by Ed Lynskey
We took a sitting break. Mr. Kuzawa wiped a sleeve over his lips. I followed his quiet study of the distant smoke column skirling into the sky. The firefighters struggled to tame the hellish blazes consuming the ridges. My new worry considered if the blazes had trapped and burned Edna to death.
“August is a dry nun’s cunt.” Mr. Kuzawa flicked his brass Zippo on a Marlboro.
Herzog made a sour face over the earthy metaphor.
“That fire has raged since we got here.” I also lit one up.
Herzog tapped out a Marlboro, lit a match to fire it, sucked down, and had a coughing fit.
Mr. Kuzawa laughed. “Lawyer, you better go easy on the cancer sticks.”
He made another face.
Mr. Kuzawa looked at me. “Did a lightning bolt hit you on a grassy bald?”
My slight shrug downplayed any amazement. “Yeah and Edna said my heart had quit ticking.”
“Did she save your hash?”
“No two ways about it. Lucky for me she knew her CPR.”
“While you lay flaked out there dead, by chance, did you spot any white light pulling you to it?”
“Just the opposite. I remember best the sensation of tumbling head over heels through a pitch black abyss.”
“The fuck you say. But you’re holding up now?”
Again, I shrugged. “The ringing in my ears bugs me the most.” My Ashleigh dreams didn’t get a mention, at least not until I knew better if I could trust him.
He drew down to the filter and exhaled. “Is the dead girl the one who smoked the dope?”
“It wasn’t just her. All of us indulged in her grass.”
“Supporting a big dope habit runs some bucks. How did she finance hers?”
“Her father rich as muck gave her a generous allowance.” I finished my smoke. Again, the nicotine had blunted my appetite.
Mr. Kuzawa flicked away his butt. Knees crinking, he stretched out his legs. “There’s no figuring for the rich.”
I stood up with him. Herzog arose and we left, the inept lawyer again put in the lead. As we moved out, I recalled I still owed the Yellow Snake hospital a bushel of money (we’d no medical insurance). Then I thought how Sizemore had issued his violent threats back in May. Here it was August, four months later, and he’d yet to make good on them. I hadn’t forgotten his prison cell beatdown, a good reason now to go torch him, but first I had to pull Edna out of her riptide.
* * *
Herzog who first entered a meadow cried out to us. “Brendan, you better see this.” On Mr. Kuzawa’s heels, I hurried into the meadow bathed in sunlight. “These plants look plenty robust, don’t they?”
The cluster of a half-dozen pot shrubs reminded me of the Big Boy tomatoes Mama Jo tended in her vegetable plot.
Flicking his brass Zippo to flame up, Mr. Kuzawa beamed at me. “Burn ’em.”
“Not really the best idea,” said Herzog. “The smoke might intoxicate us.”
“The growers will also smell it and know it’s us,” I said.
“Then we’ll shred the damn contraband,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
He and I uprooted the pot shrubs, ripped them apart, and scattered the pieces of stalk, leaf, and stem over the meadow. Our lucky streak extended to the next meadow where we found and demolished more plants. The third meadow had twenty-odd shrubs to trash. Our raid would incense the big bug, and we pulled another step closer to finding Edna. I hurried down and washed off the pot’s sticky resin from my hands. Lake Charles’ scummy water was hardly any cleaner. I returned, and we rested in the shady verge. Ravenous hunger clawed inside my stomach, and I knew I wasn’t alone.
“Kuzawa, I’m on the brink of starvation,” said Herzog.
Mr. Kuzawa said nothing, but his stomach also rumbled.
“That Spam I tossed into Lake Charles sounds good right about now.”
“We’ll make do,” said Mr. Kuzawa, unsmiling.
My brow knitted into a frown. “I’m not eating any fish pulled out of Lake Charles if that’s what you mean.”
“All right, we’ll go to Lang’s Teahouse, leave in your cab truck, and eat in Yellow Snake,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“Take my keys and go on then,” I said. “Bring me a burger and fries because I’m not budging from here as long as Edna is gone or in danger.”
Mr. Kuzawa gave my stubborn glare a cool reception. “We can search for her on the way to Lang’s Teahouse. Look, we haven’t flushed out any shitbirds. I believe Cobb and you mucking around scared them off, and they took Edna with them. Some yahoo in Yellow Snake might give up a lead.”
True to character, Herzog nodded in agreement. Feeling outvoted, I felt the cramps grinding my hamstrings since we’d stopped, not to mention the blisters worn on the bottoms of my feet. The bullet wound under my ribs seared with each breath I took. Good thing the rage simmering just under my skin deadened the worst pain.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two hours later, we humped into Lang’s Teahouse unscathed, and I unhitched the double decker trailer. The place had the same odious stench of algae and decay. We took off for Yellow Snake, a carbon copy of Umpire with one notable exception—Yellow Snake fêted its upper crust. Their big money also kept the cancerous sprawl at bay. Piloting my cab truck on the state road, I visualized the wealthy’s rarified world where they languished in their chateaus in and around scenic Yellow Snake.
The daughters of the multi-millionaires took their equestrian lessons, attended finishing schools up north in idyllic New England hamlets, and slummed at local The Devil’s Own rock concerts. They refined the art of walking with their patrician noses canted in the air without somersaulting over them. Then I took note of my cynical attitude and hoped it soon cleared up.
“Herzog, are you set for Brendan’s trial?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.
Pinned between us, Herzog twisted around. “He’ll benefit from my best defense. We only have to meet and prepare.”
“Brendan, are you ready to meet with Herzog?”
A jerk of the steering wheel tried to skirt a purple grackle stripping the red, stringy flesh from a road kill opossum. Reacting late, I felt my tires go clunk twice. The heavy-handed symbolism of trampled on the road to Yellow Snake didn’t escape me.
“No stress. I’ve got it covered.” I’d had a bellyful of talking about my trial for Ashleigh Sizemore’s murder.
Displeasure puckered Herzog’s face. “Your priorities are askew, gentlemen. We left two corpses back there, and the authorities are bound to ask of our involvement at Lake Charles.”
Mr. Kuzawa clattered his window handle and the wind gusted in to beat our faces. “My boy is one of them.” He dredged up something vile from his throat and let it sail out the open window. “Who gives a screw about the dead shitbird?”
Herzog wasn’t mollified. “Remember Mr. Sizemore is a heavy swinger. He has political connections, and I know of his law firm by reputation. His attorneys are the best and brightest who play to win, and they usually do.”
“Fuck ’em. That’s why we’ve brought you, Herzog.”
Flattered, he all but rolled his eyes. “I advise don’t trespass on Sizemore’s estate.”
“If we stay on the state road, we can look to our hearts’ content, am I not right?”
“From a legal standpoint, you are.”
“Then I say legal shaves close enough.”
“You’d be foolish to provoke Mr. Sizemore.” Herzog braced his hands on the dashboard as we sailed around on a steep curve. “Kuzawa, I don’t if you’re aware of it or not, but you’ve got a reputation for raising Cain.”
“People like to talk, but some bad shit can’t be avoided.”
“I disagree. I’m a firm believer it lies within our capacity to turn the other cheek. The choice is ours to make whether to accept or to reject violence as a solution to our conflicts.”
Mr. Kuzawa barked out a laugh, and his voice rasped. “Think so? The day my draft notice arrived, what was I supposed to do? Turn the other cheek
and not go serve? No sir, I sucked it up and reported for my military service in Mr. Truman’s police action.”
“You should’ve appealed it as a conscientious objector.”
“Suppose everybody took that ticket out? Uncle Sam issued me an M12 shotgun and said go bag a few renegade gooks in the yo-yo war. So I carried out orders. I lost three toes to frostbite. Korea was cold and it was a bitch to keep your feet warm and dry. The body bags ran up to the ass, but I got back here to the Land of the Big Round Eyes almost intact. A slew of GIs didn’t.”
“Did Cobb go to Viet Nam?”
“Fuck, did you, lawyer?”
Angry vitriol heated Mr. Kuzawa’s words. “We thank you for your service,” I told him, then, “Herzog, screw a lid on your views.”
He took the bloody handkerchief from his hand cut. “A civil debate on the social issues is always healthy.”
“It’s healthier to keep your mouth shut,” I said. “Piss off the wrong vet, and he’ll leave you counting your teeth scattered over the ground. Mr. Kuzawa just has a longer fuse than most of them do.”
“Oh. Right. I get your point.”
My pinching stomach still demanded fuel. Had Edna eaten since her disappearance on the jet ski? A quarter-mile further, I spotted the signboard for Gabriel’s Diner. Soon after, the parking area I signaled and jounced into was deserted and paved with pea gravel.
“Make it fifteen minutes, tops,” I said.
We rolled out. My head throbbed where Sizemore’s palm sap had tried to cleave open my skull. The bamboo wind chimes near the diner’s entry tinkled as my heartbeat lurched in panic. My hand flew back to pat at the small of my back, and I breathed out in relief. My waistband held the .44 I carried under my untucked shirttail. Our 12-gauges stayed racked along the cab seat.
Mr. Kuzawa’s pocket bulge accounted for the other .44 he’d taken from me. His sly wink reassured me.
“Hey, Brendan, quit shaking like a dyke’s dildo. Everything is cool, I tell you.”
Herzog gave Mr. Kuzawa a disgusted look.
But I couldn’t relax. My shaky life was shades of Karl Wallenda’s pins losing their balance on the high wire. Just last year he’d taken one false step and splattered to his death in San Juan. The newspaper story I’d read quoted him as saying, “Life is being on the wire, everything else is just waiting.” Well, I preferred my life lived not out on the high wire, and the calm waiting was just fine with me, thank you.
The diner’s weathered brick-front was snuff-colored. Underfoot the lava rock pathway crunched on our short stroll to the door where I went in first. Gabriel’s Diner used a hunting lodge’s décor—big on its polished brass, shellacked cedar, and crushed mirror glass. No tables occupied, the “Please Wait to Be Seated!” sign card seemed frivolous.
Straw wrappers, sugar packets, and cigar butts littered the parquet floor while “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” fiddled away on a sputtery radio. The disheveled eatery was a pigsty. My voracious hunger wasn’t as picky, and our booth faced the door. My slouch down in the seat relieved the .44’s pressure gouging my back. The food slot framed the Oriental fry cook’s hard jasper eyes on us. Feeding patrons at this odd hour, I guessed, was unexpected and unwelcome.
“The goddamn sneaky zipperhead,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“Like you said, just be cool,” I said. “Let’s eat our lunch and go. No muss, no fuss.”
“Not if I give the zipperhead something to think about.”
Herzog took out the three menus from behind the salt and pepper shakers to distribute. “I like Brendan’s idea.”
“But who asked you?” said Mr. Kuzawa.
As the server ambled through the batwing doors and to our booth, I already pictured my burger sizzling on the steel grill. Freckled and angular, she brought a wooden smile. The name pin introduced her as Niki.
“What will you’ns have today?” Niki’s melodious inflection was sexy.
“Number Two,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Plus grits. I gotta eat my grits.”
“You’re easy to please.”
“I’ll grab a burger,” I said.
“Sorry. No burgers. All we got is scrapple, ham, or sausage.”
I replayed Ashleigh’s spooky Circe tale, and I wanted no part of hogs. “Then my friend and I will have the same, Number Two.” I didn’t give Herzog a chance to speak and say something stupid.
Mr. Kuzawa cocked his head at her. “You look frazzled, honey.”
She sighed through her button nose. “I’m about ready to drop off my feet. Good thing tomorrow I’ll be off to Shreveport for three days to loaf.”
“You deserve it and more,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “We drove up to see Mr. Sizemore. Does he live near your diner?”
Her lips pursed into a livid scar. “Are you his friends?”
Mr. Kuzawa shrugged. “I don’t know the joker from Adam. We’re looking for work and heard he might be hiring.”
“You could do better. Mr. Sizemore is mean as a snake.”
“Mean as a snake is okay. We need a job, not to scrape up pals.”
“Not just mean. I’m saying worse stuff. Illegal stuff, you know, like selling cocaine.”
“Selling cocaine?” Mr. Kuzawa looked from her to me. “Did you know that?”
“No, but I’m hardly surprised.”
Fear slashed across her face. “Just forget I said that. I’ll go and get your orders on.”
“Relax,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “We heard nothing.”
“Have you seen a girl with my looks?” I asked.
“No. Is she your twin sister?” said Niki.
I nodded. “Do you know Sizemore’s daughter Ashleigh?”
“Sorry, but I don’t move in hoity-toity circles. I’m just a server, and I can’t take any more of your questions.” She spun on her heels as if I’d asked her to put a rush on our order. Her frame held rigid, she bustled through the batwing doors into the kitchen. Our questions on Sizemore had upset her.
Herzog flipped his menu to the tabletop. “Next time I won’t bother looking since you guys do the ordering.”
The Oriental fry cook’s eyes squinted through the food slot again.
“Goddamn zipperhead.”
“Easy,” I said. “We came to eat, not to fight.”
Mr. Kuzawa scoffed. “What a world. First Uncle Sam pays me to go grease them, and now I’m expected to kowtow and kiss their yellow asses.”
“What a world, what a world.”
“Herzog, shut the fuck up.” Mr. Kuzawa propped up his feet and sat sidewise in the booth.
The fried food aroma wafting from the batwing doors left me salivating. I happened to glance out the front window before my double take saw Mohawk park the red Cadillac on this side of my cab truck. The four scruffy thugs climbed out. Their heads twitched, and eyes speared the diner. Handguns came out. Hold up, flashed in me. Gabriel’s Diner stood on a remote span of highway, and the dinner stampede was a few hours off. But the morning receipts chocked the register. My lower back muscles tingled.
They grouped by the Cadillac’s bumper. A pear-shaped, acne-scarred thug gestured with his free hand, first at my cab truck and then at the diner. He wagged his head as a no. Our presence had spoiled their caper. Shouting, Mohawk flew into a tirade. He seemed to regard the diner as easy pickings, but Acne Scar didn’t give in. The other two thugs watched them with hooded eyes, the humor dark on their savage faces. No cars or trucks went by.
“Who’s that hollering out there?” Mr. Kuzawa pivoted in his seat, and his eyes stretched to the window. He saw their firearms. “Aw shit, wouldn’t you know it? Party crashers.”
Herzog, his eyes grafted to the window, startled.
“They passed us in a big hurry on the Lake Charles road,” I said.
After reaching behind him, Mr. Kuzawa fisted the .44. “Take cover.”
Herzog’s chin tipped to behind us. “Can we use another exit? We want nothing to do with this.”
“Pussies use back doors, Herzog. We f
ight,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
I watched Acne Scars interrupt Mohawk’s talk. Acne Scar’s hand urged them to get back in the Cadillac. He’d no grit to duke it out and wanted to leave. But the Cadillac was a gas hog, and they hurt for money, judging by Mohawk’s hand chops gesturing at the diner. He lobbied for their pulling the stick up.
“Hold up,” I said. “They’re making ready to go.”
“I tell you what. If they enter upright, they won’t exit the same way,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
I stretched over the table and snared his sleeve. “We’re okay. Just stand down. They’ll soon leave.”
“They’ll first clean out the register,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“No, they prefer soft targets,” I said. “Not us. They’ll hit another business.”
Continuing to look, we saw Mohawk hike up his palms in exasperation, and they remounted the Cadillac. Its doors whapped shut, it revved up, and scorched a pair of rubber stripes scatting down the two-laner.
“We did the zipperhead a good deed,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “He should—”
I cut in. “No, he owes us nothing. Wolf down your chow before bigger troubles hit us.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“This Ashleigh Sizemore was a snooty, rich nympho who took you for a ride. Why is that, son?” Mr. Kuzawa’s glance was quizzical.
The same thorny question had needled me since our fatal tryst. A road sign welcomed the motorists to Yellow Snake, population 2,503 and “The Mountain Laurel Capital of the World.”
I said, “I got lonely.”
Mr. Kuzawa scratched his collarbone. “You mean you got the beaver fever, and you didn’t play it too smart.”
“Our trip taken here isn’t too smart,” said Herzog, his cadence sounding strained.
“Brendan, where did she die again?”
“The Chewink Motel.”
“That motor court has to be the key.”
“Mrs. Cornwell was terse in the police report.”
“Good point, lawyer. We’ll go take a crack at her.” Mr. Kuzawa turned to me. “Put us there.”
