Waltz of Shadows

by Joe R. Lansdale

  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 fooli
shly,” 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?”