Captains Outrageous

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “I am.”

  “Well, that kind of log-jams the other reason I came by.”

  “And that is?” I asked.

  “I wanted to see I could stay here one night soon, So I could have my trailer painted. And boy, does it need it. I bought it off a couple had a bunch of kids. They must have wiped shit on the walls, way that place stank. I got some cheap new furniture in storage. Been sleeping on a pallet. It’s killing my back. I was gonna do the painting myself, but I’m a shitty painter. Fact is, I’m bringing in painters to repaint what I fucked up. I started trying to do it, but a brain-damaged chimpanzee could have done a better job. Thing is, the smell. Not just from the kids, but the new paint. Man, I can’t take it. I thought about staying with Hanson, but his wife doesn’t like me. I thought I’d ask you. That doesn’t work out, I can ask John and Leonard. I thought it just being you it would be easier, but I see it isn’t just you anymore. And you’re moving out.”

  “Well, Hanson’s wife just doesn’t know your charm,” Brett said.

  “Yeah, charming, that’s my goddamned middle name.”

  “I hear you, honey,” Brett said. “When they were passing out ass, I thought they said class, and I asked for a lot of it. And I got it.”

  “It looks all right to me,” Charlie said.

  “I’m not complaining,” Brett said. “It sure beats being bony when you fall on it.”

  I said, “I’ve got another week or two on this place, Charlie. You can stay here. I’m stayin’ at Brett’s, so you’d have it to yourself. I can leave the coffee, any of this food you want. Though the rotten stuff might not be too appetizing.”

  “No. That’s all right. Well, just the coffee.”

  “Not a problem.”

  I gave him my spare key.

  “I can start tonight?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ve spent my last night here.”

  22

  AS I GROW OLDER, my belief in a higher power has not only disintegrated, it’s become negative. As my lawyer friend Veil once said, “If there’s a God, let him explain babies with AIDS.”

  I think about the silliness of it. This whole God thing. Two teams praying before a football game. Not to get injured is all right, but they’re also praying to win. As if the Wildcats are more in God’s favor to win a fuckin’ football game than the Beavers.

  How does God judge that? Best-looking cheerleaders? Quarterback with the best hairdo? Linebacker with the biggest dick? What’s the criteria on that?

  In other words, what the hell was God’s plan for doing what he did to me and mine?

  So, here’s what happened. I’m trucking along happy-like. Living with Brett. Playing house. Eating good. Going to work at the chicken plant. Not exactly the life of a high roller, but like the GED, the Good Enough Diploma that’s almost a high school diploma, I had a Good Enough Life, which was almost like a real one.

  One morning after I got off work, I drove over to my place to tell Charlie if he needed a few days more, he had them. Until the end of the month actually. On that date, the landlord, a real shithead of a guy, was going to level the apartment and put the property up for sale.

  I drove over there. Charlie’s car was in the yard. I parked next to it, started up the stairs. When I reached the top I saw the door was splintered at the frame. The door itself hung slightly open.

  I felt a cold chill get hold of the short hairs on my neck and shake them. I felt a tightening in my stomach, a shrinking of my testicles.

  I still had on my guard outfit, including gun, so I pulled the revolver, a .38, and went on up, thinking, Good God, don’t let that motherfucker I fought at the chicken plant be up here. Anything but that.

  I don’t know exactly why that came to mind, but that was my first thought. He had escaped, was looking for me, had gnawed a hole through the jail bars with his goddamn teeth, and now he was waiting to leap on my head, bite my skull, and suck out my brain.

  I eased up to the door frame, listened. Off in the distance I heard a kid yell and a dog bark. I gingerly pushed the door completely open.

  Inside the apartment the only sound was a drip from the sink.

  I slipped inside. It was a little dark. The blinds were drawn, but it wasn’t a place a person could hide, unless he was a leprechaun or the Invisible Man. I pointed the revolver around just for the hell of it. I called Charlie’s name.

  He didn’t answer.

  I was reminded of something else.

  The hotel room in Mexico. The bed with Beatrice on it.

  All of a sudden the apartment seemed like a place I’d never been and didn’t want to be. The ceiling was too low, the walls too close. I thought the floor might tilt up and drop me off the edge of the world.

  I called Charlie’s name again, this time real loud. Just for good luck I cocked back the hammer on the .38.

  As I moved inside my feet bogged in something wet on the carpet. I lifted them. They were sticky. The carpet was like the carpet of an old theater gummy with spilled soft drinks and smashed candies.

  The carpet only partially covered the living room. The rest was wooden floor, and parts of it were coated in something congealed. It had seeped out from behind the couch. My nostrils quivered with the stench of it; sort of road kill meets dried copper baking slowly in a smutty oven.

  I put one knee on the couch and leaned over and looked down.

  There was a burst of blackness that struck me in the face, sent me stumbling back, swatting.

  Flies.

  I took a breath, put a knee on the couch, and looked over again. Now I knew why Charlie hadn’t answered. You can’t yell loud enough for someone in that state to hear.

  Charlie lay behind the couch. He wore only jockey shorts. His throat had been cut. But before that he had been worked on. He was missing some teeth. His nose and cheeks had been cut on, as if whittled. He wore an expression that seemed to say, “Oh, shit.” His hands were tied behind his back with strips of one of my sheets or maybe a pillowcase.

  The flies were settling on him again.

  I couldn’t help myself. I let out a little bark of pain and fear and bounced off the couch.

  I wiped my feet on a dry part of the carpet. I was trembling so bad I thought I was literally going to shake my gun belt off.

  I started to back out of the doorway, but I gathered up my courage. It was like trying to gather up ten pounds of yarn and poke it in a two-pound basket. But I did it. I went to the bedroom. Opened the door and yelled. I don’t know why I yelled. To scare whoever might be in there. To encourage myself. Hard to say.

  The bed was blood-drenched. The stench in there was strong enough to grow legs and dance up the wall. There was a bloody handprint on the wall. As if someone had leaned there, tired from his work. Or maybe Charlie broke free, pushed his attacker back, forcing him to put out a hand to keep from falling.

  But whoever it had been was fast enough to catch up with a wounded man. And he had. And he had cut Charlie’s throat.

  As for the handprint, it was huge.

  A little suitcase sat on its side by my chair. On the chair were Charlie’s clothes, a Hawaiian shirt draped over the back of it. The shirt pictured a bursting sunset against a blue-green sea, bordered by palm trees and a strip of beach. On the seat of the chair, on top of his gray slacks, was his porkpie hat. Beside the chair, his Dr. Scholl’s shoes with black and red clocked socks sticking out of them like tired tongues.

  I eased the rest of the way into the room and looked around. I even bent down and looked under the bed. Lots of cobwebs. I opened the closet door.

  Empty, except for a dead beetle.

  I took a deep breath. I checked out the bathroom.

  I pulled back the shower curtain.

  Nothing.

  I holstered my gun, went to the front room, picked up the phone, called Leonard first. I don’t know why, but things go wrong, I call him. It’s a wonder I don’t call him when I have a hangnail. When I explained, he said, “Goddamn. Godalm
ightydamn. Charlie? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re absolutely sure.”

  “He’s behind the goddamn couch, Leonard. He’s cut up. It’s him. I’d let you talk to him, but he’s dead. Dead, goddamn it.”

  “Easy. I’m coming over … You all right, Hap?”

  “Peachy.”

  I dialed 911 next, told the police who I was, gave them the address and details.

  I went outside, took off my gun belt, put it on the front seat of my car. I didn’t want any gun-happy cops popping me.

  I sat down on the bottom step of the apartment and took in long, slow breaths. I was away from the stench of blood, but I could still smell it. I felt as if it had soaked into my skin. In the distance I could hear a siren. More than one.

  Then I really began to think about who was upstairs. My good buddy, Charlie. I thought about what had occurred, how horrible it had been, and that it must have been meant for me.

  As I’ve pointed out, I’m not exactly a lucky man. But I did get a bit of luck. The head honcho on the case knew me. His name was Jake. I had met him several times but I could never remember his last name. He had been a patrol cop when I first met him. He was a detective now. Part of that was due to Charlie leaving, opening up a position. He and Charlie had been friends.

  He was a big dark-haired guy with a belly made pregnant by too many beers and not enough exercise. He had a naturally sad face, and today it was sadder. He wore a very nice suit and very nice shoes. I found myself looking at his shoes a lot. I didn’t like the fact I was all teary-eyed. Even under such circumstances one tries to be macho. It’s expected.

  We were leaning on my car, talking. I was giving him the poop I knew. Which, of course, was limited. I didn’t mention the Mexico thing. I knew I should have. I even knew they were connected, but right then I didn’t mention it.

  Leonard drove up. The cops didn’t want to let him see me, but Jake signaled him through.

  “You okay, brother?” Leonard said.

  “I suppose,” I said. “I’m not exactly up for Pancho’s Mexican buffet, but I guess I’ll make it.”

  One of the blue suits came over, said, “There’s a handprint in blood on the bathroom wall. It’s big. If the rest of that motherfucker goes with the hand he’ll be just a little smaller than a Tyrannosaurus rex.”

  “You getting prints?”

  “I’m just a blue suit, like you used to be, Jake, but I thought of that. We do that when we do police work. We take photographs and try not to step in stuff.”

  “All right, all right,” Jake said. “I get you.”

  “Did I say this motherfucker is big?” the blue suit said. “I mean big.”

  “You said he was big,” Jake said.

  “He’s so big he hurts my feelings. I wear like a size eight shoe. Everyone’s bigger than me, but this motherfucker, he’s bigger than everyone else.”

  “We get the point,” Jake said. “Go supervise. Get a doughnut. Something. You’re gettin’ on my nerves.”

  “Now that you’re a detective I get on your nerves.”

  “Ned, you always got on my nerves.”

  Ned went away. Jake said, “You have no idea why this happened?”

  “I think whoever it was was looking for me,” I said. “Charlie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been robbery. They wanted something I didn’t have. I had moved most of my stuff out. Disappointed, they took it out on Charlie. It could have been like that.”

  “Could be that way,” Jake said. “But before you said robbery, you said they were looking for you. You kind of tacked that on, like maybe you wished you hadn’t said the first part. Why would they be looking for you?”

  “I live here. Charlie isn’t normally here. Maybe someone had a grudge and came to settle it.”

  “What I know about you guys, lots of people could have grudges. You got any names of these grudge holders?”

  “You’ll need a computer,” Leonard said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t think of anyone who would do this,” I said.

  “So no one comes to mind?” Jake said.

  I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

  “What about you, Leonard? You know Hap well. Anyone you can think of would want him dead.”

  Leonard put his arm around my shoulder. “No.”

  “And Charlie was here why?”

  “He was going to stay a couple nights while his trailer was painted.”

  “You wouldn’t hold back anything, would you, Hap?”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “That’s not quite an answer either way.”

  “No, it isn’t, Jake. I’m a little rattled right now. You’ll have to forgive me. I just found a good friend with his throat cut. Tends to make a man tense and a little confused.”

  “Hey, he was my friend too,” Jake said.

  “I know.”

  “You called Leonard, obviously. I don’t suppose you called and told Hanson. They were like brothers, you know.”

  “I do know,” I said. “No. I didn’t call Hanson.”

  “I’ll take care of that. You got some place to go?”

  “I’m staying with my girlfriend. Brett Sawyer.”

  “He’ll be with me for a while,” Leonard said. “You know my address.”

  “Who in law enforcement doesn’t?” Jake said.

  “I can give you my boyfriend’s address too.”

  “Oh. Well …”

  “Forgot I was queer, didn’t you?”

  “Bingo. You just don’t … I don’t know …”

  “Act queer?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Guess what? Some of us don’t wear feather boas. But just so you don’t feel all confused, me and John, sometimes we hold hands and kiss and I did give him a little promise ring.”

  “Man, I don’t want to hear that,” Jake said. “Your boyfriend’s address isn’t necessary. Give me Brett’s address, Hap, and go. I need to ask any more questions, I’ll look you up.”

  I gave him the address, started to get in my car.

  Jake said, “I assume the gun on the seat goes with the guard uniform?”

  “Goddamn, you are a detective,” I said. I was trying to come across as cool and calm and still ripe with humor, but the words came out flat and a little desperate. It’s funny the way men try to be men.

  “Follow me to my place,” Leonard said. “We can talk.”

  When we got to John’s, and Leonard explained what happened, John immediately put a pot of water on the stove. Leonard once told me when things get tense, first thing John did was heat water and make tea.

  “Motherfucker thinks he’s from England,” Leonard said.

  “Tea is soothing,” John said. “I’ve got some cookies. Vanilla, of course.”

  “You put ice in tea,” Leonard said. “Anything else is un-American. Besides, I like milk with vanilla cookies. We got the wafers or the ones with the creme in the middle?”

  “Like it matters to you,” John said. “Vanilla cookies with shit in the center would be all right for you. Long as they’re vanilla.”

  We sat at the table while the water heated. Leonard said, “You didn’t mention Mexico to Jake.”

  “No, I didn’t. And you didn’t either.”

  “You thought Jake didn’t need to know, I couldn’t see any reason to mention it. But it’s too much like Mexico to be coincidence.”

  John poured hot water into cups with tea bags in them. He said, “May I ask why you didn’t tell the police? You want the killer caught, of course.”

  “I want his ass. I want it personally. Beatrice was a fool, but she was all right at the center. She didn’t deserve to die and then have it all swept under the rug. I left that to the Mexican police. Obviously, it didn’t work out. I don’t think it’ll ever work out. I been thinking about that. Me just going off to let it work out in whatever manner it worked out. It’s in my craw.”

  “Frankly
,” Leonard said, “it’s in my craw too. She and her old man did help us when we needed it.”

  “Damn right. And Charlie, he was a good friend. He was staying at my place and was killed because whoever did this thought it was me. I want to get even.”

  “Doesn’t that violate your kinder and gentler nature you’re trying to preserve?”

  “It does. And I want to find out why anyone would want to kill me. What the hell could I know or have that would interest them?”

  “I think it’s more like what they think you know or have,” Leonard said.

  “Another thing,” John said. “Wouldn’t it be best to tell the cops? Just for one simple reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “They might actually catch him. I mean, come on, from what Leonard’s told me about you two guys, about the only thing you can catch is a cold.”

  “Hey,” Leonard said. “We stumble around long enough, we get what we want.”

  “Think about this,” John said. “Guy’s out there running around right now. You think he came all this way just to break down a door, kill Charlie, catch a plane back to Mexico?”

  “Well, no,” I said.

  “He could have thought you were Charlie,” Leonard said. “He somehow knew a Hap Collins was involved with Beatrice, and for whatever reason he killed her, he connects you to it, comes to kill you, gets poor Charlie, thinks his job is done, and goes home.”

  “Bless Charlie,” John said. “Could be just that. But don’t you think at some point in the torture, Charlie would have been inclined to tell this big man who he was, and maybe where you were?”

  “He’d done to me what he did to Charlie,” I said, “I’d have told him anything he wanted to know. I’d have sucked his goddamn dick and given him a shoeshine. I don’t see how Charlie could have kept from it.”

  “Brett,” Leonard said.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “You stay here,” Leonard said to John.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re the bitch in this relationship.”

  We were on our way out the door when John said, “Piss on you, Leonard. You male chauvinist pig.”

  “But you’re male too,” Leonard said. “So how can that be male chauvinistic? Oh, shit, they could be looking for me as well. I mean, it could be that way, right?”