PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay

by Neal Barrett Jr.

  Every man wanted her, wanted to take her to bad motel, take her to a trailer, take her anywhere. Every man who saw her had the same hunger, the very same need. But nobody loved her, wanted her forever, nobody cared like Jack McCooly did.

  "Cecil's got Alabama out there," Jack said. He'd thought about not saying anything at all, but Alabama was Gloria's friend. "I don't know if you saw her, but I thought you ought to know."

  "I saw her," Gloria said, looking past the mirror, looking through her image there at nothing at all.

  "She don't have to do it," Maggie said. "You don't ever have to do it, you can always tell 'em no."

  Gloria gave her a killing look. "You don't have to work, either, you don't want to eat a whole lot."

  "I would walk out of here before I'd do that."

  "Girl, Alabama has been about everywhere else, she hasn't got anywhere to go."

  "I'm just saying," Maggie said.

  "Well don't."

  "Excuse fucking me, okay?"

  "You're fucking excused. Now shut the fuck up."

  Maggie made little words with her mouth but she didn't let them go. Turned away, slipped into a G-string and a bra. The music shook the walls. Helen Reddy did I Am Woman, which was Laura Licks' song.

  "I was thinking," Jack said, "maybe, you feel like it when you get off, we could get a coffee somewhere. I mean if you feel okay."

  Gloria ran a brush through her hair. "God, Jack, that's going to be about two."

  "I know it is. Everything'll be closed in town, we could go up to Denny's on I-35."

  "Denny's."

  "You don't like Denny's, we could go anywhere else."

  "I don't mind Denny's, they got a good pie."

  "You like the ice box or the hot?"

  "I kinda like the hot."

  "Me too. So you think it'd be all right, we could maybe do that?"

  "I am real tired, Jack." She reached back and squeezed his hand. "Some other time, okay?"

  Jack felt it going, felt it slip away. "I'm off on Thursdays, how about then?"

  "I can't, hon. Thursday's not good for me. We'll do it some time, hear?"

  Jack thought about Sunday, didn't want hear no again. Helen Reddy quit. Tom T. Hall came on with Jesus and Me. Maggie got up, grabbed a sequin gown, wriggled into red spike heels.

  "I hate to leave we're talking pie," Maggie said, "someone's got to work around here."

  "Do it to 'em," Gloria said.

  Maggie winked at Jack, slipped out the door.

  "I better go too," Jack said. "Rhino'll be pissed, I don't get back."

  "I'm awful sorry, Jack. Both of us working, it's real hard to work something out."

  "Yeah, I guess. If we were doing something else, it wouldn't have to be like this."

  "Like what?"

  "You know. Some kinda work wasn't here. I expect you think I been washing dishes all my life. I can do something else. And you wouldn't have to do this."

  Gloria put down her brush, turned and looked him in the eye. "I like doing this. I am a professional dancer, you ever notice that? Why would I want to be doing something else? You are talking awful funny, Jack."

  Jack saw it in her eyes, saw he'd backed himself in a corner somehow. Wondered just how he'd done that, just how he'd get out.

  "It wasn't anything; I was thinking is all."

  "Well don't, okay? I don't like you doing that. You get to thinking, you act real creepy sometimes. Just be yourself, Jack."

  Gloria stood, her back still to Jack. Didn't say a thing, just let the robe slip from her shoulders, fall down her back, down past her hips, past her ankles with a sigh.

  Jack felt his heart stop. He could see her, he could smell her, he could reach out and touch her if he dared. He was inches from a woman without a single blemish, a woman airbrushed at birth, a woman who was perfect everywhere. He'd seen her like this a hundred times before, and so had everybody else. Still, every time it happened, it seemed like a personal private thing, something she did just for him.

  Gloria turned to the left and then the right, watching herself in the mirror, watching herself with a critical eye. She brushed dark hair across her shoulders, down across her breasts, wet her lips and blinked her eyes.

  "You look real good," Jack said.

  "Shoot, tell me something I don't know, hon."

  Jack nearly bumped into Ricky Chavez. Chavez was standing by the door. Bay Rum and Listerine. Salt and pepper hair. Heavy but solid, two-twenty-two. Fringed leather jacket, big gold buckle on a tooled leather belt. Python boots with gold across the toes. A dozen red roses in his left hand, chocolates in his right.

  "What do you want," Jack said, plainly irritated, knowing exactly what this jerk was up to. "You're not supposed to be back here. This area's restricted to authorized personnel."

  Chavez smiled. "I am calling on the Senorita Mundi. What are you doing here, Jack?"

  "I'm an employee, I'm supposed to be here."

  "In the dressing room."

  "In the dressing room or anywhere else my duties take me to. Patrons got to sit out front, I don't have to explain this shit to you."

  "I am not a patron tonight. Tonight I am come in the role of the galán."

  "You do what?"

  "I am here as a suitor, an admirer of the lovely Gloria Mundi. I come to pay her court."

  "Jesus Christ," Jack said, "get your ass out of here."

  "I would speak to the lady myself."

  "Huh-unh, that woman's undressed," Jack said, blocking Chavez' path, "just get on back where you belong."

  "Yes, I see."

  Chavez set his bouquet and chocolates on the floor. Grabbed up Jack by the elbows, and set him down again, this time away from the door.

  "Pérdon, no offense," Chavez said. "I do not wish to cause distress."

  "Well goddamnit, you are," Jack said. His stomach went bad. He wanted to kill this fancy-dress greaser, but he knew he wasn't ready, not yet.

  "I can throw you out of here, pal. I don't want to have to do that."

  "And I do not wish you to, Jack." He gazed at Jack with his black agate eyes. The eyes said Chavez was a patient man, but a man who did what he wanted to, nearly all the time.

  "I'm letting you go this time," Jack said. "Don't think you're getting away with something, 'cause you're not."

  "I am grateful your kindness, Senor."

  "Yeah, well those roses don't come from a real flower shop. You can get 'em down at Come-'n-Go. That woman knows flowers, she's going to know that."

  Jack stomped off in the dark, stopped, and faced Chavez again.

  "And you can get that candy at the fucking drug store, you can get it on sale."

  With that, he was gone, out of the shadows into the hemorrhage of flashing red and white, into the whoops and the hoots and the yells, into the world of illusion and desire, into the circle of pink and smoky light where Maggie, in a moment, would reveal just how, and show exactly where, the flag of the Empire hardly ever sets...

  Chapter Seven

  Cat Eye was confused.

  This was the normal state of life in Cat's world, one he didn't think about a lot. Most of the time, he didn't have to think at all. Mr. Cecil took care of that. Mr. Cecil knew what Cat needed. Cat needed food, but he didn't care what. He needed to sleep. Mr. Cecil gave him a cot. He liked TV, but Mr. Cecil said it would rot out his eyes, and Cat didn't want to do that. Once, he'd liked to do a woman sometimes. Now, when the urge reached his head, he took care of that with one of Grape's magazines.

  The problem that night, in the parking lot at Piggs, was Cat had to think for himself. What happened, was, Mr. Cecil told him what to do with the guy, the guy that he'd offed with an axe. Cat Eye understood that. Stuff like that, this is what he did best.

  He was dragging the guy by his heels, taking him where he had to go, everything was fine. That's when he looked up, saw the dude pissing on the wall, saw him zipping up his pants. Saw the guy turn and see him.

  The man wa
s a drunk, he could hardly stand up. Still, Cat Eye knew that a man could be drunk and remember what he'd seen. And what he'd seen was Cat, Cat and a stiff that was very clearly dead, a stiff that left two dark stripes as he trailed across the lot. Which meant Cat would have to get a hose and clean the mess himself. Now there was the other guy, too, and he'd have to handle that.

  The best thing to do, Cat thought, and the answer came quicker than an answer had any right to do, the best thing to do was make sure you did it right: Make sure the pisser didn't leak any too. Then you don't have another mess, you don't have to hose twice.

  Cat felt good that he'd thought up the answer by himself. Thinking wasn't bad at all. It was really kind of fun, but you wouldn't want to do it all the time.

  Chapter Eight

  Maggie Thatch was coming off. Bankers, spankers, termite inspectors, cowboys and truckers stood and cheered. They pelted the stage with dollar bills. Naked girls pranced among the sinners with over-priced beer. Guys who'd been laid off just the week before, tipped like princes for a feel.

  Jack knew the routine well. Lights go down. Heavy metal up. A beat that shakes your gut. DJ swallows the mike and says "Here comes what's-her-name, right from the pages of Playboy magazine." Either that, or a carhop straight from Abilene.

  He knew that he'd stayed too long, that Rhino would have his ass for that. He could try to make it back through the tables, out to the alley, back to the kitchen at Wan's. Only now it was break time, letting the girls sell a drink, letting the guys buy a lap dance before the next set.

  If he tried to go now, Cecil might spot him, haul him back in, make him do something godawful, anything that popped in his head. Jack didn't care to risk that.

  Sticking to the shadows near the side of the stage, he made his way up to the bar, past the only wall that wasn't full of baby pigs. The bartender's name was Phylla. Phylla was fully dressed, which was fine with the help, and the customers too. Phylla had gotten out of stripping in l953.

  Jack crawled past her, past the worn slats that smelled of rotgut and beer. Past rusty bobby pins, onions, olives, and ancient lemon peels.

  "Phylla," Jack said, "don't say a thing, don't even look down here."

  "Hi, Jack," Phylla said, "what you doin', hon?"

  "Thanks, Phylla. I'm fine, how are you?"

  He speeded up his crawl, picked up a splinter in his knee. Came to the end, saw the alley door. Came up slow, did a little Groucho, stayed real close to the wall. Came to the door. Reached for the knob. Cat Eye opened it, stood there staring at the floor.

  Newark, Round Seven. 1968. Cat blinked, got another picture in his head. Cat said, "Hey, Jack, whachoo doin' down there?"

  "Fine, how are y—"

  A hand came down and lifted Jack up, held him kicking in the air. Jack didn't think, he was too scared for that. He lashed out at Cat Eye, kicked him in the crotch. Cat Eye dropped him, howled and went down. Jack scrambled up and ran. Tripped on a chair, picked it up and threw it back at Cat. The chair hit Cat and Cat didn't care.

  Two doors ahead, the men's room first, storage past that. For an instant, Cat was out of sight. Jack tried the mens' room. Locked. Some asshole in there doing coke, smoking pot. Jack didn't hesitate. He opened the door to the storage room and ducked inside.

  Pitch black. He switched on the light, turned it off again. They used to keep beer and whiskey in there, they didn't anymore. Now they tossed in all kinds of shit, hoping someone would clean it out.

  Jack stumbled over buckets and mops, old beer signs and broken panes of glass. In the back, tables without any legs were stacked on edge, enough old tables to start a new bar. Jack went to his knees again, squeezed in behind them until he found the wall.

  Big, big mistake back there. He knew the Cat would have beat him up bad if he hadn't fought back. But Jack had kicked him hard, and Cat Eye would kill him for that.

  From the hall came a terrible sound. Anger, fury, primal rage. Cat unhappy as he beat on the walls, tore off the mens' room door. Someone screamed, a scream not far from homicide.

  Jack didn't move. Other sounds reached him through the door. Sounds like plumbing, sounds like pipes. Sounds like urinals ripped off the wall, toilets jerked off the floor.

  Then, a sound worse than that. Nothing. No sound at all.

  One...two...three... Jack counted to himself.

  Cat Eye got it figured out. The door flew open. Cat stepped inside. Jack held his breath. Cat felt around and found the light. Crunched a lot of broken glass. Broke a mop across his knee. Picked up a bucket and tossed it at the wall.

  "Li'l sumbitch," Cat muttered to himself, "kill the li'l shit."

  Cat started on the tables. Picked them up two at a time, started tossing them aside. Jack's heart nearly stopped. Nine, ten tables deep. Three times seven, carry your eight. Cat Eye would kill him in forty seconds flat.

  "Cat, what the hell you think you doing, get out of there!"

  "Grape, that li'l shit, he back there somewheres, he couldn't be nowhere else."

  "There isn't nobody in there but you," Grape said. "You sorry bastard, you tore up a whole bathroom, Mr. Dupree's going to have a fit."

  "He's in there, Grape–"

  "Get out of there."

  "Damn, Grape–"

  "Get out of there, Cat, and clean this fucking mess up!"

  The lights went out. The door slammed shut. Jack didn't move. Jack was sure it was a trick.

  A minute passed or an hour and a half. The music started up again, Gloria's closing number, the theme from Burden of Proof. It had to be one, Jack guessed, maybe even two. They'd shut the place up, bring in the cleaning crew. He wouldn't have a chance to get out until four. Then what? Cecil would wait for him to show. He wouldn't let Cat kill him, he'd think of something awful, something worse than that.

  Jack tried to turn around. Going in was tight enough. There was no room at all to back out. When he tried, a nail snagged him in the butt. He wriggled away as best he could, snaked a hand behind his back. Found the nail, and something else besides. A plywood square set in the wall. Eighteen, twenty inches wide. It gave a little when he pushed.

  Jack listened. Nothing but music and cheers, nothing any closer than that.

  Holding his breath, he pushed the square again. Pushed a little harder, then hit it with his fist. It moved but didn't give. He raised one foot and kicked back. The panel splintered and disappeared. He could feel cool air, the smell of wet earth.

  Jack pulled his foot back. The hole didn't make a lot of sense. He should be up against the outside wall, but the air was too cool for that. He reached in the hole, touched a cement wall. Reaching straight down, there was nothing at all.

  A hole, then, between two walls, leading underground. It might have been a vent at one time, a shaft of some kind. Whatever it was, it was there. It didn't go to Cecil, Grape or the Cat.

  Squeezing in the hole, hanging in the dark, took all the nerve he had. He'd used it all up, there wasn't any left. Jack closed his eyes. Let go and dropped in thin air...

  Chapter Nine

  It was only two feet to the ground. He stopped and took a breath. To the right was pitch black. Where he was standing, though, was directly beneath the floor of Piggs. The floor had been there a while–little spears of light found their way through the cracks, lights of every color, dancing in a million motes of dust. Sound was hardly muffled at all. He could hear every note, from the tenor to the bass. He could hear guys yelling and stomping on the floor.

  If you thought about it, the place was kinda nice. For the first time since he'd come to Mexican Wells, nobody knew where he was, no one could find him down there.

  That was the thing, working for Cecil R. Dupree. Even if you had time off, Cecil was always on your ass. You couldn't get private anywhere. If he wanted you, he'd have Grape or Cat track you down. Morning, noon, middle of the night, Cecil didn't care.

  It always seemed to work that way. No matter what, Jack thought, even if it started off good, it al
ways turned out the same. Get a job, get a room, try and settle down. It lasted for a while, then the shit hit the fan and he'd take off again. Fort Worth and Lubbock, then up to Tulsa, clerking in a halfass store. He'd borrowed a twenty from the register, not any fifty, like the asshole said, meaning to pay it back. So he'd taken maybe two hundred more, and hauled out of town. All you had to do was look at this dude, he wasn't even born over here, you knew he was going to turn you in.

  Bumming over to Denver, keeping out of trouble, staying straight an hour and a half. Pulling that crap in Ponca City, living real high with what's her name till the money ran out.

  And every time you got somewhere, some place you liked a lot, something went wrong. Some of the time, it wasn't anyone else; it was something you messed up yourself.

  Jack wondered how that happened. And how come even if you knew, it happened every fucking time?

  It got pretty easy when his eyes got used to the dark. He felt his way along the wall, cement block, cool and slightly damp. His fingers found familiar shapes. Cabinets or boxes, he couldn't tell which, apparitions in the underground night.

  He knew he was walking downhill, the room getting narrow, the far wall closer all the time. He sensed something coming, backed off and stopped. Reached out and touched it, a cyclone fence.

  He panicked a moment, sure the fence had trapped him, blocked his way out. Then, working his way around, he saw the fence butted against the two walls, continued down the room, with a narrow walkway in between.

  What the hell was that for? You did fences up. You didn't do fences underground.

  He didn't know the answer, didn't really care. The room went somewhere, it didn't go to Piggs.

  When he found where it went, he almost turned back. The dark room ended abruptly, in a crumbling brick wall. An iron ladder was imbedded in the brick. The ladder was rusty and the only way was up. When he touched the lower rung, it came off in his hand. Bricks tumbled to the floor. Something squealed and ran across his foot.