by Ed Kurtz
He was big—six-two at least—with a large, round gut and a powerful grip, probably in his early sixties. The clear blue eyes in his craggy, sun-weathered face were cool, knowing, assessing, not those of the country bumpkin he pretended to be.
"How do, Pargrew. I'm Jack Bob, Daddy C's boy. How you keeping today, hoss?"
Jack Bob was as big as his father, but considerably fatter. In his early forties, his hair was still dark, but a red face indicated too much liquor.
"Alec's a guest, of course, but he also came to work some," Sween said. "He's a big time security expert, going to look the ranch over, recommend how to tighten things up a mite."
"Hmmph," Daddy C said. "You're sure enough welcome to stay, Al, but I reckon all the security I need is right over there."
He pointed to the machine gun. Sween held his hands up in a placating gesture.
"No, Daddy C, I don't mean that. I mean better ways to keep the hogs penned so you don't worry about nuisance lawsuits from your raggedy-ass, pissant neighbors."
Daddy C's face lightened. "Oh, all right then. You should have said so in the first place, Ted. Let's head on up to the hacienda for supper. Killing gives me an appetite."
They went back to the house. The pool was empty. Sutro grinned when they entered.
"I done mixed your mint julep, sir."
"Good enough, Sutro. Let's mosey to the dining room."
The gigantic dining room was also decorated with dead, stuffed animals. Some life was provided by a five hundred gallon aquarium filled with hundreds of colorful tropical fish. The girl sat at the mahogany dining table with a woman, both in matching green mini-dresses. The woman drank red wine from a crystal goblet.
"About time y'all showed up," she said. "We're about to drop dead from hunger."
"Ain't even near six yet," Daddy C said. He sat at the head of the table and guzzled a mint julep.
"Who's this handsome cowboy you brought along, Daddy C? Ain't you or Sween got enough manners to introduce him?"
A thick West Texas accent. Eyes heavily crow-footed from squinting in the bright sun. Yet the hair was still thick and blonde, the eyes a deep sea green, and her body pert and fine, still a woman hard to resist.
"Sure enough. This here's Al Pargrew, come to keep the hogs penned in. That there's my wife, good old Irma Mae."
Pargrew smiled, the only man in the room with his hat off. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Clements."
She laughed, too loud and too long. "Call me Irma Mae," she slurred.
"Now we're acquainted, have a set by me, Al, so we can chat like."
Pargrew took the place of honor with Jack Bob to his right. Irma Mae and Ella faced them. Sween took the end. Sutro served a Lucullan feast. A visitor to many other rich Texans' places, Pargrew was accustomed to titanic feeds, but Daddy C's hospitality overwhelmed him. A tsunami of conspicuous consumption—halved avocadoes, hollows filled with Beluga caviar; lobsters, prawns, and king crab legs; piles of beefsteaks, pork chops, sausages, and ribs; small mountains of potato salad, coleslaw, and hush puppies—a salute to wretched excess, most of it sure to waste.
Pargrew had a steak, two ribs, and green salad. Sween, Daddy C, and Jack Bob wolfed enormous quantities of meat and seafood, as if locked in a personal competition to see who could eat the most protein. They washed it down with plentiful beer and whiskey. Irma Mae toyed with a chicken wing, shot Pargrew occasional horny looks, and mostly drank wine. Rather than eat, Ella instead stared stonily at the ceiling. Jack Bob slurped down whiskey and reached for another crab leg.
"See them dead critters, Al? Ever one killed by me or old Daddy C."
"I saw. You can both be proud to have so many fine trophies."
"Sure enough," Sween said between mouthfuls. "Best damn hunter in the whole damn world."
"Proud? I should say I am. I've killed ever kind of bad, dangerous critter there is."
"That's true," Daddy C said. "He's done it all from shooting a lynx in Switzerland to a polar bear in Greenland."
"You ever been hunting anyplace fancy, Al?" Jack Bob said.
"Does Iraq or Afghanistan count?"
Momentarily disconcerted, Jack Bob drank more whiskey and barreled ahead.
"Ain't no brag to call myself a crack shot with any kind of weapon there is. Rifle, bow and arrow, a crossbow or even a damn blowgun, I've mastered them all."
A gust of drunken laughter from Irma Mae.
"Listen to old Jack Bob. I swear, JB, it's a wonder anyone else ever gets in two words edgewise. Not like we ain't heard it before. Whyn't you let old Al here tell us about himself. He must have been a soldier to go to those places."
Jack Bob looked at Pargrew, a slack, drunken leer on his face.
"Yeah, sure, Irma Mae. How about you, hoss? What kind of hunting you do in Iraq or Afghanistan?"
Pargrew shrugged. "Men, mostly. My uncle used to let me hunt whitetail out at his place."
"Jack Bob, that's enough," Daddy C said. "Wait'll you see the hunting here, son. We'll go pig hunting tomorrow. Yes sir, be getting up at zero-dark-thirty."
"Be sure you got the sand for it, hoss, before you come along," Jack Bob said. "Our pigs are purebred Russian boars, the meanest there is. Be ready to go up against five hundred pound tuskers."
"They's some mighty mean little piggies," Sween said, quite drunk.
"OK," Pargrew said. "If we're getting up early, I'd best get to bed."
"Hold on, son," Daddy C said. He put a meaty paw over Pargrew's hand. "Fun's only starting."
There was a change in Daddy C, as if from one slug too many of whiskey. His hands quavered. There was an empty look in his previously sharp eyes. His mouth was open, tongue lolling.
"Ella, do one of them little dances and entertain us men folk. You know, shimmy around to some of them pop tunes you like when you think nobody's around."
Ella glared at Daddy C. She gave the finger with both hands, got up, and stomped out of the room.
Daddy C burst into laughter, loud male roars quickly echoed by Jack Bob and Sween. Their riotous fit was suddenly interrupted by the smash of breaking crystal. Red wine dripped like blood down the white marble wall. Irma Mae stood up, transformed from a flirty Texas tramp into a raging Greek fury.
"You stinking sumbitch," she shrieked. "You say another thing like that to Ella or go shooting those dirty looks again and I won't bother with no divorce. I'll just put rat poison in your damn coffee. So don't hold no pre-nup over my head, you damn pervert monster. You mind what I say."
"Now, Irma Mae, me and the fellows was just funning like usual—"
Irma Mae stormed away in turn. "Sleep with the colored hands down to the bunkhouse tonight for all I care, but not with me."
Daddy C shook his head regretfully. "Ain't that like a split tail, Al? They just don't make no sense. Here it is, my third go round, and I still can't get a woman what's reasonable. Know what I'm saying, son?"
"Sure enough, Daddy C. Guess I'll head on to bed like I said before."
"Young fellow needs his rest," Jack Bob said.
"Yes sir, I do."
Sutro led Pargrew up two flights of stairs, down a long hall, and through an arched wooden door into a large, luxuriously furnished bedroom. His luggage was in the closet. The shaving kit was laid out in the bathroom. Pargrew pulled his boots off, went to the closet, got a paperback Elmer Kelton novel from his bag, and lay down on the bed to read. There was a knock on the door.
"Come on in. I'm decent."
Ella walked in and shut the door. Pargrew set his book aside, but didn't get up.
"Hello, Ella. What can I do for you?"
Ella sat on a chair.
"Oh, I just come to talk. You seem nice, polite-like, you know? Not like old Daddy C or that goddamn fat Jack Bob."
"Daddy C was out of line talking like that."
Ella vigorously nodded, brown eyes bright.
"I knew you'd agree. I hate the way they look at me and say smutty things. Don't you trust either one. W
atch out for that old Sween too. Nothing but a snake in the grass either."
"Ella, you don't like it here. Irma Mae wasn't too pleased tonight either. She smashed a glass after you left, said she'd kill Daddy C. Why don't y'all clear out? Irma Mae said she didn't care about the pre-nuptial agreement."
Ella laughed.
"She was drunk again. Mom'll hang in there, take whatever trash old Daddy C throws at her, just hoping the sick old bastard dies. Jack Bob gets most of it, but Mom would still have herself a nice payday."
"He seems pretty vigorous to me."
"Him? Daddy C's had at least two heart attacks, maybe more. Got a damn stent in one of his arteries. One more bad drunk or another temper tantrum or maybe a good, hard fall. One or the other will do for him soon enough. Me, I ain't waiting around. The minute I turn eighteen, I'm headed to parts unknown."
She headed for the door.
"See you around, Al."
"It's Alec."
"Oh, sorry. I never should listen to Daddy C."
"You hunting tomorrow?"
Ella snorted. "No four-legged pig ever hurt me. Not like the two-legged ones."
Pargrew chuckled. "Good night, Ella."
"Good night."
Pargrew turned in at nine, rose at four-thirty to his watch's alarm buzz, and dressed in sand-colored fatigues and desert boots. He slung a Bushmaster Carbon 15 semi-automatic rifle over his shoulder and went downstairs. He could hear country music playing and smelled breakfast cooking from the kitchen opposite the dining room.
The gargantuan, brightly-lit kitchen was filled with the latest culinary devices. Natty in a white chef's toque, Sutro deftly flipped an omelet on the grill. Togged in customary camo and cowboy hats, Daddy C and Jack Bob devoured ham and eggs at a butchers block table. Sween sat with them, too hungover to eat. Irma Mae was not only up, but chipper, last night's melodrama apparently forgotten. She helped Sutro fix breakfast.
"Howdy, Al. Let me pour coffee while you tell Sutro how you like your eggs."
"Thanks, Irma Mae. Three fried and sunny side up, Sutro."
"Park your shooting stick there with the rest," Daddy C said.
Pargrew set his rifle next to several top of the line Beretta shotguns and hunting rifles. He sat down at the table. Irma Mae handed him his coffee. Sutro served his eggs. Pargrew served himself a ham steak.
"Good on you, Al. Didn't have to wake you like Sween here," Daddy C said.
"He can't hold liquor worth a damn," Jack Bob said. "That a Bushmaster you got?"
"The new carbon composite receiver model. Real light."
Daddy C sipped his coffee. "Good thing you got no scope on it. Won't help worth a damn out in the canebrake."
"That might be all right for shooting some jihadi, but you need stopping power for a five-hundred pound hog," Jack Bob said.
Pargrew buttered toast. "I can put enough rounds from that rifle into a target circle to stop anything, man or animal."
"Oh?" Jack Bob said. "You can, hoss? Just like that?"
"Let's pull out," Daddy C said.
Pargrew finished his eggs. Daddy C and Jack Bob slung rifles and bandoliers over their shoulders and walked out. He stood up, picked up his rifle, and followed them into the unlit main hall, the stuffed animals swathed in shadows, when a voice hissed from behind.
"Pargrew."
Sween came from the darkness like a ghost, face deathly pale and wracked with pain.
"Stick close to Daddy C out there. One of them Black Block assassins might have infiltrated the ranch last night."
"Not much chance of that, but you pay me to watch him. I'll stick as close as I can, but he's independent like you know. What about you? You look too green about the gills to go hunting."
Sween grimaced. "Never should try to keep up with them Clements. I got to lie down. Hate not holding my end up…"
"Pargrew," Jack Bob shouted from outside the open front door. "You coming or not?"
Pargrew hustled down the hall and out the door. Everything was gray in the early dawn's light. Even in darkness, the heat was still strong, almost overpowering. Daddy C loomed before him.
"Sween too hungover again to hunt?"
"That's it."
"What a weak sister," Jack Bob said. "At least you got enough sand to come, Pargrew."
"We'll take one UTV then. Climb in, Al."
They got into a four-seat Polaris UTV, a muscular black hand at the wheel, Daddy C in front, Pargrew in the back with Jack Bob, dwarfed by the huge man.
"Ted, run us to the north section, pronto."
"Yes sir, Daddy C."
They exited the paved road soon afterwards and traveled down hard packed dirt trails. Ted drove quickly and confidently down the winding trails. He plainly knew them intimately by day or night. Pargrew saw a flash of gray in the black woods, a coyote in flight from the UTV's noise. Daddy C faced him.
"Pigs don't like heat much nor cold either. When it's too dern hot for 'em, they wallow in deep mud to keep cool while they sleep. We'll find 'em in the canebrake."
"Be warned now, they'll charge you," Jack Bob said.
They came to the end of the trail, a wall of canebrake. There was a deep guttural roar, bullfrogs in search of mates. A barred owl hooted, "Who cooks for you?" Streaks of red grew on the eastern horizon. The light became steadily stronger.
"Time to kill some piggies, Daddy C?"
"There's light enough, Jack Bob."
Daddy C racked his pump shotgun.
"I'm new at this," Pargrew said. "Mind if I tag along, Daddy C, so you can show me the ropes, like?"
"No big thing killing a little piggie after them men you shot in Iraq and Afghaniland," Jack Bob said.
Daddy C's dismissive smile was plain even in the dawn light. "Sorry, but I work alone. You can stay with Ted and the UTV if you like."
"No, that's OK. I'll take my chances."
"Good man. Jack Bob, you head up a hundred yards or so and Al, you do likewise that way. No chance of a crossfire accident that way. Go on into the canebrake. You'll probably flush a pig pretty quick so keep ready."
Pargrew walked away, but slipped into the canebrake soon after. The black, muddy ground threatened to suck his boots off his feet. Swarms of insects fastened on his face and hands. Pargrew kept a wary eye out for rattlesnakes. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead through the thick, green leafed cane stands. He had to track by sound alone. Daddy C's heavy trod was easy enough to pick up. The man had to weigh over two hundred-fifty pounds.
Pargrew trailed Daddy C with the slow, exaggerated motions of the combat creep, just as he was trained. He couldn't see him, but knew at most he was about twenty yards away. The slurp of boots pulled through mud stopped. Burning tobacco cut through the dank smell of the canebrake. He'd stopped for a cigarette.
A thrash of heavy feet on soggy ground.
BDDAMMM.
A shotgun's crack. A plaintive squeal of outraged fury.
Silence abandoned, Pargrew raced through the canebrake toward the gunshot, only to trip over a root. He took the brunt of the blow on his back with his rifle held high, got to his feet, and ran again. He saw figures just ahead, dim outlines in the greenery. He forged ahead.
Daddy C lay on his back in the mud. Huge black hogs ringed him. They savaged him with long, yellow tusks, tore out his entrails with sharp teeth, black snouts coated in blood. Pargrew put his rifle to his shoulder and aimed. He put a bullet into a pig's head. The beast keeled over. The other pigs ignored him, continued to eat, like sharks intent upon a blood feast. Pargrew shot each one down.
He warily approached, kicked each pig to make sure it was dead, and bent low to examine Daddy C. The ravaged body was rigid, every muscle clenched tight. His mouth was wide open, as if gasping for air even in death. A tusk had torn one cheek open. A voracious hog had sucked out and eaten an eyeball. He was a bloody mess and deader than hell. Pargrew looked closer at the corpse. A thin metal dart jutted from Daddy C's neck.
&n
bsp; "Daddy C. Daddy C. Where you at?" Ted cried from a short distance away.
"He's over here," Pargrew said.
A swishing sound as the canebrake violently parted, the squelch of large feet. Pargrew looked up. Jack Bob bore down on him like an enraged grizzly.
"What you done to my daddy, you goddamn sumbitch?"
Jack Bob's shotgun butt knocked him unconscious.
Pargrew came to on a sofa in the ranch home's living room, boots off and an icepack to his head. A friendly, middle-aged man in a pink golf shirt and khaki slacks smiled at him.
"Feeling better, son?"
"I guess. Who might you be?"
"I'm Doc Sorenson, the family physician. They called me on the fourteenth hole at the Prestonwood Country Club. Of course, I dropped everything and came out immediately on a Clemoco helicopter. Pity there's nothing I can do."
"What killed him, Doc?"
"Hard to tell with the damage those pigs did, but most likely Daddy C suffered a heart attack, given his history and the rigor of the body. He apparently squeezed off one shot before he collapsed so perhaps the excitement of the hunt was too much for him."
"You didn't find a dart or something like that in him?"
Sorenson gave him a puzzled look. "No. Why do you ask?"
Pargrew shook his head. "It's nothing. Just a stray thought. Never mind."
Sorenson chuckled. "Well, you've had a bad blow."
He carefully checked Pargrew for concussion and pronounced him healthy. With that news, he promptly left, only to have Sween show up. Hesitant, anxious, he sat down in a chair by the sofa.
"Glad you're feeling better."
"My head's still attached to the neck, if that's what you mean."
Sween grimaced. "First off, Pargrew, ain't nobody here blames you. What happened today was God's will. There wasn't a blessed thing anyone could do to stop it."
"How about old Jack Bob? He seemed to blame me. Or does he butt stroke folks by way of saying howdy?"
Sween looked even more pitiful. "Jack Bob's awful sorry about that, Pargrew. You got to understand, when he saw his poor old daddy lying there and what them damn pigs done, he went plumb loco."
"That's a big consolation. Anything else you want to say, Sween? I ain't much for talk right now."
