by Bobby Norman
Hub took the gun. Paul David turned and walked toward the house. Hub’s first inclination was to thumb back the hammer and shoot Paul David in back o’ the head. He wondered if he knew it.
He did, but he didn’t think it would happen.
Hub cocked the pistol and put Buddy out of his misery.
Next day, Paul David brought home another puppy. Hub didn’t bother to name it, he just called it Puppy or Dog or Hey. Ever three or four months, Paul David would bring home another and then let Hub get attached to it. Then he’d drink up some cockamaymie excuse and shoot it or beat it with a stick bad enough to cripple it beyond repair and then Hub’d have to kill it.
CHAPTER 16
Oledeux’s Meeting Hall was on the west side of town. It was big and sturdy and that was about all one could say for it. Years earlier it’d been a combination blacksmith and livery, but because of Mr. Ford’s noisy damn contraptions, the need for horseshoes and the critters that wore ’em got scarcer and scarcer. When the old boy who’d owned the place kicked the bucket, his son tried to take it over, failed, and abandoned the building to possums, pigeons, and rats.
It used to be just outside of town, but with time the town had spread out, and eventually the building found itself right in town. One day one of the city fathers brought up the idea of an official Meeting Hall. The bigger cities had one ‘n, God Dammit, Oledeux oughta have one, too. Well, instead of goin’ to the expense of puttin’ up somethin’ new, they junked the smithy’s forge, shoveled out the horsey stuff, bat and rat droppin’s, and slapped on two or three coats o’ whitewash, put up a raised platform they called a stage, hung a couple o’ criss-cross lines of eye-waterin’ two-hundred watters, and called it The Meeting Hall.
In the early evening of August seventeenth, nineteen hundred and twenty-four, the big rolling doors were open and the place was jumpin’. On the heavy plank stage were two farmers, an undertaker, and a pharmacist, known far and wide as The Band. It was comprised of a guitar, fiddle, banjo, and the little fella, the pharmacist, slappin’ the strings on a dog house, which was what they called the stand-up bass.
One o’ the more popular revelers was a raven-haired, drop-dead beauty named Ret Lusaw. Her eyes were wide-set, near black and sparkly, like the moon reflected in a pond. She had dimples you could push peas in. She wasn’t the ain’t-she-pretty, glamorous Hollywood or classic beauty, but the raw, nasty, Boy-howdy-I-sure- would-like-me-some-o’-that kind. She was nineteen years old, slim and flirty; slim on the slim, heavy on the flirty. The term ‘full of herself’ was made for Ret Lusaw. She sported one o’ them bobbed hairdos popular in the big cities. She’d seen a picture of it in a magazine and had the local hair girl cut it for her. She knew it’d create a lot o’ talk at the dance and that’s why she did it. Ret Lusaw liked bein’ talked about and looked at. The fat, dumpy, grumpy, and envious prune-faced old biddies sittin’ on their flabby asses on the benches linin’ the walls all agreed she looked like a boy with too big teeth and too little titties.
Watchin’ her, a body woulda sworn she was totally natural, but truth be told, everthing she did was highly choreographed. Ever wink, ever twirl, ever giggle—rehearsed to the hilt. Ret’s best friend had always been the swing-wing mirrors on the vanity in her bedroom. Ret Lusaw knew what she had and how to use it.
Two others enjoying the production was thirty-two-year-old George Komes, the kind that kept an invisible chip perched on his shoulder, currently nursin’ a whiskey and rubbin’ the end of a twiggy little stick over his teeth. Where babies had a banky with a frayed end they brushed under their nose or a dry-puke-flaked doll they drug about, George Komes had a little twig end he constantly rubbed over his teeth. He kept half a dozen spares in his shirt pocket.
At his side was his peanut-chompin’, dim-witted, thirty-year-old, almost bald-headed brother, Matthew, a good argument for mandatory, mental-hospital-steppin’-in-for-the-sake-of-mankind, sterilization. Where George’s teeth were dazzlingly white, Matthew’s were disgusting. Filthy, discolored, and the left top front was missing. He had the constant habit of playin’ with it with his tongue. It also gave everthing he said a th sound. “Tho what? Thath mine!” And, like almost everthing else about Matthew, it was annoying. ”Hey, George! Look at thith. Whadaya thay?”
George was big, well in excess of two hundred pounds, quiet and secretive. He was a fighter, too. Not a good one, but he didn’t have to be. He had two things goin’ for him. The first was an extremely high pain threshold. The second was perseverance. A deadly combination. He’d get hit time and time again but kept on comin’. He could take it until the other fella was completely worn out. Eventually, he’d get in that one punch and that was all she wrote. Once his opponent was on the ground, George finished him off. Then he’d finish him off some more.
Matthew wasn’t near as big as George, but what he lacked in size he more than made up for in stupidity. He was ever bit as scary as George, though, but in a different way. He was as conniving, too, but in a creepier way. George never smiled, and meant it. Matthew never stopped smilin’, and didn’t.
The Komes Brothers were a surly duo you didn’t wanna mess with, with or without alcohol, but more than that, they were sons of the witch, Lootie Komes.
Across the room, leanin’ up agin the wall, was Hub, Ret’s big, twenty-four-year-old, overly-protective brother, and he was watchin’ George and Matthew watch Ret. When the music was over, Hub caught sight o’ George knockin’ back the last of his drink, and Matthew grabbin’ two handsful o’ roasted peanuts and shovin ’em in his pocket. They gave one last lustful look at Ret and sauntered out the back door.
Oblivious to it all, a perspiration-glistening Ret glided toward a group o’ young men, part of her admiring throng. Before she got to ’em, though, one, a crimpy-haired red-head name of Nud Beaumont, took the initiative, leaped from the anxious herd, jumped to her side, and slipped his arm around her waist. Then he swung her around and headed for the dance floor, tellin’ everbody, “My turn!”
Roscoe Bowles, who figured it was his turn, followed ’em onto the floor and playfully but purposefully pulled Ret from Nud’s grasp. “Hell y’are, boy,” and he yelled to the band, “Fire up another’n, fellas!”
Nud grabbed her back. “Don’t be grabbin’ th’woman’s gonna marry me ‘n have my babies!”
“Who died ‘n left either o’ you rich?” Ret asked, lookin’ at ’em like they’s crazy.
Fakin’ heartbreak, Nud clutched his chest and whined, “Why Ret, is monetary riches so important when ya feel for one another th’way we do?”
“Yeah, I think so!” she said. “First, they ain’t enough money in all Looziana t’get my interest, ‘n two, I ain’t havin’ noooobody’s babies. ‘Specially yorn.”
Roscoe grabbed her around the waist and told Nud, “Yeah,” then to Ret, “Let’s go!”
“Uh uhhhhhh. That’s it,” she said, pushin’ away from Roscoe, “ya’ll’re gettin’ way too grabby. Ya’lla rurnt my night. I’m goin’ home.” They circled her, pleading with her not to go, and she told ’em, “Don’t beg, it ain’t manly.” Then she casually pulled a hankie out o’ LeRoy Ledbetter’s coat pocket with her fingertips. The boys stopped breathin’, watchin’ her run the hankie over her throat and the back of her neck. Then she drug it through the barely perceptible indentation separatin’ her small but tantalizing breastages and handed the moistened keepsake back to LeRoy. He was already thinkin’ ‘bout runnin’ home and puttin’ it in a Mason jar to keep the moisture from escapin’. She started away, and lookin’ over her shoulder, gave ’em the Poop-Poop-a-Doop, ain’t-I-just-the-cutest-little-thing-you-ever-seen, and gushed, “Good night, boys.” She exited, and once outside, took off her shoes, supremely satisfied with her performance.
She was half a mile from the Meeting Hall, walkin’ down the middle o’ the dirt road, straight into the face of a custard-yellow full moon hoverin’ just above the h’rizon, bright enough to read by, imagining what the boys were sayin’
about her, when…
Snap!
…she jerked to a stop! Like she’d run into a brick wall. All her senses come to life while she scanned the dark woods at her left, listenin’. While the moon lit the road in front of her well enough, it couldn’t penetrate a dozen feet into the woods. Maybe it was just a possum or some other woodsmate, so why had she reacted that way? She’d heard critters in the dark before. Keepin’ a wary eye to the woods, she continued on her way, tryin’ to shake it off, but she couldn’t shake the nigglin’ feelin’ that somethin’ was wrong.
Suddenly, she squeaked a squirrel-like yip. Somethin’ had ricocheted off her chest and bounced to the ground. She rubbed her hand over where it’d struck. It hadn’t hurt her. It wasn’t big enough, but where had it come from? She bent over and picked it up. A peanut! Where the Hell….
A silly giggle in the woods to the left brought her straight back up. “Who’s there?” she chirped, and then realized her voice sounded choked, and that made her feel she’d betrayed concern to somethin’ she shouldn’ta. She was owlin’ her head back and forth, lookin’ in the woods, when she was struck with another peanut. “Come on now, this ain’t funny. Who’s out there? Nud? If that’s you, I’m gonna skin you alive, then I’ll get Hub t’beatchu t’juice!”
Again, the muted giggle. She jerked her head to the sound of another stick snappin’. This time, though, it wasn’t from the giggler’s position. She cocked up, set for fight or flight. Her head jerked to another snap, and this time she saw somethin’ movin’, comin’ out o’ the trees to the road, just up ahead and to her left. When it stepped into the road, the light o’ the full moon blinded her from the front so that she couldn’t make out the face, but she did recognize it for its size and the way it carried itself.
Her lip curled back and her stomach seized up like she was gonna vomit! Boy, oh boy, how quickly things could go south. Twenty yards to her front, George Komes sauntered, slowly, to the middle o’ the road. She’d noticed him and his stupid brother leerin’ at her at the dance, but with dozens of people around, she’d passed it off. But now she didn’t have the crowd to protect her. Or her brother. Her ever instinct screamed at her to run. Everbody’d heard rumors o’ George and Matthew doin’ nasty things to girls, sex things, but nobody ever admitted to it ‘cause gettin’ sexed up by George wasn’t anywhere near as bad as tellin’ on him and gettin’ nearly beat to death. Then, too, there was the witch.
There was always the God Damn witch.
She glanced around, lookin’ for the stupid one, knowing full well that where you saw the one, the other was close by. George without Matthew was like a body without a shadow. She didn’t see him, and that made her more nervous than if she had. She turned her attention back to George and started backin’ away. He didn’t make a move to follow her, so now she felt stupid. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong after all, he was just bein’ scary ol’ George. He liked bein’ scary as much as she liked bein’ cute. “What’re you doin’, George?” He didn’t say anything. That didn’t help her nerves. She chewed her bottom lip, glanced around. “Where’s ‘at brother o’ yorn?”
He still didn’t say anything. She was up to there with whatever the joke was, and she wanted out. She spun around to go back the way she’d come, and stuttered to a stop. Matthew, with that stupid goofy smile plastered on his ugly face, was standin’ in the middle o’ the road, the moon full on him, poppin’ peanuts in his mouth.
“Boy, you’re a quiet one, ain’tcha?” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed, friendly, and gigglin’ like a snake if a snake could giggle. “Wanna peanut?” and he flipped another one. It bounced off her chest, and to the ground. “Hold still,” he said. Then, miming what he wanted, “push yr’tittieth t’gether ‘n I’ll thee if I’cn pitch one ‘tween ‘em,” and pinched another in his fingertips like he was about to toss it at her.
“I’d rather ya didn’t,” she said. If she ever knew anything in her life, she knew this—she was in trouble. Real. Bad. Trouble. This was what people felt just before they died. She quickly surveyed her situation. George in front, Matthew in back, and the dark woods to the side. The choice was obvious.
George had read her mind, brought his hand up to his mouth to remove his tooth-rubbin’ stick, and asked, “What’cha gonna do, Lowwwretta Lusaw? Gonna run?”
Then, behind her, she heard Matthew’s insane chortlin’, “Runnnnnnn, Ret! Run ‘r I’m gonna gitcha in th’tittie with a peanut!”
Ret dropped her shoes and was in the woods before they hit the road.
CHAPTER 17
George had his eyes scrunched down, concentrating hard on something up the street, rubbin’ a twig over his teeth with one hand, a lit hand-rolled in the other. Ever few seconds he’d take a pull and then blow the smoke out his nose. He and Matthew were sittin’ in a beat-up Ford shortbed parked at the curb in the middle of the industrial section of Lecerne, Louisiana, which was pretty much all Lecerne was. They’d been there about half an hour and it was miserable cold and wet. George was nervous ‘cause he couldn’t see for shit through the fog. They had to keep the windows rolled down to keep their breath from foggin ’em up. Ever little bit George would stick his arm out the driverside window to wipe the front glass on his side off with a rag, and then pass it to Matthew to catch the other side.
“Thit, it’th cold,” Matthew bitched for about the millionth time. He was slunk down in the seat with his coat collar turned up, arms crossed over his chest and his fingers tucked in his armpits. He didn’t notice George give him the stink eye, tired of his complaints.
Matthew was worryin’ a rubbery thingamabob in his mouth about the size of a cashew. It wasn’t a cashew, though. Far from it. He’d pass it back and forth between the gap in his teeth with his tongue for a little bit, pull it out, mash it in his fingertips to flatten it out and then, when he let go, watch it reshape itself. Then he’d smell it and stick it back in his mouth. He noticed George was watchin’ and helt it out to him. “Wanna chaw?”
George laughed and shook his head. “No, thanks, that’s an acquired taste.”
Matthew didn’t know what a kwired was and didn’t really give a shit, so he let it go. “Firtht one I had’n a long time,” he said. He pinched it out again, brought it to his nose, flared his nostrils, and took a slow whiff. “Don’t tatht no more, but it didn’t have much t’thtart with. You’d think it’d have more, wudncha, ‘cause o’ where it come from.” He put it back in his mouth, took a deep breath, blew it out, and the vapor gave him an idea. He clenched his fists and pistoned his arms back and forth. “Chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka.” Then he tilted his head back and out the window, blowin’ vapor. “Wooooooo, wooooooo, woo-woo, wooooooo. Chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka. Wooooooo, wooooooo.” He looked over at George and grinned. “Thounth like a train, don’t it?”
“Right,” George said. “How ‘bout pullin’ it in th’station ‘fore somebody hears ya.”
Matthew looked around the deserted street. “They ain’t nobody around.”
“Let’s not take th’chance, okay?”
Matthew smiled, clenched his fists, pistoned his arms, and chka-chkaed slower and slower until he sshhhhhhhhhed to a stop. “Everbody out!” The ride over, he wrapped his arms over his chest and stuck his fingers back in his pits. “Fuck, it’th cold!” He turned to George, looked over his face and grinned. “You done motht o’ th’payin’, I feel awful guilty gettin’ all th’joyment.”
George adjusted the rearview mirror with a knuckle-skinned right hand, leaned for’ard and, as best he could in the truck’s dark confines, examined his fresh, deeply-scratched face.
“Theyth gonna latht,” Matthew teased.
George looked over his face in the mirror. “Yeah, well,” he picked up the .45 resting in his lap, flipped open the chamber, checking the load, “I got my share.” He flipped the chamber back and, imagining something dark, said more to hisself than to Matthew, “’n I got a lot more t’come.”
“We got a lot done t’day,” Matthew said.
“Yep, I think we did.” He put the gun back in his lap, pulled a watch out of his pants pocket and flipped it open. 12:15 a.m.
“‘Bout time?” Matthew asked.
“Should be,” George replied. He put the watch back and felt somethin’ hang up on his knuckle. He rubbed his finger over it. A flap a skin. He brought it to his mouth and gnawed it off with his front teeth. Then he pinched it off the end of his tongue and helt it out to Matthew. “You want this, too?”
Matthew squinted at it. “What ith it?”
“Flap o’ skin.”
Matthew shook his head and parted his lips to show he was still occupied with the current prize. George flicked the flap out the window.
Nestled in the warm, cozy office of one of the warehouses half a block up and on the other side o’ the street, Jack Hoff, mid-fortyish, a fearless security guard with a Southern States Security patch sewn on his sleeve, checked his watch. 12:16 a.m. He snapped it shut and stuck it back in his pocket. He and thirty-five-year-old Randolph (Snotty) Snodgrass, another highly-trained example of securial guardatory ferocity, relaxed after a grueling day of waitin’, sittin’, and readin’. Randy had a three-week-old newspaper spread out on the small table in the middle o’ the room, but it hadn’t kept him from nodding off.
The purpose of this deadly duo on duty at a non-descript warehouse in the middle o’ nowhere was because somehow, earlier that afternoon, their armored truck ran into engine trouble on the road and they didn’t get into town until long after the bank’d closed. They’d picked up the strong box on time from the train whose tracks didn’t yet swing anywhere near Lecerne. It was their job to bring it into town and to the bank. It was a run they’d done ever month or so for a couple o’ years, so just another day at the office.
