by Vin Carver
Jackson—black hair and red vest shining in the light of a hundred hanging wine glasses—shook his head. “No sir, not forever. But I do hear it can take a long time.”
“Well, I guess that’s all right. It ain’t exactly hell being here. I’m actually starting to like it a bit.” Doc tapped his shot glass. Jackson picked a bottle up off the bar and refilled it. “That last one I done was kind of fun.”
“I doubt it was fun, sir. You are not a monster. Please Doc, do tell. How was it ‘kind of fun?’”
Well ain’t that something. Jackson don’t think I’m a monster.
Doc threw back the shot of whiskey. His Adam’s apple bobbed and twitched in his throat. He blew hot gas out of his mouth in a big ahh.
He said, “I always liked going boating. Some of my best times were getting drunk and going fishing, in a boat. This last job reminded me of that. But here I go a blabbing. You ain’t got time to listen to me a blabbing.”
Jackson maintained a coy smile. “Doc. All we have is time. Please, continue.” He wiped the spotless bar with a pure white towel.
Doc grinned. “I guess that’s a fact, ain’t it?” He patted his chest pocket, ran his fingers into it, and came up empty. “This last one was a Hispanic. Purty little thing really, but not the one that was supposed to be, you know?”
“Yes sir.” Jackson chuckled under his breath. “I know.”
“My job paper said she was a potential temcor up to no good, but it didn’t say what kind, so I started watching her. After a couple of weeks, it happened. They was all at the park on a Sunday having their weekly picnic, and she stole off to the graveyard. Why do you suppose they put a graveyard right next to the park?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Doc tapped the empty shot glass with his long, bony finger. “Anyways, I watched her climb over the fence and plop down in there, flat on her rump.”
Jackson picked up a bottle, shook it, and put it back down. “I apologize, sir, this one is empty. Allow me to get another.” He knelt behind the bar, and bottles clinked together as he fished around.
Doc grabbed the empty bottle and sucked on it.
Tell me when something’s empty, you ijit.
His tongue ran around the outer edge of the glass three times before he put it back on the bar.
Now it’s empty.
Doc grinned. “Hey Jackson, you know why they put fences around graveyards?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“It’s to keep folks out because they’re just dying to get in.” Doc slapped the bar and howled with laughter.
Jackson stood up holding a bottle of whiskey, put a towel over the top of it, and twisted the cap. “Very funny, sir. Very funny indeed.”
Doc gathered himself and waved his hand at Jackson. “Hey now, don’t give me that gut-rot. I don’t know who Johnnie Tuller is, or why he put his name on a bottle of booze, and I don’t care. Give me my Old Hawk, straight up.”
“Sorry, sir.” Jackson frowned and knelt behind the bar. Bottles clinked together for an eternity.
“Here you are, sir, Old Hawk.” He filled Doc’s shot glass.
“Why this place got to be so goldurned fancy?”
Jackson smiled and removed the empty bottle from the bar. “At the Broken Pearl, we try to please a wide variety of gentlemen, including yourself. Please, continue with your story.”
“Oh yeah, let’s see.” Doc rubbed his stubbly chin. “So, she plopped down in the graveyard like a cow patty falling on a flat rock, but she didn’t go splat, and I was glad of that. You see, I wanted her to find that tombstone and try to skip over because I knowed them Espinoza’s had a boat.”
“She was a skipper? Oh no, sir. That’s terrifying.”
“No, she was a ‘potential’ skipper. It’s all right, I stopped her.” Doc’s lips smacked and spread into a smile. White tipped waves popped up and down in the forefront of his mind. “Anyway, them Espinoza’s had a boat. It was a purty little boat, all nice and simple like. A trawler I think. It had an outboard motor no bigger than a Christmas ham.” He drank the shot of Old Hawk in a single swallow and blew out the hot gas—ahh. “She looked good in that boat, little Juanita, all chlory-formed up with tape on her mouth…hee, hee. Come to think of it, she was no bigger than a Christmas ham.” He laughed, then coughed, and laughed again.
“Here you are sir.” Jackson held out a pack of Blue Stripe cigarettes. He’d opened the pack and pulled one halfway out for Doc to grab. “I believe this is your brand, sir.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thank you, Jackson.” Doc took the cigarette, and Jackson lit it for him. “So, I couldn’t just dump her in the water and go fishing like I wanted on account of that rule about making everything look like an accident. I don’t know why a murder can’t look like a murder, but I guess they got their reasons.”
“That they do sir. That they do.”
“So I was about to dump her into Ponder’s Lake when she woke up. She started mumbling something, and I couldn’t help myself.” He shook his head and gazed at the bar with a grin on his face. “I ripped the tape off her mouth and she started in a blabbing something in Spanish at me…hee, hee.” Doc slapped the bar and leaned back. He cackled and his lips opened. “I knowed she could speak English, probably better than me, but she kept on a blabbing something in Spanish. I told her to slow down, but she just kept on with it. She said something like, ‘Dee ohs me oh, two ears el dee-a-blow.’ Hee, hee, hee…I couldn’t understand a word, but it made me laugh.”
“I’m sure it did, sir. I’m sure it did.”
Doc took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette. Dark mahogany molding, carved to resemble vines of ivy, framed the ceiling. Extra thick leather, stuffed firm with supple padding, cushioned Doc’s tired old rump. He leaned forward, hunched his back over the bar, and stared into Jackson’s eyes. “She kept on a blabbing and a blabbing, so I tossed her in the brink and held her under.” He bared his teeth in a great grin and raised his eyebrows. “Then she was a bubbling and a bubbling.”
Doc threw himself back and let out a monstrous laugh. He grabbed the bar, spun himself in a circle, and hooted. The wine glasses sparkled overhead, and Jackson smiled.
Doc said, “Yep. It ain’t exactly hell here…I’m kind of starting to like it a bit, especially when I get to go boating.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pubescent Rats
Trophy cases haunted the hall to the gym. Warren averted his eyes and walked to the windowless, steel door. He pushed on the handle, and the door opened. Banners as haunting as the trophy cases hung from the ceiling—DISTRICT CHAMPIONS VOLLEYBALL 1967, STATE CHAMPIONS FOOTBALL 1982. Bleachers sat on each side of the lacquered floor, and basketball hoops squared off at each end. An unlit hallway on the near side of the bleachers lead to the boy’s locker room. Everyone was crowded in the hallway waiting for the coach to open the door.
Warren wished he was invisible. He wanted today to go away. He slunk into the hall with the other kids and tried to hide.
Coach Chaney opened the door. “Shut your mouths and listen. Today we’re going outside for a two-mile run followed by mandatory showers.” The boys groaned. “I’m looking for a track star, and you’re all going to sweat like a mischief of pubescent rats.” Deep lines at the corners of his mouth bent up, and he put his whistle to his lips. The rats just stood there, staring back at him. He blew—chirrup. The shrill sound bounced off the walls, and everyone scurried into the locker room, except Warren.
“Coach, I can’t run today because I forgot to bring my gym clothe—”
“I got you covered Renner. Follow me.”
Inside the locker room, Coach Chaney’s thick, right hand went into a canvas cubby and came out with a shirt and a pair of shorts. His left hand grabbed a pair of shoes from beneath the cubby. He put his hands together and thrust everything at Warren in one motion. Warren stepped back, caught a shoe, and the rest landed on the floor behind him.
Coach Chaney raise
d an eyebrow and grinned. His bald head shimmered beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, and he put his hands on his hips. His gray sweatshirt stretched over his round belly, and he stood with his feet apart, blocking the doorway.
Warren picked up the clothes, found an empty locker, and sat down. He held the school issue shirt up by the shoulders. The white shirt had red lettering with the words TAMARACK H.S. WARRIORS imprinted on it.
Coach Chaney said, “What’s the matter, Renner? Not your style? I’m sorry, but we’re all out of black.”
Warren put his head down and changed his clothes. Every time he lifted his head, he saw the coach staring at him from the office. The coach’s flat, unblinking eyes marked the inevitable. Warren finished dressing and joined the other boys on the track.
Coach Chaney blew the whistle, and Warren fell to the back of the pack before the first turn. Everyone passed him, except that geek Peter Maxwell. If Peter ran as fast as he typed, texted, or read blogs, then Coach Chaney would've found his track star, but Peter didn’t run fast. When he ran, his arms spun like a ceiling fan with broken blades.
At the start of the second lap, Peter was dead last, and Warren was barely ahead of him. A rawness pained the backs of Warren’s feet. The canvas shoes tore at his skin, sanding off layer after layer. His heels were soft because he wore sandals year-round. Finding and unfolding socks in the morning took too much time, and he had better things to do, like listen to his parents fight. After today, he’d only have to avoid gym class for three more months.
Warren made it two more laps before his tongue started to sting. His toes blistered, and his stomach knotted into a lump of dough. He struggled for air, and he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten that bagel for breakfast. His head bobbed, and his pace slowed. Peter—broken blade arms flailing in the air—caught up with him.
“Come on Renner, are you going to let Maxwell beat you?” Coach Chaney said.
The coach’s words rang in Warren’s head.
Come on Renner, are you going to let Maxwell beat you?
The main pack crossed the finish line, ran off the track, and gathered on the grass. Peter made his move. Warren gasped for air, stumbled, and fell several paces behind.
“Look at this.” Coach Chaney pointed at Warren. “Does everyone see what avoiding exercise will get you? Maxwell was born without muscles, and he can still kick Renner’s butt.”
Coach Chaney smiled with glee, Peter smiled back at him, and everyone laughed. Warren bit his lower lip.
“Okay everybody. Since we have to wait for the lost and the lonely out there, we might as well do push-ups until they finish.” Groans resonated from the sideline. The class dropped to the ground and Coach Chaney started a count. “Up, one. Up two. Up three…”
Warren limped by the sea of angry eyes. Arms pumped. Heads and shoulders rose and fell to the beat of the coach’s count. Sweat glistened across pimple-laden foreheads and dripped onto the grass. The rats suffered. Every face contorted in pain, except for one. From beneath his bulbous brow, Darren Sredo’s eyes locked on Warren. Without effort, Sredo’s arms pumped his body up and down—a piston on fire.
The kid next to Sredo said, “Come on Warthog, run faster.”
Warren’s heels hurt. His tongue burned, and his chest filled with phlegm. A half-lap ahead, Peter crossed the finish line.
Coach Chaney raised his whistle to his lips. “Okay everyone.” Chirrup. “We can’t wait all day. Hit the showers.”
Warren limped over the finish line and sat on the grass. He took off his shoes, and blood seeped onto the ground.
“Get a move on Renner. Its shower time.”
Warren walked into the school leaving a trail of little red drops on the sidewalk. He sat down in front of a gym locker. A single shiver shook his body, and he took off the sweat-soaked Warriors shirt. Everyone else was talking and getting dressed. Warren took off the shorts and put his pants on.
Coach Chaney came out of the office. “Get those pants off, Renner. You’re taking a shower.” He put his hands on his hips and blocked the hallway. “You can put your gym clothes in that pile over there. Oh, and thanks bunches for getting the school’s shoes all bloody. If we were in the service, the cleaning fees would come out of your pay.” He grabbed a towel out of a hamper and slung it at Warren.
The towel hit Warren in the face and wrapped around his head.
Coach Chaney said, “Now go shower like a normal kid.”
What kind of sick jerk gets off on making kids get naked and wet?
Warren tossed the gym clothes onto the pile and took his pants off. He covered himself with the towel and limped toward the shower room, exaggerating every step. He glanced between the lockers, looking for Sredo.
I get you in gym class, Warthog. You going to squeal like real hog, Warthog.
There was no sign of Sredo, and the shower room was empty.
Warren was alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Here Hoggy, Hog, Hog
A row of towel hooks lined the wall just inside the shower room. Warren took his towel off and hung it on the nearest hook. He was naked and alone.
He walked across the red and white tiled floor. The tiles ran up the walls and across the ceiling. A wide, stainless steel pipe rose from the center of the room. Eight showers protruded from the pipe. A pool of frothy water moved around the base, blocked by rust, hair, and soap scum. Warren leaned over the froth and turned the handle. The smell of sweat, dirt, and cheap soap pricked his nose.
Coach Chaney stuck his head into the shower room. “Get a move on Renner. It’s almost time for lunch.”
The hot water hit Warren’s face and stung. His heels, steeped in soap scum, stung worse. A wave of emptiness washed over him, and he wished he’d stayed in bed, curled up in his comforter. He wished he’d stayed with Tanner. Instead of standing in the shower room, Warren could have been sitting in Tanner’s hot tub, relaxing—more wizard than monster.
Warren was alone, and he began to cry. An image of the urn popped into his head.
Why did you have to die?
His tears merged with the hot water, and he watched them go down the drain.
“You crying, Warthog?” Darren Sredo stood in the entryway.
Warren shut the water off and moved to the other side of the shower pipe. He waited a moment, then peered around the edge.
Sredo’s dull eyes locked on Warren. He pulled Warren’s towel off the wall and stepped closer, wrapping one end of the towel around his hand and dipping the other end into the frothy water. He jerked the wet tip into the air and caught it. A dollop of hairy foam flew off the towel and landed on top of Sredo’s head. With his brilliant blond hair, he looked like a piece of lemon meringue pie.
Warren pressed his back against the pipe and slid down until his butt smacked against the tile. Sredo advanced. Warren wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled them to his chest. His heart thumped against his thighs.
Sredo held each end of the towel and spun in it an arc. The towel tightened into a rope, and he pulled it straight. The dollop of foam on Sredo’s head condensed into a trickle of water, ran over his brow, glanced off his nose, and disappeared into the corner of his mouth. He smiled.
Warren trembled.
Look away, then, walk—
SNAP
The wet tip of the towel struck Warren’s hip. A red welt rose in the middle of the bruise that the stairway had given him. The welt was the island of Elba where Napoleon had taken a vacation, or something. Warren wondered if anyone had ever snapped Napoleon with a towel. He winced and covered the welt with his hand.
SNAP
The towel cracked the air and reverberated in Warren’s ears. His left nipple flared.
“Stop it.”
“Aw, what’s matter Warthog? You want you mommy? You such a weird hippie. I bet you got money somewhere. I bet you bring money tomorrow.”
SNAP—THRUM
The towel hit the pipe, and the sound echoed off the walls and
into the hall.
“Tomorrow I ask you give me money and you give it, right Warthog? You a real hog, Warthog.” Sredo spun the towel.
Warren put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He imagined the forest. He listened to the wind move the pine needles in the trees and wrapped himself in the shadows of the branches.
“You a real wet hog now, Warthog.” Sredo cracked a smile like a baby who had farted. His mouth opened and said nothing. The word factory in his head had malfunctioned.
Warren said, “Shut up. Just shut up. Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Sredo’s gape gave Warren a glimpse of hope. Now was his chance. Time to make a move before—
Sredo’s word factory burst to life. “I got it. You a real weird hog. You daddy a real drunk hog, and you brother a real dead hog.”
SNAP
The tip of the towel struck Warren’s upper lip. The pain radiated over his face. Before Sredo jerked the towel back, Warren grabbed it with both hands.
Sredo tightened his grip. “Hey hippie, let go of towel.”
Warren tugged hard, but the muscles in Sredo’s stubby right arm flexed and pulled back. Sredo balled his left hand into a fist and raised it over Warren’s head. “Let go of towel Warthog, or—”
“What’s going on in here?” Coach Chaney stepped into the shower room.
“Warren won’t give me towel coach. He’s all weird in here.”
Coach Chaney put his hands on his hips and judged. Footsteps scurried in behind the coach, and he gave his verdict. “Renner, give Darren his towel back. It’s time for lunch.”
Warren let go of the towel. He stood up and eased himself around the pipe. Coach Chaney turned and walked out. The other boys crowded into the entryway. A cacophony of murmurs and little laughs bounced off the walls.
Sredo smiled at the onlookers and lowered his shoulders. He spun the towel and took a step toward Warren. “Here hoggy, hog, hog. Come on Warthog. I won’t hurt you.”
The boys burst out laughing, and Sredo’s smile widened. He spun the towel again and moved in closer.
