Not yet nine, but almost. Time, and the road, waited for no Devin.
Somewhere close by, a man inside a room screaming and jabbering in angry, broken, drunken Spanish; a woman’s voice, equally as passionate, seemed to counter his every vituperative threat.
“You want a date?”
Devin, cussing and nearly coming out of his skin. A sad little lot lizard had sidled him in the doorway of his room.
They had words. He cursed the petite, tattooed Latina girl. He was extra mean. Told her to ‘quit sucking dicks.’ “The world prefers you to get a real job.”
“Yeah, but all me and my kid need is something to eat.”
“Fair enough—take this.” He gave her some of his mother’s money, a twenty. Money wouldn’t spend where he was going. Not this time.
She shoved it back at him. “You don’t got to pay me yet.”
“It’s so’s you can get your kid a McMuffin for breakfast. Take a break this morning.”
“For real? You don’t want me to do nothing?”
Devin looked over the shades. His stomach convulsed. The shakes were all over him. “Go on, now. My junk don’t work no more.”
Relieved, she scurried not over to the fast food joints, but probably to the next john. It wasn’t his problem.
After getting fixed up with a quick bracer from the heretofore unopened Henry McKenna—hair of the D and knock that hangover right out; McKenna, despite the name, a brown-eyed woman if there’d ever been one—Devin chased the blessed nip of whistle-wetting Kentucky firewater with a semi-cold tallboy lying in melted cooler ice-water, brewski slipping down smooth and dry of finish. Seeing as how he’d regurgitated it soon after, shocking and propulsive through his mouth and nose and necessitating a change of shirt, the second beer of the day tasted even more especially crisp; refreshing and clean as the mountain air he’d left behind, or so he convinced himself.
Devin, now time to remember where he was and what he was doing. A parking lot in the midwest somewhere. Hungover. Calculating how much to drink and still be a functioning motorist. Like a broken record.
Then, okay, the novelty of it all; the whole Billy deal, yeah yeah yeah.
“Maybe another quick bracer.”
No, don’t do that, not with hundreds of miles to go.
“It’ll be fine.”
Don’t drink no more McKenna, beau.
“Just a taste. I’ll spit it back out.”
Order toast from the diner over across the way.
“Kiss my ass.”
All right. Drive. Smoke. Sip brewskis.
Nodding and listening as his voice of reason found a decent perch, Devin shuffled back into the room to brush his teeth, forgot what he was doing along the way and lay his wearied body back down.
An hour later he repeated the whole routine, to include the bracer and tortured inner debate about hitting the bourbon a second and third and fourth time, but not doing so.
Having ginned up the gut to get going for real, he fortified by nibbling rabbit-like on a packet of Nekot cookie-crackers, sixty pesetas out of the vending machine and sweeter than hell after the beer. But he kept them cookies down. The sugar, giving him a charge and a spring to his step.
Squaring the trunk away, cooler packed with free motel ice and beer, and checking on Prudy’s dish. Safe. Holding it made him want to drink, though.
No. Drive. For once, he was on a schedule. Which he kept all day, picking a time and looking at his map and saying, I will be there then.
And, as if in a dream, a few hours later here he was, skyscrapers and a fancy hotel and down the block the freaking Alamo, yeah; and a bar. Billy? Immaterial whether he showed or not. Far from the point. A bar was all Devin needed to stoke his sense of arrival. Like always having a home away from home—until they kicked you out.
Fourteen
Creedence
Chelsea, a knot in her stomach, raced over to Mr. Vincent’s hardware store in her little blue Ford Focus. Her eyesight: blurry. All but sleepless from vivid, anxiety-ridden dreams all through the night.
Her day running the switchboard at the dealership, interminable. Clicking around online to some of her old favorite celebrity gossip or conspiracy and secret society websites—baldheaded Britney and baby-maker Angelina, or the video ‘proving’ no planes hit the towers—the ocean of information at her fingertips served only to make her more nervous, a torrent of helplessness threatening to sweep her away.
Dusty’s behavior after she asked who he’d been talking to tucked away in the whispering shadows? Obvious and busted. Face gone red, apple cheeks making him look like a tryout for the center-court mall Santa.
She’d overhead how his voice had come out so soft, like back at fourteen when he’d been trying to talk his way into her drawers for the first time, tickling and poking and probing around with his stubby index finger while begging her to let him ‘take it out.’
Hearing him say, quiet, to whomever he spoke: “I can’t wait, either.”
Chelsea, having heard him express such sentiments before.
On the phone.
To her.
Startled by her presence outside the laundry room he’d lashed out: “I swear to goodness but I wish you’d quit creeping around this house on me.”
Arms folded. “Who was that?”
“Mr. Vincent. He was—today, see, I give him an idea-r on a sale. On having a sale. An idea-r I had. And I was only calling him to thank him for taking me, taking me up on it. The sale, it’s gonna start soon. That’s manager stuff right there, boy.”
‘Idea-r.’ It drove her up the frickin’ wall. Hillbillies from Parson’s Hollow or Red Mound said ‘idea-r.’ Not folks like the Ruckers, from the eastern half of the county, on the other side of the ridge from all them rednecks.
She speculated on the praise Mr. Vincent had offered to deserve Dusty’s buttery hand-job voice, one full of gratitude but also ripe anticipation of future events. She knew it well; she knew what she’d heard. “And you can’t wait for it to start.”
“Do what?”
“The sale.”
“Hell yeah I can’t wait. I’m—he said—I’ll get a bonus. If it goes good.”
Pushing by her, he went through the dark kitchen and living room. He grabbed the remote and shut off the movie at which she’d been staring, oblivious to its content. Creedence, daydreaming about Billy Steeple, and Charleston, and cat stuff.
“That exciting, is it? This hardware sale?”
“I’m right stoked.” And on into the bedroom.
She followed. “When’s it start? How much are the discounts?”
Sitting on the bed he peeled off his work socks, which looked stiff. Being a good boy, attentive and mindful of her rules, he tooted the can of Glade a couple times. “I don’t remember.”
Against the doorjamb, hands on her swelling belly, fake smile: “But, what was your ‘idea-r’?”
His mouth worked up and down. Had him there. Fake-yawning to buy time.
“Well?”
“Fasteners and tools under fifty dollars,” he finally blurted. “For those little household fixer-upper dealies. That’s what the radio ad’s going to say.”
Not bad.
New tactic. “Heck of a thing, this sale. Can’t say I ever seen you call Mr. Vincent after hours.”
“I’m just trying to do what you wanted.” Stomping into the bathroom he called out, high-voiced, “I’m trying to impress him, girl.”
“Maybe I’m the one you need to impress.”
“Ain’t that what I just said?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re talking in circles. I don’t know what you want.”
That chubby little cashier.
It all came to her.
Clicked in.
What was that look the little shit had gotten when she walked in that one day last week? Chelsea had brought Dusty the lunch he forgot. The way the girl had crossed her arms and smiled all crooked, almost sarcastic—
and Dusty himself, tense and annoyed at the appearance of his beloved spouse. His beloved, pregnant spouse. Said he would run to Mickey D’s. But that he appreciated her bringing his brown bag.
Buddy Lawler, now, that had been foolishness and nonsense and weakness ascribable to hormones and boredom and whatnot. Dusty messing around with a young girl? That was a whole-nother ham sandwich.
Pulling into the parking lot of Mr. Vincent’s hardware store she saw no sign of Dusty’s beat-up Toyota Tundra, with its variety of NASCAR iconography, Power of Pride flag sticker and two different Never Forget decals—one for Dale, one for 9/11.
At her appearance inside, spindly old dried up Mr. Vincent brightened. She asked where on earth her husband might be in the middle of the workday like this.
Dentures whistling, the proprietor reassured her with a lingering hug, rubbing the small of her back and leering through thick old-man’s eyeglasses taking up half his puckered face. “Said he was going to run errands for you, honey. I let him clock out for the day.”
“He’s off work?”
“Quiet as a tomb around here. But we’ll pick up again.”
With a shrug he glanced sidelong at the only customer in the large store, another crusty old fart in suspenders and dusty work pants and ball cap holding the tines of a cheap rake up to the light and squinting, Chelsea thought, like one of those Jewish diamond merchants in New York City.
“I shouldn’t have come without calling first.”
“Dusty says you been a fretting and worrying too-too much, now.”
“Hard not to.”
“I been worried, too. What with these Mexicans piling in on top of everybody. And Wal-mart, of course.”
She drew breath to say And Lowe’s, too but stopped herself. Salt in the small business owner’s wounds.
Mr. Vincent saw Chelsea’s troubled face. “Dusty’s job ain’t going nowhere, sweetheart. Not until I do.”
None too reassuring. Mr. Vincent had to be in his mid-70s. “I appreciate hearing you say that.”
“All these earthly travails—Redtails football squads and expensive coaches that ain’t worth a toot, terrorists, Wal-mart, eye-rack, hardware, chicken feed, nails, washers, tools, cash registers, money, et cetera et cetera,” gesturing with both arms at his place of business. “Once the Lord comes back? And takes us home with him?”
“Yeah?”
“All will be moot and forgiven and forgot and immaterial.”
“The world is a troubled place. It needs fixing.”
“Not for very much longer, my dear.”
She hotfooted it back to the car and pulled out onto the main road right in front of a school bus, the short one. A horn blew. She waved, ‘sorry.’
Dusty didn’t have no good god-durn errands to run. Where were they?
Passing the old Pecan Market, a mom and pop gas station and diner frequented by school kids from James F. Byrnes High, at first she didn’t notice Dusty’s truck parked outside. Or Dusty himself, for that matter. Leaning with his arm against the hood of the vehicle—like they had once done.
Scores of times.
Hundreds.
Since childhood.
Together.
The Pecan Market, an Edgewater County teenaged right of passage. They still went there twice a month for hot dogs. Didn’t stand around, however. We bring them home to eat. Like grownups.
Tires squealing, she cut a U-turn in the middle of the road and cruised back by the market. This time, unmistakable: Dusty, his back to the highway, gestured and flapped his gums while standing next to the little strumpet Ashleigh—that was her name. A pimply, chubby checkout girl, ripe and red-haired.
Little Ashleigh, standing right next to her husband. Another redhead. Worse, a fat girl, the way so many modern teens had become. Myrtle Muffintop was more attractive than her?
And, standing right up against Chelsea’s husband. A not-pretty redheaded fat girl. There in front of God, and everyone else, too.
Chelsea, shitting a golden brick, did all she could not to cut another U-turn to confront him there in the sandy, unpaved Pecan Market parking lot. Instead, she hit the gas before Dusty noticed her and could see that she’d caught his little red-handed ass in action. Surprise would be key, now.
Driving home, a pulse beat in her temples. Her abdomen, tight with anger and shock. Sweating. Cramping down there. Only when in the house by herself with the kitties did she finally begin to cry.
Fifteen
Devin
“Excuse me, sir?”
Devin, realizing ‘sir’ meant him, pushed the empty glass he’d killed in one sweet blessed cold swallow over to the bartender, a young woman in her hotel uniform with a gold nameplate who’d watched with concern as he gulped the first round. The barkeep’s expression, he thought, betrayed grim experience with such customers of great thirst showing up so early in the happy hour shift.
Fiddling with his mustache, crusty in places, he rattled the ice at her. Cheery and bright: “Got any more li-bations back yonder? Or did I clean you out already.”
“Sir?”
“Fill me up, buttercup.”
“No—behind you.” She gestured. “Someone’s calling for you.”
“Do what?”
A looming, shadowy presence fell across the bar. Billy.
Pale as a ghost, sweating, but the old boy, looking all hale and hearty. Wellsir, good on him.
“Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age, son.”
“It’s been a few. You’re looking—good.”
Doing what I can. Devin repeated it a few times. Tried not to boohoo. Felt all crumbly.
“Your drink, sir.” A fresh one; a napkin. All was right with the world.
Hugs. Smalltalk. Ordering another round. Billy, saying the magic words, “It’s all on me.”
This was gonna be fine. Devin could easily run out of cash before getting his fill. Billy. Good old Billy.
Hours later, Devin’s prophecy, true.
Helping Billy along, they were trying to get back to the hotel. They’d been drinking, Devin-style, until last call at no fewer than three different joints.
But unsatisfying—all small talk, all the time. Big laughs. War stories. Pussy and drinking.
Good times.
But nothing about Libby.
Billy, a pit stop; emerging out of the bushes and onto the San Antonio Riverwalk pathway with the contents of his stomach in his hair, on his shirttail, and splattered on top of one polished Weejun. Billy, incoherent, incapacitated. Kept saying, ain’t used to drinking, pardner. Devin, going, yeah-well. We’ll see about that. Showing him how the pros from Dover could do it.
Even in the orange light of the streetlights Devin could see that his friend’s color was no bueno, and that one of his eyes looked bloodshot as though he’d gotten the stink-eye from puking and heaving with such gusto; in Devin’s judgement a 10-level expulsion of fluids.
Far as he could remember, many adventures had occurred—kicked out of the Marriott lobby bar; ejected from a cantina for vociferously alleging false advertising after the server had displayed unwillingness to serve Devin a beer the size of the prop promotional bottle they had standing out front; trying a second Mexican joint, and Devin behaving long enough to sneakily order Billy a giant party-sized margarita meant for four to six drinkers and then insisting that he chug it ‘like a man.’ Devin, talking smack to the hostess trying to calm him down, in the process knocking over said giant frozen drink. Being escorted out, and rushing over to accost a boatload of tourists passing by in the dark still waters of the canal and singling out an obese woman, he later ‘splained, for having the temerity to snap a photo of the T. G. I. Friday’s coming up around the bend nearest the Alamo, like the chain restaurant was the local tourist attraction of note. Offensive to those who had died in service of American freedom, et cetera.
Hustling away from the scene in the dark recesses of the walkway back to the hotel, they’d found a tucked-away cigar bar. No arrests, an
d no fights, at least. But Billy, now drunker than a skunk.
Devin, too. Smoking and grinning. Pleased beyond measure.
But for a time, concerned: after the giant margarita, Billy, entering a fugue state. Starting to speak with glassy-eyed distance about being interested in two things and two things only—pussy; and getting some—and how history would judge them poorly if they didn’t get themselves fucked and fucked but-good by some of the local snatch. How he wanted to eat the motherfucking juice out of some quality pussy. Went on and on about it.
Yawn. Devin, saying, hell no, bro. “Just keep drinking.”
But it didn’t matter anyway, because Billy soon became so ridiculously potted that he forgot about pussy and instead turned weepy. Slobbering and crooning remember-when, holding onto Devin and calling him Ruck, Ruck, beloved Ruck. Hugging him hard, big old body heaving and sobbing and mewling sentimental nonsense until damn near breaking Devin’s brittle spine.
A few more drinks at one last late night joint. Only some beers, no big whoop, but these had brought stomach upset and incoherence to Billy, a case of severe acute projectile dyspepsia, all of it Devin’s bread and butter, maybe, but for an apparent lightweight like Steeple, devastating and final. Far as Devin was concerned, the only pussy in the house was Billy himself; the downfall, the end of the party.
For tonight.
“Almost back to the Ponderosa.” Devin, steadying Billy on his size fourteen loafers in a darkened tunnel, wanted to take a piss, but too close to the entrance. “We is two drunk, sitting ducks out here for the po-po.”
Billy, holding his stomach, belched and moaned. A towering oak of a sot standing ready to tumbled earthward at the first whack of Paul Bunyan’s mighty axe, he said, “Mumble-grumble.”
“I know; I get it. But we need to git ourselves moving now, Big Bill.”
The two of them staggered down the walkway, now only a block or so from the hotel; passing under a bridge, above them Bowie Street. Devin, saying ‘howdy’ to a couple strolling arm in arm, and who cringed away from the stumblebums.
Mansion of High Ghosts Page 12
