Cal’s truck was parked in the last spot in the lot. God, it was hot out and the asphalt radiated the sun’s punishment up from below. He knew the air conditioner would not be working and considering how many beers he’d had in the last fifteen hours and his already sloppily sweaty condition, he was going to have to stop for a drink of water like pretty soon. The brightness of the astral punisher flipped the switch on his headache and the dude with the jackhammer behind his eyeballs started up again.
He opened the door and fumbled with the hand-crank as he rolled down the window, then he fell onto his right side to access the glove compartment. Please please please have some sunglasses, he prayed. There weren’t any inside and Terry added them to the list of necessities along with water, and maybe ice cream that he needed to stop and pick up.
The engine started right up and he was shifting into reverse when he heard the hood smash. Startled, he looked up into the cold dead eyes of justice.
Sheriff Mondale’s fist left a ham-sized dent in Cal’s truck. Terry glanced around and saw that they, indeed, had an audience. The Gulch emptied as well as the grocery on the corner. The clerks had abandoned their posts and stood with their faces smashed against the glass storefront to watch him die. Traffic stopped going both directions and the whole thing played out at half speed.
Cal stood there, in the doorway, guiltily nursing his beer while his best friend was about to be slaughtered. The sheriff walked around the front of the truck while Terry sat still and dumb. When Mondale got to the door, Terry pushed the lock down. Mondale reached in the open window and pulled up on the mechanism. Terry slapped it back down and started rolling up the window. Mondale pulled the glass completely out and the it shattered on the pavement.
The sheriff didn’t bother opening the door. He reached for Terry, who slapped ineffectually at the giant hands, and hauled his cracker ass through the window. Mondale’s grasp swallowed up Terry and held him by both hands, then by both wrists.
He slid Terry’s left hand under his right arm so that he could hold Terry’s right hand in both of his own. Terry started wailing a hysterical, high-pitched scream. “Please, no. No, no, no, no. I didn’t know, I swear.” His fingers wriggled and writhed, but eventually were subdued. When his middle finger was secured, Terry tried and failed to take a deep breath before the break.
The snap stopped time.
The finger dangled backward like a wet noodle. The wind leaked out of him and he sucked pathetically for more, but didn’t find any. He saw flashes of red and white, though his eyes were squeezed shut. His lower lip vibrated with his desperate breaths and no one, absolutely no one, came to his rescue.
The process was repeated with far less struggling on his left side.
MONDALE
He let the little puke slide to the ground in shock. Jesus, look at him, pissing himself in the parking lot. Mondale’s hands and arms were trembling with adrenaline and he tried hard to appear in control in front of their audience.
An audience. What the hell was wrong with him?
He took two steps back from the specimen curled like a fetus on the asphalt and gestured at that dickweed he was always running around with. “Get him outta here.”
Cal Dotson finished his beer and handed the glass to someone standing by. He slapped another bystander on the arm and together they grabbed Terry by the ankles and armpits, reasonably careful not to jostle his fingers, which dangled obscenely from his hands, which he held rigidly splayed in front of him, like a stick-figure cartoon done by a five year old. Terry’s eyes were open, but not focused on anything and it wasn’t until they laid him in the bed of the truck and, in doing so, bumped his right hand against the floor that Terry showed any sign of consciousness.
The silence that had hovered over the scene since the second snap was shattered by a hoarse yelp, equal parts fierce and pathetic.
Mondale’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He took it out and checked the number. He didn’t recognize it. No name attached. Probably one of Chowder’s disposables. He opened it. “Yeah?”
“Where are you at?”
“Town.”
“Stay put, I’m coming to you.”
Jimmy looked at the crowd around him. “No good. Meet me at the spot.”
“Jimbo?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you seen?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
CHOWDER
He hung up his burner and prayed to hell Jimmy hadn’t already skinned the little fucker alive. Something in the sheriff’s voice was telling him it was a distinct possibility. The story Irm had shown him was bad news and if what she’d indicated was true, news was spreading. He started up the truck. The engine roared to life, still warm.
Every time he felt like he’d gotten ahead of the train, some wrinkle popped up and threatened to derail the whole thing. Fuck this. He was going to take Hettie and leave. Irm was a big girl. She could take care of herself and damn well learn the natural consequences of her actions. He backed the truck out of its spot and shifted into drive, then turned the wheel toward the road.
Fuck Jimmy, too. If he couldn’t keep his shit together, Chowder was through holding his hand. Fuck Spruce, fuck Hamilton County, fuck Tate, fuck Bug, fuck Memphis, fuck motherfucking Terry Hickerson. Chowder was the only thing keeping that little shitstain alive and he was through doing that, too. Fuck. He stood on the brakes for a car leisurely pulling into the lot as he was trying to exit. Never mind this big-ass truck barreling toward you, asshole, just take your sweet time. You own the road.
Chowder leaned on his horn, but it didn’t have the desired effect. Instead the car stopped, half in, half out of the lot. The driver didn’t look apologetic or even startled for that matter. Slick in a tie and shades. Young guy with good hair and a gym membership actually throwing his car into park and getting out.
Chowder rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Move your ass-wagon, shitbird.” Cocky fucker looked at him and smiled. Shiny teeth too. He put his hand on Chowder’s truck, just reached out and touched the hood like it was a wild animal he was soothing. He came around the driver’s side and leaned on Chowder’s window.
“Move your car and get the fuck out of my face before you lose your own.”
The smile again and this time he took off his glasses. He had blue eyes. Looked like a damn movie star. “Charles Thompson,” he spoke in a slow, easy-going drawl he probably practiced. Nobody’d called Chowder “Charles” since he’d dropped out of the sixth grade. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” He held out his hand to be shook. Chowder just stared at it. “I’ve just heard so much about you and for a long time now I’ve wanted to ask you in person, did you really take that guy’s eyeball out with a spoon? That’s one of my favorite stories.”
Chowder smiled at the Assistant State’s Attorney. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. Which fella are you talking about?”
The lawyer lowered his voice just like they do in the movies. “I’m watching you carefully, Charles. Pretty soon I’ll have enough to put you away for the rest of your life, so enjoy what time you’ve got left.” He stopped leaning on the door and did a gay little two-finger salute.
Good advice, thought Chowder. With his middle finger extended out the window, he put a dog-sized dent in the lawyer’s fancy car peeling out of the lot. As he pulled into traffic, his cell phone rang.
He answered on the third chirp. “What.”
“Uh, boss, thought you’d want to hear about the sheriff.” Big Randy told him the news.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MONDALE
When Chowder finally showed up at their fishing spot, he’d had the chance to read the High Society story three more times. Forget that he’d just assaulted a citizen in front of a large crowd, he wanted to do it again. He wished he’d killed the little shit. He looked at the busty lady cop in the pictures, her fake tits standing off he
r torso like they were allergic to gravity, her shaved snatch glistening with oil, her teased hair and heavy make up making her look twice her age and cold.
She was supposed to be Eileen? It was obscene.
Chowder’s pickup pulled up beside his cruiser and the outlaw jumped out like he had an electric prod up his butt. He looked at Jimmy like he wanted to hit him. “What did I fucking tell you?”
Jimmy jumped out of his cruiser. Never mind the hundred pounds Chowder had on him, if he wanted a fight, he could have one. He threw the rolled up magazine right at his partner. “I don’t give a damn what you told me to do.”
Chowder caught the magazine and threw it into the bushes. “They took him to the hospital Jimbo. The fucking hospital. And the whole town saw you do it. Are you trying to go to prison?”
“Aww.” Jimmy waved off Chowder’s concerns. Chowder stepped toward him and Jimmy closed the gap. When Chowder shoved him, Jimmy cracked his chin with a sharp uppercut. He’d stunned the big man as well as himself, but Chowder recovered quickly and instinctually punched Mondale square in the mouth. The big man was angry, but in control enough not to put too much behind it. Jimmy staggered back two steps then charged him.
Chowder simply absorbed him, swallowing his entire attack. Mondale didn’t stop struggling until Chowder pulverized his kidney with a single blow. Jimmy’s knees buckled, but Chowder held him up and gently lowered him to the ground, then sat down beside him.
Jimmy clutched his side and sat beside the larger man and sucked for air with as much dignity as he could muster. Chowder spoke to him in a patronizing tone. Again, like he was a little kid getting lectured by his father. “You’ve got to let it go for now. Too many eyes on you and me.”
Chowder helped him to his feet and into his prowler and Jimmy saw something else in the big man’s expression.
“Listen.”
“I don’t think so,” Jimmy said, thanking god he’d left his keys in the ignition. He didn’t think he could’ve reached into his pockets for them now.
“We got more talking to do.”
“No, we don’t.” Jimmy started the car and pulled away.
He wandered the hills, avoiding town till the sun went down. When the light was gone, he pulled onto his street and killed the headlights. He slunk into his house and pulled all the curtains. The answering machine was full of dial-tone messages and there was blood in the bowl when he pissed. He grabbed a beer and an icepack and was headed for bed when there was a knock on his door.
When he threw it open, Julie Sykes jumped back. “I called. Somehow I thought you might ditch me.” Mondale just stared. He couldn’t think of anything to say. “Can I come in, Jimmy?”
TERRY
Everything hurt. He was helpless like a fuckin mental cripple. Both middle fingers, broken near off, were taped to the ring fingers. Everything was hard to do, eating, dressing, bathing, driving. Forget about work, he couldn’t handle a riding lawn mower, let alone a CAT, which left him many idle hours. And that was even worse. He couldn’t shuffle cards or tug his meat, and daytime TV was for housewives.
He called Beth, which was an accomplishment in itself, and asked if she wouldn’t mind letting the kid stay with him more while he was incapacitated. She agreed right away, which made him feel worse. That meant she was probably still getting some from that new guy. There was no satisfaction in getting what he wanted if it didn’t involve depriving someone else of theirs. But Wendell would be helpful to have around. He’d do just about anything Terry asked, then retreat to a corner to remain unnoticed until needed again. If only his mom had been that way.
Thursday night, Cal picked him up at six and Terry told Wendell not to expect him back all weekend. His son took the news stoically and Terry wondered if the kid’s delicate feelings were hurt or if he was stoked to have the place to himself. Sadly, it was probably the former. He was a strange kid. When Terry was that age, he’d have given his left nut for run of the house for a weekend. Oh well.
Cal was happy. Thursday was usually the best part of the weekend, and he regularly called out sick or just didn’t go in to work on Fridays. “Our ship’s come in, kemosabe.”
“Say how?” said Terry.
“I sent the preacher more instructions.”
“When the fuck did you plan on telling me?”
“Hmm. Right the fuck now, I guess. Chill. I only just did it last night.”
“How?”
“I called him on the phone just like before.”
“Hey genius, you know they can trace that shit.”
“Only if they went to the police. You really think they’re gonna do that?”
Terry thought no such thing. “Well, what’d you say?”
Cal smiled. “I was so fuckin smooth, man.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Told him to leave the cash in a bag inside a parked car at the Walmart in Sykeston.“
“And where’d you put the picture?”
Cal started rocking back and forth with mirth, “In the baby station of the men’s room at the roll-toss place.” Terry too laughed at the idea of Eli going into the down-home-cookin, family-vibe restaurant to retrieve homo jackoff photos.
“So, you picked up the cash already?”
“Course.”
“Well, where is it, dude?”
“At the house. It’s in Aunt Jeanette’s diaper bag.”
“The fuck outta here.”
“Pretty secure if you ask me.”
“Alright then, shit, let’s get wasted.”
They headed for The Gulch and hit happy hour in the face. Each of them ordered a pitcher of Bud and three shots of Tequila. Terry shared his painkillers and the weekend had begun.
Two hours later the cocktail of motor skill assassins had rendered Terry clumsy and he spilled the last of his second pitcher and cussed. “At this rate, I’ll be dry by Sunday.”
“Won’t let it happen, kemosabe,” Cal laughed. He grabbed his own pitcher and took it over to the next table. Heck and Toby, two roughnecks already sitting there, weren’t happy to see him.
“Fuck off.” The older one said as soon as Cal had settled and begun to pour himself another drink. Cal ignored him and drained half the glass in a single gulp. “Hey. Did you hear me? Fuck off, like now.”
“Get bent, Heck.”
“What did you say?”
“Go out back and play with each other quietly, so the rest of us can finish a drink,” said Cal. Toby, the younger one, stood up and Cal kicked his knee from under the table with a steel toe. The young man fell and smacked his face on the edge of the table, sending all the drinks and glass that rested atop crashing to the floor. “Son of a bitch!” cried Cal, seeing his unfinished pitcher go to waste. He reached across the table and smashed his mug on the side of Heck’s head.
Quickly as he could, Terry made his way over and began kicking Toby in the ribs. If Toby managed to get to his feet, Terry would be useless with his mangled hands, but it didn’t happen. Terry connected the heel of his cowboy boot to Toby’s temple and the youngster stopped moving.
Just then, a horse kicked Terry in the kidneys and he collapsed with a whimper. The bartender stood over him with a well-used baseball bat.
“Get the fuck out, now!”
Cal and Heck stopped their rasslin and together dragged Toby’s unconscious body out the back door while Terry followed, unable to contribute because of his hands.
When they’d propped Toby up against some garbage bags, Terry made his contribution by taking out the last of his painkillers which all three of them split. Heck dry swallowed his then looked down at the man on the ground.
“Shit. There goes my ride.”
“You can ride with us,” said Cal.
“You are a white man,” said Heck. “And I know a place.”
“Oh yeah? Like a reasonable place? How much?”
Heck reached into his back pocket and took out his Saturday Night Special. “We can make a stop first.”
“Okey-doke.”
MONDALE
Four A.M. and he’d slept perhaps three hours in short, fitful bouts, roused continuously by rage and guilt and lust. He slipped out of bed and dressed in the bathroom, pausing only to scrub his face with cold water. He was careful not to make noise and avoided even turning on the light, but when he opened the door Julie Sykes was sitting up in bed waiting for him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, to which a thousand answers immediately sprang to mind.
But he said, “Nothing. Go back to bed.”
“Where are you going?”
He stooped to pick up his shoes and then headed out the door. “Work.”
When he got into the car, he realized he’d been holding his breath. As he wheeled out of the drive and down the street he recapped the previous twenty-four hours. He’d read a pornographic story about his own dead daughter, assaulted the author in front of a crowd of onlookers, been in a fight with Chowder Thompson and fucked his dead daughter’s high school friend. Jimmy Mondale, this is your life.
Julie Sykes was up for it. When he’d opened the door for her, she’d come in and tried to engage him in conversation about the day’s events, but his non-inclination toward talk was obvious and when he’d reached for her like some automaton set on “fuck” she’d gone along without missing a beat.
And it was kinda weird.
There’d been no talk. Their coupling felt choreographed and unremarkable. Not bad exactly, but he’d participated in more exciting handshakes.
Afterward he’d collapsed on his back and gone straight to sleep.
When he walked into the station, Deputy Townsend looked up from his magazine and then at his watch. “Hey, Jimmy.” The young policeman glanced around, clearly uncomfortable in his presence. “What’s going on?”
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