PIGGS
Neal Barrett Jr.
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
© 2012 / Neal Barrett Jr.
Cover Design By: David Dodd
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS PRODUCTS BY NEAL BARRET JR.
Novels:
The Hereafter Gang
Buy Direct From Crossroad Press & Save
Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS – use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one-time 20% savings! We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.
Find us at: http://store.crossroadpress.com
Author's Introduction to the Novel & Screenplay
If the Sopranos wore overalls and didn't care for shoes, they'd likely live in Mexican Wells, Texas. If Jack hadn't screwed up a no-brainer holdup in Amarillo, if he hadn't gotten high with a long-legged Oklahoma girl--hey, if he'd ever done anything right, he wouldn't have ended up in the Huntsville pen. He sure wouldn't be washing dishes in a dump like WAN'S.
The good news is, WAN'S is right next door to PIGG'S, where Jack's beloved, Gloria Mundi, takes it all off every night. The bad news is, redneck mobster Cecil R. Dupree runs PIGG'S, and wants Gloria for himself.
Still, all Jack needs is a couple of hundred grand, and he can take Gloria out of all this. One way to get it is to foul up Cecil's dope with the bad bunch from New Orleans, steal a fast car and get out of town.
What's wrong with a plan like that?
If you happened to grow up in Texas like I did, you've driven through more than one town like Mexican Wells. Maybe you had the good sense to ride on by or maybe not. There really are people like Cecil Dupree, Cat Eye the giant, and good old girls like Alabama Straight and Wilda Hare. There are even a couple of abandoned theme parks like THE BATTLE OF BITUN FAMILY FUN PARK, with rusty old relics lying around. In my story, Gloria lives in German bomber high up in tree. Okay, so I made that up. The rest of it's almost somewhat partially true.
I hope you enjoy the book, and the screenplay too. I gave them both the very same name: PIGGS. Even Jack would have thought of that.
NEAL BARRETT, JR.
CONTENTS
Author's Introduction to the Novel and Screenplay
PIGGS – the Novel
PIGGS – The Screenplay – written by the author
Chapter One
"What we could do," the man said, "we've got stuff going through Bossier City up to Big D. This is maybe week, week after next, we let you know when. We offload a partial, you come and get it, we hold the rest."
"I don't want a partial," Cecil said. "I don't think I said partial anywhere."
"I don't think you did," the man said. "The partial thing, that's temporary. That's a one-time thing is what it is."
"Temporary till what?" Cecil knew what, but he went ahead and asked. You don't ask, the guy'd think you didn't know better, so Cecil had to ask.
One of the girls finished up. The crowd began to hoot and yell. The strobe lights exploded into purple, white and red.
"You know, we get paid, you get the partial," the man said.
"Everything goes down, you get the rest."
"I lay out, I'm paying for the whole thing, you gimme half. This is how it looks to me."
The man leaned across the table. "You get all of it, Mr. Dupree. Two, three days outside. We're not looking to inconvenience you. This is just business, this is no big thing. You've been around so you ought to know that."
The guy, he'd stepped right in it, gone across the line. Cecil didn't show it, but anyone who knew about Cecil could have told the guy that.
"I'm a bidnessman myself," Cecil said. "We got a misunderstanding; I'd like to clear it up. Ambrose and me, we go back to eighty six. He had the club in Houston, I had a place next door. We've done a lot of bidness; there's never been a problem with either him or me."
"Mr. Ambrose is retired. You know him, you know he's not well, you know he's not active in the business anymore."
"I know he's not active. I know he's got serious problems with his parts. I know he's got a dick is going to maybe fall off onna floor, so what's that got to do with me?"
"It's a one-time thing, it's just temporary."
"I got that, I got it the first couple times it come around."
Cecil looked at Grape. Grape was where he always was, at a table near the booth. Grape looked asleep. He looked like a tick dog, sleeping on a hot front porch.
"I'd like another bock," Cecil said. "I'd like to get it cold this time. Get our guest a refill, whatever he's having, get him some of that."
The man looked relieved. He didn't like how things were going; he was ready for a break. He said he'd like to go to the john if Grape would show him where.
"Show him," Cecil said, and Grape got up and led him off, through the tables past the bar.
Once he was out of sight of Cecil, Kenny let out a breath. It was cold in the place, but he tended to sweat. The motel was cheap and the water wasn't hot. Kenny couldn't take a shower, he couldn't handle that. He'd washed beneath his arms, put on a clean shirt, now the shirt was wringing wet.
Jesus, he thought, what am I doing here, what is Junior thinking about, dealing with a clown like this? The guy is a nutcase, a geek, an absolute freak.
He knew it the minute he saw Dupree, the guy over fifty, maybe fifty-five. Big country ears and bad teeth. A tall and skinny guy, no fat at all. And wearing–get this–no shirt and fucking overalls.
Kenny wasn't fooled a minute. Okay, a minute and a half. The farmer suit and the goofball smile couldn't hide the eyes. Couldn't hide the mean in those awful septic eyes. He'd seen a couple dudes like Cecil down in Baton Rouge. Guys in Boston, that didn't look like him at all. It was something you could smell, something you knew if you'd been around a while. You could hide maybe anything, but you couldn't hide the eyes.
And this guy, holy shit. On top of the cornball act, you can't help looking at the guy, the guy's got a problem, the guy's got a problem with his face. You don't know where to look, so you start looking everywhere else. You look back again, he sees you doing that. Maybe, if they'd ever do the deal, he could start on back. Get out of Hick City, drive for a while, find a real motel. Whatever. As long as he didn't have to see the fucking hayseed again, and he wouldn't mind telling Junior that.
Cat Eye stood where he always did, just to Cecil's right.
Cecil didn't have to look, Cecil knew the Cat was there. It's morning, it's the middle of the night, the Cat's going to be there, this is what the Cat's for.
Out across the room, the crowd cheered again. One of the girls was coming on, the short one from Waco that everybody liked, though Cecil couldn't see why. You look at naked girls for a while, they tend to look alike. Tits and legs and ass, you got a different shape, you got a different size. You're looking all the time, they're looking all alike.
Unless, Cecil thought, you got something special, something doesn't even have a name, but you know that something's there. Gloria had it, and Cecil knew it the minute she walked in the door. He knew it, and the jerkoffs sitting in the dark, they knew it too. She was headliner stuff. She had that quality you couldn't define. The closest Cecil came was the very first night she went on.
"Son of a bitch," Cecil said to Grape, "that kid has got it, that kid is nakeder than anybody else I ever seen..."
Cecil watched the man go. He was forty, maybe, stocky and under five-ten, a man who'd played ball some time, and now all the muscle was sliding into fat.
He was dressed for being anywhere else. For sure not Mexican Wells, or anyplace else in Garner County, Texas, and for certain not in Piggs. Nobody wore loafers in Piggs, for Christ's sake, loafers with a tassel on top. Loafers and dress pants, a shirt and a tie. The shirt was okay, a good shade of blue, but the collar was white. Cecil liked shirts that were all one color. You want a white shirt, go ahead and do it, do the whole thing white.
Cecil didn't like him, didn't like him from the start. Didn't like his shirt, didn't like his attitude. Down in New Orleans, he was just another heavy, but send him up here, he thought he was maybe something else. Also, the guy had looked at Cecil's face. Not right at him, but out of the corner of his eye, Cecil had caught him at it twice.
His name was Hutt Kenny. Not Kenny first, but the other way around. Hutt, he said, though nobody asked. Hutt stood for Hutton, but no one called him that. Cecil was certain no one in the state of Louisiana had a name like Hutton Kenny. Boston, maybe, or Rhode fucking Island, but nowhere in New Orleans. Which meant the old man was really out of the picture. That his boy was bringing new people in from out of state. People from the East. People with names where Kenny came last. That was depressing, Cecil thought, but everything changed, nothing ever stayed the same.
There was some kind of trouble, an angry swell above the usual bedlam at the bar, a brief discord that quickly faded way. Cecil paid it no mind, not until Grape came back with Kenny in tow. Kenny was mad, holding it back, but you could see it in his eyes. You been around a while, you can see it in the eyes.
"What's the problem?" Cecil said, talking to Grape, not talking to Hutt.
"Nothing," Hutt said, "no big deal."
"Ol' boy called him a fag," Grape said. "Said he was wearing funny shoes."
"Who was this now, you know who it was?"
"Skinny dude, short hair, leather jacket."
"Forget it," Hutt said, "fucker was drunk." He downed his drink, tapping the glass to get the whiskey past the ice.
"Like an aviator jacket," Cecil said, looking at the bar.
"Uhuh, something like that."
Cecil looked at Hutt. Hutt wouldn't look back. He was clearly irritated. The girl came with drinks. She didn't have a bottom or a top. Hutt gave her a quick appraising glance, then picked up his glass and drank it down.
"Let's forget it, all right? We've got business, Mr. Dupree. That's why I drove up here, so you and me could talk. I don't give a shit what the guy said, doesn't mean a thing to me."
"I give a shit," Cecil said. "This is my place, you're a guest here. That boy showed no respect to you, Mr. Kenny. Like you're showing no respect to me. I am overlooking that, I don't take offense. My guess is, you being a asshole doesn't have a thing to do with this. This is a social disorder, this is a personal failing in yourself. What I am saying, I'm saying Ambrose Junior, this is the word from him to me. Junior wants to tell me I am off his Christmas list. He'll let me do bidness, but I got to kiss his ass. I got to pretend this kid who is wet behind the ears is the fucking Godfather, thinks he's in a movie somewhere. What do you think, Mr. Kenny, am I getting close, would I be correct in saying that?"
It looked as if Hutt might strangle on his collar. His glass was empty and all he had was ice.
"This isn't right, Mr. Du-pree, now you're aware of that. This kind of talk, this won't get us anywhere at all."
"You can take that tie off you want. We like folks to feel at home here."
Cecil looked past the booth, studied the crowd at the bar, looked at the bar a long time, looked back at Hutt. Long enough for Hutt to look off at something else.
"Grape, get us some food in here, "Cecil said. He stood, then, and set down his beer. "Get me a Shiner, get our guest another drink."
"Nothing for me," Hutt said.
"Get him a drink," Cecil said. "Easy on the ice. The man's from fucking Maine somewhere, he don't want a lot of ice..."
Chapter Two
The bar was against the west wall, the tables shoved together past that. There were two small platforms next to center stage. When a girl got through, she could climb on a platform and do her thing there. There were always three girls going all the time.
The place was packed solid, good for Tuesday night, though most nights at Piggs were like Saturdays anywhere else. Texas law said a club could serve drinks if the girls only took off a top. Bring Your Own Bottle, if the bottom came off as well.
The law applied to Garner County, the exception being Cecil Dupree, who gave of himself through personal endowments, outright bribes, and football scholarships.
The crowd was mostly male, a mixed bag of college kids, used car salesmen and men in gimme caps. Sometimes, a man would bring a woman in Piggs, hoping the kinky convolutions on stage were contagious, that a wife or a girlfriend would maybe learn something, and take it back home when she left.
Cecil wouldn't keep a woman out, but he thought it was wrong to bring them in. It made guys nervous to see a woman sitting there with all her clothes on. A guy comes to Piggs, he doesn't want to see that.
He made his way through the darkened room, keeping to the edge, avoiding the crowd as best he could. Piggs had been a seafood place before Cecil bought it out. Built-in tanks ran around three walls. The tanks had held tropical fish, but now they held pigs. This is how Piggs got its name. The pigs were cute and pink, the size of puppy dogs. People liked to watch pigs, liked to watch them romp about. A man gets tired of just watching private parts, he'll stop and watch a pig.
You could write your name on a pig for twenty bucks. This was Cecil's idea, and it brought in some nice extra cash. Your name might be next to Dolly or Garth, or maybe even Willie himself. No one stopped to think pigs grew fast. There were always pigs in the tanks, signed by ordinary people and famous country stars. Always cute, and always the very same size. . . .
It was mid-July, and the A/C was high as it would go. Cecil slipped out the side door, into the hot oppressive night. He stopped and looked up at the dark and starless sky, breathed in the heated summer air. The smells were smells he liked. Tar grown soft from the fury of the day, the fumes of passing cars. He could smell the grease from Wan's, smell the tang of sour beer. There were plenty of smells in the world, but these were the ones he liked the best.
The neon sign atop the building read PIGGS, a sign you could read nearly three miles away. The pink letters flashed every second and a half. Circling the sign was a herd of blue pigs. They chased one another in a fast and jerky pace just below the speed of light. Flashing letters and the orbital pigs played tricks upon the eye. People felt dizzy as soon as they arrived. People who were drunk had a tendency to throw up on the ground. People prone to fits didn't go to Piggs at all.
Cecil crossed the dim parking lot. He'd spotted the aviator jacket, seen the man leave, watched him go while he talked to Hutt Kenny or maybe Kenny Hutt. Talked to the asshole Ambrose Junior had sent up from New Orleans. Sent him up to insult Cecil R. Dupree, who'd been his father's friend. If the old man knew, he'd be angry and ashamed. Ambrose Senior was a standup guy. He would never allow an insult to his friends. Or maybe, Cecil thought, Ambrose wouldn't care. A man having trouble with his parts doesn't really give a shit about anybody else.
Cat Eye was standing by Cecil's Cadillac, a man a little smaller than a truck, a man with little alligator eyes. Cecil hadn't asked him to follow, but that was Cat's job, to be anywhere Cecil wanted him to be.
Cecil walked to his car, which was parked in its spot against the wall. The car was extra-long and lizard-green, a super-extended '93 Caddie, big enough to haul a pro basketball team. He opened the trunk, found a burlap sack, and closed the trunk again. Cat Eye leaned against the car. A Dodge Ram roared out of the lot, spra
ying gravel in its wake. College boys who'd downed a few beers, seen some naked girls.
No one else was leaving, no one else was in the lot.
The man in the aviator jacket was standing by a low-slung car, looking for his keys. The car was an '84 Spider, maybe '85. The paint was beetle-black, so deep and shiny black, the neon from Piggs was a dazzling sight to see.
The man heard Cecil walk up behind him, jerked around fast, wondered what this was all about, decided he was bigger, shook his head, said, "What the fuck, man?"
Cecil pulled a short-handled axe from his burlap sack and whipped it across the man's gut. The man cried out and staggered back, slammed against the car. He threw one hand before his face. Cecil hacked at him again. The blade took off three fingers, buried itself between the neck and the shoulders clear to the center of the chest. The man slid down, leaving dark streaks on the beetle-black car. Sat with his hands hung loose by his sides.
Cecil put his foot on the man and pulled the blade out. Dropped the axe in the sack and walked across the lot. Stopped to talk to Cat Eye, gave Cat the sack, and went back into Piggs. The A/C labored on the roof, chugging away in a hopeless effort to chill the Texas night. A truck whined by, heading for 35, heading for San Antone. The headlights swept across the lot, flashed, for an instant, on a man with alligator eyes. A man with a sack by a lizard-green car.
Chapter Three
Hutt was looking better, more relaxed now, slumped in the booth, a couple more drinks inside him and a skinny naked girl on his lap. The color in his cheeks was partly from the drinks, partly from the fact that the girl was doing something out of sight. The girl billed herself as Alabama Straight, though Cecil doubted that. The homo persuasion was rampant in the stripping game, a fact club owners didn't care to advertise.
PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay Page 1
