Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  “The hell’s wrong with livin’ in a trailer?” Lester asked, spreading his arms wide.

  “It’s not that. Terry’s trailer is a shithole is all. Never mind he’s just babysittin’ the damn thing.”

  “Ain’t you the Queen of Sheba. Think you’re somethin’ special just ’cause your house has a basement? It’s your mother’s house, numbnuts. Leastways, Terry don’t live with his mommy.”

  “Lay off, Lester. You’re drunk. Gimme a smoke.”

  “Get your own cigarette, numbnuts.”

  And Danny did. He staggered out the trailer to grab a pack of cigarettes from a fresh carton on the dashboard. Lester had left the keys in the ignition, so when Danny opened the car door, the bell chimed. That woke Lester’s dog. He perked his ears where he lay under the trailer and started to growl. Danny knew the dog well. Its mangy fur was a mishmash of orangey brown, black, and grey and, as mutts go, it wasn’t terribly bright. It had bitten Lester more than once, but the guy kept it around to make sure people stayed away from his trailer. Not that there was much to steal, even when you counted the things Lester had stolen himself.

  Scared shitless his shin would be used as a chewy bone by the wacko dog, Danny grabbed the whole carton of Players Special Blend, Kings, and scurried back to the trailer.

  “Down boy. Good dog. Lester, Shooter’s growling here...”

  “Shooter,” said Lester, “back off.”

  Danny pulled the door shut behind him. “I thought you were supposed to keep that stupid mutt of yours chained. The cops said so after he ran those kids halfway to town.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But he’s a guard dog. A boner fide Rottweiler. Mostly anyways. Maybe a bit of wolf in him, according to the guy I bought him off.”

  “All the more reason to tie him up.”

  “What good’s a guard dog on a chain?”

  “Someday they’re gonna haul him off and put a bullet in his head. He’s seriously messed up. Snarly and everything.”

  “He ain’t no fuckin’ Poodle, for sure. But there ain’t nobody gonna take him away. I hook him up when I go out. Long enough he can get to the end of the driveway but not so’s he wraps round the trees. He listens good, long as I yell. And he’s afraid of my big stick. Gimme a smoke, will ya?” And Danny did.

  Three beers later, Lester asked the question Danny didn’t want to answer: “Where in hell did you come up with that wad of cash tonight?”

  “It wasn’t much. Just a couple hundred,” he lied. “Borrowed most of it from my old lady.” Another lie, even if the payday was supposed to be all about her.

  “Bullshit. You had over five hundred in chips. I saw.”

  “Well, yeah, I was winning early on, y’know.” That, at least, was true.

  “Uh-uh. No way you won that much, numbnuts. I was there.”

  “So maybe I started with a little more. I dunno. Who the fuck cares? It’s all gone now.” God’s honest truth—hurt like hell.

  “Yeah, it’s all gone. And you don’t seem none too pissed about it neither. You ain’t been working in four, five months and unemployment don’t pay shit to a guy like you. Where’d you git that money, Dan?”

  “I’m telling you, it was just a few bucks. I got lucky is all.”

  “Lucky, my ass. You walked in there with a wad bigger’n I’ve ever seen. That’s some gig you got, ain’t it? Terry said somethin’ about a job he got you.”

  “I ain’t got no job. I got the employment insurance and my mom pays me for chores and stuff.”

  “Buuulll-shit. Don’t you go takin’ me for a fool.”

  Danny staggered to his feet and said it was time to leave.

  Lester said, “I know you got that dough somewhere, mister-I-don’t-cry-about-losin’-nearly-a-thousand-bucks. And it ain’t from your mother.”

  “Getting late. I’m kinda drunk and I still gotta drive home.”

  “Gimme a break. Your mother’s place is barely two miles from here. You could drive it blind.”

  “And I have. More’n once. But I gotta go. Maybe we can go to the casino again the next time you get paid, eh?”

  Danny opened the door and stepped out quietly, so as not to disturb the dog. Halfway to his car, he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

  “Shit,” he said, remembering the carton he’d left on the table. He doubled back, but Shooter stirred, snorted, and got to his feet.

  “Lester. Your freaking dog again.” Danny didn’t dare move closer. Shooter had taken a position between him and the door, growling louder and sniffing at the air as if Danny’s fear were tantalizing as a rib steak.

  “So? Just get in your car,” said Lester. “He can’t bite through the door, numbnuts.”

  “Yeah, but I need my smokes. Carton’s on the table. Throw it to me, would ya?”

  “Nah, I’m kinda too tired to get up, Dannyboy.”

  “C’mon. Just throw me the smokes.”

  “Come get ’em yourself.” Lester sniggered. Shooter growled, stepping closer.

  Danny started to sweat, his stomach clenching. “Tell your fucking dog to back off.”

  “Good boy, Shooter. Good doggie. Nice guard doggie-woggie. Oh, geez, you left me your lighter, too. What a pal. What a nice rich pal. Kinda guy drops a thousand bucks on blackjack and doesn’t give a damn. I sure am a lucky guy to have a friend like you, eh? Whaddya think, Shooter?”

  The dog barked. Twice. Loudly.

  Danny backed away, then stumbled. He turned and ran the rest of the way to the car. Shooter ran after him, leaping and snapping those hungry jaws. Danny felt a tug at his elbow as he jumped in and slammed the door on Shooter’s head. Saliva flung from angry pink and black gums as the dog struggled to yank itself free. Danny released the pressure and the dog pulled back then flung itself at the driver side window. Was the deranged mutt trying to bite the side mirror?

  Danny started the car, gunned the engine twice and leaned hard on the horn to piss off Lester. He floored it in reverse down the driveway, peeled his tires, and watched in the rearview mirror as Shooter chased him half a mile up the road.

  Next morning, Danny rolled a cold can of Coke back and forth across his forehead. His mother had laid a plate of eggs and toast on the table before darting to her shift at The Boathouse.

  “Nice to see you here this morning, hon,” she said. “She must be something special, making you slink off days at a time for, what is it, four months now? When are you going to bring her home so I can check her out?”

  Guilt twisted Danny’s gut. Couldn’t his mother be just a little less enthusiastic about his make-believe sweetheart? He should never have dreamt up that part about her studying at Queen’s to become an engineer or something. Fact was, Danny hadn’t had anything like a real girlfriend since he was sixteen years old. Even then, he was pretty sure nine consecutive nights in a tent with his neighbor’s cousin from Montreal didn’t count as a relationship. But it was something.

  Danny’s mother pecked him on the forehead and said, “There’s lasagna, but it’s for Ernie. Please don’t eat more than a slice or two.”

  He opened the fridge and lifted the foil to peek at the golden-brown melted mozzarella, unable to resist dipping a finger in his mother’s sauce. “Want me to drop it over?” he asked.

  “That’d be sweet,” she said. “If you need a little cash, there’s some on my dresser. Heavy tippers last night.” As she leaned in to give him a hug, Danny heard a rattle in her chest. Much as she fought the cough, it took hold, and she hacked her way out the door.

  Her goodbye hung in the air, heavy with the scent of Opium, the late night perfume she seemed able to carry all hours of the day. Wandering into her bedroom, he shifted the can to the back of his neck where it was still cold enough to do some good. He leafed through the stack of fives and tens on her dresser. Nearly two hundred bucks. In the five years since dropping out of high school, he had struggled to get his act together and bring home more than a few dollars for rent now and then. Meanwhile, his mom slogge
d for tips, wasting away year after year of her life getting her ass pinched in local roadhouses, and all she had to show for it was an aggravated case of asthma. She’d long quit smoking herself and Danny always took his outside. Just about the only decent thing he did, he figured.

  He counted out eighty bucks. Enough for a fresh carton of cigarettes. There was already food for the week at the farmhouse where he’d been living while his mom thought he was with the Queen’s girl. Half tank of gas in the car. And he’d get the next envelope stuffed with cash in a day or two. This time, he wouldn’t blow it.

  Turning to leave, he came face-to-face with the picture of his mother tossing him naked into the air, standing waist deep in brilliant blue lake water. She’d made a poster of it for him on his fifth birthday and moved it into her own room when he outgrew it in his.

  “Fuck it,” he said, throwing the money back on her dresser and opening the Coke. He guzzled it, stomped out of the house, and went to take back his carton of Players Special Blend. Kings.

  Two

  Perko Ratwick stood at the kitchen counter in the Libidos’ clubhouse and cracked two eggs into a mug of beer. He splashed in some Tabasco sauce and drank the mixture in one long gulp.

  “Can’t see why you wants to use them Nasty Nancies for protection, Perk,” said Mongoose. He reached over Perko’s head to pull a jar of marmalade off the shelf. Even at ten o’clock on a hot August morning, both men wore heavy black leather jackets with identical patches on the back. The patches said “Libidos” in ornate lettering, under which was embroidery that looked like a penis riding a chopper, a testicle on either side of the fork. The hairs in particular looked realistic.

  “The gang’s name is Nancy’s Nasties, Mongoose. And you know the drill as well as I do. I use Libidos muscle, this becomes a hometown operation. I have to give up half my twenty percent. This is my gig, my sale, my points, and my call. And I say, back off.”

  Besides, thought Perko, he wasn’t about to have Marty “Mongoose” Muldoon or any other fellow gang member steal the show when the deal went down. He’d put in nearly fifteen years trying to make Road Captain, and nobody but nobody was going to ruin his big moment.

  “Alls I’m saying, Perks, is those pussies from Nancy’s crew won’t have your back the way we does. What kind of heavies got names like Bernard and Frederick, anyways?” He slathered marmalade on half a chocolate muffin and tucked it in his mouth with two fingers.

  “I could care less what their names are, Mongoose. They’re only charging me five hundred bucks each for the night.”

  “You best be hoping they’s worth more than what they’s charging you is alls I can say.” The chocolate crumbs that didn’t spray into Perko’s face got caught up in Mongoose’s three-day beard. “And what about the farmer? You think some punk ass kid’s gonna keep his mouth shut if ever the cops get at him?”

  “The cops can grill him all they want, far as I care,” Perko answered, wiping his face and taking half a step backward. “He’s never met anyone but Frederick, and only once at that. I give him all my instructions over the phone and I use a voice distorter when I do it. The shithead doesn’t know a thing except he has to get the hell off the property when I drop off his weekly pay packet.”

  Mongoose scratched his red-orange stubble and smelled his fingertips. His nose wrinkled. He licked off a few crumbs and wiped his hand on Perko’s shoulder. “I hope you’s right for your own sake. You screw this up and you’ll be wishing you wore a picture of your granny on your back.” Mongoose turned and tramped out of the kitchen.

  Perko’s stomach roiled. He raised his arm to shoulder height, about to give Mongoose a cheap shot face mash into the door jamb. At the last second, he dropped his hand to his side, fingers limp.

  It wasn’t so much Mongoose’s put-down that made his skin crawl; it was his implied threat. Everyone knew gang promotion worked in one direction only. If you were kicked out of the Libidos, you knew too much to be demoted to a lower tier gang. When you lost your patch, you lost your jacket, your face, your teeth, your hands, and your balls along with it.

  Much as he needed a smoke, Danny decided to deliver the lasagna to Ernie before heading back to Lester’s. He could bum a cigarette off the old man and make sure Lester was gone for the day by the time he showed up.

  Ernst McCann lived in an axe-hewn log cabin high on a hill over Pigeon Lake. The view out his living room window would have been worth a million bucks to some clown from the city. Except they’d like as not build a three-story “country home” and cut down sixty or seventy trees to show it off. The view didn’t matter one whit to Ernie McCann: he was all but blind, able to make out swathes of color and movement but no detail. To him, the green of the trees was at least as interesting as the blue of the lake. That, and the pines and cedars smelled nicer than grass.

  The man was on his hands and knees in his garden when Danny pulled up. He said, “Still driving that beater, I hear,” when Danny killed the engine.

  “Mom sent lasagna. Got a smoke?”

  “On the picnic table. Heard you pull in, thought maybe you’d treat me to a tailor made.”

  “Ran out.” Danny pulled a pinch of Drum tobacco from the old man’s pouch and dropped it into a paper. He stretched the shreds, fluffing them between thumbs and index fingers and rolled it the right amount of tight. Sparking a light, he took a puff and walked the cigarette over to where Ernie had sat himself on a cut sixteen-inch log. Heading back to the table to roll another cigarette for himself, he said, “Garden’s looking good. You’ll have a nice haul of tomatoes in a couple weeks.”

  “It’ll take three. Haven’t had much sun this summer.”

  The two men smoked in silence for a while. Then Ernie said, “Your mother tells me you applied for a fork lift course. Offered by the government?”

  “Didn’t get in,” Danny lied. “They only took ten guys. I must’ve been number eleven.”

  “Don’t worry. Something will come along. Always does. You still got the unemployment check coming in?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyways,” Ernie said.

  Danny knew from his mother that Ernie lived on disability, on account of his blindness. They’d been friends forever, since before he was born, and she helped him out now and then with a meal or some grocery shopping. In return, Ernie gave them basket-loads of cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, and garlic; just about every other thing you could grow. How the old man managed it—barely able to see like that—forever amazed him. He and his mom would come by at harvest time to help out some, but otherwise Ernie worked the plot alone, guiding the heavy work with steel wires run for that purpose, and weeding by feel on his hands and knees.

  “How’s her cough?” Ernie asked, meaning his mom.

  “Worse.” Danny told him how the doctor had said winters were going to get harder on her each year. “Just wish I could earn enough to send her south. Maybe even move there.” He saw Ernie stifle a grimace. “’Course that’ll never happen,” he said, wondering who’d be around to help the old man if he and his mom were gone. He wished he could let him know about the pile of dough he was making and how it was going to change everything. He wished he could tell him there was more to life than collecting a government hand-out, and how he’d finally hit it big. He wished he could talk—to anyone really—instead of lying all the time.

  He asked, “Anything you need done? Before I take off, I mean.”

  Ernie thought a moment and said, “There’s a bag of lime needs carrying from the shed over to the kybo. I can handle it, but if you don’t mind...”

  Danny lugged the twenty pound sack across the yard and dumped it into the barrel inside the outhouse. He couldn’t understand why Ernie insisted on living so completely off the grid. A little running water could go a long way to making life simpler. He put it down to stubbornness. He gave Ernie a tap on the shoulder and said goodbye, pausing only to grab a baseball bat he’d noticed in the shed. He didn’t like the i
dea of facing Shooter empty-handed.

  By the time he pulled into Lester’s yard, it was just after noon and he knew he could count on his pal being gone fishing with his cousin. It was a manly ritual boys learned from their dads, a weekly reward for hard work shirking whatever job they were pretending to hold down at the time. A perfect way to avoid the missus and the yapping kids. Until the kids were old enough to fish and the cycle began again.

  Lester had no missus and no kids he could name, but his cousin had got himself a wife named Mary Lou and three brats under eight; Lester went along for moral support. Since his friend would be off somewhere on a fourteen-foot aluminum boat with a two-four in the cooler and worms in a cardboard box, Danny figured it would be easy to let himself into the trailer and take back his carton of smokes.

  The yellow-fanged Rottweiler crawled out from under the trailer before Danny had even stopped the engine, taking up a position between the car and the front door. Danny got out and walked toward the dog, slapping the bat loudly into his left palm as he advanced. Maybe he ought to have borrowed Ernie’s shotgun instead.

  Shooter backed up, tail down, a tuft of long black bristles standing up on the back of his short thick neck. He was growling but didn’t try to stop Danny from going up the steps. The door’s lock wasn’t quite as flimsy as the rest of the trailer and it didn’t give way to Danny’s pull. As he leaned his knee into the wall for leverage and yanked harder, car tires crunched on the gravel behind him. He turned to see Lester’s hand-me-down Ford drive into the clearing.

  “Shit.”

  Lester stepped out of the car with a grin.

  “Hey, Dannyboy. How’s it hangin’?”

  With his master’s arrival, Shooter straightened up, stopped cringing, and started creeping back toward Danny, snarling loud now.

  “Hey, Lester, uh, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be fishing.”

  “Mary Lou told my cuz she’d cut him a new one if he didn’t finish cleanin’ out the basement for some garage sale she wants to have tomorrow. But, hey, Danny, nice of you to drop by and...what’s with the baseball bat? D’you...” And then Lester started to put two and two together.