I put the gun back in my coat and left my hand there and used the coat to pull the door shut behind me. Then I brought my hand out with the gun in it again.

I played the light around the room. I crossed the room, into the hall. I shone the light on the floor next to the front door. There was a dark stain there. I knelt and touched the floor with the side of my hand. It was also sticky. That would be the blood Bill had described. It smelled rank and rusty.

I looked into the kitchen. There was a white taped outline on the floor where Dave’s body had lain.

I turned around and went back through the living room and over to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I gave it a light kick with the toe of my boot, went inside, probing the darkness with the flashlight.

The bed had been stripped of its covers an sits0em">

I flashed on the chinning bar. There was white tape on the wall and there was writing on the tape. I didn’t go over and look at it. I flashed the light behind the door and saw the tape outline of where Bob had been leaning against the wall, the outline of his butt and legs on the floor. It didn’t look as if I were going to have to shoot anybody, or be shot at, which pleased me considerably. I put the revolver in my coat pocket.

So far, except for his car in the carport and the sporty one parked behind it, Bill’s story checked out.

I turned off the flash and went out the back way and used my tricks to close the door and lock the screen. I didn’t put the ribbon back up. I didn’t think it would matter.

I drove away, feeling scared and confused.

9

I went to a Stop and Rob, as a friend of mine calls them, bought a carton of cigarettes, a lighter, a couple large styrofoam containers of coffee and some snack food, then went to the same hamburger joint as before, got another burger and fries and drove over to Sleepy Time Tourist Courts.

There were quite a few seedy looking characters hanging about the lot, and I patted the revolver in my coat pocket just to let it know I cared, got the stuff for Bill and went up to his room.

I knocked. The curtain inside the window to my right moved slightly and dropped. A moment later, the door opened. Bill, still dressed in his towel, let me in.

“I hope you brought some clothes,” he said. “I got the others soaking in the tub, and I don’t think that blood is going to come out.”

“I brought some,” I said. “Cigarettes and a lot of other junk too. Enough to get you through tonight and tomorrow. I’ve got some money here too, you need it. Whatever was left from a fifty I busted for this stuff.”

He took the clothes out of the bag and shook them. “Man, you actually wear plaid flannel shirts?”

“Just to bar mitzvahs.”

“Nobody’s gonna call you Mr. Fashion. Look at these pants, all covered in paint.”

“I didn’t bring this stuff so you could go on a date. You want, you can keep wearing that towel.”

“This’ll do. Once in a while, I like to have the common man look. Goddamn, these shorts have Santa Clauses on them.”

“Your grandma gave those to me. She thought they were just cute as a bug.”

“I bet they turn Beverly on.”

“The sex and compliments never stop. But, I’ll sacrifice and give them to you.”

I unpacked the rest of the stuff, went and got ice again at the ice machine. The ice didn’t look any better than before, and this time there was a slick, handsome, black guy and an attractive bu vGodda Tht pale-looking white woman with irritated nostrils standing by it.

They seemed pretty put out that I’d come for ice. The black guy was telling the white gal she wasn’t just another bitch to him. She looked about as interested in all this as the ice machine was. She snuffled all the time he talked.

I went back and gave Bill the ice and he sat on the bed and drank his soft drink and ate the burger. I camped in the chair by the table and opened one of the containers of coffee and sipped it.

I said, “After I talk to a lawyer I know, we go in Monday and turn you in. I think we should do it through him instead of going to the police first. If the cops have you pegged for this, they might get you to talk a way you wouldn’t normally talk. They might find some flaws in your story.”

“It happened just like I told you, Uncle Hank. There aren’t any flaws.”

“Well, there’s one or two.”

“What do you mean?”

“You went to your house after all this took place, and there weren’t any cars in the carport, right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Where is your car?”

“I told you. Dave’s.”

“All right. And Dave’s car was at the University parking lot?”

“Look, I don’t get what you’re saying…”

“Your car was in the carport when I drove by there earlier. There was another car there too. I don’t know what kind it was. I didn’t look that close. It looked like something foreign. Black and sporty. I guessed it would be Dave’s car.”

“That sounds right,” Bill said. “But how did it get there?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

“Maybe you had the wrong place?”

“I know your car, and the house is a crime scene setup. I went in the back way using the lift-and-push system you told me about on the door. The house is as you described it.”

“The bodies?”

“Gone. That would be normal. The cops had them taken to the morgue after they photographed the hell out of the place. Dusted for fingerprints. That kind of stuff.”

“Maybe the cops brought the cars there.”

“That’s what worries me. You saw when the cops came up, and your car and Dave’s weren’t there then. So why would they bring them there later? Maybe yours I can explain. They went over to the apartment complex and found it and just wanted to get it out of the lot. Figured it would be out of the way at your place. That’s stretching it some, since I actually think they’d haul it to the police compound, but it’s possible. But why would they bring Dave’s car there too?”

“I don’t know.”

{="0uld th

“Something about that hurts my head,” I said. “I thought at first the killers brought the cars there, so as to make it look like you drove there and Dave followed with the others, and you jumped them.”

“But if that was the plan, they were late,” Bill said.

“Exactly. The fuzz had already been there and done their thing, and this Fat Boy and his partner would know that, since they decided to set you up to get themselves off the hook. They had to be the ones called the cops. They were watching all along, just waiting for you to get there so they could fasten on the frame. Real tidy. So why would they do something stupid like bring the cars around later?”

“Why didn’t they just go ahead and kill me at the house, Uncle Hank?”

“I’ve thought about that too. It’s a nice frame they’ve got you in, all right, but you could tell your story, and fantastic as it is, seems to me it might worry the killers a bit.”

“Yeah,” Bill said. “I been sitting here thinking about that, and I been thinking something else that ought to worry Fat Boy and Cobra Man. How could I handle that whole bunch by myself? Kill Dave in the kitchen, get the other three in the bedroom, tie them up and do what I’m supposed to have done? I guess it’s possible, but it seems unlikely. Strikes me as there’s enough there for the cops to suspicion a frame.”

“Let’s add something else to all this,” I said. “Cops have got a fugitive on the run—meaning you—wouldn’t they post someone at your house for a time, waiting for you to come back?”

“I guess they would.”

“That didn’t occur to me when I went over there. I thought of it driving over here. Had I thought of it before, I wouldn’t have gone in, especially carrying a gun, which I was. I put it in my pocket in case Fat Boy or Cobra Man were there, not that I really expected them to be, but I’m getting scared enough with all this to consider the possibility. But if there had been cops, and they’d caught me with a gun, I’d be in on this frame tight as you.”

Bill dropped his towel and began putting on the clothes I had brought. He slipped into the Santa Claus boxer shorts, pulled on the pants and zipped them up. “I don’t know. More I think about all this, more off center everything is. Could it be the Imperial City police are just stupid?”

“It’s a consideration entertained by many,” I said, “but in this case, I don’t think they’re that stupid. And they’ve got a new Chief. Guy’s supposed to be a real go getter, had plenty of experience. He’s solved all kinds of old cases here in the short time he’s been Chief. But a deal like that, taking the cars over after the fact, letting a fugitive know someone has been there, not posting a guard, it doesn’t show much judgment… You sure you’ve told me everything?”

“Swear to God, Uncle Hank, I’m telling this straight as an arrow.”

“All right. I’ll get the number here, call you tomorrow night. Just to check on you. Let’s see, it’s Jack Frame you’re listed under. Right?”

“Yeah. Jack Frame.”

“Monday morning, I’ll call the lawyer, set things up, then I’ll come get you. I think doing it through the lawyer is the safest way.”

Bill buttoned up the shirt and sat down on the bed and looked thoughtful. “Uncle Hank, am I getting this right? Are you saying you don’t trust the police?”

“I’m not sure what I’m saying,” I said.

Time I started home, I felt even more confused than before. I didn’t trust anybody. I began to get the feeling the entire dirty little universe was unraveling; that I’d open the door and step outside just in time to see the gnomes packing away the last of the props: the city, the highway, the motel, and then they’d come for me. Fold me up neatly and press me flat and put me away in a tiny plastic container marked Hank Small, Asshole.

· · ·

When I got home the house was dark and a little cool, Bev having turned the thermostat down before going off to bed. I thought about that itch she’d had, and that she had been the one initiating the scratching. Not something she was loathe to do, but something she didn’t do enough to suit me, and now I was home with my itch still working and it was past midnight. Pumpkin time. I had pissed my loving out the window.

To worsen the situation, I now had a different kind of itch, one that was bone deep and impossible to scratch. An itch so bad it had turned my stomach sour and given me a headache.

I got out of my clothes and laid them on the chair in the dressing room, opened one of the dresser drawers silently, got a couple of antacids and some aspirin and took them. I drank some water from the bathroom tap, went back through the dressing room and to bed, lifting the covers gently and sliding as softly as possible onto the sheet.

“It’s after midnight,” Bev said, surprising me.

“I thought you were asleep,” I said.

“No,” she said, and rolled over and ran her hand over the front of my briefs. My soldier immediately sprang to attention. Bev made with a kind of purring sound, said, “I’ve got an itch, remember?”

“I thought after midnight the itch went away and you turned into a pumpkin?”

“No, I just turn into a pumpkin. I still itch. Ever fuck a vegetable, big boy?”

“You mean a pumpkin-type vegetable?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Let me see. I’m trying to remember. Watermelons. Tomatoes. Stuff like that. I don’t remember any pumpkins.”

“It’s quite an experience.”

Her hand went away from my briefs and she moved in the bed, and then her hand laid her panties over my face. I could smell the sweetness of her. I took them off my face and tossed them on the floor and rolled over and took her in my arms. She wasn’t wearing her nightgown. She slid tight against me and let her hand drift down again.

I moved my hand to her breasts, roamed {easft over them and gently squeezed her nipples with my thumb and finger. I kissed the top of her head and her curly hair foamed around my face. I moved my lips to the side of her face and along her neck where the softness of her skin mixed with the slight bite of her perfume. Finally I kissed her lips.

She took my hand and put it between her legs. She was warm and moist. I probed her with my finger, looking for the man in the boat. She kissed me harder and ran her tongue against mine. Sparks leaped through me; the ole battery nearly overcharged.

“Why don’t you taste the vegetable before you poke it,” she said. “I’ve got it all baked into a juicy pie.”

I was all out of snappy comebacks. It’s hard to talk with your heart in your throat. She rolled onto her back and lifted the covers. I slid under and let my tongue slide wetly between her breasts, on down, and over the slight mound of her belly, into her navel, where I did an artful swirl, then on down to a little trail of soft pubic hair.

Not long after she made a happy noise and made some talk about zucchini and I got a special thrill, then we both got scratched in the way we wanted to be scratched and we both got happy and the rain slammed down and the wind blew hard, and for a little while, I felt safe and happy and warm inside my woman. God bless the Great Pumpkin.

10

Next morning, while Bev slept, I got up quietly and dressed and discovered the gun was still in my coat pocket. I hadn’t dreamed it all last night. I really had gone over to Bill’s house and found a murder scene, and I really had been scared enough to carry a gun, and stupid enough to forget to put it back in its place.

I went downstairs and started the coffee and went outside into a cold morning and walked down to the end of our drive and got the local paper.

Imperial City has grown a lot in the last ten years, but it still has a small town mentality, and it still threw its Sunday paper late Saturday night, figuring it would contain news enough for both days.

I walked back to the house and went through the garage and put my revolver back in the pickup under my Dad’s coat, went inside the house and took the paper out of the clear plastic bag, and opened it up, looked to see if there was anything about the Doc’s wife or the bodies over on Red Vine Street or about Bill being a suspect.

If there was, I intended to misplace the newspaper until I could talk to Beverly. That’s when I planned to lay it all out for her. I felt like a swine for holding it back this long, but I just didn’t know how to tell her the nephew she thought was a horse’s ass, was, in fact, a bigger horse’s ass than she thought.

I examined the front page. If it wasn’t there, it most likely wasn’t anywhere else. Something like the murder of the doctor’s wife, the torture and murder over on Red Vine Street, would be big news for Imperial City.

Nothing.

I carefully scanned the rest of the paper, just in case.

Nothing.

I left the paper on the couch and checked the coffee. The glass ~eight="0 pot was starting to fill up. I went upstairs and leaned over the bed and kissed Beverly on the neck. She rolled over and the bed clothes came off and her bare breasts poked at me. I was happy to see them. I gave them a smile.

“Uh-uh,” Beverly said. “You had your ration last night. Right now I want breakfast.”

“No more itch?” I asked.

“No more itch.” She smiled. “Unless being hungry is an itch. I don’t eat, I get mean.”

This was true.

We went down and ate breakfast and I got a few dollars for gas and emergencies and made ready to drive over to Tyler to see my mother.

“Give her my best,” Beverly said. “We’d go, but I’d rather the kids slept late today. They’re driving me crazy, and the idea of being trapped in the van with them all the way over there isn’t all that appealing. We’ll go over with you next weekend. Tell Carolyn that, and give her our love.”

“I will,” I said. “Call the main stores, would you? Check and see if there are any problems. If there are, I’ll see if I can fix them when I get back. I’ll check on the out of town stores tomorrow.”

We kissed and I poured a large cup of coffee and started for Tyler.

When I got to my mother’s place a couple hours later, my mind wandered enough that she thought I was sick, the way mothers will do. I assured her I was not, took her out to lunch, had a pleasant visit, drove her home, gave her a little money, and started back.

This time, I didn’t try to fool myself into thinking I was going anywhere but Arnold’s, and I knew too, this time, I was going for the gold.

· · ·

As is common for East Texas, the day had gone through numerous weather changes. From a cold, somewhat misty morning, to a warmish midday, and now to a cool, but not uncomfortable afternoon.

The sky was clear and white clouds churned across it. There was a lazy wind and it moved the leaves and made the branches of the trees along the blacktop that led out to Arnold’s quiver.

I passed where I had parked last time, went on around the curve a bit, turned down the somewhat muddy drive, and on up into Arnold’s yard.

I parked near the flagstone walk, got out, and listened to the gentle whistle of the wind in the bottle tree, as I had come to think of it. While I was getting up my nerve to go to the door, the big, yellow dog came out from under the steps and leaped through the lawn mower handle and barked at me.

I’d forgotten about him.

I got in the truck and closed the door. The dog ran up and jumped against it and barked at me through the window. I honked the horn a few times and the dog barked more fiercely.

After a moment, the double-wide’s door opened and Arnold came out. He stood in the doorway staring at me. He was wearing a grey, long-john shirt with an open red and black plaid shirt pulled over i pu cht. He had on long-john bottoms and thick grey socks with faded red toe tips. His formerly red hair was shot with grey and so was his thick beard. He had grown even heavier than I remembered, but his gut looked hard as an iron wash pot and his love handles seemed solid as a truck tire. His chest was like a barrel, and his legs were thick and slightly bowed. He towered well over six feet. He looked like a Viking elder ought to look. He turned his head and spat a stream of dark tobacco on the ground.

I rolled down my window a couple inches, and the dog jumped up and barked and slung slobber through the crack above the glass and onto my shoulder.

I leaned close to the crack and yelled, “Arnold, it’s me, Hank.”

A dog snout full of teeth flashed by and made me jerk back. I watched through the windshield as Arnold stepped onto the steps and called back to me. “I know who the hell you are. I know that truck better’n you. You selling something?”

“No… Course not. Could you call the dog off?”

“You gonna want to come in?”

“If I could.”

He thought about that a moment, fingered his chew out of his cheek and flicked it onto the ground and yelled at his dog. “Butch! Git under the goddamn house!”

Butch didn’t get under the goddamn house. He proved to be no better behaved than my children. He kept barking and jumping and flicking slobber on my window.

“Goddamnit,” Arnold said, coming down to the bottom step. “Git on back here. Butch! Git on back!”

Butch quit rearing up on the truck and throwing saliva. He growled and barked a time or two, and finally got under the house. He didn’t do it happily. He stuck his head out of the opening and barked some more dog words at me and Arnold slammed the palm of his hand against the double-wide and yelled, “Git on!”

Butch went silent.

Arnold lifted a hand and waved me toward him. “Well, come on.”

I got out of the truck carefully and walked toward the house. Arnold said, “You look older.”

“You look older too.”

The wind picked up and the bottle trees hooted. I turned and looked at the tree, then back to Arnold.

“Don’t pay that no mind,” he said. “Come on in.”

Inside the trailer was a mixture of what I expected, and a lot of what I didn’t expect. It was fairly neat, with old furniture that hadn’t come with the joint, and there was a new TV on the far side of the living room wall. Against another section of wall hung a huge black velvet cloth painting of Elvis holding a microphone to his mouth. There was a tacky silver tear dripping out of one of his eyes. Next to Elvis was a cheap particleboard bookcase. It was full of paperback books. I could see a few of the titles, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Zen to Go, Zen and the Art of Archery, a fistful of Western and detective novels, most of which looked pretty old.

“I got some photographs of the place, you want ’em,” Arnold said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Just haven’t been here in a while.”

“Let’s see,” Arnold said. “You were here once before. About ten years ago, give or take a month or six. As I remember, last time you stopped by was a few days after Billy’s mother died. What the hell was her name, anyway?”

“Fran.”

“That sounds right. I had quite a bit of hooch that day, puked on one of our cousins. Let’s see. After the funeral I came back here and was moving a new chair inside when you came up. That right?”

“I don’t recall exactly.”

And I didn’t. I thought the funeral had been the last time I had seen him, but now it came back to me. I had totally blotted that event out, probably due to its awkwardness.

“Well,” Arnold said, “as I recall, you were here maybe thirty seconds. Told me you were sorry about Billy’s mom, and I said I was sorry about her too, though I didn’t know her from dick and you said, I got to go, and I believe that was about it.”

“You were pretty drunk, Arnold.”

“You did help me get the chair inside. Right inside the door, anyway. I pushed it from there. I don’t have that chair anymore. Some mice took up inside it and I had to burn it. I let the mice loose first. I’ll poison the little bastards, but I won’t burn them.”

“Arnold, I don’t know what to say.”

“What’s to say about mice?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Arnold went over and got behind the counter and sat on a bar stool. He put his big hands flat on the bar in front of him, and after a moment they crawled together. “Now you’re here, maybe it doesn’t mean a thing you’ve finally come around. I get this urge like I want to beat your ass, or hug you. I don’t know. I figure you’re here ’cause of something doesn’t have anything to do with me. I figure it has to do with you. You were always good for you.”

“That’s not true, Arnold.”

“In my case it’s true.”

“All right,” I said, “in your case it’s true. At least one time it was true.”

“That was one big time, little brother. Listen here. I’m going to do a little fishing. I was putting on some warm stuff when you came up. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m still gonna do a little fishing. I’ve planned it all week. Just an hour or two, but I’m gonna do it. I go back to work tomorrow wrecking out a car for parts a fella needs, and I want to feel like I did what I told myself I’d do. I’m trying to do more for myself these days. I read about that in some books.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“You want to talk about something, you can go wityoun="h me to the pond, go out in the boat, and we can sit and fish and talk. That’s unless you just come over for another thirty seconds, thinking I might need to move another chair.”

“I came to talk.”

“I warn you, you’re gonna talk to me about something, I got something I’m gonna talk to you about, and you know what, so get yourself ready, or go on out of here and come back in another ten years. I’m not trying to be a bad ass here, I’m just saying how it is. If I’m gonna open this can of worms for us to chew on, I want to be sure you’re ready to digest them.”

His voice was very calm, thoughtful, not the way I remembered him at all, when everything that came out of his mouth seemed to be announced with a trumpet.

“All right,” I said. “I owe you that, and maybe I’ve got some things to say about that, too.”

He got his coffee pot and the fixings and put coffee on. He got a couple bottles of nonalcoholic beer out of the fridge and gave one to me and twisted the cap off the other for himself.

“I don’t drink the real stuff much anymore,” he said, swigging. “I get fat enough, way I eat. I switched over to this, I started losing a few pounds. I quit getting in fights too.”

“I prefer this,” I said. “I never drink to get drunk, even when I do drink a beer. Fact is, since that night, I’ve never been drunk again.”

He didn’t say anything. I thought it was an opening he’d take. I lifted the bottle and drank so I could hide some of my face from him.

“Coffee’ll be finished time I get dressed,” he said. He set his bottle on the counter and went into the bedroom, and after a few minutes came back. He was wearing jeans over his love handles, and had on high rubber boots and a thick coat, like the one I had in my truck.

“By the way,” he said, “that Elvis thing behind you there. I got to let you know, I think that’s a piece of shit. Gal that was living with me put it up there and I never took it down.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“Couple of years,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “me too. I think she did for me what your mother did for Dad. Before I met her, I just thought I was a man. But I guess some of my learning came a little late.”

I didn’t know exactly what to say to that, so I changed the subject. “You use the cabin a lot?”

“Hardly go out there,” Arnold said. “Used to quite a bit. Not these days. I keep the electric paid up, but I’m not sure why… Before you come up with more small talk, come on and help me with my gear.”

Arnold got a thermos and an extra plastic cup and poured the coffee into the thermos, and we went out into the cold.

11

Arnold walked out back and I went to my truck. I took off my coat and youn=:pagebreaput on my Dad’s coat, joined up with him behind the double-wide.

I watched him gather his gear: a tackle box and a couple of stout rods off the carport, and a bucket of something out from under a tarp. A smell came from the bucket that made me think of highway kill.

Arnold gave me the bucket and a rod and reel to carry, and he got the rest of the stuff, and we started off walking toward the creek.

“What in the hell’s in this bucket?” I asked.

“Terminally spoiled chicken necks,” Arnold said.

“What for?”

“You forgot how to fish for channel cat?”

“Guess I have,” I said. “I don’t think I ever used any chicken necks.”

“I’m surprised,” he said, “that was Daddy’s way.”

“Me and him didn’t fish much,” I said. “When we did fish, we didn’t use chicken necks.”

“That might be because when you were growing up, he wasn’t working at the chicken processing plant where he could get ’em free.”

“I didn’t know he ever worked there,” I said.

“There’s lots of things you don’t know,” he said.

We crossed the junk yard, and I was amazed at all the cars.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” Arnold said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Pretty ugly.”

We came to the creek and worked our way carefully down the bank. Arnold stopped at the edge and watched the water run. It was clear and cold looking and not deep at all. You could see the sand and gravel beneath the water and minnows above that and hardy water bugs swimming about on the surface.

We strolled along the water’s edge, found a narrow place, jumped over, went up the bank on the other side and through the woods. We came to a clearing where the sun was bright and shiny on a pond the color of a dimming hazel eye, and it ricocheted off an aluminum boat turned over and pulled up in the weeds, made it flash bright as the little silver minnows we had seen earlier.

We turned the boat over and put our gear in it, got water sloshed in our shoes as we pushed it onto the pond and jumped inside. Arnold got a paddle out of the bottom of the boat and shoved us into deeper water. I took off my shoes and socks, poured water out of the shoes and wrung my socks out.

“Cozy yet?” Arnold said, as I slipped the socks and shoes back on. “Help me out here, would you?”

I got the other paddle and stuck it into the water and reached the bottom and pushed until there was no bottom to reach. The boat began to drift lazily, gave that strange feeling of being on top of the sky.

“Thing is, Arnold…” I started.

“Not yet,” he said. “Let me be doing something I lisom" wke to do before you talk to me about something that might make me mad. That’s how it’s going to be, isn’t it?”

“I’m not here to make you mad. I need a little advice.”

“Advice?” Arnold said. “That’s rich. Thought you had decided I was a dumb redneck you ought to keep out of your life, lest your wife and kids think I’m kin to them. Which I am, I want to remind you. Just by half, I admit, but kin. You know, I’ve never seen my niece and nephew. Not even a picture. I’ve never had the chance to say more than three words to your wife, who, by the way, is too damn good looking for you.”

He opened the bucket of chicken necks and got one out. The smell was almost enough to make me want to jump and swim for shore. He stuck the chicken neck on the big double crappie hooks and cast it toward a grouping of reeds and water plants. The chicken neck and the hook went in with a heavy splash and sought bottom.

Arnold stuck his hand in the water and sloshed it around, then pulled out a pack of chewing tobacco, took a wad from it and poked it into his cheek. He chewed a few times, looked at me, said, “Go on. Fix up.”

I got the spare rod and looked into the bucket, holding my breath as I did. I didn’t want to get hold of one of those necks. They were a little green looking.

“Damn,” Arnold said. He got one of the chicken necks and fixed it up for me. “Think you can handle the casting part?” he said, “Or you want me to do that too?”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“Don’t tangle my line,” he said.

I considered whopping him across the back of the head with the heavy rod, but I figured that wasn’t going to repair things between us.

I cocked the rod and flicked my wrist and let the reel spin. My line went way out, almost to the far side of the bank, into shallow water.

“Nothing there,” Arnold said.

“I know,” I said. “I just over cast.”

“Tell me about it.”

I reeled the line back until it was in deeper water, let it hang there. The boat drifted and the sun dipped and the air cooled and a cloud bagged the sun and turned the pond water dark.

“There’s people think fishing for cat is second best,” Arnold said. “Those people are full of shit. There’s people say the only place to catch a good cat is on the river, and they’re full of shit, too.”

“I’ve caught catfish before, Arnold.”

“But you don’t understand the spirit of catfishing, boy. You’re more of a bass man, or a trout man. That’s bullshit. The real stuff, the real essence of fishing is the cat.”

“These days, I’m more of a fish dinner at a restaurant.”

“Figures,” he said. “Thing is, catfishing is like Zen. It’s basic and clean and to the point. A catfish is like nature itself. It just is. It hasn’t got haes,any morals about itself, just blind persistence. It keeps on coming because it doesn’t know anything else and doesn’t understand what it does know.”

“So, you do read those Zen books?”

“Without moving my lips even once, grasshopper. Those Japs have some pretty good thinking going.”

“That’s quite a recommendation. Maybe you could get a job as ambassador to Japan.”

“Zen is good stuff. It calms me. Particularly when I’m in a special kind of mood, like seeing you, and suddenly being overcome with a nonconstructive urge to stomp your ass. Times like that, I like to find my center. Get out here on the water. We fought here, it would turn over the boat. I’d get wet and you’d get wet. I wouldn’t like that. What the fuck do you want?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Think it’ll come to you?”

“I want to say I’m sorry,” I said.

“Hey, I feel better. Here we are some thirty years after the fact, and except for ten years ago when I saw you at a funeral, and later when you came by to help me move a fucking chair, we haven’t spoken or had any contact… No, that’s not true. Let’s be fair. You’ve waved at me a couple times in town, I think.”

“That was someone else Arnold. I haven’t seen you in town.”

“Perfect. Pour us up some coffee, would you?”

I put the rod down, poured his into the thermos cup and mine into the spare cup. “I’m going to be blunt with you. I did what I did to you those years ago because I’m a jackass. I didn’t really admit to myself I was a jackass until just the other day. I knew it, but I hadn’t really admitted it. I was young when it happened, Arnold. My judgment wasn’t good… and I do think about you. I just didn’t think there was any use opening old wounds.”

“Boy, I feel better. Things are all right now.”

“I stayed away at first because I was scared, then because I ought to, and finally because I just didn’t know what to say. I made you out to be worse than you are so I could be more than I am. I know I’m a hypocrite, and I know you never said a word to anybody. You just took your medicine and drank mine too.”

“Let’s don’t make that much out of it,” Arnold said. “I’m lucky I didn’t get the pen and a lot more time. What hurts is the way you did me after it was all over. Family ought to mean something.”

We floated for a while. My feet felt very cold. Arnold looked at me sideways. “You know, I rent from one of your stores, one over on Main.”

“I’ve never seen your name on the rental cards,” I said.

“Do you look?”

“No,” I said. “I mainly work at home, in the study. I order movies. Pay bills. Now and then I drive out and check on things.”

“Enough,” Arnold said. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell d Ick you if I want to do anything.”

I told him everything I knew. While I talked, his eyes widened, and he started to interrupt me a couple of times, but when I paused to allow him, he waved me on. When I finished, he said, “It’s clear you ain’t seen the news today. I caught a bulletin about noon. They found Doc Parker’s wife. Doc was gone off somewhere when it happened. Story is some nuts broke in and killed her. They’re saying it was some kind of Satanist cult. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Said the law found most of the ones did it, but they were all dead in a house somewhere. Chief of Police said he figured one or more of their group got whacked out on drugs and killed the others.”

“One, or more?”

“That’s what it said. Only names mentioned were the Doctor’s and his wife’s. Christ, the guy they’re looking for is Bill?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Hard Dick Bill.”

“You got a right to be jacked around, Hank, but I don’t see why you’ve come to me with this.”

“Guess because you’re family, and I wasn’t ready or willing to talk to Beverly yet.”

“And you knew I had been in trouble and ran around with a tough crowd, and might have some insight into all this.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“Well, nothing I know is gonna be much help to you. Let’s go on up to the house. We ain’t gonna catch nothing. Fuck Zen.”

Arnold dumped the chicken necks overboard. “They can have these for free this time,” he said. “I keep ’em around the house anymore, they’ll grow together and come get me.”

We paddled back to shore, got our gear and walked back to the double-wide. Inside, Arnold poured us coffee from the thermos and got me some of his socks to put on. When I felt warm enough, I went out to the truck and got the photo album, let Arnold look at it.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Arnold said. “You think Bill was telling things straight?”

“He might have made himself come off prettier than he should have, but he was too scared to be lying.”

Arnold closed the album and gave it back to me. He poured us more coffee.

Arnold said, “I think maybe you got the best game plan already. Go see the lawyer. Something’s fishy with the cops.”

“Thanks for listening. I guess that’s all I wanted. Someone to listen.”

“So you came to me, not having talked to me in ten years. That’s some kinda thing to break the ice with, pal.”

Arnold walked me out to my truck, cussing the dog off of me. I put the photo album in the inside pocket of my Dad’s old hunting coat, slipped it off, and put on my newer one. I stood by the truck and listened to the wind in the bottle tree.

="0s o

Arnold knew what I was thinking. He said, “Gal lived with me, Kinley, she put them bottles up there. Bet it took her month to fix it that way. She was a passin’ woman, had some negro blood in her… Believe that? There’s a change for you. Until a few years ago, I called negroes niggers, then I met this gal and she didn’t look negro, and I got in tight with her and found out, and suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore.”

“What happened to her?”

“It finally quit working out. She moved off to Memphis… But I was saying about those bottles. Kinley had her some hoodoo beliefs. Said those bottles caught the bad mojo around you, bottled it up. Got a hunch you might ought to make one of those up for your yard.”

“What are you saying?”

“None of this sounds right, from the top to the bottom. You watch yourself, cause the mojo around you is pretty goddamn dark.”

“I’ll watch,” I said. I got in the truck and cranked it. I pulled around in the drive and drove away.

· · ·

I hadn’t gone far when I heard a horn. I looked in my rear view. It was Arnold’s pickup. He was driving fast. I pulled over and got out. He screeched the tires and stopped beside me. He got out of his truck and walked around front and came over to me. I didn’t know the expression he wore.

He stood in front of me, said, “You stupid sonofabitch.”

Then, as if he didn’t have any say in the matter, his hand came up and he hit me on the side of the head with an open palm.

I rolled against my truck and spun and came up swinging. He caught my arm and grabbed my head in the crook of his elbow and pulled me to him and started squeezing.

I slammed a couple of low, awkward ones in his gut. It was like punching a side of beef, and the truth of the matter was, I didn’t have the heart to fight him. He yanked me in closer, and let go of my head and grabbed me in a bear hug, trapping my arms, lifting me off the ground. He held me to him and squeezed until I thought I’d scream, then he shoved me back against my truck and stood panting, looking at me. “You fucking stay out of my life all these years and you want me to take you in like there was never any bad blood between us. Well, fuck you, asshole. Fuck you.”

A trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of my mouth and ran down my face. I reached up and wiped it off with the back of my hand.

Arnold walked over to me, his big hands dangling at his sides. He stood directly in front of me. “Goddamn you,” he said. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Worse. And you know what?”

“What?”

“It didn’t do a thing for me.”

“It didn’t do much for me either. You going to do it some more?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He cam="lp>

“I know,” I said, and hugged him back.

12

Cold and dark, a big piece of yellow moon, purple tree shadows flying across the hood and windshield of my truck. Me driving the back roads and talking and Arnold riding and talking and hunkering close to my old humming heater, nursing the warmth.

The years weren’t brought back, but maybe a few moments were, and when I returned Arnold to his truck and let him out, we shook hands and he clapped me on the shoulder and called me Bubba. I drove away feeling good about something, and not knowing why, way things were with Bill, but feeling good just the same, and thinking the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, and everything that had happened, crazy as it was, was going to work out. Order would soon be restored to the universe, and I would feel like the fine-tuned mainspring of the cosmic clock.

But a fella can be wrong about things.

Part Two

Fat Boy

13

I knew Bev was going to be on the unpleasant side when I got home. My mother usually called about two hours after I left, to see if I was home yet. It was her motherly way of checking on me.

That motherly habit would reveal I had left Tyler some time ago, and should have been home.

I stopped off at a convenience store and bought a cup of coffee and the evening paper. I figured I was already in deep shit, so a few more minutes wouldn’t matter. I sat in my truck with the engine running and the overhead light on, draped the paper against the steering wheel and read it while I sipped the coffee.

The discovery of Mrs. Parker’s body was front page. SOCIALITE VICTIM OF GRUESOME SATANIST MURDER, the headline read. There was a photograph of her smiling at the camera, sitting next to her husband at some social event.

Seemed the Doc’s housekeeper had discovered the body. The Doc was notified at an out-of-town hotel—someplace in Colorado—where he was supposedly conducting business at some kind of seminar for his profession.

Due to the circumstances, and knowing it would come out sooner or later, and realizing, in a case like this, he’d be a suspect, the Doc admitted a lot of his business activities had been frolicking with a certain young lady who came forward to offer an alibi. It was also noted in the article, that numerous others had seen the Doc and the girl together, including at the time the murder had taken place.

I paused in my reading and thought that one over. A bell was ringing somewhere in the back of my mind, and I had the disconcerting sensation that there was something very obvious in all this, and I ought to pick up on it right away. But whatever it was, the sensation of it about to tumble to the forefront departed, and a moment later I sat there feeling empty and stupid. I read the a="lp>

I put the empty coffee cup in the trash bag hanging from the radio knob, and drove home.

When I unlocked the back door, Wylie came rushing at me, the hair on his neck bristling. I was glad as hell when he recognized me. He was one scary looking dog when he was like that. If you weren’t a family member, Wylie hated you on general principle and would go for your throat. We had company over, the kid’s friends, he had to be put away in his travel kennel in the washroom.

Wylie looked embarrassed about not recognizing me immediately, hung his head and whined and finally tried to jump up on me. I kneed him. He laid down and I gave him a pat on the head. Poor guy. Couldn’t seem to do anything right. I knew how he felt.

I listened to see if Bev would show up, arms crossed, a look on her face that would make me weak in the stomach.

Nope. No Bev.

Good. I loved the little darling, but I wasn’t up to arguing with her tonight, and I felt guilty that for the first time in our marriage, I hadn’t told her the truth about something. Well, the first important time.

I spied a note on the table.

If you ain’t dead, buster, boy are you in trouble. Love, Bev

Shit.

I looked in the refrigerator and found a banana, got the crunchy peanut butter down and got a fork out of the utensil drawer and poured myself a glass of milk.

I sat at the table and ate a bite of banana and followed it with a fork full of peanut butter and a swig of milk. I did this until the banana was gone, then I turned to forking peanut butter from the jar and eating that, drinking milk.

The phone rang. I leaped for it and banged my knee on the table. I got it before the second ring, hoping it hadn’t awakened Bev.

“Yeah,” I said, but it sounded more like “Yeg.” I was nursing a mouthful of peanut butter.

There was a pause. Then: “Hank, that you?”

It was Arnold.

“Yeah. I was eating peanut butter.”

“Out of the jar?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fattening.”

I looked to see if Beverly was coming down the stairs. So far, my luck was holding.

“I get nervous, I eat peanut butter.”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You eat it around the chewing tobacco?”

“Sometimes.”

“Dad did that.”

“Where do you think I got it?”

“Did you call before?”

“No. Why?”

“I figured if you woke up Beverly, I’m a dead man.”

“I been thinking about Billy. I don’t really know the little shit, but he is blood, and I can’t leave him for the wolves. I watched the news tonight and Imperial City has tried and hung the kid already. I went out and got a local paper.”

“Me too.” I said.

“There’s stuff there don’t add up. You told me Billy saw the Doc running around with a gal worked at a Chinese restaurant. Well, the gal the Doc was with. Think it’s her?”

“Could be.”

“Convenient, ain’t it? Doc goes off with this gal who can provide an alibi, sees other people who can provide an alibi, then his wife is murdered? That tally up to anything?”

“Doc was passing money along to Fat Boy, not because of blackmail, but because of a job he wanted Fat Boy to do. Like murder his wife.”

“Now you’re cooking with gas. The Satanism stuff. What’d you think of that?”

“There’s nothing in any of this that smacks of Satanism.”

“Right. Crime scene indicates Doc’s wife was raped and killed when burglars broke into the place and discovered her. Then the newspapers decide, for no real reason at all, that the murderers were a bunch of folks on the other side of town who were all done in by one average size guy. Then, all of a goddamned sudden, those folks are Satanist and Satanism is at the bottom of Mrs. Parker’s murder and all the murders.

“I think the whole goddamn kitandkaboodle stinks like a week old sack of wormy dog shit. I think the Doc wanted to get rid of the Mrs. without having to pay her bills for the rest of his life, and he wanted to move some fresh meat into the house. Only turns out the night he’s got it all planned, the Shit Head Club shows up. You tracking?”

“I think so,” I said. “Fat Boy and Cobra Man get rid of the surprise visitors by finding out where Billy lives. Not something that would be hard if they were determined to know and weren’t shy about torturing their interviewees. So they go to Bill’s joint, get rid of the witnesses, set Bill up to take a rap for all the murders.”

“There you are.”

“But how in the hell could the police buy that story after they’d looked at the facts with a clear eye?”

“Yeah, there’s an aroma there. Let’s not second guess. Let’s take some action.”

“Like what?”

“Go over to this Dave’s apartment. Tonight. Break in, get the video tape with the fat guy on it. Get the one where the Fuck Off Club is putting Billy on the railroad track.”

“That’s right. The fat guy’s on tape. I forgot.”

“So is the Doc,” Arnold said. “That gives Billy Boy some ammunition the fat guy and the tattooed guy and the cops wouldn’t know about. We get the tape, make a copy, then turn it over to the cops through your lawyer.”

“We get caught breaking into Dave’s place, we might be giving each other tattoos in prison.”

“When you’re right you’re right. You were right that night I talked you into hitting the liquor store. I should have listened. But this is different. It’s family. You don’t want to do it, get me in contact with Billy so I can find out where to go, and I’ll do it. Better yet, I’ll take Billy with me.”

“Of course,” I said. “What a great idea. Bill can certainly use breaking and entering and theft to go along with the charges pending. He might as well go the whole hog, don’t you think?”

“What’s it gonna be, Hank?”

I considered for a moment.

“I’ll call Bill and get him up,” I said. “You meet us at the Sleepy Time Tourist Court in half an hour.”

14

It was extremely late and extremely cold by the time I met Arnold at Sleepy Time Tourist Courts and we went up and knocked on Bill’s door. I had brought a sweater and a heavy coat for Bill, and I handed them to him and moved into the room and Arnold followed.

Bill and Arnold looked at each other for a moment. Arnold said, “You know, I don’t know I know you at all. Last time I seen you you were crapping in diapers… Well, maybe I’ve seen you since the diaper days.”

“Mom’s funeral,” Billy said. “Or were you there?”

“I was there. They kept me in the back, so I wouldn’t spoil things. And I even had on clean underwear.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not thought of all that highly either,” Bill said.

“Any of that story you told Hank true?” Arnold asked.

Billy put a hurt look on his face. “Yeah, all of it, Uncle Arnold.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Arnold said. “But I get me and Hank into what I’m about to get us into, there better not be any bullshit. Hank explained what we want to do?”

“Yeah,” Bill said. “The video tapes are there. I hadn’t thought of that angle. It’s a good idea.”

“Unless we get caught,” Arnold said.

“Let’s don’t think on that too long,” I said, “or I’ll talk myself out of this.”

We went down and got in my truck and Bill gave me directions to Dave’s apartment.

· · ·

Dave’s apartment was in an expensive complex>

“There’s a watchman here,” Bill said. “He comes around now and then. We got to watch for him.”

“Now you tell us,” I said.

“Would it matter?” Arnold said.

“Well, it might,” I said. “Which room is it, Bill?”

Bill leaned forward. “You know, we didn’t come over here that much. Mostly we went to someone else’s place. I just sort of followed the others in when we did.”

“You saying you don’t know which room it is?” I said.

“No,” Bill said. “I’m saying I got to think a minute. We usually came up on the other side and walked around. It throws me a little from here, but…” He pointed. “See the lighted room? It’s the room to the left of it.”

“Great,” I said. “It has to be upstairs. We get caught up there, we haven’t got anywhere to go.”

“Don’t think so goddamn negative,” Arnold said.

“Here’s some gloves I brought for us.” I said. “Burglars need gloves.”

“I got my own,” Arnold said, and produced a pair from his coat pocket.

I gave Bill a pair and slipped my pair on.

“Hey,” Bill said, “these are Mickey Mouse gloves. These are kid’s gloves. They got the mouse right here on them.”

“Actually, they’re a pair Bev had,” I said. “So what?”

“How come you gave me the kid gloves, man? That tells me something, is what it does.”

“Beverly wears them,” I said. “She likes them.”

“You wear ’em,” Bill said.

“They don’t fit me. You got little hands.”

“Gimme that pair you had for Arnold.”

“They’re too big.”

“Give ’em here.”

I gave them to him and he slipped them on. The fingers flapped loosely on his hands, “Shit,” Bill said. “I can’t do nothing in these. Give me back the goddamn mouse gloves.”

He put them on. Perfect fit.

“This is good,” Bill said. “I get caught, I got on a pair of mouse gloves. Maybe you shoulda brought me one of the hats with the ears on it.”

“You’re up for multiple murder, and you’re worried about Mickey Mouse gloves?” Arnold said.

I pulledlef“You’ out and went around the block. I cruised into a church parking lot over by where it connected with a fenced yard. There was a huge oak in the yard and its limbs stuck out over the fence. I parked under the limbs and they draped shadows like black confetti over the truck. It was kind of pleasant. Maybe I was sleeping. I hoped so. I wanted to wake up in my own bed and see if Bev wanted to play poke the pumpkin again.

When I got out of the truck and the cold hit me, I knew I wasn’t dreaming.

We walked over to the sidewalk and turned right.

“Shouldn’t we be sneaking around or something?” Bill asked.

“That’s just what we don’t want to do,” Arnold said. “Someone comes along now, we’re just out walking and talking. We creep around through someone’s yard and get caught, you got to have a lot better lie handy.”

Dogs barked at us as we went by the front yard of the house with the fence, but the barks weren’t serious, just professional.

We turned right and went up to the edge of the apartment complex and stood behind a row of shrubs and looked around and tried to spot the night watchman. We didn’t see him.

“What we do,” Arnold said, “is we go up quick and get it over with.”

“Okay, Houdini,” I said. “How we getting in?”

“Don’t worry,” Arnold said, unbuttoning his coat and reaching inside and pulling out a small crowbar. “I got a key.”

We darted up the stairs and eased along the landing till we came to the apartment. Arnold brought the crowbar out, jammed it quickly and almost silently into a spot above the lock. He tensed his broad back and jerked. There was sharp, but not too loud crack of wood and a spring of lock, then the door was open and we were inside.

Arnold pushed the door gently into place, so that unless someone was really looking, the break wouldn’t be noticed.

“Flashlight,” Arnold said softly.

“Who you talking to?” Bill asked.

“Whichever of you dumb assholes has the light,” Arnold said.

“No one told me to bring a light,” Billy said.

“Shit,” Arnold said, then whispered to me. “You haven’t got a light neither?”

“I thought you had the light,” I said.

“It’s all right,” Bill said. “I got a lighter and some matches.”

“I don’t want a smoke,” Arnold said. “I want a flashlight.”

“Couldn’t we just turn on the light?” I asked.

“Not in this room,” Arnold said. “Not near the front windows. We don’t want to draw any attention to this apartment. Christ, some fucking burglars you are.”

“Actually, I only do this part time,” pa1em" I said.

Bill popped his lighter. The orange flame danced over the furniture and brushed up and down the walls. Bill said: “Place looks different in this kind of light. I don’t remember it so good. The video stuff’s in the bedroom… over there.”

We followed Bill and the light. Bill opened the bedroom door and stuck the lighter inside. He stopped and pulled the light out and closed the door carefully. “Oh fuck,” he said.

“What’s ‘oh fuck?’ ” I said. “Don’t give me ‘oh fuck’ and quit.”

Arnold took the lighter away from Bill and popped up the flame and pushed the bedroom door open silently and held the light in there. I looked past his shoulder. I could see a man lying in bed with his arm over a woman’s naked belly. Her breasts were bare and they rose above his arm like mountains beyond a plateau. The covers were draped loosely over their legs. The man stirred slightly.

Arnold lightly closed the door.

We tiptoed to the center of the living room. Arnold held the lighter toward Bill, reached out with his free hand, grabbed him by the coat and pulled him close. In the glow of the lighter Arnold’s teeth were the color of carrots. He said, “This ain’t it? This ain’t the apartment, is it?”

“I thought this was it,” Bill said. “I’d have sworn it was.”

“I knew this would happen,” I said. “I knew it.”

“It has to be the door on the other side of the lighted room,” Bill said. “We always came the other way. I got turned around.”

“I’ll turn you around,” Arnold said.

“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We moved toward the door. Arnold started to open it, but we heard steps coming along the walk. Arnold killed the lighter. I went to the window, eased back the curtain for a peek.

It was the night watchman, an in-uniform off-duty cop. He stretched and leaned a hip into the railing just outside of the apartment and got a pack of cigarettes. He shook one loose and studied the moon while he put it in his mouth, routed it from one side to the other with his tongue. He positioned his gun holster where it was more comfortable without looking away from the sky. He patted his coat pockets and found a lighter and popped it and lit his coffin nail and puffed.

I dropped the curtain and eased back to Bill and Arnold.

“It’s the night watchman,” I whispered. “An off-duty cop picking up some bucks.”

“Oh hell,” Arnold said. “He sees that door’s been jimmied, we’re fucked.”

“Let’s just be quiet and let him finish his cigarette,” I said. “Maybe he won’t notice the door.”

I went back to the curtain, lifted a corner and looked out. The cop had changed positions slightly and wasn’t studying the sky anymore. He was smoking and looking in the direction of our door. He had a blank look on his face, a man with his thoughts turned oug. The coinwards. For all I knew, he might have been on the verge of redefining relativity, but if he focused just right, he was going to see where the wood had been splintered in the door jamb.

The bedroom door opened. I jerked around for a look.

The guy came out of the bedroom. He was still naked. He closed the bedroom door and scratched his ass and walked across to the bathroom. He went inside and closed the door and a light showed at the bottom. He hadn’t even looked in our direction. There came from the bathroom the sound of steady pissing.

Arnold said softly, “Hide.”

I hunkered down beside a thick chair facing the bathroom. I wasn’t behind anything. The chair was flush with the wall. I was hoping the shadows would blend me and the chair together.

Arnold got behind one end of the couch. He was too big to be completely concealed, but it offered some protection. Bill went over and stood against the wall on the bathroom side.

The sound of pissing went on and on.

Jesus, this guy could shame a racehorse.

After what seemed like a week or two, the pissing stopped.

Then started up again.

Reserve tank.

This went on for another week.

Then the door opened and the guy reached back absently and killed the light. He stood in the doorway a moment and cupped his balls for some reason, maybe to make sure they hadn’t fallen in the toilet, then let them go and scratched his head and raised his hip slightly and farted softly. He yawned, opened the bedroom door and went inside and closed it.

I started to get up, but the bedroom door opened again. I crouched down quickly as the woman, naked, came out and staggered toward the bathroom and went inside and turned on the light and didn’t close the door. A moment later, the sound of pissing.

Jesus.

It was like the bottom had fallen out of the ocean in there.

By and by, I heard water running, then she showed in the doorway. She straightened her posture, turned off the bathroom light, fluffed her hair, walked slowly to the bedroom, went inside and closed the door.

I got up and went over and lifted the curtain.

The cop was turned to the railing. He thumbed his cigarette butt over the side, leaned to watch it go down. After a moment, he threw up his hands and made a motion with his mouth that was probably supposed to signify an explosion.

He turned, started walking in the direction we had come up.

I motioned to Bill and Arnold. They came over. I cracked the door and looked out. Then opened it all the way and looked out. The watchman was gone. We slipped out, gently closing the door behind us.

Bill went to the apartment on the other side of the lighted room and touched the d t"1em" adoorknob with a Mickey Mouse glove.

“You’re sure?” Arnold said.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “I think so.”

Arnold looked at me. “He thinks so.”

“Do something,” I said.

Arnold slipped the bar in and popped the lock and we scooted inside.

Arnold clicked the lighter on.

Bill said, “Yeah, this is it.”

We went into the bedroom and closed the door and turned on the light. Bill looked through the stacks of video tapes on a shelf. “Here it is,” he said.

He handed me the video. On the outside of it was a little label and on it was written Fat Man and Doc. He scrounged some more and came up with Bill and the Train.

Cute guy, this Dave.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Check’m,” Arnold said.

I turned the audio knob on Dave’s TV down and fired up the VCR and put one of the cassettes in. We fast forwarded it. It was good quality. Dave had known what he was doing. There was a guy in a nice suit walking up the bank steps and there was a fat man walking down the steps. I killed it there.

Bill gave me the other one.

I put it in and raced it forward until we came to Bill with his pants down, tied to the railroad track.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

I put the video cassettes in my coat pocket turned off the VCR, the TV and the light. Arnold popped the lighter on. We followed him to the front door. Arnold cracked it open.

“Clear,” he said.

We went out and moved rapidly along the outside ramp in the same direction the night watchman had taken.

We went down the stairs, listening and watching. We crossed the apartment complex yard and made the sidewalk and turned back in the direction we had come without getting yelled at.

When we were in the pickup, I let out a sigh of relief. I started up and hit the road.

“Piece of cake,” Arnold said.

“Yeah,” Bill said, pulling off the mouse gloves. “That was kind of fun… Did you see the tits and legs on that babe?”

“You’re some piece of work, Bill,” I said. “Think back, it was your narrow-minded, lead with your dick attitude got you into this mess in the first place.”

“Shit,” Bill said. “You’re right. That pussy, man it’s some deadly stuff.”

“No,” Arnold said. “What’s deadly is how fucking stupid you are.”

“Yeah, well, anyway,” Bill said, “her and the guy, you got to say one thing for them. They were championship pissers, don’t you think?”

15

Morning was arriving by the time I reached my subdivision. The moon was still visible, fading out like a honey-colored throat lozenge sucked too thin. Cauliflower clouds swelled out of the arriving blue as if ripening, rolled across the heavens at a medium boil, made soft shadows that tumbled along the slate-colored highway and subdivision blacktop and concrete drive that led up to our house.

I parked in the garage and didn’t go inside right away. I stuffed the videotapes under the car seat, went out the side garage door and stood for a moment and watched the morning bloom. I wanted to commune with nature a spell before Beverly ripped my head off, split my gut and stuffed me with hot stones and sewed me back together.

Eventually I got up my nerve and went in the house through the back door.

Wylie, his porcupine in his mouth, nearly knocked me down. I kneed him in the chest and he went away, disappointed as usual. I stopped in the kitchen, afraid to turn the corner, lest I meet Beverly face to face.

Sammy was already up for school, and he appeared on the scene shortly after Wylie left. When he saw me, he said, “You’re in some deep shit.”

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t talk like that.”

“That’s what Mama said.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have said that. She’s just mad. She gets mad she doesn’t know what she’s saying. You’re not mad, you know what you’re saying.”

“Okay, Daddy. I’m just telling.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“What happened to your face?” Sammy asked.

“I banged myself up a little,” I said. “An accident. I’ll explain later.”

Beverly came around the corner and looked at me. The sparks that jumped behind her eyes made me think of the Bride of Frankenstein.

“Hi, hon,” I said.

“Don’t hon me, mister.”

That mister stuff was always a bad sign.

“What happened to your face?”

“An accident,” I said.

“You’re close to having another one, mister.”

“Something came up,” I said. “I can explain it. Kind of an emergency.”

“Your mother called after you left, so I knew you should have been back. When you didn’t show, I got worried some. Not a lot, but some. I don’t like to worry. And then you came in late and didn’t leave a note. I know you were here. I woke up about three looking for you, came down and saw you’d left the pay, Daddeanut butter out. You didn’t screw the lid back on the jar or put the fork in the dishwasher.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The peanut butter dried out a little, and you laid the fork on the table, and now there’s peanut butter all over the table cloth.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you didn’t call.”

Sammy was watching all this with great interest. He moved his head first to his Mom, then to me. Wylie had also reappeared. He too was watching, the porcupine between his teeth. I knew that I was, at this very moment, contributing to the education of boy and dog on how to handle domestic affairs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, boy. I’ll say, you’re sorry, all right. Take Sammy to school. When you get back you’re gonna get it, mister.”

Sammy got his backpack and we went out and got in my truck. “Mama hates that part about the peanut butter,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I leave it out all the time.”

“I know,” I said.

“It’s all right, Daddy. She’ll get over it.”

“I hope so.” I opened the garage door with the remote and cranked up the truck and eased out.

· · ·

When I got home Bev was gone. She had driven JoAnn to school. I made sure the coffee was going, then waited on Bev by playing toss the porcupine with Wylie. It made his day. He was so excited I thought he was going to shit himself. He didn’t want to quit playing when I heard Bev drive up, but I went and washed my hands at the kitchen sink and ignored his pushing against my leg.

I dried my hands and poured a couple of cups of coffee and waited for Bev to come in.

When she did, I said, “We got to talk.”

“I’ll say,” she said.

Wylie recognized the signals. He and his little yellow porcupine went away.

“What happened to your eye and lip?”

Bev got her cereal and a bowl and poured her milk and ate, not getting in a hurry about it. When she finished we took our coffee outside on the deck.

It was warming up. The day was bright. There were birds happily singing everywhere. I guess none of them had nephews who were in trouble.

We sat in the deck chairs, and while we sipped coffee, I talked. I told her everything Bill had told me, and I told her what Bill and Arnold and me had done last night, about the mistake in the rooms, everything. I didn’t mention her Mickey Mouse gloves.

While I was on a roll I told her about the time I had gone with Arnold to the liquor store and what had handkey Mappened there, and I couldn’t look at her when I talked about it, but I found a lizard on the deck railing to talk to, and I addressed the story to him and his face showed no evidence of shock or surprise. He took it well, as if that was exactly the sort of behavior he expected of me.

When I finished, I said, “Now you know the kind of guy you married.”

“You think after twenty years I don’t know the kind of guy I married or thought I did? You could have told me all this. You should have. Instead of me, you went to Arnold, your half-brother. A person you haven’t had anything to do with in years.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“We been worrying the hell out of each other for twenty years. Why stop now?”

“I figured when I had it all thought out, I’d tell you.”

“But you didn’t mind telling Arnold before you had it thought out. Right?”

“Can I just say I’m stupid and get out of this?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do. You can let me know how all this is going, and consider me a partner like you’ve always done before, and you can quit trying to protect my feelings all the time.”

“All right,” I said. “Starting now.”

“Then you can start by telling me what’s next.”

“The lawyer,” I said.

“I presume the lawyer is Virgil Griffith?”

“He’s the only lawyer I know personally.”

“He’s good. Least, I always hear he’s good. What comes to me, though, darling, is how do you explain to him the way you got those tapes? It might be said that the evidence was obtained illegally, and is therefore useless. Breaking and entering and theft are still illegal. Right?”

The kind of warm feeling you get when you’re a kid and realize you’ve just filled your pants came over me.

16

I got the video tapes out of my truck and went around and unlocked my study, which is the bottom floor of our place, and separate of the rest of the house; a kind of mother-in-law quarters.

I slipped inside feeling disappointed. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of the cassettes being dismissed as evidence, due to the way they were obtained.

Still, I didn’t let that stop me. I took the cassettes over to my TV and laid them on top, and went to work.

I have video duplicating equipment down there, because to explain it bluntly, I often duplicate copies of movies for personal use. It’s also a place where I repair damage to rental videos, something I’ve gotten damned good at.

I cleaned the heads on the machines first, then made copies of the videos we had stolen and watched them while they recorded. There really wasn’t anything in the video with Dandke onoc and Fat Boy to assure a jury that money was exchanging hands, but it was certainly suspicious looking, and would convince a jury that Bill hadn’t made up Fat Boy.

I took Fat Boy’s appearance in as best I could, for future reference. He dressed like a poster child for bad taste. He walked like his feet were killing him. He was certainly fat, and he walked funny, but the meat on him didn’t jiggle. It was a hard kind of fat, well-marbled, like a show hog, and his arms were big and firm beneath his coat, filling out the sleeves the way sausage meat fills out a casing. The rest of him was average looking. He didn’t appear to be someone who would take money for shooting someone in cold blood.

As for the other cassette, it helped establish that there was in fact a Disaster Club. I came away from seeing it feeling Bill was dumber than I thought, getting mixed up in something like that.

I also decided Sharon had been one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, and obviously one of the most messed up.

I finished making the copies and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I rolled over and glanced at the clock on the wall. I had been asleep for about an hour and a half. I didn’t feel exactly renewed, but I didn’t feel that my brain was a coconut packed with sand anymore.

I looked Arnold up in the phone book and called him. I wanted to connect. I felt strange, not having talked to him after all those years, then, in one evening and a night and an early morning, we had talked and argued and broken into a couple of apartments and stolen some possibly incriminating video tapes. It seemed like every day business. Very comfortable. Maybe we could start robbing filling stations.

He answered on the fifth ring.

“I was out feedin’ the dog,” he said. “What’s up?”

I told him what Bev had said about the way we had obtained evidence.

“Well, Bubba-son, Beverly’s thinking on her feet, but in this case she’s wrong. You see, cop gets information like that, it’s suspicious, but someone ain’t a law officer breaks and enters, gets information and turns it over to the police, then it can be used in court. ’Course, you got to face the breaking and entering charge.”

“How do we get around that?”

“I’m not sure we do. My suggestion is we leave Billy out of it. He’s in deep enough doo-doo as it is. But you and me, we could take the rap, or I could.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Glad you said that. I wasn’t going to do it. I was just being melodramatic. I won’t let you take it either.”

“Never planned on it. In fact, I’d rather neither of us took it.”

“Maybe we ought to pin it on Billy after all,” Arnold said.

“Ha. Ha. Isn’t there a way around all this?”

“Might be. How well you know this lawyer?”

“He woulft""0em" wdn’t suck poison out of my balls I got snake bit there, but I know him well enough. He’s a good lawyer, I can say for sure. Well connected. Something of an opportunist. He’s won some high-powered cases.”

“Then lend an ear,” Arnold said. “There might be a way around our problem. A lawyer can call up the powers that be, say, ‘Hey, I got some evidence comes to me from a client, but I can’t say who ’cause the client is a thief. He was breaking and entering and panicked cause he heard a night watchman, grabbed what he could. A couple of video tapes.’”

“Sure,” I said. “I was a burglar, I’d have to have a couple of random video cassettes before I broke and ran.”

“Say a burglar got home and watched the tapes, thought they looked kind of funny. Thought there might be something really big going on. And though the guy’s a thief, he doesn’t want any part of something like this. So he calls the lawyer and turns the cassettes in, but stays anonymous.”

“So I tell Virgil I’m a thief?”

“No. But he might play the game some, he thinks it’s important.”

“There’s nothing on either of those tapes means much unless you’ve got the background on them. A burglar couldn’t see those and suspect much of anything.”

“Hell, I don’t know, Bubba. I’m talking off the top here. Thing to do is jam with your lawyer, feel him out before you show him your etchings. Know what I mean?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Something else I want to tell you. I don’t know why, but I want to.”

“Shoot.”

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Been driving by your place for years. Stopping and looking but never going up to the door. I realize now, the pain I’ve felt all that time wasn’t anger or betrayal. It was loss.”

“I know,” Arnold said.

17

I decided I’d go in and talk to the lawyer alone. I called Bill at the motel, explained my position and told him to hang tight.

I called Griffith’s office. His secretary connected me to him.

“Hey, que pasa, buddy?” Virgil said. “It’s been some kind of time. How’s the ole tallywhacker swinging?”

“It isn’t swinging all that good, actually.”

“Yeah? Then this isn’t just a touch base with a friend call?”

“No. It’s business.”

“Bad business?”

“Pretty bad business. Not directly my business, but close enough.”

“In other words, if life ain’t fucked enough, you got friends and family to help out?”

“Good guess.”

“That’s the way it us

“I’d like to come in and talk to you about my problem. I don’t think I want to talk to you about it over the phone.”

“Sure. But you can’t right now. I’m heading out. Told my partner and everyone here I got business to attend to, but what I got to do is go home and get a beer. It’s been one of those days already. I want to put my feet up and watch some ignorance on TV. What you got wait until tomorrow?”

I thought that over. I could go to another lawyer, but I felt Virgil was the man I preferred to deal with. We could cut through all the legal shit and get right down to it. On the other hand, a day’s delay might make a big difference.

“It’s pretty important,” I said.

“Well, hell, if it’s important, we’ll do ’er. Why don’t you come out to the house though. We can tell some lies about all the women we’ve had and how there isn’t anyone we can’t whip.”

He gave me the address and I drove over there.

It was a pretty nice part of town and Virgil’s house was large, if plain looking, with a slightly yellowed lawn decorated with a chipped, stone duck on which someone, probably Virgil, had drawn in black marker, a pair of glasses.

I rang the bell.

The glass panel on one side of the door had been knocked out and patched with cardboard and masking tape. I was examining it when the door opened and Virgil smiled at me. He had gotten bigger, way we all had. His blond hair had thinned considerably and was cut short. He had a slightly blushed complexion, highlighted by his orange sports shirt and yellow tie. He was in his briefs and was barefoot. He and Fat Boy could have modeled together.

“Get your ass on in here,” he said. “I was just slipping into something more comfortable. Sit the hell down and I’ll finish and get us a beer.”

“I’ll skip the beer,” I said.

“Suit yourself.”

He disappeared into a back room and I sat down on the couch. The place looked as if it could legally qualify as a disaster area. Newspaper strewn from one end to the other, dirty paper plates all over the coffee table, a greasy paper sack overflowing with beer cans. There was a smeared reddish stain on the wall over the TV, and something dark, small and round was stuck in the middle of the stain. I got up for a better look and had to peel a sticky paper plate off my shoe. I dropped it on the floor, went over and examined the wall.

I was pretty certain it was pepperoni.

Virgil came in. He was wearing a pair of blue and white Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt with Kill All Lawyers written on it in black.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

He used both hands to pinch the shirt away from his chest, held it a moment, then let it go. “Stenciled that on there myself. That’s pizza on the wall, by the way.”

“I thought I recognized a pepperoni. How are the other rooms decorat romyself. ed? Cheese and sausage?”

“Wife threw that at me.”

“Carolyn, isn’t it?”

“That was number one. I’m on the fourth. This was Meg. Came home last week and she was banging my law partner. They broke a couple slats on the bed.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I tugged him out of the bed and shoved two dollars at him and told him to buy himself a good piece of ass, then kicked his butt down the hall and threw him into that panel by the door and bounced him around the room some. Sonofabitch took out of here naked. Had him a spare key under the bumper of his car, I reckon, ’cause he drove off not wearing a goddamn stitch.”

“That’s rough, Virgil.”

“Yeah, guess we’ll get a divorce. I’m in the right business for it, aren’t I? I can lawyer the hell out of a divorce… Hell, that isn’t why you’re here, is it?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t think about getting a divorce would you?”

“No.”

“Change your mind, I’m your man. Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“No thanks.”

I sat back on the couch and Virgil disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a beer. He sat down in a gouged leather recliner and kicked his feet up.

“Meg wasn’t much good at nothing, ’cept fucking,” he said. “In bed she could make a pig speak French. Put her in the kitchen to cook dinner, she usually cooked a couple of pans or managed to catch the goddamn stove on fire.”

“I see you’re a liberated kind of guy.”

“Hey, we all got our cross to bear.”

“How long were y’all married?” I asked.

“About a year. We were pretty happy till she started accusing me of fucking around. Things went downhill after that. Then she started cheating on me.”

“Were you fucking around?”

“Hell, I’m a lawyer. We fuck everybody.”

“That doesn’t reassure me much. Guess you’ll be cutting out on your own.”

“What?”

“Your own law office. I mean, I’m inclined to believe you and your law partner might be on shaky ground.”

“Hell no. I was screwing his first wife and he caught me at it. Me and him got an understanding. I can get another wife easy enough, but a good partner like Tim is hard to come by. I took the sonofabitch out to lunch today. What happened to your face?”

“Kind of a fight,” I said. “It’s not important.”

“What’s your probleÙs tom, then, Hank?”

I told it slowly and carefully, leaving out Bill’s present location and the fact that he and Arnold helped me break into the apartment and steal the video cassettes. In fact, I left Arnold out of the story altogether.

“Goddamn,” Virgil said when I finished. “That’s some situation. The videos. That photo album. You got ’em?”

“In the truck. The cassettes are copies. I’m playing it safe.”

I went out and got the cassettes and the album. I showed him the album first. “Shit,” he said. “I recognize some of these people. All unsolved cases, I think. Ones I know were killed within the last year or so. The last ones. Those the folks Bill told you about? The Disaster Club?”

I nodded.

“Let’s take a look at the cassettes,” Virgil said.

I gave him the cassettes and we watched the one with Fat Boy and the Doc, then the one with Bill and the Disaster Club. We didn’t talk until he had seen them both.

I said, “This gives Bill some kind of evidence. Right?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I recognize the one you’re calling Fat Boy. I know him as Oscar Caine. Know what he does?”

“I bet he’s with the cops,” I said.

“Close. How’d you know?”

I explained about the cars being put in Bill’s carport to make it look like the Disaster Club had driven back there and had fallen out. I told him about how the police came at such a perfect time, as if someone had been watching for Bill to show up. I told him that I thought the true killers had been a little too confident that their plan would work. It all pointed to inside knowledge of the police department.

“Well,” Virgil said. “Oscar isn’t a cop, but like I said, close. He’s in a peculiar position. He’s what you might call freelance. Started out as a freelance narc, and since then has gotten involved in a wider scope.”

“They have freelance narcs?”

“Yeah. They want ’em, they got ’em. Ole Oscar is an ace manipulator. He’s been under investigation, I bet, oh, half a dozen times, but he’s like shit that flies won’t light on.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Let me give you a scoop here. Oscar has been around since Methuselah was growing pubic hair. He’s older than he looks. Mid-sixties. Tough as a baboon’s ass. Knows how things work, and knowing how things work is even more important than being innocent or honest. Innocent and honest aren’t enough, you got someone like Oscar working against you.

“I’ve probed into Oscar’s affairs on occasion, and I know a lot about him, ’cause I’m nosy and an old lawyer who showed me the ropes hated him and filled me in on stuff a lot of people have forgotten or never knew. Like Oscar started out as a country lawyer over in Busby. One of his earliest cases involved the murder of a thirteen-year-old black girl. She was raped and murdered by a white bo bythe y named Cal Vincent. The Vincents over there are bigwigs. Got money. Position. This was back when a lot of white folks held a black person in slightly lower esteem than a pile of pig shit.

“This little gal was raped and murdered and the murderer took her home and tied her naked body to a tree out in her Mama’s and Daddy’s front yard, stuck a coon tail up her asshole, hung a sign around her neck said, ‘Niggers, your baby coon’s home.’

“Every goddamn body over there knew it was Cal Vincent killed her, cause he bragged about it. Said he’d fucked her so hard she died. Course, thing did her in was he strangled her.

“One of Cal’s friends had been involved in the rape, taking his turn, but he wasn’t for killing, just raping. Murder was too much for him. His conscience got him and he squealed and got so he was squealing outside of Busby and the whole thing came to trial. Guess who was hired to defend Cal Vincent?”

“Oscar Caine.”

“He painted Cal as a good, upstanding, white citizen, accused of killing a loose little colored gal, and everyone in the all white jury started out with the sincere belief that the gal, being black, was fucking around anyway. Oscar even made jokes about it. Jokes, mind you, about this murdered thirteen-year-old gal. Jokes about her and her Daddy. And the judge stood for it. Her own people couldn’t even come into the courtroom proper. They had to watch from a little balcony, listen to this sonofabitch, Oscar Caine, talk about that gal like she was bitch dog in heat.

“But the final tack in the billboard was when Oscar laid out a scenario that had this retarded black man accused of the crime, and he ended up being brought in and convicted on the basis of nothing but some slick bullshit from Oscar. They not only convicted that retarded fella, but a crowd got worked up enough a lynch mob was formed, and this black guy, who didn’t have a clue what he was being jailed for, was fed to the crowd by the Chief of Police. Chief claimed later he couldn’t stop them, and couldn’t identify any of them. Crowd took that poor black man, castrated him, hung him from a telephone pole with his pants around his ankles and watched him choke to death.

“Town was even proud of it. Until the early sixties, you could buy postcards at the drug store made from photographs of that poor man hanging, his pants around his ankles. There’d have been a magazine in that store so much as showed a white woman’s bare chest, or even a man in tight pants, the Baptists would have screamed loud enough to have knocked the President of the United States off his toilet. But the same store proudly sold cards of this castrated, retarded fella dangling like a grape.

“Point is, Oscar was made out like a hero. He was the one had gotten Cal Vincent off, and given them the opportunity to ‘hang ’em a nigger,’ and nobody in the white power structure gave a shit.

“A side note. The boy who admitted to rape, but not to murder. One who had seen Cal do it. He never came to trial for anything. But a month later he turned up drowned in the river. Fishing accident they called it. Could have been, I guess. Story is, he wasn’t known to fish.

“Oscar quit lawyerin’ in the mid-sixties, so let’s move up to about nineteen-seventy, and about this time, the Chief of Police in Busby, who was near ready to retire came up with a problem. Hisa p, s daughter was hanging out with some hippie types. Drug users. Came in from the big city. Rode bikes. Bought some land together and lived in some kind of weird religious commune in the woods outside of town. Had them a dome. Or an ashram. Some such thing. All that shit’s the same to me. This bunch laid around most of the day, sold and took drugs and fucked each other and were proud of it. They came into town now and then, parading themselves, and the locals couldn’t take all that tie-dyed shit and the long hair. They figured they were Manson types. My guess is they were just a bunch of kids going through a phase, probably into smoking a little grass. Nothing heavy. Hell, I smoked grass myself back then.

“Busby’s Chief of Police had his tally whacker in the wringer over all of this. He couldn’t bring the hippie types in, ’cause his daughter was involved, but he wanted to keep face, check out of his job with his pension.

“Chief mentioned his problem to a friend of his, our boy Oscar, and lo and behold, there was a terrible drug-induced slaughter out there at the hippie hut.”

“I remember reading about that,” I said. “You and I were in college then.”

“It happened on one of the rare days the Chief’s daughter wasn’t there. Was home getting her hippie duds washed or something. The Chief went out there and did some investigation of the slaughter, determined it had been all self-inflicted, and Busby was rid of its hippies. The chief’s daughter came home, started wearing underwear, went off to business school and learned to type and blow the boss. Chief retired, Oscar got the job.”

“Oscar was a Chief of Police?”

“Yep, for a bit. And everyone above the age of twenty-five knew he was the one went out there and killed those kids, but it couldn’t be proved, and wasn’t much of anyone in Busby cared. They thought a good deed had been done. Fact is, that was part of the reason he became Chief, that and his connection to the old Chief.

“I could tell you Oscar Caine stories all day. Some of them might just be stories, like how he killed a classmate of his during his high school days, buried the boy and got away with it. How when he was Chief he stuffed a bar of soap down a black woman’s throat and said she committed suicide.

“Simply put, this asshole is dangerous. Primarily because he’s gotten away with some horrendous shit and has never had to pay any consequences. Let me move up to more recent times. Things I can pretty well verify. He got out of the policing business, went freelance in the seventies. Way that works is he had enough law enforcement background he decided he’d come to Imperial City and help out the law here. Guess he didn’t like any restrictions. Freelance like that, he didn’t really have anyone to answer to. Back then he took on a motorcycle biker look. Don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of trying to imagine Oscar in black leather straddling a hog.

“He helped make a record number of busts, and law enforcement agencies throughout East Texas put him on the payroll and he got quite a rep. Been at it ever since, even branched out from drugs into other areas of undercover work. But there’s been some problems here and there.

“He never wore wires during his surveillance and there were no videotapes of his busts. It was his word against the people he was busting. And becauseg. t"> he generally busted folks the cops knew were assholes, they let Oscar get away with it. And it stood up in court. Which, considering most of the scum he brought in, didn’t make any difference. They didn’t do what he accused them of, they did something else. ’Course, if I were defending them, guilty or not, I’d like to see them get off. Makes me look good.

“But, that’s Oscar’s technique. He hammers down tight a few righteous cases, nails a few crooks for something they didn’t do, but would do, then starts making a few cases that aren’t righteous. Puts more feathers in his cap, and his kind of work gives him a chance to settle petty scores, and make a little dough on the side. Ain’t nothing that guy wouldn’t do. He’s wrecked the lives and careers of people in this town you wouldn’t imagine could be wrecked. And the law believes him. Or feels obligated to believe him. New Chief is worse than any of them. You see all this good shit about him in the papers, on TV, what a slick motherfucker he is. He’s not so clean. He’s had some problems. He was on the force over in LaBorde for years. Had a little scandal here and there, and some shitballs were thrown at him. All of them hit, but none of them stuck. In his own way, he’s got some of Oscar’s talent, and Oscar works for him. Price admits Oscar’s crooked on a couple of cases, they got to throw all their cases out, cause he can’t be trusted. How’s that gonna look? How’s it gonna make this ambitious Chief Price look? It won’t matter Oscar was there before Price, it’ll matter Price is Chief when it all comes down. I think Price is the kind of guy would let his own son hang rather than let it be known he fucked up or someone worked for him fucked up. And with Oscar working for him, you can bet there’s some fuckups.”

“What about the one Bill calls Cobra Man?”

Virgil shook his head. “No bells or whistles on that.”

“What’s my next step?”

“Give me the videos and the album. They don’t necessarily prove anything by themselves, but they’re a start. It’s pretty damn obvious that the law doesn’t know Oscar did the Doc’s wife in, or those kids, but you can bet they know Oscar’s part of the story. The Satanism shit. The drug nuts. That sounds like Oscar. Cops and locals love that shit. If they don’t think it’s true, they want to think it’s true. Man, I nail Oscar on this, think of the publicity I could get.”

“That’s nice Virgil, but I got my nephew’s life at stake here.”

“Sorry. The lawyer came out in me. As of now, I’m officially your attorney. Give me some money.”

I didn’t have but a few bucks on me, and he took those as down payment and wrote me out a receipt on the back of a catsup stained hamburger bag.

“That’ll do until we can make it more official. We’ll get Bill on the client list next. I think the both of you are gonna need a lawyer. Now, let me think on this a bit and I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, go ahead and move Bill you want, but you get caught, you got harboring a fugitive hanging over your head, and remember I didn’t give you the advice to move him. I like you, but I’m not getting fucked for you.”

“All right,” I said, and got up to leave. As I was going out the door I turned back to Virgil. “That stuff about the two dollars, telling your partner to get him a good piece of ass. Tiec tohat really happen?”

“No. I didn’t have anything but a five. But I thought telling you two made her sound cheaper.”

I left Virgil, uncertain if I felt better or not. I folded up the hamburger bag receipt and put it in the glove box of my truck and drove home.

18

I got home, the house was empty. Bev was out doing something or other, and since it was late enough for kindergarten to have turned out, I assumed JoAnn was with her.

I glanced at the morning paper on the table. Beverly had opened it and folded it back to show me Bill’s picture. I didn’t recognize the photograph, but Bill looked a few years younger than he was now. His face was thinner and his hair was combed differently.

It was time to move him, for sure. Hell, it was past time. Someone at the motel saw that picture, put two and two together, he’d be bagged.

Beside the newspaper was a note from Beverly.

Looks bad. Your Mom called. Saw the news about Bill. I didn’t know what to tell her. Not really. I took JoAnn to the store to buy her some shoes. Hers are worn out at the toes. I need to talk to you about her. About dead things.

Love,

Bev

Dead things?

If it wasn’t one thing, it was two million.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee, got a couple of oatmeal cookies, took cookies and coffee and the portable phone out on the deck. The day was chilly, but the coat I was wearing and the coffee made it more than tolerable.

I called Bill at the motel and told him the score with Virgil and informed him he was moving, and soon. He was more than anxious to go.

I called Arnold and told him what was going on.

“Moving him’s good,” he said. “But not to your place. Bill’s wanted, and I don’t want your family pulled into this. I think you ought to bring him over here. Better yet, I’ll go get him.”

“All right,” I said, “because of the kids, I won’t argue. But you’re doing it again, Arnold. You’re protecting me.”

“I’m making the best decision for all of us. I’ll plead stupid if they come and get me. Say I didn’t know he was wanted for anything, and he didn’t tell me. Besides, out here is a good spot to get lost. Someone comes here to buy some junk, I’ll keep Billy stashed. Might even take a few days off and move him over to the lake cabin. Either way, it’s less likely he’ll be seen with me. You got neighbors.”

“You know my place?”

“Hell, Bubba, you’re not the only one used to drive out to places and look around and not go in.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“I figure we all are. Take it easy. I’ll go get ƿt="lhim.”

“Take a cap or hat with you. Something to help hide his face. Newspapers have got his picture all over. Only good thing is the picture they have isn’t good or recent.”

“I’m gone to get him, Bubba, a cap in my hand. Hey, that’s pretty good. Gone to get him, a cap in my hand. I think I’ll put it to music.”

He rang off and I put the phone on the deck railing and shook out the paper and read the article on Bill. There wasn’t anything new other than the picture. The police said they would appreciate any tips from anyone knowing of his whereabouts. I hoped Bill was staying low. I hoped his face hadn’t made an impression on the motel workers. I hoped Arnold would soon be over there and Bill would be gone. I hoped the last third of my coffee was still hot.

I sipped it.

Nope.

The cookies were okay, though.

About an hour later I was upstairs lying in the bed reading an Andrew Vachss novel when Beverly came in. It sounded like the Battle of the Bulge down there. JoAnn was arguing with her. That wasn’t old news. JoAnn was a Philadelphia lawyer at heart.

“She won’t mind,” I heard JoAnn say.

“JoAnn,” I heard Beverly say quite loudly. “I don’t want to hear anymore about it, and that’s final. Now shut up, or I’m going to paddle your little butt.”

JoAnn let out a scream, and I heard her retreat to her room and slam the door.

I sighed. I slipped my marker into the Vachss book, placed it on the nightstand and went downstairs.

Beverly looked on the verge of an explosion.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” Beverly said. “I tell you, these kids are driving me crazy. JoAnn wants to take a dead rat to school. A mouse. I don’t know. One of those little rodents.”

“A dead rat?”

Bev waved me into the kitchen. I followed and watched Beverly get a glass out of the cabinet and take a pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator and pour herself a glass. She drank about half of it, poured the glass full again.

“Let’s go on the deck,” she said.

We went. Bev took a deck chair and sat down and sipped her tea. I leaned against the railing. Bev said, “First off, I see you saw Bill is in the paper.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mother is beside herself.”

“Bless her heart,” I said. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing,” Bev said. “I tried to reassure her best I could. Said we didn’t think he had done what the paper said. You know? BS… Hank, honey, I hate to sound like a weak sister, but I’m not so sure we should get involved. I don’t know how innocent Billy really is. Since money and women were involved weht=", anything could have happened.”

“A woman killed and raped in her bed? Four others tortured and murdered in his home. You think he’s capable of that?”

“No. Not really. Did you see the lawyer?”

“Yes,” and I told her what Virgil told me.

She listened intently, said, “I’m sorry if I seem cowardly and short tempered. But I’m cowardly and short tempered. And I’m tired. JoAnn has nagged me to death. Take her to the store, she’s got to have everything in there. Gimme this. Gimme that. And this dead rat business, it’s driving me over the edge.”

“What’s the dead rat business?” I asked, hoping for a domestic crisis I could involve myself with.

“She found a dead rat… mouse, whatever the damn thing is, out by the drive. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Beverly got up and I followed. There was a dead critter lying in the grass next to the garage. I bent down and looked at it. It was covered with ants. It wasn’t a rat or a mouse. It was a mole.

“It’s a mole,” I said.

“Yeah,” Beverly said. “Well, that doesn’t change things. She’s determined to take it to school tomorrow for show and tell.”

“A dead mole?”

“That’s what she says. She says she’s got to take it, and I told her no, of course, and she’s nagged me all afternoon.”

“I sort of like the idea,” I said. “Yo, Ms. Nichols, look what I got for show and tell. A stinking, ant-covered, dead mole.”

“I’m not laughing, Hank. I thought it was funny when I first heard it, but I’ve been hearing about it now for a couple of hours. She won’t take no for an answer. Her whining is turning my brain to mush. I’m ready to beat her with the dead rat.”

“Mole.”

“Another thing. She wanted me to stop beside the road and look at a dead armadillo, and a skunk. I’m worried about her.”

“That’s normal curiosity. She’s finding out about death. It’s not even scaring her. It’s fascinating her. Kids take death in doses, to inoculate themselves against the reality of it. We all do.”

“I don’t remember wanting to look at dead things.”

“You didn’t grow up in rural areas either. You didn’t see a lot of dead things. She’ll get past it.”

Beverly looked at her watch. “Oh, hell. Time to go get Sammy.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No,” Bev said. “Actually, a little time on the highway, hoping an innocent pedestrian will cross my path, might be just what I need to cheer me up.”

· · ·

After Beverly left, I wenty lheight="0e in the house and knocked on JoAnn’s bedroom door and called her name. She invited me in with reluctance. She was lying on her bed with her thumb in her mouth holding her teddy bear Fred. Fred was so much a part of JoAnn, he had, in our minds, developed a personality. We treated him like family.

I gave JoAnn a pat on the head, then gave Fred one.

“Ohhh, thank you,” JoAnn said in a wee-bear voice.

“What’s this about a dead rat?”

JoAnn held up Fred and moved him from side to side. She had Fred say, “JoAnn wants to take it to school.”

“I don’t want to talk to Fred,” I said. “This isn’t for bears, this is for girls to talk about. Come on, JoAnn. Tell me about the dead rat. It’s actually a mole, by the way. I looked at it.”

“I want to take it to school for show and tell,” she said.

“It has ants on it and it stinks.”

“I want to show the ants for show and tell, too.”

“What about the stink?”

“I guess.”

“Look,” I said. “Let me make you a deal. You talk to your teacher and tell her what you want to do, and see what she says. She says you can bring a dead rat—mole—to school, then it’s okay with me. All right?”

She thought that over.

“Can I take my rock collection?”

I guess my idea about her asking the teacher was a good one. She knew in her heart of hearts Ms. Nichols wasn’t going to allow a dead mole in her classroom. I realized then that JoAnn had mostly been in a battle of wills with her mother. The kids did that to us all the time. It wasn’t always that they wanted a certain thing, they just didn’t want to be told they couldn’t have things their way. It was a small way of controlling their universe, which they were gradually beginning to realize was bigger than they were.

At that moment, I understood that attitude perfectly.

The rock collection became JoAnn’s focus. She got out of bed and got the cigar box she kept it in and we looked at rocks. They weren’t unique rocks, but they meant something to her. She had gotten them at places that reminded her of fun and friends.

We finished looking at the rocks and I fixed her a snack of cereal and a glass of milk. When she finished we went upstairs to the TV room and I put on cartoons. She settled in to watch She-ra, Princess of Power, and I went back to the bedroom to read my book, but, good as it was, I couldn’t keep my mind on it. The phone rang.

It was Arnold.

“I got Billy,” he said.

“Good. I’ll be over tonight. I got a few more old clothes Bill can wear. My stuff is too big on him, but yours would swallow him.”

“Whatever. And Bubba?”

“Yeah.”

“Watch your ass.”

19

The rain had almost stopped and water dripped from the tree branches that overhung the road, fell in clear pearls onto my hood and windshield, exploded in all directions like shards of glass. The blacktop had the sheen of fresh-licked chocolate and there was a slight chill inside my truck that was more cozy than cold.

As I drove into Arnold’s driveway, I saw a hot, white, web of lightning patch its way across the sky above the mobile home, beyond the trees where the woods started. I killed the truck’s lights and engine and got out, leaned on the open door, cautious for Arnold’s dog, but the dog didn’t bark. The wind howled in the bottles in the bottle tree. I could see the door to Arnold’s double-wide was cracked slightly and light was falling out of there and onto the ground as if pressed there by a heavy weight.

Arnold’s truck was riding flat on all the tires, and I knew without having to look, they had been slashed, and I knew too that the universe had shifted slightly again, and this time I was not on the fringes of that crack, but was well within it.

I stood with the truck door open, feeling uncertain and nervous. The hair on my neck and arms pricked and I could feel my testicles growing small, pulling up inside of me. I was glad the inside door light of my truck no longer worked, so I wasn’t framed in a perfect light for someone to pop off a shot at me. Then again, if they were close enough, it wouldn’t take much of a shooter to hit me, not if they were behind me, leveling a rifle on my spine.

I looked around and didn’t see anyone. I slipped back into the truck and got the .38 and stuck it in my coat pocket and took the shotgun off the rack and pumped one up. Through the windshield I saw the white web of lightning again. It had moved somewhat to the west.

I put the truck keys in my pocket and got out of the truck. The wind was blowing wet and cold, but I was streaming perspiration. Yet, I felt colder than the wind would have made me had I been bare chested.

I pushed the door of the truck almost closed and started walking wide of the mobile home, moving around back. I listened carefully as I went, half-crouched, not knowing what to expect, but thinking of Fat Boy and Cobra Man. I didn’t hear anything unusual, just the wind hooting in those bottles and whining out through the wrecks in the lot.

I went around the home and came up on the back end of the carport and slipped in there and found Arnold’s dog. He was lying in a pool of blood beside the right, front, flat tire of Arnold’s truck. I bent down and touched him. He was slightly warm. He hadn’t been dead long.

I tried to swallow, and it was as if I were trying to gulp down a whole orange. I finally got it down, forced myself to get up and move around the pickup, back toward the front door where the light fell out along the ground. I pushed my back against the home and slid along till I came to the door. I leaned out to look inside, hoping like hell I wouldn’t suddenly see the eye of a gun poking out of there.

I took a deep breath and held it and let it out slow and easy. I put one foot on the steps and used the shotgun to ease tghts dnhe door wide. I started to call for Arnold or Bill, but the words wouldn’t come. I knew I was taking a chance not calling them, because if they had been attacked, and were still in there, they might have a gun, and be waiting, and instead of who they wanted, they might get me.

The other side of the coin was whoever had done this might have dispatched both Bill and Arnold, and could be waiting for me on the other side.

And conceivably they had done what they wanted and gone home.

I wobble-kneed up the steps and into the home, crouching low, spinning left and right with the shotgun. When I turned right, I froze.

The light was from a lamp on the kitchenette counter, and the light was marred by a big shadow that hung in its beam; a shadow like a scarecrow dangling from a post.

Only it wasn’t a scarecrow.

It was Billy.

· · ·

In the center ceiling of the dining area was a false beam—a desperate decoration to make some fool think he was in a chateau—and from that central beam hung Bill. There was a belt wrapped around his neck, and it had cut deep into his flesh and the blood around it had crusted. The belt was connected to the beam by a large nail driven through leather and wood. The kind of nail you used when you’re doing some serious carpentry business; damn near a spike.

Bill’s body was motionless and his mouth was open, and though his tongue stuck out only a bit, it was thick and purple and nearly filled his mouth. His face was very dark and overripe and its darkness made his teeth appear false. His eyes were jutting from his head like quail eggs trying to roll out of a chute. The oversized pants I had given him had fallen down some and the Christmas shorts were revealed. His arms hung at his side. He had crapped his pants and the watery shit ran down his leg and into his socks and shoes, dripped to the floor beneath him, onto the hammer with which the nail had obviously been driven. A chair was overturned nearby.

The smell of shit and my fear were not the only thing that filled the room, there was another odor, sour and even more sickening, that I couldn’t identify.

I worked on the orange in my throat again, got it down and went across the trailer into Arnold’s bedroom, the shotgun before me like a talisman.

Nothing in there. No sign of a struggle.

I checked his bathroom. Nothing. Except the commode was full of shit and toilet paper.

I came out and went the length of the home and looked in the bedroom at the far end and found nothing. The bathroom yielded only the fact that Bill had used the razor I bought him to shave. It lay on the edge of the sink and the sink was filled with whisker stubs and shaving cream scum.

I came back and closed the front door and locked it. I laid the shotgun on the kitchenette counter and saw there was a note there, signed by Billy. I knew what that would be without reading it. A suicide note.

I ignored it.

I got the overturned chair and climbed up and took out my pocket knife and cut the belt and tried my best not to let Billy just drop, but it was too much weight and he did. He rolled in the puddle of shit and on top of the hammer. His face turned up, showing me those dull, blue quail egg eyes of his. From where I stood, it looked as if a tear, like a fish scale, was lodged in the corner of Bill’s right eye. The lamp light played off of it, magnified it.

I got down off the chair and went back to the counter and looked at the note. It was Bill’s handwriting all right. It read:

To Everyone:

Satan held me in his arms for years. I leave now to join him because there is no where else to go. I hope God will forgive me for what I have done to the children more than anything else. I hope God will set me free from Him, the dark one, but if not, I join him now and will suffer his torments to the beat of his leathery wings. I hope that Uncle Arnold and Uncle Hank will let the Dark One go.

William S. Small.

The handwriting was Bill’s, but the purple style wasn’t. Bill wasn’t clever enough to be purple, and the reference to Satan was bullshit. And what was meant by he hoped Arnold and I would let the Dark One go? What was the stuff about the children? And Bill’s name wasn’t William. A few people called him that, but they didn’t know him well. They were making an assumption. His birth certificate name was Bill, not short for anything, and he never went by William of his own accord. He thought it was too stuffy sounding. Whoever had made him write that note hadn’t known that. Or maybe it was Bill’s way of trying to inform us that he was being made to write it; a private message from him to me.

And why would he have gone to the trouble to shave before killing himself? It could have gone that way, but I doubted it. Had he wanted to look good in his last moments? I couldn’t imagine Bill, vain as he was, shaving, then checking himself out in my baggy old clothes with Santa shorts on underneath. Wasn’t his style.

I felt weak suddenly and had to sit down. I took the chair that Bill had supposedly used to send himself across the dark divide, and pulled it over to the counter and sat so I’d be near the shotgun. I put my head between my legs and tried to breathe slowly.

Why were Arnold and I being connected to this now, and where the hell was Arnold? Who had made Billy write that note?

As I sat there and thought, I realized the smell of shit was still in the room, but the smell I had sniffed earlier, behind it all, was fading. I remembered what Bill had said about Cobra Man. That he had a powerful odor.

But how had Cobra Man and Fat Boy found him here?

I thought that one over and came up with a simple scenario. Fat Boy could have checked all the angles, came up with the taxi outfit eventually. Got the taxi driver to talk about this strange fare he took to Sleepy Time Tourist Courts.

The taxi driver would have done that easy enough if Fat Boy convinced him he was with the police. Or maybe Fat Boy might have passed Bill’s picture around the motels till he found the right place. Then, just as he and Snake were about to make their move, Arnold showed up, took Bill away. Fat Boy and Snake watcands phed, followed them here, went ahead with their plans to take Bill out of the picture. The same plans they would have followed had they found him in the motel room.

“We found him Chief Price, but shit, little fucker hung himself.”

Case closed.

Kind of sweet, really.

But what about Arnold? Where was he?

I went over and looked at Bill again and came to the conclusion that his pants, pulled down like they were, were that way because someone had held his legs and tugged on him, helping the belt choke him. Some bastard had to have a lot of emptiness inside him to do something like that.

I imagined too clearly Bill hanging there, his hands free but useless to liberate him from the belt, and someone, Cobra Man or Fat Boy, holding his legs while he slowly choked to death.

I decided to turn out the light the killers had left on. I took the note, creased it a couple of times and put it in my wallet. I used a wash rag from the sink to wipe up the light switch and all the things I had touched. I put the rag back, and used my hand in my coat pocket to open the front door and go outside.

Outside, I walked around the mobile home again and found nothing. I went to the truck, got my flashlight, and made the walk another time, widening my circle. I found Arnold’s rod and reel lying on the ground. I bent down and picked it up by the grip. My hand became wet with blood. I wiped the grip in the grass, took out my handkerchief, wiped my hands clean, then used the handkerchief to pick up the rod again. I examined it. The line was extended, but the crappie hook was gone off the end. I held the flashlight to the end of the line and gave it a hard look. It had been cut.

I determined that since it had stopped raining only a short time ago, the blood was fresh, otherwise it would have been washed away. I had probably missed the last of this night’s events by only minutes.

I walked out into the lot and threaded my way between car corpses and flashed the light around. I hiked to the creek, and looked along the bank. I found some skid marks where someone had slid down the side of the bank and into the water.

I flashed the light on the other side of the bank. I could see where someone had scuffled to gain a footing. A little to the side of that scuffle, I could see huge footprints imbedded in a sure footed manner in the mud. The footprints and scuffle marks, like the blood on the rod, had obviously been put there after the rain. Again I realized how close I had been to strolling up on a debacle.

I crossed the creek and went along carefully and didn’t find any other sign in the dark. I didn’t go as far as the pond. I cruised back the way I had come and crossed over the creek, wondering if Arnold was lying dead back there in the weeds somewhere, or maybe at the bottom of the pond?

I walked out to the barn and looked in there. The wrecker had flat tires. They had thought of everything. Gone about it all as methodically as a tree surgeon. From the dog and the transportation to the torture hanging of Bill.

As I considered that torture, the reasons behind it, other than the fun Fat Boy and Cobra Man andp hemight have had, an impression as cold as the tip of a frozen ice pick jabbed into the fore of my brain.

“Sweet Judas,” I said aloud, and tore out of there, running for my truck.

20

I drove fast along the wet-slick blacktop, on out to the highway, then I drove faster, right on through town. No cops flashed their cherries at me.

After what seemed like an ice age, I came to the road that led to our subdivision, and as I did, a million images rushed into my head, all of them bad.

I assumed that Bill’s killers had asked him a few questions. Things like who he’d told about seeing Fat Boy and Cobra Man at the Doc’s house, and where did those people live?

And Bill would have talked.

When I came to our drive I killed the lights and made the turn. I drove slow. It was dark up the drive and the trees were thick and looped with shadows.

I drove halfway up the drive without going off of it or running into a tree. I pulled into one of the concrete outlets we had constructed for extra parking, and scrutinized the house.

The windows were dark. Not a trace of light. That made some sense. It was the kid’s bedtime, but still early for Bev. Then again, Bev was expecting me home, and there might be nothing more going on than her lying in our warm bed waiting for me, everything all right, nothing but pleasure to look forward to.

But I didn’t really believe that.

I tried not to think too hard about my kids or Beverly. I had to be focused. I reminded myself that whoever came into the house would have to visit with Wylie, and when Wylie didn’t know you, he wasn’t very neighborly.

I decided I wouldn’t take the shotgun. If nothing was wrong and I came into the house brandishing it, I’d scare Bev. The handgun I could carry in my pocket, and I was also aware of the kids and what stray buckshot might do.

I put the flashlight in my coat pocket and took a deep breath and got out of the truck and pulled the .38 from my pocket. I moved swiftly, staying with the shadows as much as possible. I went around to the side of the house, my ears big as pie plates, my nerves sanded down raw and red and responsive.

No noise.

No impressions.

To go into our house through the back way, you can go up a covered ramp from the garage, or you can take the stone steps that meet the ramp from the side. Then you go through a screen door and onto a screened back porch. The back door to the house is there.

I went up the long ramp and through the screen door, and hadn’t gone but a few steps when I saw the smear. It was dark and wet looking.

I followed it with my eyes and saw something lying on the far side of the screened in porch, and I knew what it was without really looking, but I got the flashlight out of my pocket and snapped it on anyway.

Wylie shhe piookowed in its beam. His mouth was covered with blood and his gut was ripped open and his stomach swelled out of him like a helium balloon. I could smell the hot gaseous odor of his in-sides. He made a whining sound and thumped his tail once and lay still.

I went over and bent down and touched his head.

“Good boy,” I said. I could see up close that his belly had been sliced open as neatly as you might slice the length of a watermelon with a carving knife.

Wylie moved his mouth slightly as if he wanted to stick his tongue out and lick me. I rubbed his head and stood up and went away from him. There was nothing else I could do. I felt the rage grow inside me like a tumor. I tried the back door.

It was unlocked, smeared with blood. I used the light and saw that the door had been jimmied, most likely with a crowbar. Same way Arnold had snapped his way into those apartments that night.

I figured when my invaders broke their way into my house, Wylie barked. But not for long. He’d have gone straight for the throat of whoever was at that door, and whoever was there had taken Wylie out, the way they had taken Arnold’s dog out. Swift and easy. Pulled him onto the back porch and gutted him, left him to die slowly.

But if there was a bark, perhaps it had given Beverly an edge. There was an automatic .32 on a shelf upstairs, the clip in a drawer in a box under lock and key. It had been put that way for the sake of the children, so they couldn’t get to it. It was a complicated process designed for their safety, but perhaps, had she heard the bark, realized what was happening, she could have gotten to it.

I cut the light and put it in my pocket and switched the .38 to my left hand and wiped the sweat off my right palm onto my pants, switched the gun back and wiped my left hand the same way. The revolver felt as heavy and clumsy as a Christmas ham.

I slipped through the washroom and stepped on Wylie’s porcupine. It squeaked.

I froze. Listened.

No movement.

God, had they come and gone?

And if they had, what had they done?

Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t think about that. Concentrate. Keep your mind on what you’re doing. Nose forward, ears back.

I went on through the kitchen and around the counter and into the living room, then the smell hit me. It was the smell that had underlined the stench of Bill’s shit back at the double-wide, and suddenly I knew it was the stench Bill had described as coming from Cobra Man.

The smell was strong. Very strong. Stronger than at Arnold’s place. A primal fear went through me. The same as when you’re in the woods, along the riverbank, and the whiff of a water moccasin comes to you. Oh, they’ll tell you snakes have no odor, and perhaps they’re right, but the stuff they crawl in, that river bottom mess, the leaves, the dankness of the forest, it certainly has a smell, and on a snake it has a distinctive smell, no matter what the experts say, and many is the time I’ve smelled it and felt the fear go through me like an electric shock, and nearby, a big fat moccasin full of poisn fey craon would ooze out from beneath a log and cross my path.

I had the same sensation now and I turned quickly toward the hallway and brought the gun around and a shadow came loose from the darkness and hit my arm and slammed it against a book case and the gun went from my hand and a row of books came flying out and hit me in the face, and then the shadow came closer and the moonlight through the huge glass windows showed me a different moon, the moon of a tattooed face.

In that moment I saw the face was almost perfectly round and hairless and there was a great blue and gold cobra tattooed along the side of the neck and face and it rose up on the bald head as if to strike. It looked very real, and the man’s eyes were not too unlike the eyes of the tattooed snake. Dark and flat and emotionless. And then I saw more than the face. I saw all of him and he was very big and he was on me.

I came around with a left and hit the face and it went back into the shadows and bobbed back and I hit it again, but this time he slipped my punch and a hand like a robot claw grabbed me by the throat and picked me up and slammed me against the wall and he used his leg to sweep my feet from beneath me and drop me on my ass. Then he was crouching in front of me and I felt the sharp point of a knife poking at the hollow of my throat, opening a spring of blood that flowed down my neck and inside my shirt.

“You got to take it easy now,” said the Cobra Man. “You got to maintain some cool. You wake the little ones up… two of them ain’t there? You wake the little ones up, I got to do them like the dog. You seen the dog?”

He waited.

He actually wanted an answer.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Then you know I can cut, baby. I can cut. That dog, though, he bit me some. Look here.”

He showed me his knifeless hand. It was wrapped in a bloodstained white cloth. No. Not a cloth. It was a pair of Beverly’s panties.

“You just got lucky with the dog,” I said.

“Naw. I can’t always be lucky. I get lucky with you too? I don’t think so. I think I’m good, that’s what I think. That was a good punch though.”

He touched under his right eye with the bandaged hand. “I used to box and I been hit some. I can take a punch. But that was a good punch.”

The moonlight showed that where I hit him was puffy, but above that, over his eyebrow, was a nasty explosion of a wound; all pink and swollen, the lips of it peeled back as if ready to let out a flow of lava.

He knew what I was looking at.

“Ah, this,” he said, and touched it. “You’re not that good. Fish hook. That brother of yours. Or did Nephew Bill say he was a half brother? Real talker that nephew of yours. You stick your thumb under his balls and push up, he talked good. Come on. We got to see your wife. Fat Boy’s giving her a massage.”

I tried to jump him, but he jerked the knife from my throat and jabbed it under my chin and shoved it in slightly. I barked in pain, not only because of the cut, but beca cu hiuse he had driven it right into the nerve there. This guy knew what he was doing.

“Got to be quiet now,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to wake the children up. Though I really don’t mind. It’s Fat Boy minds. He’s got plans. I’ll wake anyone up. I don’t mind a little activity. You got a little girl, huh? What Bill said. I like a little girl. I’d oil her ass and spin her around on my dick. Slap her so hard it’d make her spin. I’d have me some fun, I’m tellin’ you.”

“You piece of shit,” I said.

He grinned at me. “You get up now and come quiet with ole piece of shit. Ole piece of shit whipped your ass, didn’t he?”

I got up carefully, the knife beneath my chin helping guide me to my feet. When I was standing, my back against the wall, he lifted the knife some more and brought me to my toes. I tried to think of something to do, but nothing seemed smart at the moment. I had to hope for a window of chance, and when I saw it, I had to take it.

“We got to go upstairs now, Hanky. See the wife and Fat Boy. He might want me to put some lotion on her. You get around there in front and I’ll take up the rear. You feel a little poking at your ass, don’t worry none. That won’t be the knife. I’ll keep that in your back. Got me, huh?”

He leaned his head toward me and put his lips to my ear. His smell made my stomach roll. The knife probed deeper and more painfully into the hollow beneath my chin. My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out in pain this time. He liked that too much. It turned him on.

He said, “We get up there, see what kind of fun Fat Boy and the wife’s having, you might want to grease up for me. Let me get a little chocolate on my sausage. I ain’t queer, but I like to stick my dick in warm holes. Know what I mean?”

As I took position in front of him, he prodded me in the back with the knife and I went forward. I walked toward the stairs, my knees weak, my throat dry. My mind raced for some kind of plan, some solution, but I didn’t find any.

Cobra Man put a hand on my left shoulder, and with the other he poked the tip of the knife just behind and below my ear. His smell was overwhelming.

“What do you bathe in?” I said. “Piss?”

He pricked me with the knife, said, “I can make Ole Man Knife fit right here. Like a sheath. Believe me on that, Hanky. You don’t talk no more unless you’re talked to. Okay? You see the wife, and then we’ll see how you talk.”

We went upstairs. The bedroom door was open. A light clicked on at our arrival.

“On inside, my sweetie,” Cobra Man said. “We got to move things along.”

21

Inside the room the reading light behind the bed was on. The sheet and blankets had been pulled off the bed onto the floor. Beverly lay naked on the bare mattress. Her arms and legs were spread wide, as if to accept a lover. Her wrists and ankles were bound with white cotton rope and the rope on both sides extended beneath the bed. A red rubber ball was stuck in her mouth. A single sts trip of white adhesive tape went over that and around her cheeks and behind her head. Her eyes were wet with tears and the tears rolled off her face in what looked like slug tracks. Her liquid pools of fear had dampened the mattress on either side of her face. Her breasts, stomach, pubic hair and thighs glistened with baby oil.

Fat Boy had a chair pulled up next to the bed. He was sitting there with his legs crossed. He was dressed in a very old leisure suit. It had once been bright crimson, but was now a kind of mottled pink. It was frayed around the sleeves and ankles. He had on an emerald green shirt and a little black string tie. He wore white, low-top tennis shoes and white socks. He had a small bottle of baby oil in his left hand, which was resting on his crossed leg. His right held a .45 automatic with a silencer. He had the .45 extended so that the tip of it lay between Beverly’s legs, touching her vagina. The curtains on the big glass windows were pulled open behind him and in the distance I could see the bone-white filigree of occasional lighting.

“Howdy, howdy, howdy,” he said, and grinned at me. “A goddamned big howdy to you.”

Cobra Man brought the hilt of the knife up quick and clipped me behind the ear and knocked me to my knees. “Say howdy,” he said.

“Howdy,” I said. All sorts of things came to me to say. Like: Don’t hurt her. Let her go. Leave us be. But I knew none of them were worth saying. I also sensed that any sign of weakness or pleading would merely put fuel on the fire. I started to get up. Cobra Man put a foot in my back and pushed me back to my kneeling position.

“I like you there,” he said. “You hit a little too hard not to be there.”

“This woman,” Fat Boy said. “This wife. Man, you got some good taste in women.” He moved the silencer along her vagina, into her pubic hair, and back again. “She’s got some kind of cunt on her. Me and Snake here, we’d like to use it a little. We was wondering if you’d give us permission.”

I didn’t say anything.

“What say, Mr. Movie Man?” Cobra Man, or rather Snake, said. “What’s the score? You gonna invite us for a little your wife’s pussy, huh?”

Fat Boy laughed. “That’s some question to lay on a guy, ain’t it? Hey, listen here. It’d be good, I know. Snake there, he’d like it if it wasn’t good. He’s fucked everything but a hot watermelon in the field, and he’d’ve done that had there been one warm enough for him.”

“Warm don’t matter,” Snake said. “I’d fuck ’em cold. I just ain’t had the time is all.”

“Hell,” Fat Boy said. “Ole Snake, he’s fucked chickens to death even. Haven’t you, Snake?”

“I’ve busted a few eggs in my time,” Snake said.

“Hell,” Fat Boy said. “He don’t have to fuck ’em to death. He can stink ’em to death. Ole Snake comes into a room, you don’t have to be facing him to know he’s there. But he can still sneak up on you, can’t he?”

I caught Beverly’s eyes and my soul went small and black. Her eyes told me she wanted me to do something. That’s what John Wayne would haveynelig done. That’s what any movie hero would have done. But I was Hank Small and I was a real man, not a hero. One wrong move and we were both dead. Then the children.

“I bet you’re puzzled all to shit,” Fat Boy said. “One day you’re living all right. Putting your meat in this.” He laid the automatic on Beverly’s belly and used his hand to rub her mound, eased his finger down and pushed inside her so hard she jerked.

“You sonofabitch,” I said. “Keep your goddamn hands off her.”

I had to let out with the stupid stuff after all, but I couldn’t help myself. I saw Fat Boy’s eyes light up like a pinball machine. He grinned at me.

Snake bent forward and jabbed me a short chopping blow with the knife hilt, right where the neck and the back bone connect. I felt a temporary surge of paralysis, then the feeling broke loose and my head fell forward to the floor. When I tried to lift my head, it was as if I were lifting a bowling ball. I raised up painfully, and looked.

Fat boy moved his hand, picked up the automatic and laid it in his lap. He held the baby oil bottle sideways and squirted a long stream of oil on Beverly’s navel.

“Yessss.” Fat boy said. “Right in there. Two points. I did one better than that earlier. Hit her direct on the left nipple from here ’fore you came up.”

He sat the bottle on the floor, twisted and reached across with his left hand and began rubbing the oil in slow circles on Beverly’s stomach. He looked at me while he did it. Tears streamed faster from Beverly’s eyes. She tried to squirm away from him. My shirt was wringing wet with sweat and my bowels felt loose. I felt as if my soul was almost too small to be measured.

Fat Boy smiled. He liked what he was doing. He turned sideways in his chair so he could do it better. He kept his right hand dry and on the automatic in his lap.

“You had it made,” he said, not looking at me, still rubbing Beverly with his left hand. “The good poke. Job that gave you a lot of time. Good money.”

He glanced around the room, out the window.

“Nice house,” he said. “Everything a man could want.”

“Children,” said Snake.

“Yeah, children,” Fat Boy said, looking at me. “Snake likes children. Don’t you Snake?”

“I love the little fucks,” Snake said. “Love ’em to death. Hey, Fat Boy. I know you’re having fun there, but I got a movie I wanta see. Comes on in an hour or so. I got to get you to go to the store too.”

“What is it you wanta see?” Fat Boy said. “Fucking Mothra?” He turned back to Beverly, running his oily fingers up her stomach until he reached her left breast. He took her breast in his hand and squeezed it gently. I felt as if my very heart were being pulled slowly out of me.

“Fat Boy,” Snake said, “he don’t appreciate science fiction. He don’t know that stuff comes to pass.”

“Mothra?” Fat Boy said. “Some sait="giant Jap bug? Get outta here. You see that fucking Mothra on the street, you give me a call, then I’ll like science fiction.”

“It could happen. All that radiator stuff and all.”

“Radiation, you dumb shit,” Fat Boy said.

“Whatever,” Snake said. “I want to see it. I know how you like to talk, but I want to see it. We know what we got to do here, so let’s get on and do it. ’Sides, it’s a double feature. Reptilicus comes on after. Know how hard that is to see that on the television?”

“Yeah, all right,” Fat Boy said. His hand rolled over Beverly’s breast and he pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and Beverly turned her head away and closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out from beneath her eyelids and tumbled over her cheeks and onto the mattress.

I could see the glaze of madness in Fat Boy’s eyes, and the lightning, as if on cue, throbbed along the blackness outside the window and gave the saliva on his lips an iridescent sheen.

He took his hand away from Beverly and bent and picked up the edge of the bed sheet and used it to wipe his hands. Behind me, Snake put his foot into the bend of my right knee just in case I might be thinking of getting up and jumping for the gun in Fat Boy’s lap.

Fat Boy finished wiping the oil off his left hand and turned in the chair to face me. He took a little cigar out of the pocket of his leisure suit and put it in his mouth and took out a lighter from the same pocket and lit the cigar. He put the lighter back and picked up the gun with his right hand and transferred it to his left and held it against his left knee. He reached out with his right hand and put it between Beverly’s legs and let it rest there. He puffed up a cloud of smoke and blew it out and around the cigar.

“I can shoot lefty,” he said. “Don’t think I can’t… Goddamn, Snake. You’re starting to look rough.”

“I’m cut up a little,” said Snake. “I don’t mind. Pain turns me on.”

“That’s a good thing,” Fat Boy said. “I hope ugly is all right too. And I ’specially hope that smell does something for you.”

“It’s not a bother to me,” Snake said.

“Bothers him enough he don’t do any of his own shopping,” Fat Boy said to me, as if he were telling a drinking buddy a simple fact. “And watch a movie with him, man, I got to set by an open door or have a fan going, or both.”

“It’s other people notices it,” Snake said. “I don’t mind.”

“Got a disease of some kind,” Fat boy said. “What he says, anyway. Glands are fucked up.”

“What’s him knowing my business got to do with anything?” Snake said.

“I like to talk,” Fat Boy said. “What’s him knowing something he won’t know long matter anyhow?” Fat Boy turned his attention back to me. “He puts on cologne to cover it up. He thinks. But it’s really bad then. Like shit with Old Spice on it, ain’t it, Snake?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Fat Boy,” Snake said.

“He don’t want me to fuck with him,” Fat Boy said, “and he can’t go nowhere with that smell or that damn snake on his head and he’s got to depend on me to get his groceries so he don’t get seen, and he tells me not to fuck with him. Not for me he’d be eating out of a garbage can or something, and he don’t want me to fuck with him. What is it you want, Snake? Huh?”

Snake took his foot off the back of my knee. I looked over my shoulder and saw him bring up his arm and look at his watch.

“I want we should go. That’s what I want. I don’t like to miss none of it. I like everything from the start.”

As I turned my head away from Snake, back toward Fat Boy, my sight went low and I saw a stain like mud on the top of Snake’s shoe. I knew it wasn’t mud. It was shit. Bill’s shit. It had dripped out of his pants legs and onto Snake’s shoes while Snake had held him, causing him to strangle more rapidly on the belt.

I finished turning my head. I glared at Fat Boy. He said, “He don’t want to miss none of it. Like he’s gonna remember the credits or something. Like he’s taking notes. All right. All right, Snake, my man. We’ll get on with it.”

But Fat Boy didn’t move from his chair. He sat quietly for a moment and puffed his cigar and didn’t take it out of his mouth. Ash fell off the end of it and onto his lap and he brushed at the ash casually with the automatic, making a grey streak across his pink pants. He looked at Beverly and smiled and moved his hand between her legs. “Man, man,” he said.

Thunder rumbled outside.

Fat Boy cocked his head at the thunder. “Storm’s getting serious, ain’t it? It’ll blow your movie out, Snake.”

“You don’t know that,” Snake said.

“Wishful thinking,” Fat Boy said, and removed his hand from Beverly and pinched the cigar out of his mouth. He thumped the ashes on the floor this time. “What we got here Mr. I-Got-It-Made, is a major fuck up. Right, Snake?”

“You’re the one fucked up,” Snake said.

“Part of it,” Fat Boy said. “But you got to admit, fate didn’t play right.” Fat Boy studied me for a hard moment. “Mr. I-Got-It-Made, I don’t hate to take you out at all. Not at all. But you know, I got to tell you, had the wind blown slightly different, we wouldn’t be here. You’d be coming home to a little fuzz taco tonight.” Fat Boy bent down and reached under the bed and pulled out a sheer, white nightie. It matched the panties around Snake’s hand. “She had this on when we got here,” Fat Boy said. “I like to imagine she wore them for me. But I don’t think so. She was waiting on you. All saddled up and ready to go. I like that. Wives these days, they don’t do that anymore. Or so I’m told. But here you got one does. That’s all right, man. All right.”

“You can’t rent Mothra in this town, Snake said. “I’ve called around. They don’t have it. Reptilicus neither.”

“You should have taped it,” Fat Boy said. “You should have done that.”

t="

“The VCR has bad sound. Everything I tape goes up and down on the sound. You can’t hear it good. Makes you nervous to watch it. I can’t stand to watch when the sound’s bad.”

“You rent Mothra at any of your stores?” Fat boy asked me.

“No,” I said.

“Those cassettes you got downstairs? Your own collection? You ain’t got Mothra there, do you? Or this other one? What is it, Snake?”

“Reptilicus,” Snake said.

“You got that one?” Fat Boy asked.

“No,” I said.

“All right, Snake,” Fat Boy said. “We’re gonna wrap this up now.” Then to me: “I like to keep Snake happy. He can do some jobs I don’t like, and I got to keep him happy. Before we go, I’d like to say you and that half-brother of yours did some pretty good figuring on what was going on. Me and Snake, we took the Doc’s wife out for him. We admit it. We did it. We did it for money. Snake, he banged her. Right, Snake?”

“That’s right,” Snake said. “Doc didn’t care. He told us go ahead with whatever we wanted. And I could have done this one, Fat Boy, you weren’t so long winded.”

“He’s something, ain’t he?” Fat Boy said. “Prefers Mothra over a woman. Won’t cost him a thing to mount your piece and ain’t a thing anybody can do about it, and he wants to see some giant bug or monster thing tear up a toy truck.”

Fat Boy paused and sucked on his cigar and blew out some smoke and took interest in it till it faded. He said, “Snake here, he got the cassettes from downstairs. Took a little peek on your TV to make sure. Says ain’t much there. But some questions could be raised and I’d rather not have that. So, we’re taking the cassettes.”

Fat Boy removed his cigar and blew on the tip of it and turned his head slowly to Beverly. “Couple things got to be cleaned up. Your brother Arnold for one… That was Snake’s fuck up. But we’ll clean that up. There’s ways. The photo book though. That’s my personal copy that I was going to donate to the cause of framing your asshole nephew. I’d like it back. I don’t care who sees it long as I arrange how it’s seen. Where is it?”

“I gave it to Arnold,” I said.

Fat Boy said. “Gave it to Arnold, huh?”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and blew on the tip again. The tip turned cherry-colored. Fat Boy leaned over Beverly. “What I’m gonna do here, is stick the end of this on your wife’s tit. That’s a sensitive place, the tit.” Fat Boy leaned forward suddenly and licked Beverly’s nipple. A sound came from Beverly’s throat, behind the rubber ball. It sounded small and pitiful. I had never heard a sound from her like that before. She had dealt with things in our life up until now without that sound.

I knew it was pointless, but I couldn’t help myself. “Please,” I said. “Don’t hurt her. Take me. Leave my family alone.”

Fat Boy put the cigar back in his mouth. “Hey, I ch. r. an do any fucking thing I want. I’m gonna burn her tit off, is what I’m gonna do, you don’t talk to me about that photo album.”

I’m uncertain what prompted me to keep the lie. I suppose, deep down, I knew the truth wouldn’t change anything. And if my family was going to die, I wanted to make sure I went out without making things easy for these two assholes.

From what they’d said, my impression was Bill hadn’t mentioned the lawyer or that I had made copies of the cassettes and given them to Virgil along with the photo album. Something happened to us, Virgil might pursue things on our behalf. At this point, it was almost a moot matter. Still…

“I swear, on my wife’s life,” I said. “I gave the album to Arnold.”

Fat Boy sucked on the cigar and bent over Beverly and blew smoke in her face. She squinted her eyes and turned her head. Fat Boy looked at Snake. “What’d you think?”

“I think I’m gonna miss fucking Mothra is what I think.”

“Naw, naw, you’re not. What’d you think?”

“I think he gave it to the brother. He ain’t gonna lie now, Ole Mr. Hard Punch. He ain’t gonna do that, knowing things can be okay, he tells the truth. Am I right, Mr. Hard Punch?”

He kicked me in the kidney. I grunted. Got my breath. I knew things couldn’t, and wouldn’t be okay, but I said, “Right.”

“I believe him,” Snake said. “He likes this woman.”

“Yeah,” Fat Boy said. “I believe him too. I was him, I’d like this woman.”

Fat Boy thumped ashes on Beverly’s pubic hair. He blew on the tip of his now short cigar and made it glow bright again. He reached over without looking and stuck the cigar against Beverly’s stomach. She jerked so hard at her restraints the mattress curled on the sides. I could smell her flesh burning. I dove for Fat Boy.

I wasn’t quick enough.

He came out of the chair fast for a fat man and brought the .45 around and slammed me just above the left ear. A flash of white went through me and blinded all vision. I came to a moment later, lying on my side. Little specks, like black sawdust in water, swirled before my eyes. The taste of vomit was in my mouth. I had convulsed and thrown up on the floor. I felt as if someone had a crowbar jammed in the side of my head and they were lifting up on it, trying to get my scalp off.

I tried to get a knee under me, but my knee cap felt as if it weighed about as much as a small car. I couldn’t do it.

Snake gave me some help. I could smell him before I saw him. He got me by the back of my coat collar and pulled me up and kneed me in the stomach and sat me on my ass, gasping. I wanted to do all kinds of things, and in my mind I was doing them. Coiling my feet beneath me, preparing to jump, but in reality I was sitting on my ass, trying to get my breath back, feeling as if a dentist’s drill was going off in my ear, burrowing and burning its way into my brain.

Snake pushed me on my side and jerked my hands behind my back and I my ay felt something go around my wrists, and by the time I got my wind back enough to actually try and do something, my hands were tied and so were my ankles.

Snake got hold of me and pulled me up on my knees. “You like that okay? That comfortable?” he said.

“Piss on you,” I said.

He laughed. “Piss on you, huh?”

He made a move with the knife hand that put it behind him and out of sight. The hand came back empty and he got me by the neck. He unzipped his pants with the other hand and got himself free of his underwear and started urinating in my face. I tried to roll away, but he caught me by the hair and pulled me close and stuck his dick in my face and kept pissing. The hot urine hit my forehead and closed my eyelids and ran down the sides of my nose and over my clenched lips. I could smell the ammonia. I could smell Snake. I heard a sad sound that made my skin crawl and I realized it was me.

“Come on,” I heard Fat Boy say. “You’re the one wants to go. We could have made a night of it.”

“I don’t know we still can’t,” Snake said. “You talk like the plan’s to make her come. So, I miss a credit or two.”

Snake’s grip on my hair tightened, and he shoved me on my side. “There’s a little gift for you, Mr. Regular Guy. A little anointment for your head.” He shook his dick at me. “I could make you suck this, I wanted. Piss on you, asshole. Piss on you, you goddamn whining motherfucker.”

I opened my eyes and looked up. Snake’s face was all smiles, the tattooed cobra was made hot and livid by a bright flash of lightning. Snake moved toward the bed, pushing his pants down below his ass. I was trembling and couldn’t stop crying. I kept telling myself if I could stop that, everything would be all right, but I couldn’t stop.

Fat Boy came over, walking as if his feet were filled with shards of glass. He blocked my view of what Snake was doing. It wasn’t intentional, but I almost wanted to thank him. I heard the bed springs squeak. Beverly made that sad horrible sound I had heard earlier.

“I had to leak,” Fat boy said, “I’d go on you too. But I got some problems. Little prostate difficulty. There’s times it’s like trying to piss a boulder out of my dick. Man, you just thought you was something, didn’t you? You ain’t a thing. You can’t take care of your woman and you cry like a baby when you know your time’s up. You’re something, aren’t you?”

Fat Boy kicked me then, in the face, and it was so swift and sure I didn’t feel it. I just went away, down into the darkness or whiteness, or whatever the true color of blankness is, and if I had any thought before my departure, I’m sure it was the sincere hope that death would come swiftly to us all.

Part Three

Cataclysm

22

Pain throbbed me awake, or perhaps it was the reek of Snake’s urine. I could feel it drying on my face. I was still on my side and I hurt horribly, especially where Fat Boy had hit me with the .45. Under my chin didn’t femy ay couel so good either. There were other little aches and pains. I was surprised I was alive.

Neither Snake nor Fat Boy were visible and there was no sound. I made an effort to roll and get my knees under me, but I could only make it to my back. The room was like a tilt-a-whirl ride.

I lay for a moment and watched the darkness through the window go bright with lightning stitches. Drops of rain splashed against the glass. I tried to determine how long I had been out and couldn’t. It could have been a moment. It could have been hours.

I lay still and the room stopped moving. I decided getting to my knees was too much trouble. I felt better on the floor.

A moment later, I had a new plan. I pivoted my body around and got my feet under the chair Fat Boy had been sitting in. I cocked my legs back and lifted it off the floor. The chair seemed heavier than it ought to be. I bent my knees deep and pushed the chair with all my might at the window. It hit the glass and broke it. Glass fell on me and a heavy piece pierced my shirt and stomach and stuck like a spear. Other pieces rained around me. The chair tumbled on its side against the wall. The air from outside was cool and damp and ripe with the smell of wet leaves and earth; it perked me up a little.

Neither Snake nor Fat Boy appeared.

I turned so that the heavy glass shard on my stomach fell off me. The point of it broke off in my flesh as it went. I felt around with my bound hands and got hold of it. I held it tight as I could. The broken edges cut into my palms. I bent my legs behind me, managed to spread my heels slightly. I shoved the glass between my heels and clenched it with my shoes. I got my legs positioned so I could push my wrists against the glass and saw at my bonds. They cut easily. They were strips of sheet. My wrists cut easily too.

I got my hands free and took hold of the glass and slashed my feet free. I sat up without the room taking a spin.

I stood up. I only hurt a lot now. I didn’t see Snake or Fat Boy. Nobody pissed on me.

Beverly lay on the bed. Her eyes were wide open. The baby oil bottle lay between her legs. It was coated with something dark.

I got the piece of glass and cut her free. I helped loosen the gag and she took the ball out of her mouth.

She sobbed. “You bastard,” she said. “You worthless bastard.”

“I know,” I said.

I got the .32 out of the cardboard box on the top shelf of the closet. In a drawer by our bed I quickly found the locked metal container with the ammunition clip in it. The key to the container was taped to the top of the drawer. I worked it loose, opened the box, got the clip and fitted it into the .32. I got the flashlight from under the bed.

I glanced at Bev. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn under her chin.

I went into the hallway. I didn’t hear anybody. I couldn’t decide what was going on with Snake and Fat Boy. I thought about JoAnn and Sammy and another wave of fear went over me.

I crept down the stai doghtrs looking through the railing as I went. The house smelled strangely. My nose hadn’t been working too good because of the smell of piss on my face and because the house was tainted with Snake’s odor, but now I could smell something else.

Gasoline?

I stopped off at JoAnn’s door, tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. I turned on the flashlight. A little wedge of wood had been shoved in between the floor and the carpet. I pulled it out, opened the door and slipped inside.

I wanted to reach for the light switch, but was afraid to. I didn’t know what I might find. I touched JoAnn’s shape beneath the blanket. She was warm, but didn’t move. The blankets reeked with the stench of gasoline.

“JoAnn,” I said, and shook her. She rolled over and yawned and tucked her knees beneath her. I pulled the blanket off, cradled her against my shoulder with one arm so my gun hand was free. She was only partially awake, but clung to me like a monkey.

Beverly, wearing a shirt nightgown, startled me at the bottom of the stairs.

“The babies,” she said. Her voice wasn’t one I recognized.

“She’s all right,” I said.

“Sammy?”

“I’ll see.”

“They gone?”

“I think so.”

“Give her to me.”

JoAnn hardly moved when I passed her to Bev.

Bev said, “I smell gasoline.”

“Yeah. Stay here. Take this.”

I gave her the .32.

On the way to Sammy’s room, I turned on the living room light, found the .38 Snake had knocked out of my hand. Sammy’s door was wedged shut too. I kicked out the wedge and went inside.

I turned on the light this time. The odor of gasoline was big time. The blankets and the walls had been sloshed with it. The kids hadn’t even been disturbed.

I tossed the flashlight on the floor, put the .38 in my coat pocket and got Sammy out of bed. He said, “Daddy,” but stayed asleep on my shoulder.

Gasoline.

Me and Bev tied up.

The sleeping kids locked in their rooms.

It all came to me in a rush. I began to run.

I yelled, “Out of here! Now! Out!”

Bev hesitated momentarily, then bolted with JoAnn toward the front door. I rushed behind her carrying Sammy, and in that instant, the garage blew.

A bright red spray of light leaped from it with a sound like an atomic bomb. Pieces of the garage and the van scattered into the trees and the yares >“Yed. Then the glass front door fragmented behind me and flew at us and the hot blast knocked us through the railing and off the deck, dropped us ten feet to the ground.

I came down on top of Sammy and fragments of the railing and the glass door came down on top of me. Sammy awoke with a painful scream. I felt my back prick suddenly with heat. I leaped off of him and hit the ground rolling, putting out the fire and grinding glass into my back. I leaped up and dove for JoAnn who had broken from Bev and had one side of her pajamas pants on fire. I knocked her down and rolled her in the dirt and put her out to a chorus of screams.

I ripped what was left of her charred pants leg open and saw that her skin was only a little pink. Beverly was getting up from the ground. She clenched her fists and started to yell. No words. Just expulsions of rage. I saw the .32 lying on the ground near her. I picked it up and put it in my coat pocket with the .38.

Another eruption tore out the window in JoAnn’s room, and we ducked beneath a salvo of glass and wood fragments.

“No more,” Bev yelled. “No goddamn more!”

JoAnn broke suddenly for the house. “Fred,” she screamed.

I grabbed her. “Stay here,” I said.

I raced up the steps and onto the deck. A multi-forked tongue of flame licked at me from JoAnn’s bedroom window. I flinched away.

I looked at the front door. No help there. The doorway was nothing more than a gate to the inferno; flames coiled and writhed where the glass had been.

I darted down the steps, around to the side of the house where there was a little hill that rose up to JoAnn’s other window. I stood there panting for a moment not knowing what to do and certainly not knowing why I was doing it.

Big yellow streaks of lightning cracked the black dome of heaven and I could smell the ozone from the bolts and I could smell the fire and the things it had consumed.

Without realizing what I was doing, I jerked the screen off the window, used the butt of the .38 to beat out the window glass. I reached through, flicked the latch, felt the heat jump along my hand. I put the .38 in my coat pocket, shoved the window up, started hoisting myself inside.

Bev grabbed my by the leg before I could work completely through. “No,” she said. “No!”

I tugged away from her and fell inside. The heat hopped on me and clung. I rose up sweating. The far side of the room blazed. JoAnn’s bed was blown in half and the split mattress was roaring and jumping with fire. Sheets and blankets were twisting into ash. Flames danced against the wall and filled the open doorway and the place where the window had been. Fire writhed out from beneath the closed closet door.

The way JoAnn’s bed was blown, I realized there had probably been a gas can and a timer tucked under it. Rage went through me almost as hot as the fire that chewed and popped around me.

The fire showed me Fred. He was lying on the floor. One leg was being fondled by tiny yellow flames. I got him and beat the fire out against my leg, realized Bev was calling m walmost ase through the window.

“Hank. Get out. Hank. You jackass. Get out.”

Fred and I went through the window. I hit on the ground and rolled and I came up on a knee. Another blast of lightning. Cool rain splattered on my face.

Bev took Fred away from me, got me under the arm and jerked me up, pulled me away from the house. Before we had gone far, she turned suddenly and started hitting me with Fred. “He’s a teddy bear. A goddamn teddy bear. You idiot.”

I pushed her toward the pickup and yelled for the kids to follow. We began to run. When we reached the pickup our world went to pieces with a roar. We turned, saw it go as the back of the house blew and the third floor dropped down and a savage demon of flame stretched up from the center of the rubble and hissed at the rain, then nodded the tip of its orange-red head toward us as if in appreciation of the feast.

23

The rain slammed us as I drove to a convenience store not far from our house and parked beside the telephone booth out front and got out and dialed the fire department number written on the front of the phone. I smelled so bad from Snake’s urine and the smoke from the fire, I had to leave the door open so I could breathe. The rain sounded like pea gravel pounding on the booth. I got the fire department and gave our address and didn’t give my name. I had a great and growing distrust of authority these days. I wasn’t even sure the fire department wouldn’t arrive to put fuel on the fire, instead of putting it out.

My call had been mostly to prevent the woods from catching on fire and threatening our neighbors, because I knew the house was gone and no number of trucks and hoses could save it. Everything that had been precious and essential to us, except our lives, were gone. Photographs. Tax records. Insurance files. Clothes. The kids’ toys. Books. Albums. Birth certificates. Our dog. The gatherings of twenty years of marriage.

I got in the truck and Sammy said, “Daddy, what’s that smell?”

I didn’t answer. I rolled down the window and pulled away. I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know what to do about Fat Boy and Snake. I knew I wanted to kill them, but I didn’t know how, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to ever see them again. They had sent little evil things down inside me to jiggle my bones, play tunes on them I hadn’t thought could be played.

We hadn’t gone far when JoAnn began to cry, then it hit Sammy too. He suddenly realized what the flames had taken and he broke down.

“Ssssshhhhh,” Bev said. “It’ll be all right.”

“No. No it won’t,” I said. “It won’t ever be all right.”

I pulled over beside the road, opened the door to the front of the truck, wandered into a bar ditch and fell down on my knees. Water was roaring through the ditch and it soaked my pants. I bent my head into the brown rush and ran my fingers through the water and through my hair, trying to get the smell of Snake off me. I stuck my face under the water and came up screaming. The heavens beat my face with rain, flashed lightning and rolled thunder in response. Finally, I just leaned there on my knees and cried.

The kids were out of the truck now, calling, “Daddy,” and crying. I knew I should stop and get back in the truck and act strong, say it was all right and we’d get through everything, but I didn’t feel that way. I felt worse than that time with Arnold at the liquor store. I felt as if I should have my Southern manhood card revoked.

Bev came around front of the truck and yelled for the kids to get back inside, then she came over and got down on her knees in the water with me. She put an arm around my shoulders and kissed my ear and said, “It’s okay, baby. Don’t. Please don’t.”

“Goddamn me,” I said. “Goddamn me.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Come on, baby. I didn’t mean what I said. Really. I promise.”

She got an arm under one of mine, helped me get up, led me back to the truck. The kids were crying. I started the engine and watched the windshield wipers slap the rain. Bev put her hand on my wet knee. A small surge of strength and optimism stirred through me.

“It’s going to be all right, kids,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” Bev said.

“Yeah,” I said. I pulled onto the highway.

About two miles later the volunteer fire department passed us.

· · ·

We rode through the center of the city, out toward Lake Imperial. The storm grew stronger, causing the windshield wipers to struggle, then, as is often the case with East Texas storms, it blew out and was gone and the sky turned light and the moonlight filtered through the wet haze and purple shadows slanted across the truck like falling timbers.

Off in the distance, moving away like a train, I could hear thunder and see the now and then eruption of lightning.

“Where are we going, Daddy?” Sammy asked.

“A cabin,” I said.

I caught Bev’s eye out of the corner of mine and could see she was confused, but she didn’t say anything. I thought about her lying there on the bed with Snake on top of her, his horrible smell filling her nostrils, and then maybe Fat Boy, his weight on her, and I gripped the steering wheel so hard my forearms cramped.

We went up a high hill and dipped down on the other side. The trees were tall here and the moon appeared to be speared on the tops of the pines on the right hand side of the road. We went down the deep hill and JoAnn said that it got her stomach, and then she talked for Fred, who said much the same, and then we went around a bend in the road and on the right the tall trees went away and there were rows and rows of living Christmas trees in various sizes.

As if nothing had gone wrong tonight, Bev said, “Look kids, a Christmas tree farm.”

“Is that where we got our tree?” JoAnn asked.

“No, stupid,” Sammy said. “We bought ours from the Rottery Club.”

“Rotary,” I said. “And don’t talk to your sister like that.”

Just past the Christmas tree farm, we turned right, onto a red clay road. It was slick and dangerous and I slowed considerably. I turned us onto another, smaller red clay road and we drove up behind the Christmas tree farm, and went slower than before.

Through a break in the trees on our left, you could see a moon-shiny glimpse of Lake Imperial. All along that side of the lake were terribly expensive, deserted lake houses that had been built chiefly by out-of-town rich folks. The lots had suitably spaced trees, lawns kept by weekly caretakers, satellite dishes, and long, redwood docks that stuck out over the water and begged for boats. The smell of fish and storm-stirred waters drifted into the pickup and settled on us like a damp cloud.

On our right, the Christmas tree farm continued, then dwindled away and the pines grew up tall and wild again. Finally we came to the driveway I wanted. It had been black-topped at one point, but the years had worn the topping away. A little gully cut across the drive and sharp stones heaved out from under the black-top in spots, like subterranean monsters poking their snouts through the dirt in search of air.

Some bushes had grown up in the drive. I drove over them, and we came to a cabin much smaller than I remembered. It sagged a little to the right and had a long front porch with an old weathered swing glider on it. The cabin was at the top of a slope that fell off dramatically behind it. To the left, where the trees were thin, you could see the lake. The water was rolling and tumbling, as if on a high boil.

I parked near the front porch, got out and went up and felt for a key at the top of the door jamb, but didn’t find one. I went around back and was a little stunned to find a creosote fencepost sticking out of the ground with nails driven into it and empty wine and beer bottles with their necks stuck over the nails. The wind made a noise in the bottles like a big man blowing air through wide-spaced teeth.

A completely artificial bottle tree. Arnold’s old girlfriend had been here as well.

Farther down the bank, jutting over the lake, was a short, weathered dock. I remembered fishing off the dock with my Dad.

I tried the back door with no better success. I picked a pane in one of the windows and took the .38 out of my coat and beat the pane out with the butt of it and found that the back of the window had been covered with sturdy screen wire. I used the butt of the .38 to hammer on and loosen the wire at one corner, pushed it up and peeled it back enough that I could get to the latch and raise the window and work myself through.

I went through the house banging myself against things. I tried a light switch by the front door, but it didn’t work. I felt around the door until I found a latch. I threw it and opened up.

Bev brought the kids onto the porch. I went back to the truck and got the flashlight I should have carried in the first place, pulled the shotgun down, and even the ball bat. I removed the shells from the glove box and carried all of the stuff inside the cabin, and my family trailed behind me.

I put the shotgun, ball bat and ammunition on the floor next to the door, turned on the flashd oly traillight and poked it around. The place was dusty and smelled like mold. “Where are we?” JoAnn said.

“My Daddy’s old cabin,” I said. “Arnold’s place now.”

“Who’s Arnold?” Sammy asked.

“Your uncle,” I said.

“I have an uncle?”

“Shush,” I said. “Let me look around.”

I pooled the light around the front room, which was a combination den, dining room and kitchen. Everything had been redone from the way I remembered it, and I didn’t remember it that well. The linoleum buckled near the sink cabinet, and a spiderweb large enough to have supported one of those radioactive spiders in the kinds of movies Snake liked, was stretched from a wagon wheel light fixture over the warped table all the way to a moldy corner.

I opened a cabinet and discovered a row of ancient rust-rimmed cans with loose labels. The labels bore out that these were the last of the food goods. They read: Beets, Green Beans, Spinach and Pumpkin.

A midnight snack did not seem in order.

I went into the bedroom through which I had entered. The place was a mess. Old newspapers lay about along with a few beer cans. The blankets and sheets on the unmade bed were covered with dust and smelled dank. There were more blankets stacked on a dresser across the way.

The bathroom was off the bedroom, and the door to it hung slightly ajar off its hinges. The sink had a rust-colored stain around the drain. The toilet bowl was dark with dried urine stains and there was no water in it; there was the faint aroma one associates with unattended filling station restrooms. I pulled back the shower curtain and flashed my light into the tub. Enough thumb-sized roaches to have fed the reptile community of East Texas scurried down the drain. I tried the tub faucets and nothing happened. I tried the bathroom sink. Same results. I made an attempt to flush the commode. No water to flush.

I came back to the kitchen where Bev stood with a kid on either side. They were leaning against her.

“Daddy,” Sammy said. “What happened to the house? Why’d it burn down?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll worry about that another time. Right now you got to go to bed.”

“Daddy,” Sammy said. “Did all my stuff burn up? My comics and things?”

“Yes, son. Most likely.”

“Wylie?” Sammy asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He tried not to cry, but didn’t make it, and JoAnn followed suit.

“It’ll be all right,” I said.

I bent and hugged them, then Bev took over. I flashed the light on a door that led into a little storage room. I went inside and left the door open so Bev and the kids could see my flashlight jumping around in there. I figured any kind of light right now was a reassurance.a rins The room contained a box of bed clothes, cooking utensils and some rat shit. Against the wall was a hot water heater. Built into the opposite wall was a metal box. I opened the box. It contained electrical switches, a screw driver and a few fuses. I remembered Arnold said he kept the electric bill paid out here, so I made a little wish before I replaced a missing fuse and flipped a couple switches. The lights came on in the storage room and the kitchen.

I heard Sammy cheer.

Under one of the switches was a piece of white tape with faded black writing on it that read: pump. I flipped it and was rewarded with a humming noise.

I rejoined Bev and the kids.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad,” I said. “It’ll be like camping out, kids.”

Sammy and JoAnn got into the spirit of that. They asked about hot dogs on a stick over a fire, and I told them we didn’t have any hot dogs and it was time for bed.

While Bev talked them into that, I went outside and found the pump box, which was right next to the hose. I opened it up and looked inside and listened to the sound of the pump. It seemed to be humming right along.

There was a faucet that ran up one side of the well box. I turned it on. It coughed and sputtered and spat out some foul-smelling, rust-colored water that finally ceased to stink and turned clear.

I turned off the faucet and went back inside the cabin.

The light was on in the bedroom. Bev had shaken out the bed clothes and remade the bed. She was fluffing the pillows when I said, “I think we got water now.”

I went to the bathroom and flipped the light switch and was pleased when it came on. I turned on the tub and sink faucets and let the stained water sputter out of them for a while.

While that went on, I returned to the storage room and made sure the electric water heater was working. I turned it on and went into the kitchen. I looked under the sink and found some Comet and a sponge. I turned on the kitchen sink and let it run. I heard the toilet flush in the bathroom. JoAnn was coming out of the bathroom with Bev. We put JoAnn in bed, and before Sammy went to the bathroom, I cut off the bathroom faucets. When Sammy finished, we tucked him in with JoAnn and gave her her teddy bear and turned out the bedroom light, but left the bathroom light on and the door cracked.

Bev and I went into the kitchen, cut off the faucets, turned out the light and sat at the table, not looking at one another.

“I found some cleanser and a sponge,” I said. “I’ll elbow grease the bathroom when I’m sure the kids are asleep. I guess it doesn’t matter, but I think a shower would help both of us, and that tub’s on the nasty side.”

I remembered I had once given that advice to Bill. I was big on showers as therapy.

“All right,” Bev said.

“If I can find a toilet brush,” I said, “I’ll be in hog heaven.”

“This is Arnold’s place?”

“Yeah. I hope he’s okay.”

“I hope that Snake sonofabitch missed the credits to Mothra ’cause he took time to rape me.” Bev said, tried to laugh but broke down sobbing. “God, he stunk. He stunk so bad.”

Bev sobbed and I neither said nor did anything. I didn’t know what to say or do. Eventually, she grew silent and stretched her hand across the table without looking at me. I took her hand and held it for long time.

She said without lifting her head: “The fat one tried to rape me and couldn’t. It frustrated him because Snake laughed at him. He used the bottle on me.”

“God, Bev… I…”

“You couldn’t have done anything.” Bev lifted her head and turned sideways in her chair and didn’t look at me. “You needn’t think you could have because you couldn’t. I know that now. You couldn’t have done anything. I wanted you to do the impossible because I was scared and secretly I believe too many movies where the hero always makes a break at the last minute and does something to save his woman.”

“I certainly wasn’t much of a hero.”

“You went back in the house with it blazing to rescue Fred. A stuffed bear. You’re either a little bit of a hero or you’re plain stupid.”

“I had a gun, but Snake surprised me and took it away from me.”

“That’s beside the point, and you know it. Listen to me, Hank. You were actually very cool and tried to keep things under control best you could, and the best you could wasn’t good enough because no one’s best would have been good enough. We’ll see this through. The important thing is we’re all okay. And I love you.”

“I want to believe that,” I said.

“Believe it. Believe I love you.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Physically, a little. I’m cut… down there. But it’s not bad. I’ve stopped bleeding. We’re not going to the police, are we?”

“I don’t trust them.”

“When I quit thinking about me, I start thinking about the house. I feel sick.”

“I know.”

“You think that shower will work now?” Bev said.

“I’ll clean the tub some.”

“I’ll do it while I shower. I want something to do besides stand there under the water and think. I can think when I’m ready to think.”

Bev got the cleanser and the sponge, went into the bedroom and closed the door. I heard the water running in the bathroom a little later on, and I got up and made sure the doors were locked and checked on the kids and found them fast asleep. I listened to the water and thought about what Bev was washing away. Snake’s stink. Smoke. Blood. Sperm.

I got the shotgun outhest ast of the truck and put it on the kitchen table and stuck the .38 in my belt and turned my chair toward the window next to the table and pulled back the curtains and sat there waiting, trying to empty my mind, but reliving the whole thing over and over, watching the moon lie down on the trees until a dirty cloud in the shape of an opened mouthed hippopotamus floated out of nowhere and consumed it.

I awoke to Bev draping a blanket over me. She smiled down at me, and I felt better than I thought I could feel. She found one of Arnold’s old plaid shirts somewhere, and it was big enough on her it worked as a dress. She smelled like cheap soap.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s all right.” I sat up in the chair and curled the blanket into my lap. “I want to take a shower. Have I been asleep long?”

“Not long. An hour, perhaps. The water’s still cold. But I didn’t mind.”

I put the .38 on the table and got up and kissed Bev’s cheek and went and showered in the cold water for a long time. Longer than I would have been able to at any other time.

Except for my coat, I pulled my clothes into the shower with me and washed them with the cheap soap and hung them over the shower rod in the bathroom.

I dried on a damp yellowed towel Bev had laid out for herself, then found a half-bottle of alcohol in the medicine cabinet and a pair of fingernail clippers. I poured alcohol over the fingernail clippers, and used them to pinch broken glass out of me.

I cat-stepped into the bedroom and used the light from the bathroom to go through the dresser drawers. I found a couple pairs of khaki pants and another flannel shirt and some socks and several pairs of boxer shorts. I picked a pair of shorts decorated with biplanes, slipped them on and put on the pants and shirt. The pants and shirt were too big and long and I had to cuff the pants at the bottom and cinch up tight with my belt. The shirt sleeves I rolled up to my elbow. I carried my coat, socks and shoes with me, tiptoed silently back to the kitchen.

Beverly had made a pallet of blankets and had rolled up a couple of others for pillows. She was under the covers and had her back to me. From her shape beneath the covers, I could tell her knees were drawn up toward her chest. From the way she was breathing, I knew she was asleep.

I put the shoes and socks on a chair by the table and slipped under the covers with my clothes on and put my knees into the back of Bev’s knees. I lay the .38 at the head of my makeshift pallet, closed my eyes. Anxiety drifted me away.

24

I woke up mad and sick and wanting breakfast.

I rolled over and my body seemed to be made of baling wire and coat hangers. I sat up and listened to the birds singing and Sammy and JoAnn playing outside.

I collected the .38, got up, looked out the window and saw the kids run by in their night clothes. Down by the lake I could see Bev sitting on the dock, her back to me.

I put on my socks and shoes, washed my face at the kitchen sink, put the .38 in the waistband of my pants, and wentthesthei out back. The sun was bright and it was warm for October and the smell of last night’s rain was pleasant. The lake was less disturbed. It shimmered in the morning sunlight.

I spoke to the kids and kissed them and they went on playing, happy as if nothing bad had ever happened.

I sat down on the dock by Bev. She was wearing the other pair of Arnold’s old khaki pants. They were rolled up big time. Her shirt was hiked up where the butt of the .32 pushed at it. She looked cute and young, armed and dangerous. She scrutinized me and gave me a game smile, then let it go. We sat and stared at the water and listened to it lap at the pilings beneath us.

“A little better?” I asked.

“A little,” she said. “What’s odd is, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know if I’m in shock, mad, humiliated, or over it all. It’s like I’m waiting for another bomb to drop.”

“I know,” I said. “I am certain of one thing, though.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

· · ·

We all piled in the truck and I drove us back toward town, but not all the way. I stopped outside a little convenience store and Bev and the kids waited in the truck while I used some of my change to call information and get Virgil’s office and home number, then I called him at the office.

His secretary asked who was calling.

“Tell him Fat Boy’s cousin, Henry. Tell him the whole thing or he won’t know who I am. Tell him I need to talk to him about a fire insurance problem.”

“Could I have your last name, sir?”

“Just tell him Fat Boy’s cousin, Henry.”

She didn’t like that much, but she went away, and Virgil came back on the line.

“It’s me, Hank,” I said.

“I hoped so. Goddamn, boy, talk about the doo-doo hitting the fan. Hell, it’s being slung by a tornado. I thought you were fucking dead. Burned up. Or might be.”

“Virgil, I need help.”

“I’ll say. Where the hell are you?”

“A phone booth.”

“Your wife? Kids?”

“They’re okay. We’ve been through it, but we’re all okay.”

“Your brother with you?”

“No.”

“He’s up to his neck, too.”

“If he’s alive.”

“Then you know…”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Fat Boy’s in on this, I reckon?”

“Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting the rotund gentleman and his erstwhile companion, Cobra Man, known to me now more intimately as Snake. I met them just last night. They’re a couple of cut-ups, those two.”

“Man, the news is hopping around here. I got so many questions I don’t know where to start.”

“You can start when you bring us food. Right now I’m just about tapped, but if you could bring food for a few days and some money, I get out of this mess, I’ll pay you back.”

“It’s a big mess, Hank.”

“You saying I won’t pay you back?”

“I don’t give a shit you pay me back or not. I’m saying it’s a big mess. I get the impression you don’t know how big. See the paper?”

“No, and I haven’t had coffee either.”

“I’ll bring both. Where are you?”

“You wouldn’t do anything funny, would you Virgil?”

“Come on, man. You call me ’cause you thought I might?”

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

“That makes me feel good.”

“I’m short on social skills at the moment,” I said. “I seem to get edgy when my wife’s raped and I’m beat and my house is burned down. Not to mention my kids nearly being burned to death and my dog being gutted on the porch.”

“Shit, Hank. I’m sorry. I’m sick sorry.”

“Just bring you and no one else. But bring food and coffee.”

“I’ll bring the papers too. Not that they’ll cheer you.”

“At this point, I’m ready for anything.”

“No you’re not,” he said.

I gave him the location and hung up. I looked at the newspaper racks out front of the store, but I refrained. For the moment, I wanted to delay any more bad news, and I thought sight of me in my ill-fitting clothes might cause suspicion. My picture might be in the newspaper for all I knew. A guy behind the counter inside might see me and recognize me and try and do his civic duty and call the cops.

I went back to the truck and climbed in beside Bev. “Virgil’s coming,” I said. “And so is the food.”

“Hooray!” JoAnn said. “I could eat a bear’s ass.”

“JoAnn!” Bev said.

“Daddy says it,” JoAnn said.

Bev gave me the look.

“Just now and then,” I said.

· · ·

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By the time Virgil arrived, I was ready to open one of those ancient cans of beans or beets with my teeth. He showed up in a silver Cadillac, got out and waved at me as I came out on the front porch. He was wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt with silver ducks on it, blue jeans and white tennis shoes. The back seat of the Cadillac was full of sacks and boxes stuffed with food, utensils, soft drinks, beer, and a couple large bags of ice that would do until the old refrigerator had time to turn cool.

I shook hands with Virgil and introduced him to Bev, who was obviously embarrassed by being clothed in an oversized shirt and pants and being barefoot. I introduced him to Sammy and JoAnn, who didn’t care they were in their pajamas. They asked him what was in the sacks and boxes.

Virgil said, “Well, little folks, let’s take it on up to the cabin and see.”

Virgil, Bev and I unloaded the car and toted the sacks and boxes into the cabin.

Virgil looked around. “You just pick a cabin at random and break in?”

“My brother Arnold owns it.”

“Good. You got enough problems.”

There were a couple thermoses of coffee and some honey buns and milk, and we started there. The kids ate and then went back outside to play.

Virgil took a couple of newspapers from a paper sack and laid them on the table. One was our local paper, and the other was The Houston Chronicle.

“Bad news travels fast,” Virgil said.

“Give us the synopsis first,” I said. “Then we’ll read it firsthand.”

“All right,” he said.

We sat down at the table and I poured us coffee in the cups Virgil had brought. Virgil said, “It’s hard to know where to start.”

“Just start,” I said.

“Your house burning down is being reported as possible arson. By you.”

“Me?”

“It looks as if you burned your house down to possibly fake your death so you could escape the pornography charges.”

“Pornography charges?” Bev said.

“This morning, about the time your Main Street Store opened, it was raided by the police, following a hot tip, and guess what they found in the back? Videos of child pornography. Graphic stuff.”

“Raymond Sanchez runs that store,” I said. “He wouldn’t have anything to do with that kind of crap.”

“That’s what he said. He said he didn’t know the cassettes were back there. He says you brought some stock in not long ago and put it back there yourself.”

“I did bring some stock in. But it was just movies. Stuff that I bought second hand from Mark Flendie’s video store when he went out of business. Nothing special. I didn’t even tell Rayeven telmond to put them out.”

“That was Raymond’s story too,” Virgil said. “Now think how that sounds.”

“Like I hid the stuff.”

“And were selling to special customers. One customer supposedly heard through word of mouth you were renting and selling child pornography, and says he spoke to you about it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Says he made arrangements to rent a video from you for a hundred dollars. Says you came after hours, opened up and rented it to him. This witness, of course, works for the cops.”

“Fat Boy,” I said.

“It gets worse,” Virgil said.

“How could it?” Bev said.

“Seems your nephew left a note that incriminates you.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “He sure did. I have it.”

I removed the creased note from my wallet and told Virgil about my experiences out at Arnold’s trailer. I told him about the purposeful mistake of Bill referring to himself as William.

“Then, after he was dead, he got down and typed a new one,” Virgil said.

“Typed?”

“It’s been matched to the manual typewriter in Arnold’s bedroom. Note was written on the back of wrecking yard stationary. It says you and him and Arnold were into Satanism and child pornography. Said you even used your own children for it. Says he couldn’t take it anymore, so he was doing himself in. Oh, another little tidbit I haven’t mentioned. Arnold’s trailer was chock full of child pornography. Boxes of it. Pictures. Magazines. Video cassettes. According to the newspaper, even a very explicitly blown up photo of a child and a grown up in the act of anal intercourse was tacked on the bathroom door.”

“That sonofabitch, that goddamn sonofabitch,” I said. “It wasn’t there when I was, and that was after Bill was hanged.”

Virgil showed us a photo in the local newspaper of Arnold’s trailer. His truck was visible in the photo. Its tires weren’t flat.

“They went back and cleaned up,” I said. “Put new tires on the truck, probably the wrecker, so it wouldn’t look like an outside job. They saw the note was gone, wrote a new one with the typewriter. What about Arnold? Anything?”

“They might have caught up with him,” Virgil said. “And if they haven’t, they’re painting a pretty tight scenario here. Arnold could sing the truth all day and all night and no one would listen.”

“We’ve got cassettes,” Bev said. “The photo album. The note. Our experiences.”

“Your experiences are just your word against Fat Boy’s,” Virgil said. “He’s their trusted informant. Child pornography is a real problem right now. A hot topic. So’s Satanism. Fat Boy has built a good case. Nothing could have come down on you heavier. What you gr. What ot on your side is a photo album, and that might be your personal collection. You could have done all those murders, or knew about them, taken the photos yourself. Fat Boy can play it anyway he wants. The videocassettes? He could say he suspicioned the Doc had bad intentions and tried to set up a sting, but the Doc hired someone else before he was able to put his own plan into motion. Fact that it was Bill and his friends took the video could even add weight to Fat Boy’s story. He might have to backstory it better than that, find a way to throw the Doc to the wolves without getting anything stinky on himself, but as you see, he’s up to it. The other cassette helps their case. It shows Bill was into weird sex, paints him and his buddies as a bunch of freaks. The note Bill wrote, well, it could have been a note he wrote to you special. To let you know what he was planning. The William stuff, it’s not much. It might not be his legal name, but who’s to say he doesn’t go by it?”

“Virgil,” Bev said. “We had nothing to do with child pornography. Nothing.”

“I know that, lady. Fat Boy probably set that stuff up last night after he thought he took care of you. He was building that case against you no matter what. When it turned out you got away, he just worked that angle into his plans. The picture looks like this: You and Hank have been involved in child pornography. The cassettes confiscated at the Main store back that up. Supposedly Arnold and Bill had a falling out over the smut business, the Satanism stuff, something. They fought. Arnold took off, and Bill, remorseful about the whole undertaking, hanged himself, but not before leaving an incriminating note. Meanwhile, you two saw how things were going with your partners, panicked, burned your place down so you could take a powder.”

“They think we’re so stupid we’d burn the place down, then take off in the truck,” I said. “Wouldn’t that give us away?” .

“Papers imply you were trying to make it look like a burglary and murder. Trying to make the police believe the burglar took what he wanted, killed your family, then stole the truck.”

“They’ve done everything but hang us,” I said.

“We’ve been in this town, this community, for years,” Bev said. “People know us. Know we’re not like that.”

“Many do,” Virgil said. “I’m sure some are saying, ‘No way.’ But you want the sad truth? I think most, hell, maybe all, are saying, ‘You just never know, do you?’ Think about it. The TV and papers are full of this kind of shit all the time. About the next door neighbor who was well liked and very quiet, and what do they find but a bunch of babies buried under his porch with their buttholes stretched.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Bev said.

“Sorry,” Virgil said. “I’m trying to make a point, Mrs. Small. I’ll tell you flat, you’re ruined in Imperial City. You get Fat Boy to say he set it all up, and you’ll still be ruined. It won’t be remembered you were proved innocent. It’ll be remembered you were associated with child pornography. You might even have trouble going somewhere else, but you won’t be able to stay in Imperial City. I promise you that.”

“Nice of you to try and cheer us up,” I said.

“I don’t want to feed you any bullshit,” Virgil sa” Virgid. “The thing we’ve got to consider now is Fat Boy, and I think the way to go is to discredit him.”

“How?” Bev asked.

“Well, I’m working on that,” Virgil said.

· · ·

Virgil stuck with us that day. We mostly ate, drank coffee and soda pop and talked. The kids did all right until late afternoon, then they became bored and whiny and argumentative.

We decided on a cookout. We gathered dry limbs and set them up so a fire could be made. We took some of the paper sacks the groceries had come in, and tore them in strips and poked them through the gaps in our woodpile. I lit the fire and got some thin limbs from an oak tree, and Virgil sharpened the tips with his pocket knife. We got some weenies and hot dog buns, and cooked the weenies on them and made hot dogs without any fixings. By the time we’d eaten, it was solid dark.

Bev said: “Thanks, Virgil. You brought enough food for an army.”

“I eat like an army,” Virgil said.

The kids were wired, but Bev and I maneuvered them into the bathroom to wash their dirty feet, and got them off to bed with a minimum of fuss. When they were tucked in good, Bev and I joined Virgil at the kitchen table.

“Always wanted some kids I could fuss at and a wife I could yell at, and she could yell at me back, and we wouldn’t stay mad,” Virgil said. “You know, only kind of fights I ever had with wives were serious and led to divorce. We never argued about little things. My Dad always said, you can’t fight about piss on a goddamn toilet lid or a messed up toothpaste tube, you haven’t got a marriage. I think he was right.”

“Virgil,” Bev said. “Do we have a chance?”

“I’m involved, you’ve always got a chance. And on that note, I need to head back. Tomorrow, I’ll hit this problem running. You’re only safe here for little while. Someone will get to checking, discover Hank’s brother owns this place, and the cops will be here to investigate… Hank, why don’t we make sure that fire’s out before I go.”

I got a pan for splashing water onto the fire and we went out back to the weenie roast site. I used a stick to spread the coals while Virgil carried the pan down to the dock to dip water.

A moment later I heard him yell.

I looked up. A big man was wrestling him to the ground in front of the dock. Virgil was banging away with the pan, hitting the man on the side of the head, and having about as much effect as a mosquito dive bombing a mannequin.

I bolted down there and kicked the big man in the face and drove him back. He rolled and came up fast and hit me below the knees even as I remembered the .38 in my waistband and failed to draw it.

Suddenly the big man was on top of me and his fist was in my face. Virgil arrived with his pan and hit him on the side of the head. The big man twisted off of me and swarmed Virgil with a series of punches that laid Virgil on the ground, unconscious, still clutching his pan.

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I scrambled up and the two of us came together swinging. Then a chunk of shiny metal came out of the dark and punched against the side of the big man’s head, and Bev said: “You’re dead, motherfucker.”

“Hold it, hold it,” the big man said.

I hit her arm, drove the .32 up. The shot barked at the sky. I got hold of her wrist and twisted the gun out of her hand. “Don’t,” I said.

The big man carefully turned his moonlit face toward me. I hadn’t recognized him in the dark, but when he spoke, I knew who he was.

“Bev,” I said. “I’d like you to meet my brother, Arnold.”

25

I pried the pan out of Virgil’s grasp, which was only a little easier than amputating his hand at the wrist, took it down to the dock and dipped some water. I came back and poured it on Virgil’s face. His eyes fluttered. He said, “Goddamn.” Arnold and I got him under the arms and pulled him to his feet. We half-carried, half-dragged him to the cabin. Bev tagged along beside us with her .32.

By the time we reached the kitchen, Virgil was completely conscious, though I didn’t get the impression he wanted to show us any dance steps. We sat him in a chair, and me and Arnold found chairs for ourselves. Bev, the only currently uninjured party, leaned against the kitchen sink, the .32 on the counter beside her. I couldn’t tell from her face if she was relieved she hadn’t shot Arnold, or if she was disappointed it hadn’t been Snake or Fat Boy. Maybe it was a little of both.

Introductions were made without handshakes and we checked the damages and dabbed up with wet paper towels Bev provided. The pan had given Arnold some sizable knots on the forehead, and I had bloodied his nose. When he turned just right, the light on those knots made him look like one of those weird aliens on Star Trek.

Virgil had a headache and a swollen jaw. My sides and stomach were hurting from the punches Arnold had thrown. I’d had more damage done to me in the last few days than I’d experienced in a lifetime.

“Bubba,” Arnold said. “We gotta quit hittin’ on one another.”

“How in the hell did you get here?” I asked.

“You got anything to eat?” Arnold asked. “I’m so hungry I could suck the guts out of a gopher.”

We fixed Arnold a sandwich and poured him a soft drink. Bev said, “I almost killed you. I thought you were one of them.”

“And I thought you folks were them,” Arnold said. “I was pretty certain you and Hank were dead, and hell, I didn’t know Virgil here.”

“No real harm done,” Virgil said. “I can take it. I’ve been married four times.”

“I thought I’d finally reached some sanctuary,” Arnold said, “then you showed up, and I didn’t know you, and I didn’t recognize Bubba, and after what I been through, I lost it. I’m just so goddamn tired and weak I can’t think.”

“Been any less tired, you’d have killed me,” Virgil said. “You’re a strong sonofabitch.”

Arnold said to me, “I went by your house. You know what happened there, I guess?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We were home when the fire started.”

“The kids?”

“They’re okay,” I said. “They’re in there sleeping. Fat Boy and Snake gave us a visit. I know they gave you one. I went to your place before they came to mine. I saw what was done to Bill.”

“They were pros,” Arnold said. “I was taking a dump when they came up. Never even heard them, and the way I was stinking up the place, I didn’t smell that scummy bastard with the snake on his head till it was too late. I’d just finished wiping my ass, when Snake opened the bathroom door.

“I tried to take him, but he was fast, and there I was, literally caught with my pants down and my ass hanging out. He hit me with the butt end of a knife he was carrying.”

“I got a taste of that too,” I said.

Arnold chewed and swallowed the last of his food, said, “I got hold of one of his legs and tried to bring him down, and he whopped me some more with that knife hilt. Caught me just right. When I came to, I was in my living room lying on the floor with my ankles and wrists tied and my pants still down. Fat Boy was there. He had a .45 pointed at me.”

“It’s a sweet little instrument,” I said. “He’s showed it to me too.”

“Snake was doing some work on Billy. Had him bent over a chair with his britches down. They liked you with your britches down. Snake was using the hilt of his knife to do some business on Billy’s asshole. Sometimes he’d use his thumb under the base of his balls. I’ve never heard anyone scream like Billy screamed. Fat Boy said, anyone looked at Billy’s asshole later, they’d just think I’d been fucking him… I’m sorry, Beverly. I’m just trying to tell it straight.”

“It’s all right,” Bev said.

“You can bet pretty pronto quick Billy was ready to do what they wanted. They had him write a note. Then they took his belt, used my hammer and a nail they found somewhere, nailed the belt up, noosed it around his neck, made him stand on a chair while they asked him questions. They didn’t get what they wanted fast enough, Snake jerked the chair out from under him and let him dangle. I kept thinking that goddamn belt would tear leather, but it didn’t. It held. After Billy thrashed a bit, Snake would put the chair under him and Billy’d talk. He talked about you and me and himself and what we knew. I don’t blame him.”

“Me either,” I said.

“He held some things back. He did the best he could. I sat there on the floor with Fat Boy’s .45 in my ear trying to loosen the ties on my wrist without looking obvious while they hanged little Billy. I got strong hands and wrists. I figured I’d eventually get loose, but I didn’t know if I’d do it in time, and if I did do it, I didn’t know it would matter. Certainly didn’t matter for Billy. Snake pulled on Billy’s legs and rushed things along at the end. Not out of mercy. They were in a hurry.”

“Mothra,” Bev said.

“What?” Arnold said.

“We’ll explain later,” I said.

“Wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do,” Arnold said. “I felt like a piece of shit. The biggest coward ever walked the earth. I’ve always considered myself brave, but I didn’t do anything.”

“Join the club,” I said.

Arnold looked at me and nodded slowly. He could see by my face that I had indeed been there.

“Fat Boy had him a box of photographs and he took the pictures out and showed them to me while Billy was tortured. Like I’d be interested. Stuff with little kids having sex with adults or dogs. Lot of it had devil worship crap in it. You know, masks and knives and goofy outfits. Where does a man get stuff like that, and why would he want it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You know what the photographs were about?” Virgil asked.

“I got an idea,” Arnold said.

Virgil got the newspapers and gave them to Arnold. Arnold read while we waited. He cussed throughout the reading. When he finished, he slammed the newspaper down.

“That’s kinda what I had figured,” Arnold said. “They’ve got us sewed up tight, don’t they?”

“Any tighter and we’d have our balls in our mouth,” I said.

“I figured it was all over,” Arnold said. “But they got too confident. They wanted me to go into my bedroom. I realized that wasn’t going to be a lot of fun. I mean, I didn’t think they were just gonna tuck me in and read me a story. I figure they were planning on killing me in there, make it look like Billy done it before he killed himself. You know, snuck up on me in my sleep and stabbed me about forty-lebbin times.

“They told me it was Billy they wanted, and if I’d cooperate, they’d tie me up in the bedroom and leave me. I acted like I believed that horseshit, made a big deal about how that was okay with me, but I couldn’t go anywhere with my pants down and my ankles tied. They said they’d pull me up and I could hop, or they could drag me, and I said that was okay, but it’d be easier if I had my pants up and I could walk.

“Fat Boy thought he was gonna get a free ride out of me, no difficulty. He told Snake to cut my ankles free, then they yanked me up and Fat Boy pulled my pants up and fastened them. Just as he was finishing, I brought my knee up and hit him inside his thigh, and he went down. I jumped Snake. Did one of those wrestler kicks Daddy used to like to see them boys do on TV, you know, with both feet. I hit Snake in the chest and knocked him against the wall, rolled to my feet. The door wasn’t closed up tight, so I kicked it open and ran outside. Went through the carport and fell over the body of my dog. I was starting to get up when Snake showed.

“All this time I’d been tugging at getting my hands free, and they came loose. I grabbed one of my rod and reels off the wall and slapped it at him. He brought his hands up and blocked the rodocked th, but dropped the knife. I made a run for it out the back of the carport and Snake came after me. Fat Boy had appeared on the scene, because I heard Snake yell at him not to shoot me cause I was his and he was gonna skin me.

“I heard Snake coming after me. I still had the rod. I turned and cast the line and hit Snake in the face with a hook and jerked back on the line hard enough to pull his feet out from under him. I let go of the rod and ran and Fat Boy decided he didn’t care what Snake wanted. He fired a couple of shots at me. I don’t think they were even close. I looked back once and seen Snake coming again, Fat Boy waddling behind him, blowing like a bull, and finally giving it up to put his hands on his knees and breathe. Then I wasn’t looking anymore and was over the creek and Snake never did catch up with me. I bellied down in the grass on the far side of the pond and gradually drifted back into the woods. I heard Snake stomping around out there, and I thought about trying to take him, but I wasn’t sure Fat Boy wouldn’t show up. I can wrestle a nut, but a .45 I prefer not to tangle with.

“After a little while I quit hearing Snake, and a couple hours later I eased out of my hiding place and went back toward my trailer. I stopped by the barn and found they’d slashed the wrecker’s tires. I couldn’t make myself go back up to the trailer because I figured they might be waiting.

“I walked back through the woods and worked my way over a couple miles to old man Crater’s place and hot wired and stole his truck. I felt bad taking it, but I was in a tough position and had to do something. I didn’t want to ask him for it, because I didn’t want to pull him into things. So I crept around in his yard like a common thief and stole it.”

Arnold turned his attention to me, “I figured you were in trouble, so I drove over to your place, only there wasn’t any place. I could see smoke from the road. I parked up a ways, walked along the edge of the creek on your neighbor’s side and took a look. I could see fire trucks and a couple of cop cars and what was left of the house. The firemen might as well have brought along a crate of Jiffy Pop and a book of camp songs.

“Bubba, I thought y’all were done for, so I went back to the truck and started out here but ran out of gas a few miles back. I pushed the truck off the road and hid out in the woods today and slept best I could with it wet as it was, then worked my way over here when it was night. I figured I got here I could rest enough to organize my thoughts, and that’s when Virgil came down to the water with the pan. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I went for him, and you know the rest.”

I caught Arnold up on what happened to my family and what Virgil had told us. I told about what they did to me, and almost did to the kids, but I didn’t quite tell it all. When I didn’t, Bev told him about the rape. She said she wasn’t going to hold anything back. She told it straight and calm, as if it didn’t matter.

When she finished, Arnold said: “All I got to say is what they say in Zen. ‘When someone violates you, you back off, find your center, and make sure that cocksucker has drank his last Coca-Cola.’ ”

“That doesn’t sound like Zen to me,” I said.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Arnold said. “But the essence is, I think the law isn’t the answer here. It’s the law that’s burying us. Inch by goddamn inch.”

“The law is the only way out,” Virgil said.

“No offense, Virgil, but my faith in the law ain’t so big right now,” Arnold said.

“I’m not a purist,” Virgil said. “But there might be a way to make the law work for us.”

“How’s that?” Bev asked.

“Instead of making the law do what’s right,” Virgil said. “We’ll make it do what’s wrong.”

“Sounds like some of Arnold’s Zen,” I said.

“Let me translate that to American bullshit tomorrow,” Virgil said. “I might have some answers then. Right now I’m going home to take some aspirins, think on it, and go to bed. Goodnight.”

· · ·

After Virgil left, we found some blankets for Arnold and he took them out to the truck. He said he felt more comfortable sleeping there. But I knew he was just being polite, trying to give me and my family some privacy. I wondered why I ever thought he was an asshole. I was an asshole.

Arnold didn’t go to sleep right away. He came back in and Bev sat up with us in the kitchen a while and listened to us talk, but her mind began to drift. She made her pallet on the floor, and Arnold and I went out on the front porch and sat on the swing.

Arnold said, “That’s a good woman. Smart. Good looking. Foolish enough to marry you.”

“I know,” I said. “She’s tough too. She ought to be in shock.”

“She might be,” Arnold said. “I am. But we’ll pull through. Goddamn Smalls always pull through.”

“Till they’re dead,” I said. “That slows them down.”

“Yeah, that slows us,” Arnold said.

The wind made music in the bottle tree out back. “I hear your tree,” I said.

“Yeah. Kinley liked those things. I wish she’d liked me better. Bubba?”

“Yeah.”

“You know how this will end up?” Arnold said.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll have to kill them.”

26

When I awoke early morning my arm had gone to sleep from Bev lying on it, but I didn’t move it. I tried to think about something else. I didn’t want to disturb her.

The weather had changed again, and this time it was very cold and the wind had to have died down, because I no longer heard it in the bottle tree. I lay there and watched my breath turn to little puffs of vapor. I began to blow my breath out hard to see how long the puffs stayed white. It wasn’t a job I felt strained my intellect, but it was something to do.

Bev said, “What are you doing, strange peroson?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, but you were blowing on me.”

“I’m sorry. I was playing.”

I heard a car pulling into the drive. I rolled out of bed, scooping my .38 off the floor. I opened the door a crack and looked out. It was Virgil.

“It’s okay,” I said to Bev.

I pushed the .38 into my waistband and covered it with my shirt, went out on the porch and watched Virgil get out of the Cadillac. He had a bulky package under his arm.

A little dog with enough hair on it to weave into a couple of arctic sweaters jumped out of the Caddy and sat next to Virgil’s right shoe. Virgil reached down and patted the dog. That pat gave the impression of a tremendous chore. Virgil moved slow and tired. His hair was a mess. With the exception of a light beige jacket, he had on the clothes he had worn last night.

“Sorry I’m so early,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “Come on in. We’ll make some coffee.”

“Put some goddamn dynamite in it,” he said. “I need it.”

The pickup’s door opened and Arnold slipped out of it, causing Virgil and the dog to spin. I had given Arnold the shotgun last night and he was holding it. He looked pretty ominous.

“Damn, boy,” Virgil said to Arnold. “Don’t go sneaking up on me like that.”

“Nobody’s sneaking,” Arnold said.

The dog went over and peed on Virgil’s front tire.

“My partner’s dog,” Virgil said. “Partner screws my wife, his dog pees on my car.”

· · ·

I made coffee and broke out a package of granola bars, and me and Bev and Virgil and Arnold had breakfast. The kids were still sleeping. The little dog laid down by the door with its head on its paws. Bev gave him a piece of bread and he ate it.

“What’s his name?” Bev asked.

“Poot,” Virgil said.

“That’s a mean name for a dog,” Bev said.

“Dog looks like he belongs on the end of a mop handle,” Arnold said.

“He likes to ride,” Virgil said. “He’s got his good points. My partner and him will probably get married some day.”

Virgil tossed the package on the table. “Some clothes. Couple of outfits that belonged to one of my ex-wives. They ought to come close to fitting you Beverly. There’s some stuff in there for you guys too. I didn’t have any kid’s clothes, but I bought a few from Wal-Mart. I think they’ll fit close enough. I got them some slip on tennis shoes too. Couple rounds of underwear.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Bev said.

“You’re back a lot earlier than I expected,” I said to Virgil.

“Time I got home last night I was wide awake,” Virgil said. “I did some serious thinking, came up with some ideas, and this morning I called my partner in on it.”

“Christ,” Arnold said. “Another apple in the basket.”

“Yeah, and a rotten one too, but he’s necessary,” Virgil said. “After I called him, I called the Chief of Police.”

“Goddamn, Virgil,” I said. “You fucking idiot.”

“We got to get out of here now,” Arnold said. “They’ll be on us like a wet T-shirt on titties.”

“Calm down,” Virgil said. “I didn’t tell him where you are. I gave him what background I thought he needed to know. About Doc and all. We’re going to meet with the Chief to talk.”

“No we’re not,” Bev said.

“Just let me lay it out,” Virgil said. “I got to thinking, the cops, they don’t know what we got, right? Remember what I told you about the Chief, Hank?”

“He looks good on paper, but has had some problems,” I said.

“Right,” Virgil said. “I started adding things up. The Chief’s got to know his Fat Boy isn’t a do-gooder, knows he’s padded a case here and there, and there’s been some complaints. But he probably doesn’t know the degree to which Fat Boy will go. Or say he does. Say the bottom line is Price is the kind of guy who’d pistol whip a puppy, but that’s not the image he wants to present. It gets out Fat Boy’s done what he’s done and he works for Price, and isn’t even a cop… Well, it’s enough to make a Chief with political ambitions nervous. And he’s got ambitions. Knowing that, I think we should go see Mr. Price.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“It’ll be all right,” Virgil said. “I’ve made some arrangements, and I’ve indicated we have a lot of nasty evidence that points to him indirectly. I’m playing my hand like it’s full of aces.”

“And if he bluffs?” I asked.

“I think I’m the better poker player,” Virgil said. “I expect you to be good too, play your hand close to the vest. Tell him what we have, not what we don’t have. You game?”

“I don’t like it,” Bev said.

“Me either,” Arnold said. “So he believes us? He’s better off fucking us instead of Fat Boy. Fat Boy knows where too many of the bodies are buried, cause he put them there.”

“We get to that point,” Virgil said, “we deal a second hand. That’s why all of you aren’t coming in to talk. Just me and Hank. I’ve brought some official papers that make me your lawyer, Arnold, and something a little better than a paper sack for you, Hank. We’ll back date the stuff. I want to show Hank approached me before all this hit the fan. We’ll lie a little for Arnold. It’s best we cover everyone’s ass. We get tass. We hat done, we’re ready for the next step. Chief Price.”

“I still don’t like it,” Bev said.

“Look at it this way,” Virgil said. “It’s a plan, and not a bad one. And even if it isn’t that good, consider the alternative. Hiding out. Having your names dragged through the mud.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go. When do we do it?”

“I’m going to take Poot out for a short walk,” Virgil said. “And while I do, you folks sign the papers sanctioning me as your attorney. Then Hank, you and me leave.”

27

As Virgil drove I listened to the car heater blow and watched the countryside race by. It was the same basic countryside I’d known most of my life. Land razed of a lot of its natural foliage by idiots with chainsaws and a bad game plan, but the same country. The sun still rose above it and sunk hard enough in the West to bring the moon up in the East. Yin and Yang. But I was reminded somehow of that old book and film Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Everything looked the same, but wasn’t. It was as if alien beings had taken over the world I knew overnight. Leaving in its place one where law and order did not exist; was nothing more than an illusion. Where the alien-occupied husks of human beings had an agenda I could never have expected. It was like the whole world was against my family and me, wanting to pull us in and steal our humanity and make us like them.

“You packing?” Virgil asked.

It took me a moment to realize what that meant. I hadn’t seen a gangster movie in a while. “Yeah,” I said.

“Put it in the glove box. I don’t want any mistakes.”

Poot had crawled over onto my lap, and I moved him and took the automatic out of my waistband and put it in the glove box. “Where are we going?” I asked. “This isn’t back to town.”

“Captain Paranoid,” Virgil said. “You think I’m double crossing you?”

“I think damn near anyone but my family could be double crossing me.”

“That hurts.”

“As I said yesterday, my social skills are not presently at their peak.”

“We’re going out country, Hank. We’re not doing this in town where we can be recognized. What Price is doing isn’t exactly sanctioned by the Police Department.”

“I was beginning to think anything could be sanctioned by the Police Department.”

“Actually,” Virgil said, looking at his watch, “they do it right, anything can. Don’t pet the dog, okay? He’s on duty.”

· · ·

We came to the edge of a little community where there was an abandoned airport. The airport had been for small planes. Out on one of the three tiny, grassy runways was an old prop plane tilted on its side so that a warped and cracked wing supported it.

Beyond all this was deep woods.

Parked near the airplane was a sleek, black Plymouth. The shadow of the plane fell over the Plymouth. We drove through the open gate. A man got out of the Plymouth and stood beside it, hands folded together in front of his crotch.

“He could kill us and no one would be the wiser,” I said.

“Yes they would,” Virgil said. “My partner knows about this. I’m not a fool, Hank. I made copies of the videos too. I made color photocopies of the photo album. I got a few other snakes in the hole, too.”

We pulled up in front of the Plymouth and got out of the Cadillac and stood beside it. Poot stayed inside. The heat from the car fled away from us and the chill morning air embraced us. The man standing beside the Plymouth looked at us. He was handsome and trim and well dressed in a gray three piece suit. He wore a dark grey tie with thin red stripes and had on shiny shoes the color of fish scales. His dark hair looked as if the wind wouldn’t bother it. I had seen his photograph in the newspaper many times. It was our local publicity hog and Chief of Police, Mr. Price.

We walked over and Virgil said, “Que paso?”

“Fuck you,” Price said. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Virgil said. “I stopped to buy a lottery ticket. You know my friend here, Mr. Small,” Virgil said.

“Let me check you,” Price said.

Virgil lifted his arms and moved close to Price and Price frisked him.

I took my turn.

“Okay,” Price said. “Feed me the bullshit.”

“I need to get something out of the car,” Virgil said.

Price reached inside his jacket and took out a shiny blue .38 Special and cocked back the hammer for dramatic effect. It was a good drama. The click of that hammer sounded as loud as the breaking of a bone. “Go right ahead,” Price said. “Do it polite.”

Virgil grinned at him and went to the Caddy and opened the door and let Poot out. Poot sat down beside the car and waited on Virgil. Virgil got what he wanted out of the car and came back with it and Poot came with him and got between me and Virgil and sat down.

Price nodded at the dog. “That your son?”

“Nephew,” Virgil said.

Virgil gave Price the stuff. Price put the cassettes on the hood of the Plymouth. He looked at the copy of the photo album very slowly. He managed to hold the .38 in one hand while he did it. His face had about as much expression as the front of his Plymouth.

Price put the photo album copy on the Plymouth next to the cassettes. “That’s it? Pictures of dead people? That’s supposed to make me tremble?”

“You know a lot of those people, don’t you?” Virgil said.

“I might have recognized a couple.” a coupl Price said.

“Let’s cut the cat-and-mouse crap,” Virgil said, “or we don’t deal directly with you. We go to someone else.”

“So I know a few,” Price said. “I didn’t kill them. But I was a certain kind of guy, you came to me with this shit, talked the way you’re talking, trying to tie me in with this garbage, they’d find you two and that ugly dog out here with holes in your heads.”

“We get a hangnail, the dog comes down with distemper, that stuff goes out. This stuff and some more.”

Price considered that a moment. He managed the hammer of the .38, closed and put it away. “What’s some more?”

“That’s our ace in the hole,” Virgil said.

Price looked at me. “You talk for yourself, or just when he’s got his arm up your butt hole.”

“I talk,” I said. “You want to hear me talk? I’ll talk. You fuck with us, we’ll bury you and your career under six-thousand pounds of horseshit.”

“You’re a pornographer, Small,” Price said. “You got murders tied to you. I don’t know you didn’t murder your own nephew. I understand you’re a fucking Satanist.”

“You don’t believe that,” I said.

“Why would I believe you over my sources?” Price said.

“Fat Boy?” I said. “Snake?”

“Snake?” Price said. “I don’t know Snake.”

“I don’t think his Mama named him that,” Virgil said. “Describe him, Hank.”

“I did.”

“Maybe,” Price said.

“Right,” I said. “There’s lots of guys fit that description. East Texas is stuffed with fuckers fit that description.”

“Let that hold,” Virgil said. “Thing is, we need to get rid of these guys, and we need to pin what’s been done on them, because they’re the ones done it, not Hank.”

“Let’s say I’m with you,” Price said, “and I want to nail Fat Boy, this Snake character. How do I do it? I can’t see a way that fits in with the law.”

“You been forcing square pegs in round holes all along,” I said. “Since when’s it got to fit?”

“It’s got to look like it fits,” Price said.

“Think it over,” Virgil said. “I’ll call you tonight. Have a plan.”

“Might take more time than that,” Price said.

“You have a plan,” Virgil said. “One we like. Something clears my man here and his family. His brother Arnold. His nephew’s name. You got to see Fat Boy and Snake go down and don’t come up. You got to call the law dogs off Hank and his family from here on out.”

“You want a lot,” Price said. “Especially when I don’t have to give you anything.”

“Come on,” Virgil said. “There’s a cloud on Fat Boy and it’s getting darker. Am I right?”

“There’s been problems,” Price admitted.

“You want to phase him out, don’t you?” Virgil said.

“I guess so,” Price said.

“You’ll do what’s necessary to do that?” Virgil said.

“I always do what’s necessary,” Price said. “What is this? Twenty fucking questions?”

“Just wanted to get it recorded for later, you turn on us,” Virgil said. “This way, we go in the toilet, you go with us.”

“You don’t have a wire,” Price said.

“No,” Virgil said. “But the dog does.”

Price looked at Poot, then back to Virgil. He bent forward and grabbed Poot by the fur on his neck. Price pulled a couple of concealed wires out of Poot’s fur, ran his fingers along the wires till he came to where they connected at Poot’s collar.

“Goddamn hairy shit ball,” Price said.

Price jerked Poot up on his hind feet and unfastened the collar and peeled it off, bringing the wires with it and some of Poot’s fur. Poot yipped, bit Price on the hand; a quick snapping bite that broke the skin. Price jerked up and kicked out. Poot took a shoe under the snout, rolled and yelped.

“Hey,” I said. “That’s enough of that.”

Poot got up and skulked over to sit by the Cadillac. He looked betrayed.

“You fucked me,” Price said. He took out the .38 again. Price didn’t bother with the drama of cocking back the hammer this time. He pointed the gun at Virgil.

Virgil said, “My partner, in the trees there, has got everything on tape. You can’t get to him before he’s gone. And like I told you, something happens to us, the news goes out.”

“I don’t believe you got a partner,” Price said. “That wire was bullshit.”

“Yeah?” Virgil said. “Watch this.”

Virgil stepped away from the Plymouth and the plane. He waved his arms toward the distance woods. A moment later there was the sound of a revolver popping in the air.

Price slowly put the .38 away. He said, “You lied to me, Virgil.”

“Whatta you expect?” Virgil said. “I’m a goddamned lawyer.”

28

We drove away from the airport in a direction opposite the one we needed to go. When we were a couple miles down the road, Virgil pulled over and got out of the car. Poot jumped out after him and peed on a pine tree.

I pulled my .38 out of the glove box and put it back where it belonged and got out of the car. I was steamed, even though the air was cool.

Virgil’s face was covered in sweat. He spread his feet wide apart and placed both hands high on the pine Poot had pissed on and did a couple of push ups against it. He took a deep breath, turned his back to the tree, and rested against it. He said, “How’d I do?”

“Good,” I said. “I was scared to death. I thought he might call our bluff.”

“Poot would have protected us.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “You didn’t tell me he was wired.”

“I didn’t know how you’d do,” Virgil said. “I didn’t want you looking nervous, maybe giving us away. I wired him before we left, while you were filling out the papers I brought.”

A man in a brown four wheel drive Dodge pulled over behind the Cadillac. I reached under my shirt and touched the butt of the .38 as he opened the door of the truck and got out.

“It’s all right,” Virgil said. “That’s my partner. Tim Mayday.”

Tim was a dark wiry guy dressed in tweed pants and jacket. He even had on an Irish style tweed hat.

“Goddamn,” Tim said as he came up, bouncy as a kangaroo with a hot foot. “Man, I could hear that bastard’s asshole puckering from where I was. I bet he’s got some stains in his undies. How’s Poot, man? He all right? Say, Hank, I’m Tim Mayday. You guys did all right. Where’s Poot?”

“He’s off in the woods,” Virgil said. “Probably taking a dump. He’s got a little case of nerves.”

“Hey, for a minute there,” Tim said, “I thought he might pop you guys, you know. I was glad I was recording. Popped you, I’d have it on tape. I was scared as hell about Poot. I don’t know I’ll let him go with you anymore, Virg. Oh yeah, Hank, shake.”

Tim stuck his hand at me and I shook. It was a limp shake and he was letting me pump his arm like it was a rag. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Virgil. “Your wife, she says howdy. She’s at my place.”

“I know,” Virgil said.

“Hey, I just fucked her that one time,” Tim said. “She’s just staying with me. She’s doing some Arab guy runs a convenience store. Over where Fifth meets Main. I don’t let them do it at the house, though. They got to go to his place. Rent a motel. Whatever it is they do. I got some sense of honor.”

“You got the honor of a shitfly,” Virgil said.

Poot came out of the woods, went over to Tim with his tail wagging. Tim bent and gave the dog a pat. “Hey, doggie. Good doggie. Almost got your ass blown off, didn’t you, doggie?”

Virgil said, “Let’s make the next move.”

The next move was we went back to the cabin. The kids were up and playing, dressed in the clothes Virgil had brought. Arnold had changed too. He wore a green Hare a grewaiian shirt with blue pineapples and blue jeans. Beverly had on her offering, a simple blue blouse and blue jeans. The blue jeans fit her a little tight in the ass.

Introductions were made so everyone knew who Tim was. The kids went off to play with Poot out back. They loved his name and kept calling him that. Virg and I told Bev and Arnold how things had gone. Virgil thought for insurance’s sake we should move. Just in case Fat Boy and Snake figured some things out and came calling. He said he and Tim had made arrangements. They helped us pack the groceries and get out. We drove around to the other side of the lake in a kind of caravan, Tim and Poot leading the way in his truck, me following in my truck with Bev and the kids, Virg bringing up the rear, Arnold riding with him.

We came to a massive three story house with about six zillion rooms and a garage big enough for a family of four to live in. The top of the house was made up like an observatory and was mostly glass. Nearby was a satellite dish about the size of a flying saucer.

We got out of our vehicles and gathered out front of the place and took it all in. The kids went down to the dock with a warning from Bev to be careful. Poot followed after, bouncing like a ball.

“Short trip,” I said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said. “I found out you was on the lake yesterday, I already started thinking about this place.”

“Yours?” Bev asked.

“Naw,” Virgil said. “Not Tim’s either. We make good money, but we don’t make this kind of money. Not even together. God working full-time don’t make this kind of money.”

“Client of mine owns it,” Tim said. “Runs some drugs now and then. Guns. Whatever’s needed. Does it for one of the bean eatin’ nations. I’ve got him off the hook a few times when the local drug boys practically had his balls in their hands.”

“In other words,” Bev said, “he was guilty.”

“As hell,” Tim said. “Technicalities can do wonders though. I can find a technical fuckup in damn near anything. But my boy’s gone for a few months. Working a deal, I figure. He gives me a key when he leaves. I come out here now and then and noodle with the boats. He doesn’t care. He knows he’s going to have more trouble some time or another. He likes to keep me happy.”

I called the kids over and Poot came running after them. Tim cut off the house’s elaborate security system with a key that fit in a lock behind a movable brick outside the garage. We went into the garage through a side door, past a red Corvette and a Mercedes and on into the house. It was massive.

We looked around a bit, then brought the groceries in and put them away. Tim assigned the kids, Arnold, Bev and me bedrooms. The rooms were so far in the back of the house, I thought I ought to drop some bread crumbs so I could find my way back to the front door.

“Use what you want,” Tim said. “He doesn’t care. We finish, I’ll have everything fixed up like it was.”

· · ·

That night, about eleven-thirty, Virgil call, Virgiled Price at home. Price agreed to meet us. He said he had a plan. Virgil gave him directions to a meeting place. Arnold’s cabin. Virgil decided just me and him should go.

I kissed Bev and the kids goodbye and hugged Arnold. Poot wagged his tail and Tim got a beer out of the refrigerator and turned on the living room television. He was the sentimental sort.

Virgil and I took the big boat over to the other side of the lake, over to Arnold’s cabin. We docked, got off the boat and walked out back of the place and around. The air was cool and sharp and the wind was hooting in the bottle tree.

Price heard our boat motor and came around and met us at the side of the house. He was dressed in a different suit than before, but it was too dark for me to tell much about it.

“Que paso,” said Virgil.

“You didn’t say you’d be coming by boat,” Price said. “You’re on the other side of the lake, huh?”

“Our network is large and devious,” Virgil said.

“Nice boat,” Price said.

“Can’t see that much of it in the dark,” Virgil said.

“Any boat’s a nice boat when you don’t have one,” Price said.

“Man of your nature,” I said. “I figure you’ll have a boat in time.”

“Same way I figure it,” Price said. “All right, this Snake guy. I got him figured. He’s too strange to be anyone but Tommy Ray Mault, Fat Boy’s cousin.”

“That’s sweet,” Virgil said.

“The whole family’s full of sugar,” Price said. “They’re sweeter than me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Virgil said. “I get sugar diabetes just looking at you.”

“Tommy Ra… Snake. He’s supposed to be dead. Records say he is, but…”

Price reached inside his coat and came out with a photograph and a penlight. He handed them both to me. I turned on the light and looked at the photo. It was Snake holding an arrest number card. He looked his same special self, except a little younger.

“That’s him,” I said.

“Yeah,” Price said, taking back the photo and the light. “Story goes they let him out of his last Huntsville stretch early on account of his stink. Nobody could stand him. Got some kind of disease makes his sweat smell like something dead. Gets worse as he gets older. He had him any dates, he must have had ’em in grade school.”

“How is it he was thought to be dead?” I asked.

“Third time he was supposed to go up, this time for raping some girl over in Busby, girl’s daddy came to the court house and decided to be the Lone Ranger. He knew they were moving Tommy, and he knew they’d be bringing him out of the courthouse in irons and under guard. He jumped out of hiding and tried to pop Snake with a .22 pistol. Missed the fucker near pointer near blank and put one in a deputy’s ear. Other deputy wiped his partner’s brains out of his eyes and shot a hole in Daddy’s chest, and while he was beading up for another round, Tommy Ray put the smoke on the deputy and got his gun. Shot him dead and put a couple in Daddy. Not that Daddy really needed them. The deputy’s shot had punched out some parts.

“Snake got away wearing leg irons, stole a cop car. They found the car later, abandoned. Month after that some guy was discovered in a stolen car alongside the road. He was burned to a cracker, but his cousin, Fat Boy, identified the body as that of Tommy Ray. Supposed to have been a suicide. Coated himself in gasoline, sat in the car, and put a match to himself.”

“What about dental records?” I said.

“What about them?” Price said. “Had a positive I.D. on him from the only relative ever had anything to do with Tommy Ray. Cousin ought to know him. Right? It was near Busby, Fat Boy’s territory. No one questioned him. They took him at his word.”

“Sounds to me,” Virgil said, “you know Fat Boy’s methods pretty well for someone yesterday didn’t know nothing.”

“Fat Boy could do what he wanted long as he didn’t track shit in my house,” Price said. “He’s got it on my rug now.”

“Who was the body they used for Snake?” I asked.

“Someone who hasn’t wrote home lately,” Price said. “Or they dug a fresh corpse out of the cemetery and burned it. No telling. That’s not our problem. That doctor you told me about. The plastic surgeon. We’re going to his place. A little late call.”

“All of us?” I asked.

“You said have a plan, so I got a plan,” Price said. “You gonna play or not?”

“We’ll play,” I said.

“You didn’t bring the dog, did you?”

“It’s his night off,” Virgil said.

“Good,” Price said. “I hate fucking dogs.”

· · ·

Price drove us there in his Plymouth. We arrived after midnight. We parked at the curb and went up the walk with Price in the lead. Price rang the doorbell. It took a while for the porch light to come on. There was a voice contraption in the door and a voice talked to us through that.

“Who is it?”

Price took out his identification and held it up so it could be seen through the spy glass in the door.

“Doctor Benjamin Parker?” Price asked.

“Yes,” said the voice.

“Open up,” Price said. “Police.”

While we waited under the glow of the porch light, I took a good look at Price’s suit to pass the time. It fit beautifully. It was dark blue. The shirt was grey. The tie was dark blue with thin gray lines. It had a ks. It hanot tied in it about the size of a plum. He wore expensive gray socks. The shoes had a bluish cast to them. A moth, perhaps attracted to the mousse on his hair, circled his head a few times then dove for the porch light and fluttered.

Doc opened the door. He was dressed in a black silk robe and black house shoes so stylish he could have worn a tie with them and gone to church.

Price pushed past Doc and went inside. We followed. Doc closed the door, said, “What’s this about? Have I done something?”

A young woman with sleepy eyes, wearing a shorty, white, silk robe well filled by her breasts, stepped out of an open doorway. She also wore pink bunny slippers, with ears. She looked as timid as a deer. She called the Doc’s name. He said, “Go back to bed, sugar. It’s business.”

“Emergency nose job,” Price said.

“Oh,” said the young woman, and went away.

“Time to change her diaper?” Price said.

“What?” Doc said.

“How old’s she?” Price asked.

“Nineteen,” Doc said. “She looks young for her age.”

“Yeah, like maybe she just got off the baby formula,” Price said. “’Course, those tits are plenty mature.”

“Look, Chief,” Doc said. “That’s right, isn’t it? Chief? The girl’s nineteen. Check it out. Someone’s given you a bum steer, if they’re telling you she’s underage.”

“That isn’t it,” Price said. “Let’s go somewhere and sit down.”

Doc looked at me and Virgil, trying to determine our part in all this. We didn’t offer to fill him in. He said, “This way.”

The room he took us into was the room Bill had described. The one with the long table and the big windows. There was a huge piece of plywood covering one of the windows. Price noticed that, looked at me and Virgil. I presumed Virgil had told Price everything he had gotten from me, about how Bill had escaped and all, and Price was puzzling it together.

Price nodded at the plyboard, said, “Redecorating?”

“Golf ball.” Doc said. “I was putting a few along the room here, and one got out of hand. Bounced and went through.”

“Big golf ball,” Virgil said.

“Are you officers, too?” Doc asked me and Virgil.

“They’re not,” Price said. “They don’t have to be. They’re with me. Sit down over there and shut up, would you, Doc?”

“I don’t have to do any of this,” Doc said. “I got a lawyer.”

“Who doesn’t,” Virgil said.

“Just sit down before I rough you up,” Price said.

“I could have your job for that,” Dor that,oc said. “I got connections all over.”

Price slid across the room as if he were on a camera dolly. His fist shot into Doc’s stomach and Doc went to his knees. Price reached down and slapped Doc on the ear.

“Take a seat,” Price said. “We’ll discuss your connections later.”

Doc got up and sat on the couch, held a hand to his injured ear. Price said, “Little thing like your wife getting murdered hasn’t stopped your sex life, has it?”

“I haven’t made any secret of the fact I was cheating on my wife,” Doc said. “She wasn’t true to me either. We had a strained relationship.”

“Strain is off now, though, isn’t it?” Price said.

Doc’s answer arrived by banana boat. “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

“Can we look at it another way?” Price said. He pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat on it backwards, his arms resting on the backrest. “Can we look at the part about you having her killed? And please, don’t say, ‘what are you talking about?’ ”

“I have to say that,” Doc said. “I don’t know anything else to say.”

Price slipped out of the chair and took two fast steps to the couch, grabbed Doc by the front of the robe and jerked him up and kneed him in the nuts and sat him down on the couch. He slapped the Doc on the other ear. Doc grabbed his head with one hand and stuck the other between his legs. He fell sideways on the couch and made a noise.

“Don’t do that,” I said to Price, but I’m afraid I didn’t sound as if I really meant it. Price ignored me. This was his play: a deep well thought out plan. Beat the shit out of Doc.

Price got hold of Doc and pulled him to a sitting position on the couch. “Want to go for a broken nose?” Price said. “And don’t say ‘you can’t get away with this.’ I can get away with it. Want to test me?”

“No,” Doc said.

“Good,” Price said. “Here’s the exclusive. I got a guy working for me you probably know as Fat Boy. Aha, saw your eyes light up on that one. Fat Boy he’s got a guy working for him he calls Snake. They worked for you one night. Night this man’s nephew showed up with some other fools to put a scare in you. You weren’t here. Fat Boy was.

“You hired him to kill your wife, and he did, and he pinned the murder on the nephew. I don’t know your wife. Just her picture in the paper. Maybe you had a good reason to get rid of her. Maybe she had pussy stank like a dead fish. Maybe she was a dyke or had a dick on her. I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s not her murder I’m worried about. It’s Fat Boy’s dealings concerns me. Him working for me, and him doing what he did for you. This comes out, it makes me look bad. See how frank I am, Doc? I want you to be frank with me, now. I want you to admit you hired Fat Boy to do your wife in. I want some particulars.”

“I haven’t got a clue,” Doc started, and Price slapped him again, this time on the jaw.

“Talk to me,” Price said.

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I went out into the hallway and closed the door.

The girl came out of the bedroom again. “Is everything okay?” she said.

“It’ll be all right,” I said. “They just argue like this sometimes. Go back to bed.”

She swallowed. “All right,” she said, and went back into the bedroom and closed the door. A moment later I heard the door lock.

The hall door behind me opened and Virgil came out. He said, “Come in here. Doc wants to chat.”

I went back inside. Price had helped himself to some brandy from the Doc’s liquor cabinet. He stood by the cabinet sipping the drink. He didn’t look as if he had exerted himself at all. His shirt wasn’t even wrinkled. Doc was on the couch. Blood was running out of his nose and the corners of his mouth and it had dripped onto his beautiful robe. No wearing it to church now. There was a lump above his right eye. He reached up with his right sleeve and wiped the blood away.

I felt very small and very ill.

Price held up the glass of brandy and said, “Anyone else want some? Doc? I bet you could use something.”

Neither Virgil nor I said anything. Doc said, “Yeah.”

“Brandy?” Price said, as if he were accustomed to bartending.

Doc nodded. Price set his glass aside and lightly poured Doc a brandy from a large decanter and brought it to him. Doc took the glass carefully, as if expecting Price to hit him with it.

Price smiled at him. Doc sucked the brandy down and gave the glass back to Price. “More,” Doc said.

Price said, “That’ll do you.” He went back to the liquor cabinet and set the glass next to the brandy decanter. He picked up his own glass and sipped. He said, “Now where were we?”

29

“I admit to what you say I did,” Doc said, “what’ll happen to me?”

“They’ll strap you to a gurney and stick a needle full of poison in your arm,” Price said. “Unless I set things different. I can do that. I would do that, provided I get the stuff to see Fat Boy and Snake go down.”

“You can do that?” Doc asked.

“I can do any goddamn thing except lick my own balls,” Price said.

“I’m going to talk,” Doc said. “I’ll need another drink. Something stronger. Switch me to Scotch.”

“All right,” Price said. He poured Doc two fingers of Scotch and gave it to him. Doc drank half of it and melted into the couch. “Our marriage was a sham,” Doc said. “Tara had a kind of mental cruelty you can’t dream of. She…”

“Hey,” Price said, “you’re breaking my heart here, but what I want’s the skinny on Fat Boy and Snake. Give me that and save the harp music.”

Doc sucked in a slug of Scotch and moved it around in his mouth. He swallowed. When he spoke, his words were as dry as an emery board, “All right. I hired Fat Boy and Snake to kill her.”

“How’d you set it up?” Price asked.

“An accident really,” Doc said. “You see I have a special interest in certain things. Things that bother some people.”

“We playing charades here?” Price said. “I’m tired of prodding. Talk like you know some English, or you and me, we’re gonna dance again.”

“I like them young,” Doc said.

“Like the big tittied heifer,” Price said, nodding toward the hallway.

“I like that,” Doc said. “But I like them even younger. I haven’t acted on that, mind you. I just like to think about it now and then. Thinking isn’t doing any harm, is it? Just thinking?”

Suddenly the child pornography angle Fat Boy had brought into all this clicked. “You like children,” I said.

“I like to look at them,” Doc said. “You know, naked. Well, a little more than naked, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“I just look at the pictures,” Doc said. “I mean, I haven’t touched any children. It’s just the fantasy, you see. Looking at the pictures and thinking about it. Where’s the harm in that?”

“Just connect the dots,” Price said. “It’s past my bedtime.”

“Guy I knew out of Houston who came to me now and then for a little work was my connection to Fat Boy,” Doc said. “His name was Jake. Into oil or something. He came to get some tightening around the eyes, mouth, that sort of thing. He used to do a little fishing around here now and then, and he got to thinking all the money he was spending on me made us buddies. I went fishing with him a few times, because he was talking about a breast implant job for his wife. I figured the money was good enough, and he could pay a little more than was needed, so I went along with him. Kind of a business investment.

“One time we’re out on his boat fishing, and Jake starts talking about his daughter. I’m thinking it’ll be the usual thing. You know, how smart the kid is. The braces on her teeth. Her athletic ability. Stuff you hear parents say. And it started off like that, him telling me she’s ten, and he thinks she’s going to be a real beauty, you know. He talked about how she liked to sit on his lap and kiss him. How he liked to set up the camera and take a few pictures of her naked. Keep in mind, this wasn’t some scumbag. He had money, a good home and job. An attractive wife. He said his wife didn’t mind he took the pictures. She knew he liked to fool around with the kid some, and the kid didn’t mind that much either. They didn’t see it as a big deal.”

“Who’s telling you she didn’t mind, that it isn’t any big deal,” I asked, “this asshole Jake?”

“Cork yourself,” Price said to me. “Keep singing,” he said to the Doc.

“The more he talked, more I sorta, you know,ta, you liked it,” Doc said. “The idea, I mean. I had experienced those kinds of thoughts now and then. You know how it is. See a naked kid in a photograph. Out swimming at the pool, wearing little bathing suits—I’m not talking about boys, understand. I’m not talking anything strange.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You’re some special project.”

“I don’t see the big deal,” Doc said. “You’re making a big deal.”

“You were saying,” Virgil said to Doc.

“I asked the guy a few questions, and pretty soon he’s telling me all of it. How he’s been showing the girl that love between a father and daughter, sexual love, isn’t so bad. Explaining how it’s a special relationship… I can see that, can’t you?”

“No,” I said.

Neither Virgil nor Price said anything. Price looked bored, and Virgil had on his lawyer expression, which could have meant anything or nothing.

Doc looked at his drink and lifted the last of it to his mouth and tossed it back. “Next time he came up, we went out on his boat, and he had a few pictures of him and the daughter. You know, doing it. They were really tastefully photographed.”

“That makes me feel better,” I said. “I’d hate to think they were grainy or blurred or something.”

“Go out in the hall again, Small, you can’t shut up,” Price said.

It was tempting, but I felt I needed to know all this. I had already fallen into the sewer by accident, I might as well spend a few more minutes bobbing about with the turds.

“So Jake says if I like this sort of thing, he can make some arrangements with his daughter, who does what he says. Get me kind of a date, you know? But it didn’t work out. I mean, I wasn’t going to do it anyway. I was just thinking about it. I just wanted to see the pictures.

“Anyway, Jake was murdered. It was all over the newspapers for a week. Whole family was rubbed out. Him and the wife and the little girl, and nobody was ever picked up for it. I thought that was the end of it. But one day this guy came by the office, like he was there for a consultation. I saw him in private, in my office, and I thought he wanted liposuction, way he looked. But he didn’t want anything done. He said he’d known my friend in Houston, and they shared some interests.”

“Fat Boy with a few pictures.” Price said.

“Yeah,” Doc said. “Just two or three pictures, then. One of them of Jake with his daughter. Couple other kids with adults. Fat Boy said he could provide me some stuff, if I wanted it. Though any more pictures would cost me. He gave me the pictures and told me a number to call. I got it on my mind I’d like to see more of what he had, so a week later, I called the number. Fat Boy met me after work, drove me out to a place in the woods around Busby. An old abandoned sawmill. I mean, this place was out in the boonies. I got to thinking maybe I’d gotten into something more than photos, and I was right.

At the mill, there was a guy with a snake tattooed on his head. Stunk like an outhouse. Couldn’t stand dn’t saround him without getting sick. Fat Boy told me it’s because of his stink, that this guy, Snake, has a place out at the sawmill. Got a generator for electricity. Big Satellite dish. Big tank for water. There’s a field out back Fat Boy uses for a landing strip. I could see a little plane parked there.”

“Enough of the Better Homes and Gardens tour,” Price said. “You were saying about Fat Boy and Snake, the pictures.”

“We went in the mill, and this one big room they let me into, it was like a store. Photographs all over the place. Boxes of them. Fat Boy said they sold tons of the stuff. That it wasn’t that unusual, what I liked, and I should look around and see if there was something that caught my fancy.

“I looked at what they had, bought an assortment of photographs for what I thought was a fair price, and right before we got ready to leave, Fat Boy said, ‘By the way, you ever see any of this?’

“He went over and got this box of photographs out of a locked desk drawer. They were dead children. Some recent dead. Some starting to rot.

“I asked Fat Boy where he got the pictures, and he said he bought them, and not to worry, and why didn’t I take a couple. I asked if the kids were acting, if there were special effects involved in the rotted corpse pictures, and he just shook his head. He said they were dead already, so what did it matter if I took a couple. It wasn’t going to change things for the kids. I took them.

“Week later, he comes by my office again, bold as hell, says he’s got something really special. I went with him, and when we got there, there was Snake with these two other guys. They were out to the side of the mill, had picks and shovels and were working on the ground there. I thought they were putting in plumbing. Fat Boy made a point of telling me the two guys were cops, and that he worked for the cops.

“I thought I’d been set up, and Fat Boy was going to arrest me for buying child pornography. But that didn’t happen.

“He walked me out to where they were digging. I could smell Snake before I got there, and something else. We got up to the digs I saw what the something else was. A child. A little boy. Eight or nine, I guess. He was naked, lying on his back in a hole about four feet deep. They had a camera and tripod out there, but I guess they were through doing what they were going to do, because time I got there and saw what was in the hole, they started shoveling dirt and old piles of crumbled sawdust on top of him. Snake said something like, ‘There’s a lot of milk cartons out there with pictures on them wasting space.’

“I realized then Fat Boy had been playing me like a fiddle. I could spring the cops on him, but if he and those guys were really the law, then I wasn’t sure how they could make things look. My reputation would be destroyed.”

“The cops.” Price said, “Can you describe them?”

Doc described them. Price said, “Descriptions like that. They could be anybody.”

“They all had guns,” Doc said.

“Lot of people got guns,” Price said. “Go on with it.”

“Fat Boy took me back up to e back uthe mill for a drink. He showed me some more pictures while I drank it. I could tell now the pictures were taken there. Some were torture shots. Taken in the mill. I asked him how he got the kids, and he said it was easy. They normally went out of town, Houston, Dallas, some place like that. Nabbed them by offering them free toys and stuff. Or just grabbed them in broad daylight. They had quite a system. I asked him how he felt about it, and he said he didn’t feel anything about it. He said Snake got something out of it, but what charged him was commerce and the deal. He liked putting something together. He told me he put me together. That he put Jake together. Said without people like me and Jake he might be an accountant. You believe that? Tried to lay their murders at my feet.”

“Seems to me,” I said, “that’s the kind of thinking you’d understand. You didn’t love your wife to death, you know.”

“She was an adult,” Doc said. “She had coming what she got. And I didn’t do it. Fay Boy did it.”

“Why don’t we move on to that part,” Price said. “About the wife.”

“I’m coming to that. Fat Boy asked if I was going to say anything and I assured him I wasn’t. He told me he had connections everywhere, and no matter how I told my story, he could make himself clean and make me stink. He admitted it was him and Snake killed Jake and his family. That the wife wanted Jake and the kid dead because she was jealous Jake liked doing it with the little girl more than her. But Fat Boy did the job on all three of them after she paid him half the money, cause he had a whim he ought to do it that way. That’s what he said. A whim.

“I bought some photographs from him, one of the boy they buried, and he drove me back. I didn’t see him for a while. I got to seeing Bambi, girl you met in the hall.”

“Bambi?” Virgil said.

“Barbara,” Doc said, “but they call her Bambi. We got to running around, and she looked young, and she was legal, so, I figured that was the way to go.”

“And you still had your pictures,” Price said.

“Yeah,” Doc said. “I still had my pictures. So things began to heat up with me and Bambi, and things got worse and worse with the wife, so I got to thinking about Fat Boy doing Jake in for money. It seemed like a way to rid myself of Tara. I thought if I wasn’t here, and I offered to pay twice his price, gave him a couple installments to show I was sincere, then paid a couple more after it was done, promised to slip him a thousand or two a year from now on, he’d like the free money and wouldn’t have one of his whims.”

“But my nephew got into your plans,” I said.

“It helped in one way,” Doc said. “It gave Fat Boy someone to pin things on. Except the nephew got away,” he nodded at me, “and told you and started a kind of chain reaction.”

“And now here we all are,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Doc, “Here we all are.”

30

Price poured himself a drink and perched on the chair. He said to Doc, “Where’s your stash? Don’t look dumb. Go get it and be back pronto.”

“I don’t keep it at the house,” Doc said.

“Sure you do,” Price said. “Guy with your interests, I bet you got it close for those nights Bambi wants to sleep. She sleep on the same side your wife slept on, Doc? Huh? Quit jerking me around and go get it.”

Doc got up and left the room. He came back with a small cardboard box. He gave it to Price, went over and sat on the couch and looked pouty.

Price got out of his chair, put the box on the table and removed the lid. He picked up a couple of photographs and looked at them and put them back on top of the stack. He thumbed through the remainder, said, “You like this, huh?” He put the lid on the box. “All right, Doc, you can keep this stuff. My best wishes. But I got an idea, and you’re going to love it. In fact, I insist you love it. What you’re going to do is you’re going to do what Jake did for you. You’re going to recruit. You’re going to go to Fat Boy and say you’ve made a friend, and this friend wants to buy some pictures. Say what you want, but you lick Fat Boy’s dick enough he likes you.”

“I can’t do that,” Doc said. “I get caught in a lie, he’ll kill me.”

“You don’t do it,” Price said, “the state of Texas will kill you.”

“I guess I can talk to him,” Doc said.

“Who’s the friend going to be?” I asked.

“He knows me and you and your brother,” Price said. “Virgil would be good.”

“Whoa,” Virgil said. “I’m an attorney, not a Christmas turkey. He’s probably seen me around.”

“But he doesn’t know you on sight, does he?” Price said.

“I guess not,” Virgil said.

“I got to figure how I want it to play out,” Price said, “but basically, the whole thing’s simple. We make some arrangements, and we kill Fat Boy and Snake.”

“Shit,” Virgil said. “I don’t know. I got to think this over a little.”

“What about the two cops?” I asked.

“We kill them, too,” Price said, then turned to Doc. “You tell Fat Boy you want everybody you’ve met at the mill to be there, because you want this friend of yours to know there’s cops involved, so he’ll feel safe from the law.”

“And if he won’t do that?” Doc said.

“You insist,” Price said. “Be polite, but firm. Tell Fat Boy this guy wants to spill some big jack for some pleasure, but you’ve told him cops are involved, and he wants to see them to know for sure he’s got support in the law enforcement arena. Say he wants to see some badges or something. Say he knows a couple other guys interested in this sort of thing and they got big money. Say what you got to say.”

“What if Fat Boy snookered me?” Doc said. “What if those two guys don’t work for the cops?”

“They do,” Price said.

“I thought you said those descriptions could fit anybody,” Doc said.

“They could,” Price said. “But so happens they fit a couple cops I know, and they work with Fat Boy on lots of things. They been bucking for detective, and a lot of their collars have been gotten with his help. They’re the ones answered the call over at your nephew’s place that night, Small. I had to think on it a while before I said anything, but I’m saying it now. It’s Frank Harper and Buck Minton. It fits. There’s been dirt floating around their heads ever since I been Chief.”

“But,” I said, “since the dirt was connected to your dirt and Fat Boy, you didn’t push too hard, did you?”

“I watch for me first,” Price said, “then everyone else gets a turn if there’s room left over.”

31

We were tooling back to the lake in Price’s car. I said, “You promised him immunity if he’d talk. I don’t get it. He had his wife murdered. He’s got all that kiddie porn. How can you do that?”

“Sometimes you let the little fish swim through the trap so you can get the big fish,” Price said. “And sometimes the little fish get trapped anyway. Just leave it to me, Small.”

He drove us to Arnold’s cabin and we all got out and leaned against his car. Price said, “Where are y’all really staying?”

“We have a little place at the bottom of the lake under a plastic dome,” Virgil said.

“Whatever,” Price said. “I’ll keep the pressure on the Doc and have the particulars unfolded by noon tomorrow. I’ll meet you here, say a little after one and lay it out.”

Price got in his car and drove away. Virgil and I motored across the lake toward the drug dealer’s place. The lake lapped and hissed and the moonlight came out thin and silver and flowed over its surface like something radioactive.

Part Four

Waltz of Shadows

32

Next morning I was up early because I hadn’t slept that much to begin with. I kept envisioning that little boy Doc had talked about, going down naked in a lonely grave full of dirt and sawdust, his parents home wondering and hoping, and the child’s only crime being he was young and vulnerable. In other words, no crime at all. I tried not to think about what he might have gone through at the hands of Snake and Fat Boy. I tried not think about how many others like him were resting nearby. I wondered how grown men could do such things and see it as nothing more than commerce. Had there always been lots of people like that, or were they growing up through the cracks of our society like weeds? Had we in these last few years failed to weed our good crops properly, and had the weeds become so rampant they were beyond control? Had we worked so hard to be organic and live with the weeds, we had allowed them to take over, choking out the good stock, and blighting whatever remained?

Jesus. That poor little boy had been about Sammy’s age.

I slid my arm from beneath Bev without waking her, got up and pulled on my pants and shirt and slipped out into the hallway in my bare feet and went down to the room where JoAnn and Sammy were sleeping. It was a big room with two beds and pink wallpaper that took in the sun through the open Venetian blinds and threw vibrating slats of pink over the room and the sleeping shapes of my children.

I went to JoAnn’s bed and gently brushed her hair back from her face and looked at her long and hard, soaking in all her features. Fred Bear had slipped from her arms and fallen off the bed onto the floor. I picked him up by his singed leg and tucked him into the crook of her arm.

I went over to Sammy’s bed. He was uncovered and he’d rolled over to a dry spot, because he’d wet the bed. I pulled the covers over his shoulders and he stirred and lay still.

“I love you,” I said softly to both of them, and left the room.

Back in our room, I got the .38 off the nightstand and put it under my shirt and looked at Bev. Her back was to me and the sun was coming through a slit in the curtains. Her bare shoulder was lightly freckled, and the light made the freckles the color of strawberries, and I knew those freckles as well as I knew my own face. I loved them and had put my mouth to them and ran my hands over them so many times I could read them like braille.

I guess she felt my eyes. She stirred, rolled over and looked at me. “You’ve got tears,” she said. Her voice was sleepy and sexy and exasperated all at once.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“Hold me.”

I took the .38 out and put it back on the nightstand and slid under the covers and held her.

“Will you do it?” she asked. “Will you take care of Snake and Fat Boy?”

“Yeah. With some help.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes I do.”

“I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

“Hank… I’ve got to stay.”

“I know, and it’s okay.”

“You knew all along I wouldn’t do it. They were in the room there, I could just walk in and do it. But not like this. I can’t leave the kids alone. Anything could happen.”

“And you know it’s my job.”

“I don’t know any such thing. Women can do what men do.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have to. Be honest. You could go and do it, but who do you think would be best at stalking and killing a man?”

“That sounds so immature. Why would I want to argue who’d be best at killing someone?”

“Because you want those sonofabitches dead just like I do.”

“Oh hell, Hank. I hate it when you’re right. I really do. This is the first time, mind you, but I hate it just the same.”

· · ·

We didn’t do much of anything that morning, and by lunch my stomach was so nervous the sandwich I ate turned immediately to acid. I found some antacids in a bathroom medicine chest, ate them like after dinner mints.

Right at one o’clock, me and Virgil and Arnold took the boat across the lake to Arnold’s cabin. The lake was choppy, and so was the sky. Choppy and gray as the back of a wet dog tick. Sky like that could have indicated anything from passing cloud cover to rain to hail or an incoming tornado. Not only had my life turned into anarchy, so had the weather.

Nothing was as it should be. Everything was a facade concealing instant chaos. A few days ago my life had seemed orderly. I had even reconciled with my brother. Now, here I was, in the soup, and I had pulled my brother in after me. My nephew had been murdered. I was being presented by the police and the news media, along with my family, as a child pornographer, a Satanist, a murderer, and an arsonist. My home was gone. My business was fucked. My wife was emotionally damaged. I wasn’t so good myself. My dog was dead and my kids had been frightened, and I was hanging out in a drug dealer’s house. I was dealing with a scummy cop who didn’t want his name soiled and a plastic surgeon who liked to look at dead, naked children and thought he was okay because he wasn’t fucking or killing anybody. I knew a dog named Poot, and my Andrew Vachss book had burned up before I finished it. The only thing I didn’t have were unsightly moles.

We reached the other side of the lake, tied up and got off the boat. The cold wind howled down through the pines and hardwoods and cut through us like razors.

Price wasn’t there.

Me and Arnold went around and sat on the front porch and hunkered against the cold while Virgil smoked a cigar out in the yard, thinking his own thoughts.

“I’m glad Beverly didn’t come,” Arnold said.

“I gave her a pretty good line of bullshit about how it’s a man’s job but I’m still a feminist.”

“Give self-analysis a rest,” Arnold said. “Everything doesn’t balance out. Hey, I got something for you.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a yellow handled pocket knife and gave it to me. It had my name stenciled into the wood.

“That’s just like the one you gave me all those years ago,” I said.

“Because it is the same one.”

I grabbed hold of the exposed part of the blade with thumb and forefinger and flicked the handle away from me so that the knife came open. I held it by the blade and looked at the edge of the knife. It was sharp and rust free.

“Can’t be,” I said.

“Because you buried it in the backyard ofˀe backya Dad’s old place?”

“Yeah… How’d you know?”

“Dad saw you bury it. He dug it up later and had your mother put it aside for me. She mailed it to me with a little note. I guess it was a year after I got off the farm she sent it to me.”

“You think Dad knew?”

“About you and the liquor store? No. But he knew you and me had trouble, and he thought we’d get over it and you’d want the knife back.”

“And you’ve been carrying it around all these years, knowing you were going to give it back?”

“Hell no, I was using it. But since you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Price drove up. We walked down to join Virgil. Price got out and stretched. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He had on a blue jean jacket, sweatshirt, blue jeans and high top, white tennis shoes. His face was a little haggard, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He still looked better than the rest of us. He studied Arnold. “You must be the half-brother?”

“Yeah,” Arnold said.

Price said, “I heard from Doc. I thought we’d end up getting down to business couple days from now, but Doc called Fat Boy this morning, said he had a guy was a good friend of his that wanted some kiddie porn. Told Fat Boy the friend was from out of town and in for the day and it was sort of now or never. Said the friend was nervous. Doc told Fat Boy he’d assured the friend there were cops in on the deal. Said the guy was adamant about having that security present. That crooked cops cheered him up. Doc made a point of saying how much money the friend had and that he was willing to spend it. This afternoon, five o’clock, we go to the sawmill.”

“Fat Boy bit awful goddamn easy,” Arnold said.

“Could be,” Price said. “Maybe he just wants to play the cards and see how they come out. He’s like that. But there’s another thing. He’s overconfident. He’s gotten away with some bold shit. You pull stuff like that off time after time, you begin to think God, or the Devil, is on your side. You get careless. You start to feel charmed.”

“You should know,” I said.

“Touche,” Price said. “I say we play. We come ready, we got as good a shot as we’ll get. I got two or three plans for when it’s over, how to make things look good, and they’re so brilliant I’m proud of myself.”

“What if you get your brains scrambled?” Arnold said. “What’s the story we tell then?”

“That’s your problem,” Price said, “and an even bigger reason you need to watch my back. You may have me in the bag, but in another way, I’m your ticket out of the station. I tell a lie, it’s got more weight than if you tell a lie. And I know who to lie to and in what way.”

“Admirable talent,” I said.

33

Price rode with us in the boat over ΀to the drug dealer’s house so we could tell Tim and Bev the score. We decided we didn’t have to keep where we were a secret from him anymore. He liked the house, but thought it could use a tennis court. He met Tim, Bev and the kids. It wasn’t a friendly meet, just business. Poot growled at him and wouldn’t come close. The kids were polite and went off to play with Poot in the far end of the house. Virgil fixed Price a sandwich and poured him a glass of milk. We told Tim and Bev the score.

About two o’clock Price made a brief phone call to Doc. When he finished talking, he reached into his blue jean jacket pocket and produced a small bundle of wires, a microphone, and a head set. He placed the stuff on the kitchen table. “Only thing I don’t like about my plan,” he said, “is we’re gonna need that goddamn dog of yours, Virgil.”

“That’s my dog,” Tim said.

“Not to worry,” Virgil said. “Poot can work with anybody. He doesn’t take lack of character into account. That’s why he hangs out with me and Tim.”

“Well, whistle him up,” Price said.

Tim called Poot and the kids came with him. I sent the kids off to play without the dog, and Tim put Poot on the kitchen table. Virgil and Tim wired the dog, burying the wire deep in his voluminous fur.

When Poot was wired, Virgil took Poot in a back room. Tim laid the headset on the kitchen counter so we could all hear it. Virgil was saying: “…and now Poot’s licking my balls, and now I’m licking Poot’s balls…”

It wasn’t a two way, so I yelled down the hall, “Okay, Virgil.”

Virgil came back with Poot bouncing at his heels.

“Tell the truth,” Tim said to Virgil, “Poot wasn’t really licking your balls, was he?”

“All right,” Price said. “Remember, we go by the plan I’m gonna lay out. Strictly. Someone fucks up, they’re dead. This isn’t capture the flag.”

“After we kill them,” Virgil said. “Can we take their money?”

“Make jokes later,” Price said. “It’ll be more amusing then. You sure this dog will stick by you?”

“You’ve seen him operate,” Virgil said.

“Okay then,” Price said, “it’s time.”

Bev and I walked back to our bedroom for a moment and said the best we could say to each other. We had already said what we had to say, and now it was better not to say too much. I kissed her goodbye. It was a good kiss. She said, “Come back,” as if I were going off to the store for milk.

“I plan to,” I said.

I went down the hall and told the kids I was going out for awhile. I hoped that was true. I hugged and kissed them. I thought about what Fat Boy and Snake had done to children like them, what they had tried to do to my family, what they had done to Bill, and I hugged them again.

“Daddy,” Sammy said, “is something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it won’t be long. You don’t have to worry about it. Help Mommy.”

I sent them back to their play, and I went back down the hall. They were fighting over something before I’d gone ten feet.

I passed Tim in the living room. He was watching a golf game on TV. I gave him a nod. He gave me a little two finger salute and turned back to watch a blond guy in a striped shirt slice one into the trees.

I looked around the house as if it were my house and I cared about it. I took my .38 automatic out from under my shirt and removed the clip and put the clip in a kitchen drawer and the gun in a cabinet next to a box of Quaker Oat Meal. I wouldn’t need it. Price was supplying.

I went outside and joined the others and walked down to the boat. We got to the other side far too quickly. I looked at my watch.

Three o’clock.

We went out to Price’s car and leaned against it. Poot found a tree to piss on. He wasn’t one to miss a chance. Price went over the plan a couple of times. It was a simple plan. When he was finished, he said, “Tell me the plan, Hank.”

“Before we arrive, you get in the trunk,” I said. “Me and Arnold will cut through the woods, come up on the side. We’ll have the listening equipment. When it looks and sounds right, we ease up and do it. We try not to shoot each other. We try to shoot and kill the people not on our side.”

“That’s good,” Price said. “Virgil?”

“When you’re in the trunk, I drive your car like it’s my car,” Virgil said. “The Doc will sit up front with me. We get there, I get out of the car with Poot and keep him by me so the microphone will pick up the talk, and Arnold and Hank will know what’s happening. I act friendly. I carry things as far as I can until everyone is in place. It gets time to do it, I drop down and you pop out of the trunk blazing. Arnold and Hank start shooting.”

“What happens if you get hustled inside before everyone’s in place?” Price asked.

“I can most likely kiss my ass goodbye,” Virgil said.

“Worse than that,” Price said. “You’ll fuck up the plan.”

“Question,” Arnold asked Price. “What the fuck good you gonna be in the trunk of your car? We might as well give the spare tire a gun. Who’s going to let you out? You can’t ride along holding the hatch down.”

“Come here,” Price said.

We followed him to the back of his car. He unlocked and lifted the trunk. The trunk had a twist handle on the inside. In the bed of the trunk was a small cardboard box containing several handguns, beside the box was a rifle and a shotgun.

“I had this fixed up this way for a similar escapade,” Price said. “Nobody got shot that time, but it let me sneak up where I wasn’t expected. It helped me to get a promotion in LaBorde. Locked in or not, I twist the handle, I’m out of the trunk. There’s an extra sheet of heavy metal inside the lid too, in case someone tries to shoot thӀs to shorough it. It won’t stop big stuff, but it’ll keep a bee out of your bonnet. It’s got an amplifier of a sort built into it, just under the back bumper. I can hear what’s being said if anyone’s within ten or twelve feet of the car. Farther, if they’ve got a big mouth.”

“Does it do smoke screens and oil slicks?” Virgil asked.

“No,” Price said, “but I catch you just right, I can run over you with the tires.”

“Another question,” I said. “What about the Doc?”

“He knows what to do,” Price said.

Price lifted the box of handguns out of the trunk and put it on the ground. He lifted out the rifle and gave it to me. He got a snub nose .38 Smith and Wesson revolver with a clip-on holster out of the box and gave me that too. He said, “Can you shoot?”

“I used to be able to shoot,” I said. “I haven’t shot at anything in years.”

“This afternoon,” Price said, “you come out of retirement.”

I clipped the revolver on under the tail of my shirt and turned the rifle over in my hands. It was a fairly standard varmint gun. A Marlin 30-30 with a scope. Lever action. Recoil would be minimal to nonexistent. I had killed deer with the same kind of rifle.

Price gave me some ammunition to go with it. He gave Arnold the shotgun—a 12 gauge Remington pump—a box of slugs, and a .38 Smith and Wesson in a clip-on holster.

He got a .45 automatic out of the box and put it in the trunk and closed the lid. He put a .38 Smith and Wesson in his jacket pocket. He stuck a couple of .45 clips and a handful of .38 shells in his pocket with the .38. The box was empty.

“Couldn’t I carry a gun in my boot or something?” Virgil asked.

“No,” Price said. “Fat Boy or Snake might want to search you. You just get low and stay there. I’ll get the extra I got to you, provided I can reach you.”

Arnold and I got in the back seat of the car. Virgil and Poot got up front. Price climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. I looked at my watch.

Three-fifteen.

· · ·

Time we were nearing Busby it was just short of four o’clock.

We picked up Doc at an abandoned filling station just outside of Busby. He had parked his car around back. He was worried about it. He whined about it. No one gave him any sympathy. He got in the back with me and Arnold.

On the other side of Busby the East Texas woods grew thick and the land was low there; you could see a lot of swampy looking areas where the water had built up from all the rain we’d been getting. Doc directed us down a narrow road that wound into the trees. Growth there was so dense with shadow and dangling moss, it seemed later than it was.

After a ways, we came to a cattle guard and a gate made of post and barbed wire strands. I got out Ӏs. I gotand unfastened it, and Price drove through. I hooked the gate back and got in the car and we drove on.

The road ceased being a road and became a couple of red clay ruts. On either side of us was a poorly attended pasture and no cows. A lone oil well pump nodded up and down off to the right. Woods surrounded the pasture.

We entered into the thick of the trees again, and the road was very narrow and very rough and full of holes. It bounced us so hard our guts hurt. The road veered left down a steep incline. Doc said, “Don’t go that way. You can’t get back up it.”

Price stopped. “There’s no where else to go.”

Doc pointed. Off to the right, if you looked hard enough, you saw that what you thought was all woods was partly camouflage netting. Just enough to blend in with the narrow road and the trees. It hung from a high wire, and Doc got out of the car and moved it by pulling a line off to the right, like pulling a curtain cord.

Price drove through and Doc got on the other side of the netting and took hold of another wire and pulled it, restoring the camouflage. We drove on. The limbs on either side of the road brushed the car.

“About how far?” Price asked.

“Another half mile,” Doc said.

Price stopped the car. He turned and looked at Doc. Doc was sweating. He looked to be having an attack of malaria.

Price said, “You look nervous, Doc. Don’t look nervous. You’ve come to see what you like. Remember? You get nervous, you make me nervous, and I can shoot you easy as Fat Boy… All right, mighty hunters, this is where you get off.”

I picked the rifle off the floorboard, Arnold got the shotgun, and we slipped out of the car. I took a deep breath of the chill air and looked out at the woods. I loved the woods. I hadn’t been in serious woods in years, and it had taken this kind of thing to get me back.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes until five. By the time Arnold and I got into place, and Doc drove on down to the sawmill, it would be ten or fifteen minutes after. Provided we didn’t run into problems.

Price got out slowly and unlocked the trunk of the car and climbed in. Before I closed the lid on him, he said, “Remember, you got to watch my ass.”

I closed the lid.

Virgil was out of the car. He had the earphones in his hand. I took them and slipped them on. Virgil called Poot out of the car and adjusted something on his collar. He bent close to the dog and said, “Can you hear me?”

“Me or the dog?” I said.

Virgil looked up, said, “You, smartass.”

“I can hear you.”

Virgil held the driver side door and motioned Poot back into the car. Poot jumped in the front seat.

Virgil said to Doc, “Well, come on. I’m not a doorman.”

DӀlign="leoc eased out of the back seat and got up front on the passenger’s side. He looked as stiff as a corpse. Virgil got behind the wheel and rolled down his window. Poot climbed into his lap and looked out and dangled his tongue. I gave Poot a pat.

Virgil said, “Shoot true, motherfucker. I don’t like to think I’ve made my last dollar off a whiplash settlement.”

“Watch yourself,” I said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said. He rolled up the window and sat behind the wheel. Arnold and I moved into the woods.

The floor of the October woods was full of dry leaves, so we moved heel toe to minimize the sound of our walking. As we went, I moved my eyes gently over the landscape. The trees, the leaves. Watching in case we might come upon a mass of blackbirds, and startle them to flight, alerting Fat boy and Snake there was someone in the woods. It was my guess they’d know about that sort of thing.

The land sloped down and became wet. My shoes began to take on water. We followed along the side of the slope until the land leveled off. Then we moved on toward where the light broke brightest. If my information from the Doc was correct, that would be where the saw mill and the pasture were.

“We’re starting the car now,” came Virgil’s voice through Poot’s wire and into my headset.

I touched Arnold on the shoulder and made a gesture with my hand that told him the car was moving. We went along a little faster. The ground grew soggy in the extreme. The trees thinned slightly.

We came close to where the woods broke, got down low and crawled toward the break. Near the break was a recently fallen red-bud tree. We got behind that and peeked over the trunk and through a mass of dried brush.

From there we could see the sawmill and the pasture surrounding it. The sawmill lay about an acre and a half away from us. It was big and old and clapboard grey. It had been the sort of mill where the logs had been delivered by mule and the saw blade had been under a little open air shed. A lot of work had been done on the mill to make it more of a warehouse. The formerly open air shed had been closed in.

There was a satellite dish on our side, pulling in Mothra and Reptilicus for our friend Snake.

Not far from the dish was an old fashioned outdoor convenience.

Beyond the sawmill we could see marshy pasture land. Far left, behind the mill, was a thin stand of blackgums. Way they were growing, I knew they were bordering a small branch of water. Past that, visible through the blackgums, and well behind a scattering of sick looking water oaks, was a higher level of pasture land. There was a crop duster airplane parked out there; a yellow, Stearman biplane, designed along the lines of the old World War I aircraft. Probably great help for flying in a batch of pornography now and then.

Out front of the sawmill, a Bronco and an old gray pickup were parked. The road Virgil would be arriving on, a couple of red clay tire tracks, horseshoed onto the sawmill property and died there.

“We’re almost on it,” Virgil said through Poot’s wiring. I turned to Arnold and made a one inch sign with myӀ sign wi thumb and forefinger. He nodded. A feeling of elation and dread came over me. My heart began to pump hard, trying to bring up blood from the South Forty. I had to fight not breathe through my mouth. I put my mind on what I was doing, tried to think of it in a rote manner.

It was late and cloudy and the sun was still short of setting, but we were facing west and I didn’t want to take any chance of the clouds clearing momentarily and a last ray of sunlight glinting off my rifle barrel. I got a hand full of dirt and ran it along the ridge of the barrel, dulling the bluing. Arnold did the same, even though any shot he might make was a little long for a twelve gauge pump, even if it was packing slugs. It was my job to make the long ones, and Arnold’s to ease up for the close work. I tried to remember how it was when I stalked deer, back before I gave up hunting. Man was nothing more than an animal, after all, a clumsy but ultimately more deadly form of animal. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, put my hand over the front of the scope and eased the rifle stock into my shoulder, lifted my fingers away gradually, hoping the glass of the scope wasn’t catching light. I was being overly cautious, but I’d learned to take Fat Boy and Snake very seriously.

The stock fit my shoulder comfortably. My view through the scope was good. I scanned a little from left to right. I leaned the rifle against the tree and pulled the .38 out and opened it and saw that it was loaded with full metal jacket wadcutters. I put the .38 back, and looked up and through a clutch of branches just as Virgil tooled his car up the horseshoe drive and stopped.

“Ball game’s started,” I told Arnold.

“Yeah,” Arnold said.

Virgil, Doc, and Poot got out of the car. Virgil went around front of the car and leaned against the hood. Poot sat at his feet. Doc kept looking around, as if trying to locate us.

“Doc’s gonna fuck it up, he don’t loosen up some,” Arnold said.

About that time I looked toward the mill, and Fat Boy was already walking toward them. He was wearing a bright lemon yellow leisure suit with a parrot green shirt. His hair shone in the sun like a metal cap. He was walking as if nails were in his shoes.

I lifted the Marlin to my shoulder and looked down the scope. I found Fat Boy’s head in the scope and put the crosshairs on him. One shot, and his brains would be all over the marshlands. God, Jesus. I thought about what he had done to Bill and me and Arnold, and finally Beverly. I flexed my fingers and put my forefinger on the trigger. I wondered about the gun’s pull. I wondered if I could still shoot. I wanted to shoot right then. I wanted never to shoot.

Where was Snakey Poo? Where were the two cops?

I moved my finger off the trigger, floated the scope over to take in Virgil. He looked friendly. His smile was as bright as Fat Boy’s jacket. He leaned against the hood of the car.

I moved the scope to Doc. He was running a hand through his sweaty hair. He kept looking in our direction, then toward the trunk of the car. His feet kept shifting.

“Easy, Doc, easy,” I said to myself.

“I think Doc’s gonna fuck it,” Arnold said. “I’mӀaid. “ going ahead, fading left and around.” I took my eye from the scope and Arnold was already moving, at a stoop, swift and sure, heel toe, heel toe.

I heard Fat Boy’s voice over Poot’s wiring. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Virgil said.

“I understand Doc thinks you’ll like what we got,” Fat Boy said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said. “He showed me some. It’s good quality. You take the pictures?”

Pause.

“Sometimes… What the fuck you so shaky for?” Fat Boy said.

“Me?” Doc’s voice. “Nothing. I’m not shaky.”

“You act like you got a fuck’n ’lectric dildo up your ass,” Fat Boy said.

“I told him not to get out with the cold he’s got,” Virgil said. “Might even be the flu. But hey, he knew how bad I wanted this stuff. He gets sick, I’m gonna owe him.”

“Yeah,” Fat Boy said. “No offense, fella, but I gotta look you over, know what I mean?”

Virgil raised his arms and Fat Boy patted him down. He called the Doc over and did the same. Fat Boy said to Virgil, “Yeah, okay… You got money?”

“Money?” Virgil said, taking on the demeanor of a hick in checked pants, “I fucking wanted to, I got money enough to feed every starving nigger in Africa. But I don’t want to.”

Good move, I thought. Virgil was putting himself on Fat Boy’s level. Good thinking on your feet, Virg.

“Yeah, well, they can starve them shifters in India too, for all I care,” Fat Boy said.

“You won’t hear me play taps,” Virgil said. “Hey, these pictures, they ain’t a bunch of ’em of niggers are they?”

“We do a little nigger trade,” Fat Boy said, “but not because I like it. A nigger’s money, or money made on niggers, spends just like anyone else’s.”

“That’s okay,” Virgil said, “but I damn sure don’t want to see a naked nigger. I mean, you got something with a nigger girl that’s young enough and kinda white looking, I might take a peek at that, but I can’t see me puttin’ money out for it, taking it home. It’s all pink on the inside, but it’s the outside I got to look at.”

“I hear you,” Fat Boy said.

That’s the way, Virgil, you got him eating out of your hand. But where are the others?

As if to answer, Virgil said, “Those the two guys? The cops?”

I took my eye off the scope and looked toward the mill. Two big guys who looked as if they ate too much barbecue and white bread came out of the mill and started moving toward Fay Boy. That would be the cops. One of them yawned big and kept lumbering.

Fat Boy looked over his shoulder and waved at the cops. They waved back and keptӀback and coming. Fat Boy returned his attention to Virgil, said, “Yeah, they were gonna be out here anyway, or I wouldn’t have bothered. Why a guy buying kiddie fuck would want cops around makes me wonder some. That’s funny.”

“Wasn’t a necessity,” Virgil said. “But you can understand how I might be a bit worried, doing something like this. Got some cops around here think it’s okay, gives me some security.”

“I’ll introduce you,” Fat Boy said. “You deal with me, you got nothing to fear from anybody. There ain’t a man-jack in this county whose dick ain’t hanging limp in my grinder. You about ready to take a little peek at the goods?”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

The wire’s sound went funny. I touched the headset and tried to adjust it, but it still crackled. I put my eye back to the scope and moved it around until I found Poot. Christ, the little bastard was scratching. Virgil’s voice came to me through a load of static. “Hey, boy, take it easy.”

“Stop it,” Doc yelled at the dog. “Stop it, goddamn it!”

The scratching stopped.

Fat Boy said, “Your dog?”

“Yeah,” Virgil said.

“You ought to have him dipped.”

“I’ll do that.”

A long pause.

“You are nervous, Doc,” Fat Boy said. “You boys wouldn’t be fucking me, would you? You don’t fuck Fat Boy, fellas. I’ll do the fucking, but I won’t take any I don’t want.”

“No. No.” Doc said. “I wouldn’t fuck you.”

“What’re you talking about?” Virgil said.

Doc had been standing at the front of the car, beside Virgil, but now he walked in front of him, trying to show Fat Boy how friendly he was by using exaggerated arm gestures and repeating over and over that he wouldn’t fuck him. The dumb bastard was panicking, and now he was between me and Fat Boy.

“What the fuck’s that?” Fat Boy asked.

“What’s what?” Virgil said.

“That,” Fat Boy said. “The mutt… That’s a wire… You fucks!”

I realized what had happened. Poot’s scratching had revealed his wire and Fat Boy had put it together. I could see Fat Boy’s shoulder, I could see him move, but Doc was backpedaling directly into my view, continuing to block my shot. I could tell Fat Boy was drawing his gun from under his coat. There was a pop and I saw Virgil go halfway up on the hood of the car and roll off and hit the ground on his side and not move. Poot darted across the pasture, running low, making for the woods.

The trunk popped up, and Price came out on my side, hitting the ground with one foot and throwing himself out of the trunk. He rolled across the ground and swung his .45 up with both hands and fired from a prone position. The shot hit Fat Boy and spun him around like a bӀound likallet movement, spun him away from Doc, spun him so that he was facing me. The .45 slug had punched Fat Boy on the high right side of his yellow jacket. The jacket bloomed a stain; it looked as if someone had hit him with a rotten tomato. Fat Boy stagger-stepped in my direction. I cross-haired him and put one in his face. Part of his jaw leaped away on a red wet wave. He spun again and hit the ground face first.

I lowered the rifle to take in a quick overview. I saw Arnold on the left, coming wide of the cops, almost directly behind them. The cops weren’t looking in his direction. They had their handguns drawn and were blazing at Price, who was barely visible. He had practically melted into the earth. Turf exploded all around him. I saw his leg jerk once as a slug skidded across the ground and burned into him. He lifted up the .45 and snapped off a round, not hitting anything, then got tight with the dirt again.

Doc was lying on the ground nearby, his hands over his head. He was screaming repeatedly, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Not a single shot had come near him.

I worked the bolt of the rifle, tossed a casing. I threw the stock to my shoulder, scoped one of the cops and fired. The cop’s mouth became bigger and his legs went into a split. His legs slowly folded together, supporting him on his knees. His ruined head dangled. His gun was pointing at the ground. I couldn’t figure what was holding him up.

Arnold’s shotgun boomed and the other cop lost his head in a red white spray that bathed the cop I’d shot. Arnold’s cop hit the ground faster than a box of lead, and now mine began to melt off his knees.

All of this had occurred in a matter of seconds.

I pushed the listening apparatus off my head, climbed over the fallen tree, and moved out into the open. Price got up and hopped on one leg over to where Fat Boy was. Fat Boy wasn’t dead. He had started crawling, worming toward the woods. Fat Boy lifted his head and looked up at me. His face wasn’t a face. His piggy eyes were surrounded by splashes of blood. A tooth fell out of the ragged, red gap the Marlin had made, or maybe it was a chunk of bone. His tongue flicked about in the open wound like a snake on a steam iron; Price leaned down and put the .45 to the back of Fat Boy’s head and pulled the trigger. Fat Boy’s head hit the dirt. Price fired again for good measure. The second time Fat Boy took the load he didn’t twitch.

Arnold came to my side. Doc eased to his feet and turned his back to me and faced Price. From the way Doc’s shoulders were wobbling, I could tell he was breathing hard enough to blow his lungs out. I was breathing pretty hard myself.

“I’m okay,” Doc managed. “Goddamnit, I didn’t get hit at all.”

Price looked at him, said, “Well, just once you did.”

He shot Doc in the forehead. The blast blew Doc past me, sent him skidding onto his back.

I jerked the rifle in Price’s direction, “Price, you idiot!”

“He had to go,” Price said, opening his free hand, lowering the .45 to his side with the other. “Him eating it was part of the plan all along. He was shit, and I just flushed him.”

“He’s right,” Arnold said. “Let it be, Bubba. We still got Snake to deal with.”

Price limped over to the front of the car and looked down at Virgil. He bent and felt for a pulse in Virgil’s neck. He straightened up and leaned on the car. His face was pale and sweat beaded. He said, “That sonofabitch has written his last brief.”

“Don’t be so broken up about it,” I said.

“World won’t miss one less lawyer,” Price said.

Price slid down the car suddenly and sat on the ground next to Virgil’s body, his back to the bumper. He put his .45 on his thigh and let it rest there. “I think I’m through for a while,” he said. He patted Virgil on the head. “Me and him will hold things here.”

Arnold pumped the twelve gauge, tossing a casing. He said, “Bubba, it’s time to rehabilitate Snake.”

34

You go wide right,” Arnold said, “I’ll go left.”

It had grown dimmer and cooler in the last few minutes. I had just now become aware of it, and I had become aware of a tingling sensation in my hands from firing the rifle.

There were clapboard shutters all around the sawmill, and I found myself watching those as I ran, expecting Snake to pop one open and take a shot.

I wondered what he had been doing when all this had started. Had he not been aware? Or had he realized it was a hit, and that it was foolish to go out into the open? Or was he here at all? Did stinky child pornographers with cobras tattooed on their heads take vacations?

I made the right side of the mill and didn’t get the side of my head blown off, and I tried not to think about the possibility. I thought only of doing what I had to do, and being cautious about it. I eased along with my back against the clapboard wall and came to where a large sliding wood door was pushed back and there was a dark opening.

On this side of the mill, if I entered, the last of the sunlight would be at my back, and I’d be outlined against the light like a moth on a hundred-and-twenty watt bulb. I decided to cross in front of the opening instead. I darted quickly to the other side, put my back against the wall and took a deep breath. Then the wall to the right of my cheek exploded and a barrage of splinters went into my face and I dove for the ground and rolled as far from the opening as I could and lay still.

There was a ringing in my ears, and for a moment I felt confused. I waited and considered.

Snake had seen me pass by the door, and had guessed I was lurking on the other side, and had shot through the thin, clapboard wall, taking a flyer. It was only luck that had kept him from hitting me. I glanced at the spot on the mill where the bullet had exited. It was a medium sized hole, but big enough it would have done me severe damage. Way the wood splintered out from it, I guessed the shot had come from above, a landing somewhere. A .38 from the size of that hole and the sound of the load.

I put the Marlin on the ground and got the .38 out from under my shirt. The revolver loaded with wadրcutters would be better for close work. I felt for the lump of extra ammunition in my pants pocket. It was there. Not that I thought it had gone anywhere, but I damn sure wanted to be certain.

I crawled along the side of the building. When I came to the open doorway, I coiled my knees under me and squinted my eyes and tried to see into the dark. I suddenly found myself thinking about Bev and the kids. With difficulty, I tossed off the thought and focused on what I was doing. I didn’t want to die. I wanted Snake to die. I wanted to see my family again. I had to stay centered. I had to do this like I was delivering the mail.

It was growing darker by the moment, so my eyes were adjusting rapidly. I could see a great, rusted saw in there, about eight feet away, to the left, mounted on a metal rig and some planking. There was a lot of debris scattered about. Some barrels of wooden crates. I could actually smell Snake. Sour and rotten, like meat gone bad. I made a leap through the doorway and rolled up against the base of the saw as two shots slammed at me. One struck the ground near me as I rolled and the other touched a spark off the saw.

I scooted away from the base of the saw, which was not solid protection, but open railing and planks, and got my back against a metal barrel and pressed tight to it. Another shot slammed through the barrel and a streak of oil gushed out of it and splashed onto my left shoulder and down my pants leg.

I twisted around the side of the barrel and jerked the .38 up in what I thought was the direction of the shots and snapped off two. I heard them whine and strike something solid and sing off that and hit something else and make a flat sound. Then I heard movement up there, then a shotgun thundered, and I knew Arnold had found an entrance and was on the scene. The shotgun slug made a hard clang of a sound as it tore through the metal roof of the mill.

“Bubba,” Arnold yelled out. “He’s above you, to the right, on a platform. Watch your ass!”

But Arnold’s brotherly warning had given Snake an opportunity to better locate. I heard him step on some squeaking lumber, scrape over something, then there was silence.

A short-lived silence. A gun barked and Arnold yelled and I rose up behind the saw without thinking and the gun barked again. A metal tip of one of the jagged saw blades went away with a brilliant display of sparks, and I fired off a couple of quick rounds in the direction of the shot and dropped back down.

“Arnold!” I said.

“Okay, okay,” Arnold said. “I took one. I’m all right. Shit. No I ain’t. My fucking hip’s on fire. Goddamn you, Snake shit! Come see me, motherfucker! Come see me!”

Snake fired another shot from above. I heard it strike the dirt floor over by Arnold with a dead thud. This time Arnold didn’t ask him to visit. I heard running above us, sagging, squeaking boards, then the dreaded silence.

I got some ammo out of my pocket and filled all the chambers in the .38, then I came out from behind the saw and darted to the right behind a heap of crates. From there, I slid up to a wooden ladder that led to the landing. I looked up. It was awfully dark, and Snake could have been lurking anywhere, though I felt certain from the sound of the movement I had heard, he had traveled on a ways, possibly to a more proۀto a mortected position.

“Arnold?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I slipped across to where his voice was coming from. He was behind a heap of crates lying on his side. The shotgun lay beside him. One of the crates had exploded, scattering pornographic debris about like chicken feathers.

“Crates and photographs, they don’t block slugs too well,” Arnold whispered. “Actually, it wasn’t a bullet I caught, it was a chunk of wood from one of the crates.”

I bent down and touched him on the shoulder and dragged him behind a deeper stack of boxes. “Shut up and stay here,” I said. “I’ll get him.”

“I certainly hope so,” Arnold said. “I don’t think I’m up for it right this moment.”

I left him and started up the ladder, holding the .38 before me, using one hand to take myself up. I kept watching for the face of Snake, that tattooed moon, to rise over the horizon of the wooden platform above so I could put a crater in it. But the moon didn’t rise. I sniffed. I could smell him, but it wasn’t overwhelming. I became convinced that he wasn’t right above me. But he wouldn’t have to be. He could be off to the left or the right somewhere, waiting, sighting down the barrel of the .38.

I made the top of the landing and Snake didn’t strike. I looked to my left and saw that the landing played out into a mass of thin, sagging boards that couldn’t have supported anything heavier than a spider or a cockroach.

He had gone right, across a path of stronger boards that lay across the rafters, through a doorless doorway that led onto a kind of loft.

I crouched on the landing and figured on things. I was him, I’d be on either side of that opening, waiting in the dark.

I took a prone position on the rickety landing and borrowed a trick from Snake’s book. I lifted my .38 and shot through the wood, two shots in succession on the left side of the doorway, about three feet up, two on the right, the same height. The wood crackled and heaved and there was a grunt, and a silhouette moved in front of the doorway and red blasts of light jumped out of both his fists and bullets sang all around me. Had I been standing, as he suspected, I’d have had more holes in me than a cheese grater.

Even as Snake realized he’d missed, he turned his back to me, and ran straight into the darkness and the darkness was split by a thud of shutters and a burst of daylight and Snake leaped into the light and fell out of sight.

I bounded up, charged for the room, and a board gave and my leg went through, scaring about ten years off my life. I got my leg out of the break, and moved on into the room. The light from outside was faded, but it was enough to show me it was Snake’s headquarters. There was a TV up there and a VCR, some personal items, and a shelf containing a smattering of bones, like a child’s collection. There were pictures of naked children nailed to the wall.

I went over to the opening made by the thrown back shutters, and looked down. Snake had made a drop of about thirty feet. I could see him limping away in the distance, holding a revolver in either hand, struggling toward the cluۀoward thtch of blackgum trees and the biplane beyond.

I fired two shots at him and neither hit. I was still sharp with a rifle, but with a handgun I was so-so. I made my way back to the ladder without falling or catching my balls on a nail, went out of the mill and ran toward the blackjacks and the branch.

Snake wasn’t making great time. That jump had caused him injury. It was a wonder he wasn’t wearing his knee caps under his earlobes. Still, he was going to make the plane well ahead of me. I got to the copse of trees, and slid on my ass down the side of the creek branch, stepped in the three or four inches of water there, and climbed up on the other side.

Snake was thirty feet away, in the cockpit of the Stearman. I heard an electric starter spark up, and the prop began to spin. The plane turned slightly to the right, then suddenly made a complete circle, then made it again.

Snake got it straight finally, just about the time I got close, and he started trying to take it for a run across the field. I knew by then he didn’t know how to fly. Fat Boy had probably been the pilot, and Snake only had some idea of how it was done.

I lifted the .38 and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. I started to reach in my pocket for a load, but Snake actually had the plane moving now, starting down the field.

I ran after the plane, which was not gaining much speed because it was bouncing and sawing left and right, and I got hold of the bottom wing and it jerked forward and I fell in the dirt and lost the .38. I leaped to my feet and ran after the plane again, got the wing just before the speed picked up. I tugged myself onto the bottom wing and used it as a platform to spring at Snake in the open cockpit. I came down on him and hammered his head with the side of my fist and held to his neck with my other arm. The plane went crazy, and Snake lifted back on the throttle, and the plane went up and came down with a hard bounce that nearly threw me, then it went up again. I got a tighter grip on his throat and hit him again and he tried to pick one of his .38’s from his lap and shoot me with it. The process caught his sleeve in the throttle, and as he pulled around to shoot, he jerked back on the throttle and we went up again, higher this time.

I glanced at the nose of the plane, saw it lifting toward the sky, then it dipped down and we were diving into a line of trees that appeared to be dancing along the edge of the woods. Then they weren’t dancing at all, they were just close. We hit with a sound like a bat catching a home run, only louder. The prop chopped branches like a Vegematic doing celery. A limb reached out and politely plucked me off Snake and the cockpit. The Stearman came apart like a box kite being shoved through the whirling blades of a window fan.

I lost all the breath that could possibly be in me, dropped down through a couple of boughs hard enough to crack a limb against my thigh, then made a drop that seemed to me was a world record. I hit the ground so hard I realized I only thought I’d lost all my breath. Now I knew what that sensation was truly like, and I knew another sensation as well. That of going very fast and spinning about and not being on some kind of carnival ride.

I went sliding down a muddy slope, over branches that whapped my legs and face and poked a few other parts of me for good measure. I came to rest at the base of a pine in time to see the Stearman’s parts rainingۀparts ra through the trees. The prop came whacking down the hill and bounced by me and crashed along, and from the sound of it, fetched up against something pretty solid. An oak was probably a good guess. An oak could stop a prop.

I lay there until my lungs came unglued and began to pump air. I used the tree I was lying against to help myself up, discovered my left wrist was broken, and my knee had a piece of tree branch in it about the size of a tent peg. I was bleeding profusely down my pants leg, and I had little desire to pull the chunk out, but I got hold of it and jerked and sat down again. The wood fragment was still in me and I felt a lot worse than I had a moment before. I gave it another jerk, and it came out this time. I tossed it aside and lay back until the pain quit churning around inside me.

My head a smidgen clearer, I was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming desire to know what Snake was doing. Decorating an assortment of trees, I hoped.

I looked up the muddy, leafy hill I’d slid down, and saw Snake at the top of it, pushing out of what was left of a clutch of young pines, all now broken off by debris of the plane. Something had caught the flesh on the top of Snake’s head and peeled back a big chunk of his cobra tattoo. I could see the bone of his bloodstained skull. He was limping like both legs were made of sticks and a chunk of canvas from the plane was draped around his neck like a scarf. He glared down on me with something less than admiration. He jerked the canvas fragment off and tossed it aside. He bent painfully and pulled up his pants leg and got a little gun, probably a .22, out of an ankle holster.

He was moving slow, but I figured it was time to move on just the same. I got a leg under me and put my back to the tree and got up. Snake fired the gun and a chunk of bark jumped out of the tree on my left.

Most definitely a .22.

I stumbled behind the tree, let myself fall on my butt so I could slide down the rest of the slope on the mud. At the bottom of the slope, it fell off dramatically and dropped through a thicker growth of brush and gave me up about six feet over a foot of creek water.

Splashing into the cold water charged me. I got my bad leg under me, which was about as supple and useful as a fence post, slopped down the creek and around a bend.

At the end of the bend, the creek went under a bridge, and it went under it through a metal culvert. The bridge supported a narrow dirt road that had given up to weeds and had probably once been a logging road.

I stumbled to the road and was about to climb out of the creek and cross it, when I saw the culvert the water was running into was mostly blocked by accumulated pine needles, leaves, and branches.

It occurred to me, that if I could ease that debris back, I could slip inside the culvert and pull it to me. If Snake wasn’t looking just right, he might not realize the culvert was as wide and deep as it was, and he’d go on by. That would give me a chance to sneak out later, and get back to Arnold and Price and the car.

It wasn’t a military plan up there with D-Day, but I didn’t feel all that good. In fact, I felt light headed and delirious from all the banging around I’d gone through and all the blood I’d lost.

I got hold oۀ>I got hf the debris and pushed it aside without pulling it up, and wiggled into the culvert head first, crawled on my hands and knees until only my feet were touching the refuse. I used the top of my foot to pull the stuff back down. It grew darker. The water sounded loud inside the culvert.

The pain in my leg was only a little worse than if it were being sawed off with a dull rock, and my wrist had taken on the appearance of a fleshy baseball. I used my good hand to palm the mud on the bottom of the culvert, and pulled myself forward, toward the other end, which was unblocked by nature’s dandruff.

When I got there, I cautiously stuck my head out and looked down. The water had eaten out a pretty fair drop on this side, ten feet maybe before you hit the creek and deeper water than the other side. Three or four feet perhaps.

I pulled back inside the culvert and listened to my breathing. It seemed stereophonic in there. I slowed and softened it by breathing deeply through my nose and letting it out easy through my mouth.

Back down the far end of the culvert I could hear Snake stumbling slowly along, the splashing of the creek water echoing up through the culvert like a megaphone. I hoped that the leaves and needles that had bunched there would fool him.

Closer he came, the dumber I felt. All I had done was climb into the mouth of a cannon with the fuse about to be lit. I felt about in the bed of the culvert for some weapon, but there was just cold water and mud. I checked my pockets and came up with the wadcutters and the pocket knife Arnold had given me. I dropped the wadcutters and opened the knife and held it. I noticed that the blood from my leg was coloring the water, running a dark stream over the lip of the opening and down into the creek. I hoped it had grown dark enough that if Snake looked he wouldn’t realize what he was seeing.

Snake stumped and splashed along until he reached the culvert and stopped.

I held my breath. I looked down past my legs, down the twelve foot length of the culvert. Through a rent in the debris, I could see Snake’s legs. He hesitated only a moment, then I heard him scrambling up the side of the bank and onto the road.

I listened for footsteps above me, but heard nothing. Was the road too thick to hear? Had I fooled him? Or was Snake standing up there thinking things over?

Then I knew what he was doing. He was leaning over the edge of the road, toward the open end of the culvert. I could smell him and I could see his shadow darkening the opening, blocking out the last red drips of the sun.

I scooted up close to the mouth of the culvert and cocked the knife back and held my breath. Snake hung his head over and down, looked inside. I could see the little dark caverns where his eyes lived, but not the eyes themselves. It was strange, being looked at that way and not seeing the eyes that were looking. He dropped the hand with the .22 in it into view and I pushed off with my good leg and went straight at him and jabbed the knife toward one of those dark spots where an eye lived.

Snake snapped his head to the side, and my blade went into this cheek, hit bone and ripped free of his flesh. He bellowed and the sound of it bounced about my close quarters and the .22 went off and put a shot into the bank around the culvert. He tried to get his hands back andۀands bac under him to pull himself up, but I got my injured arm around his neck and tugged him, pulled him off the road and halfway over the lip of the culvert. I tried to hold him that way while I plunged the knife into the side of his neck, but he fell the rest of the way off the road and over the edge. The momentum of his fall, and me still holding him, jerked me out of the culvert and sent me banging into the bank beneath the culvert, tumbling into the water below, on top of him. As we fell, I saw the .22 pistol come free of him, heard it hit somewhere on the far bank, then we were underwater.

I came up as he did, pivoted on my good leg and got my bad arm around his neck from behind, tried to choke him with it. He got his chin down and I couldn’t do what I wanted to do. It was like trying to squeeze the bone out of the leg of a rhinoceros.

I brought the knife around and jabbed him in the side. He made a sound like a man straining to shit, swung his right elbow back and caught me in the side and made my legs buckle. But I hung on. I knew if I let go of him, he was going to be mad.

I put my foot in the back of one of his knees and pushed, keeping my grip on his throat with my arm. His leg bent and he went down again, face first under the shallow water. I went under with him a little, then he arched his back and lifted me into the air, raised his head slowly. I was losing my grip on his throat. He had his fingers buried into the ball that had once been my wrist and he was squeezing so hard it was giving me hemorrhoids. I brought the knife around, over my forearm, yanked my forearm away, and jerked back with the knife.

He twisted sideways and sent me backwards. I hit on my back in the water, got my good leg under me and rolled to my right, started climbing onto the bank, but it was too steep and too muddy for me to make it all the way. I turned on my back and held the knife cocked and ready.

Snake had wobbled to his feet. He stood in the middle of the creek with a hand over his throat. Wet darkness seeped between his fingers. The final redness of the dying sun bled over his already bloody head, the deep wound I had made in his cheek. He staggered toward me, almost reached me, then went to his knees in the water. He was making a sound like a pig with slop in its nostrils. He heaved and spat blood and crawled through the water and got up on the bank beside me, and lay on his belly. I turned my head to look at him, and he turned to look at me. He went to an elbow and pushed over on his back and slid down the bank until his feet were in the water. He lay there and held his throat and made a rasping noise, worked his mouth like a guppy.

Some part of me, a stupid part, felt sorry for the poor sonofabitch.

I shivered with the wet cold. I closed my eyes for a moment, or maybe it was a week. When I opened them, someone was easing down the creek bank above me. That someone was using a shotgun to support himself. That someone laid the shotgun down and bent over me, said, “Bubba.”

Arnold’s face seemed to be melting in front of me.

“I thought you weren’t up to it,” I said.

“I got bored,” Arnold said. “Besides, I couldn’t just leave it to you, little brother.”

“I think he’s still alive,” I said.

Arnolۀ="left">d took the pocket knife from my hand and closed it carefully, leaned forward and pushed it into my pocket. He got the shotgun, rose up using it as a crutch, waded into the water and stood straddling Snake’s legs. He looked down at Snake’s face, watched his mouth open and close and bubble blood.

Arnold tossed the shotgun on the bank beside me, wobbled as he unzipped his pants and set himself free. He took a short breath and waited. Eventually, he began to pee in Snake’s face.

Snake turned his face only slightly. He didn’t have the strength to do any more than that.

Arnold said to me. “Used to be, I could put out a fire.” Then to Snake: “Piss on you, anyway, Stinky. This is for Bubba.”

Snake had quit moving. His hand was no longer pressed to his throat. It lay there loosely, blood streaming between the fingers, urine filling his dead eyes and his open mouth.

Arnold shook the dew off his lily and packed up and zipped up. He made slow cautious steps out of the water and onto the bank. His pants around his hip were dark with blood. He took a deep breath. He said, “Now, let’s see if I can haul your big ass out of here, Bubba-son.”

Excerpt

If you enjoyed Waltz of Shadows, maybe you'll like Freezer Burn, too. It’s another novel by the inestimable Mr. Lansdale, now available as an e-book from Gere Donovan Press. It starts like this:

Freezer Burn

BILL ROBERTS DECIDED TO ROB THE FIRECRACKER STAND on account he didn’t have a job and not a nickel’s worth of money and his mother was dead and kind of freeze-dried in her bedroom.

Well, not completely freeze-dried. Actually, she stunk, but she seemed to be holding her own, having only partially melted into the mattress, and if he kept the door closed and pointed a fan that way to blow back the smell, it wasn’t so bad.

The firecracker stand was out on the highway, and it was the week of the Fourth of July, and the stand stayed open reasonably late every night, so after a couple nights watching, seeing lots of people out there buying firecrackers, Bill decided it was a good place to heist.

He figured he ought to hit it kind of late in the night so there’d be plenty of money. He thought he might steal a few firecrackers too. He liked the teepee-shaped kind that spewed sparkles of colors all over the place, then finished by blowing up. Those were his favorites by far, and he thought if the stand had any, he might just take some, and if they didn’t have any, he thought some Black Cats and some Roman candles would do.

The stand was almost directly across the highway from where he lived with his mother’s body, so he didn’t want to just walk over and rob it, and he didn’t want to drive his car over there either, ’cause he figured someone sitting there all day in the stand looking across the highway might have noticed it parked under the sweet gum tree next to the house, and if they did, and he drove over there and robbed the stand, sure as shit,ހ8 someone would remember his car. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that one.

Bill began to consider the angles.

One angle he was sure of was, now that his mother had died at the age of about ten million, there wouldn’t be any more checks signed by her for cashing. He had practiced writing her name until he had worn out about a half dozen ballpoint pens, but never could feel confident about the way he put it down. The checks had started to stack up now, all the way to seven, and he didn’t think he could get away with forgery. His mother had relished a distinct style in penmanship that only a chicken scratching in cow shit might duplicate with authenticity.

The old gal had been right enough and mean enough six months earlier, but one night, after watching Championship Wrestling, perhaps due to excitement over a particularly heated contest, or an overly vigorous inhalement of gummy bears, which she stuffed into her bony body as if they were the fruit of life, she had gone to bed and hadn’t gotten up again.

Bill thought at first he ought to report it. Then it came to him that if he did he’d lose the house and wouldn’t have any place to live. His mother owned everything, and except for a bit she doled out to him on check-cashing day, providing him with a roof and food to eat, there was nothing else. She hadn’t left anything to him in her will. She had donated it all to some kind of veterinarian research thing so cats could be saved from bad livers or some such shit.

Frankly, Bill didn’t give a flying damn about a bunch of cat livers or any part of a cat. The little bastards could die for all he cared. He’d certainly taken care of all his mother’s cats after her death. Unless the fuckers had sprouted gills, or had scissors to get out of those rock-weighted tow sacks he put them in, he figured they were resting pleasantly at the bottom of the Sabine River. No liver trouble, no problems whatsoever.

No, he didn’t think he ought to call the authorities and tell them his mother was dead. It seemed wiser to turn up the air conditioner in her room and keep that fan blowing and be quiet. Only thing was, now the electricity bill had come twice, then a notice, and then it had been cut off, and with no juice Mama began to stink something furious. He put a big black trash bag over her feet, up to her waist, and pulled one over her head, tied them together where they met at the waist with one of her robe belts. But that didn’t hold the stink in worth a damn. He poured a whole bottle of Brut cologne over her, and that helped some. She smelled like a sixteen-year-old boy on his way to his first date.

Finally the cologne fermented with Mama and gave off an even more intense aroma. But eventually that passed. Between all the air-conditioning, the Baggies, the heat, and the stale air, the old gal semi-mummified. Not so much she didn’t still smell dead, but enough it didn’t run him out of the house anymore. It was now like a dog had died under the porch and was almost rotted away.

Worse than the odor was the lack of electricity. All the food in the refrigerator had spoiled and he had to sit in the dark at night and smoke his mother’s cigarettes and look at a dead TV set and eat vegetables out of cans. There were plenty of cans, but he didn’t really want any of it. There were goddamn beets, and goddamn green beans, and goddamn corn, and goddamn new potatoes. Not a shred of meat, except for some Beenie-Weenies, and he’d jumped on those scamps two days after the old fter thelady bit the big one. So now it was nothing but canned vegetables, and they were running low and he’d foolishly pushed the beets back until the last, so now that’s all he had to eat. Beets. He wished he’d doled those boogers out.

Sometimes he sat on the front porch with his can of vegetables and watched bugs fly across the light of the moon, and sometimes he just sat and watched people pull up at the stand across the highway and buy firecrackers. He started counting the people and figuring from the size of their sacks about how much they were spending, and that got him thinking about how much was back there in the stand each night before they closed and took it home.

Each day, as it got closer to the Fourth of July, the traffic increased. He thought if he waited until the Fourth to hit the place that would be the biggest night, and he might clean up good. He thought maybe he did, he could pay the electric bill, phone, all the rest, and manage to pay the water bill before it got turned off. It was the one thing that he’d had enough cash to pay, and he’d kept it up, but he couldn’t afford it again. He was down to his last few dollars and he knew he’d miss that water. He liked to take baths, even if they were cold, and drink lots of water to keep from thinking about eating. He had paid the post office box bill for a year so he wouldn’t have to worry about the mailman coming around. Not that he did any more than stuff mail in the box out by the highway, but he figured the less people he could have near the house the better, just in case he was so used to Mama that others might be able to get a sniff of her all the way out to the mailbox.

Since his mother didn’t have any family other than him that would have anything to do with her, and she didn’t have any friends, he figured he might could go on indefinitely, provided he learned to sign her checks or found someone willing to do it for a little cut of the money.

‘Course, that plan had limits. After a bit, Social Security might figure out his Mama wasn’t over a hundred years old and still living. But since she was in her eighties when she died, he thought he might could get ten years out of her checks before anyone got wise and came around to throw her an Oldest Person In America birthday party. By then, he’d have plans. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, he might go off to Bolivia.

The whole thing, trying to figure out what to do, made Bill’s head hurt. But one thing he was certain of, a good place to start was knocking over that firecracker stand.

He thought of a couple fellas he knew might be up for the job, and though he wasn’t big on cutting them in, the idea of doing it alone didn’t appeal to him. Besides, they needed a getaway car, and Chaplin, one of the fellas he was thinking about, could hot-wire a waffle iron he took a mind to. And Fat Boy Wilson could drive a waffle iron if that’s all they had to drive.

A few days later after all this considering, Bill drove into town on the last of his gas and found Chaplin and Fat Boy working on a car in Fat Boy’s garage. Chaplin was under it and having Fat Boy pass down wrenches.

“How’s the boy?” Fat Boy asked Bill.

“I’m fine. That Chaplin under there?”

“Naw, I’m Raquel Welch,” Chaplin called from beneath the car, “and I’m givin’ the car a blow job. How you doin’?”

“Okay.”

“How’s your mom, Bill?”

“Fine. Who’s Raquel Welch?”

“One of the big-tittie actresses. She’s a little long in the tooth now, I reckon. Hell, she might be dead.”

“That don’t matter none to Chaplin,” Fat Boy said. “Long as her titties ain’t rotted off and there’s some kind of hole in her.”

They laughed. Bill said, “You boys want to do a little somethin’? You know, a little job.”

“You don’t mean illegal, do you?” Fat Boy said. “I mean, I don’t do nothing illegal.”

All three laughed, and Chaplin, who had been lying on a wheeled board, a creeper he called it, slid out from under the car and got a rag and wiped his hands.

“Well,” Chaplin said, “it illegal?”

“Yeah,” Bill said, “it’s some illegal.”

“Long as it ain’t killin’ nobody,” Fat Boy said.

“We’re gonna have to have guns, but that’s just for show.”

“Man, I don’t know,” Fat Boy said. “I did that filling station over in Center with you, and you’re kind of nervous when there’s guns. Chaplin, he likes guns too much. I thought we might end up shootin’ someone. I don’t want to shoot no one. I mean, they’re gonna shoot me, I might shoot ’em, but I don’t want to shoot nobody I don’t have to.”

“You don’t got to shoot anybody,” Bill said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. It’s just for show.”

“I might shoot somebody, it’s worth the money,” Chaplin said.

“It’s a firecracker stand,” Bill said. “I figure they take in several thousand a day. I’m sayin’ we split it three ways.”

“How many guys run the stand?” Fat Boy asked.

“One most of the time. Sometimes two. We hit it at closing time, take the money and run. Piece of cake. We’ll need to heist a car to do the job, ditch it somewhere, have our own waitin’. We wear masks. We don’t say much. We wave a pistol around. We get the money and we’re gone.”

“Them firecracker stands,” Fat Boy said, “they’re out of the city, easy targets.”

“It’d be a whole lot easier than a convenience store,” Chaplin said.

“That’s right,” Bill said. “This one is across from my house. Easy pickin’s.”

About the Author

With more than thirty books to his credit, Joe R. Lansdale is the Champion Mojo Storyteller. He’s been called “an immense talent” by Booklist; “a born storyteller” by Robert Bloch; and The New York Times Book Review declares he has “a folklorist’s eye for telling detai怅l and a front-porch raconteur’s sense of pace.”

He’s won umpty-ump awards, including sixteen Bram Stoker Awards, the Grand Master Award from the World Horror Convention, a British Fantasy Award, the American Mystery Award, the Horror Critics Award, the Grinzane Cavour Prize for Literature, the “Shot in the Dark” International Crime Writer’s Award, the Golden Lion Award, the Booklist Editor’s Award, the Critic’s Choice Award, and a New York Times Notable Book Award. He’s got the most decorated mantle in all of Nacogdoches!

Lansdale lives in Nacogdoches, Texas, with his wife, Karen, writer and editor.

Find him online at www.JoeRLansdale.com.

Other Books by Joe R. Lansdale

“Hap Collins and Leonard Pine” mysteries

Savage Season (1990)

Mucho Mojo (1994)

Two-Bear Mambo (1995)

Bad Chili (1997)

Rumble Tumble (1998)

Veil’s Visit (1999)

Captains Outrageous (2001)

Vanilla Ride (2009)

Hyenas (a novella) (2011)

Devil Red (2011)

Blue to the Bone (TBD)

The “Drive-In” series

The Drive-In: A “B” Movie with Blood and Popcorn, Made in Texas (1988)

The Drive-In 2: Not Just One of Them Sequels (1989)

The Drive-In: A Double-Feature (1997, omnibus)

The Drive-In: The Bus Tour (2005) (limited edition)

The “Ned the Seal” trilogy

Zeppelins West (2001)

Flaming London (2006)

Flaming Zeppelins: The Adventures of Ned the Seal (2010)

The Sky Done Ripped (TBD)

Other novels

Act of Love (1980)

Texas Night Riders (1983) (as Ray Slater)

Dead in the West (1986) (written in 1980)

Magic Wagon (1986)

The Nightrunners (1987)

Cold in July (1989)

Tarzan: the Lost Adventure (1995) (with Edgar Rice Burroughs)

The Boar (1998)

Freezer Burn (1999)

Waltz of Shadows (1999)

Something Lumber This Way Comes (1999) (Children’s book)

The Big Blow (2000)

Blood Dance (2000)

The Bottoms (2000)

A Fine Dark Line (2002)

Sunset and Sawdust (2004)

Lost Echoes (2007)

Leather Maiden (2008)

Under the Warrior Sun (2010)

…And that’s not counting the pseudonymous novels, the short stories, the chapbooks, anthologies, graphic novels, comic books and all the rest.

Get the full story at www.JoeRLansdale.com.

Copyright

Waltz of Shadows was first published by Subterranean Press in 1999.

This digital pause (v1.0) was published in 2011 by Gere Donovan Press.

If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.

Copyright © 1999 by Joe R. Lansdale.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Errata

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Table of Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Other Books by Joe R. Lansdale