Slice dje-5

by Rex Miller

  They drove away and stopped on the way back to Hora's at a favorite spot for their “picnic feasts,” a spot where Chaingang had once buried a kill. It amused him to bring the pregnant woman there.

  “Ummm,” she said, a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni not yet swallowed as she spoke, “this is good.” She ate two pieces from the two giant-size pizzas as usual. She was always amazed at the amount of food he would eat, but she said nothing. “Ain't you hungry?” she asked him now. He said nothing. He had eaten only eight slices of pizza and, to his great amazement, he was full. It actually worried him momentarily, until he realized that he had shrunk to that extent.

  “Watch,” he told her, and in something so alien and uncharacteristic for him Daniel stood up and, sucking in his gut slightly, pulled the belt in, cinching it in as hard as he could. The pants he'd just bought two months before to replace the ones that had been falling off were already too big, and he pulled the cow-long belt in nearly a foot. He'd already cut a good foot of leather off the belt.

  “God! You're gettin’ skinny.” She smiled. This was her idea of clever wit.

  He beamed back and nodded. But the only thought going through his mind as he rebuckled the belt was, he would like to say to her, Do you know where you're sitting? And when she said, No, she didn't, he'd tell her she was having a picnic on a grave. And then he'd ask her if she would like to see what was in it. He thought what great pleasure it would bring him when he removed both her and her mound of a gut from his presence. He allowed himself the barking cough of a laugh.

  “That's me,” he told her, “skinny.” This was the longest conversation they'd had in months and she wished she could put her arms around him and hug him, but she was afraid if she tried to move she'd puke the pizza up.

  “Could we buy a fan?” she asked him.

  “I don't see why not,” he told her, again surprising both of them. “After all, we want you to have a healthy kid, eh?” He wondered, idly, what the kid would look like if he took his bowie and sliced her watermelon open, and took it out of the oven a little early.

  “Right here,” he rumbled to her and patted her stomach, where his child was being carried. That's where I'll make the cut, he thought. He traced a line across her swollen belly with a steel finger like a knife point. “This is where a baby is."

  That's right,” she said. “Feel your son in there."

  And he did.

  BUCKHEAD

  “Ya jes’ fuckin’ with me. Bloated GAWDAMN SHOAT,” he shouted at the agent who yanked him backward and he fell over on the hard floor. “Iffn’ I wasn't tied to this weuns ‘d have us a different story then, tubby.” The standing man kicked him hard and the man tied to the chair spit, started to say something, changed his mind and stared straight up at the ceiling. Fuckin’ faggots.

  “You're a real piece of work, aren't ya, Mr. De Witt, or Mr. De Half-Witt—which is it?"

  “Yo're a big fuckin’ man now."

  “You're an ignorant, redneck, no-account piece of SHIT, boy. You know that."

  “Fuckin’ fa—” He grunted in pain as the man kicked the top of his head.

  “I hated to do that, Mr. Witless, youuns git gooey kid stuff on my shoe. And what kinda language is that anyway, peckerwood? Cain't YOUUNS talk too good?” He mimicked the man tied to the chair. “Are you a fuckin’ hillwilliam, dummy? Is that YOUUNS problem?"

  The man named Wendell De Witt stared up at the ceiling without blinking an eye. He'd put up with horseshit like this all his life. It didn't faze him. He looked over at the agent looming over him. “Iffn’ youuns talk real sweet to me I'll let ya’ suck ma pole later on.” He almost blacked out for a second when the man kicked him again in the top of the head. He kicked with the flat of the foot to leave as little evidence as possible, not that he was particularly worried about it. The tough country bumpkin appeared to have passed out, so he passed smelling salts under the man's nose and he came back with a cough and cursing.

  The agent opened the door and said to someone in the hall, “Gimme a hand with this, will ya?” The other agent entered the interrogation room and they lifted the subject up so the chair was upright again.

  “Listen up, Mr. De Shitt. I'll be back in a few minutes with a couple friends of that cop you assholes shot. And the four of us will play bridge, okay? And YOU'LL be the fuckin’ bridge, tough guy.” He slammed out of the room.

  “You okay?” the second agent asked with genuine concern in his voice.

  “Yeah. I'm jes’ fine."

  “He loses his temper. I'm sorry about that, man."

  “That's no problem."

  “You know, Mr. De Witt, if you'd cooperate with us it could make a big difference for you.” He sounded so warm and friendly. “This is the time to work something out, you know?"

  “Commere.” De Witt gestured with his head. “Lean over here an’ I'll tell ya somethin'.” As the agent leaned over slightly De Witt hawked up a big goober of bloody phlegm and spat it into the man's face.

  “OH FOR CHRIST'S—” The man watching all of this through the one-way got up, his wooden chair scraping on the floor, and walked into an adjoining office, where he picked up a phone, dialing.

  “Howard Krug,” the SAC said, picking up his private line.

  “No goodski. Sorry."

  “You didn't really believe that animal was going to fall apart behind some bad cop/good cop, did you?"

  “Nope. So what now? What, uh, you want me to put Joe back in there for a while?"

  “Huh uh. Just put ‘m back in lockup and pull James Lee in and see what you can do."

  “How long I get with Lee before Buckhead and IAD are in on it?"

  “What do you need?"

  “Can we keep him overnight?"

  “Negative."

  “Well?"

  “Pull him in and act like you got him nailed. The usual. Keep him till close of business. You know, five-thirty, six o'clock tops. Cut him loose and let him go home for supper to think about it."

  “You got it."

  “Remember—he won't know they got to John Monroe somehow, so make sure you don't tip it."

  “He's gonna know when he goes home tonight."

  “Maybe so. But just play it like he doesn't know. Maybe we'll get lucky. Depends what kind of poker player he is."

  “Okay. We'll see what happens."

  “Call me later at home."

  “Will do. I'll let you know."

  “Just a couple things. First make sure first thing you do is the bit about the special, hidden cam we got him on in the entranceway. Run that right at the beginning. Don't wait for him to crumple. He'll stonewall. You just gloss over it like you don't care if he denies. Then—"

  “Right, he's gonna go, Hey, that's bullshit, or whatever, and I can just say, like, I shrug and say, Hey, you and your attorney will have a copy to study. I mean it's all there where he picks up the money, I mean where YOU pick up the money, and if he goes, BULLSHIT you couldn't have it because I didn't do it, I just shrug as if I expected him to say that and plow right into the next thing."

  “Remember, though, somewhere before you cut him loose you're gonna have to say something like, Hell, man I was just kidding. You want to leave it as light as you can. I was just puttin’ you on, Jimmie old boy. I mean, you never know how bent outta shape these guys are gonna get and—just remember you might have to get on the stand behind this."

  “Okay,” the agent said, thinking to himself, What a schmuck.

  “Now, let's say he's a good actor. He stonewalls. He didn't do it. No way. Not only do we have this famous surveillance cam in the entranceway, all that shit, but then that's when you hit him with the business about the computer-enhanced crap. Simulation-of-sequence time study. All that crap. I mean, we got him there. He's righteous for it."

  “Right."

  “We've looked at the pictures and we've got you picking up on camera. And in the study you can see that mathematically you were the only one coulda got the money—
"

  “What about John Monroe, do we—"

  “Oh, yeah! That's the other thing. Imperative you don't let Lee know that John Monroe's been killed."

  “Sure. Gotcha. I meant, we make sure he thinks, you know, there's no way the perps could have got the money out of the bank. The polys, all that."

  “Right. Just stonewall it,” he told him, breaking off the connection. What a schmuck, the agent thought. General Stonewall, he thought contemptuously, which is the nickname by which SAC Krug was known within the Bureau.

  STOBAUGH

  Chaingang was wailing away at the vetch, what there was left of it, and sensed eyes on him. Slowly he let the swings of the weed slinger turn him around and squinted through darkened lenses at the image of Michael Hora walking up to him. He stopped what he was doing and wiped sweat from his neck and forehead.

  “Yo."

  “Hey."

  “We gotta talk."

  “Mmm?"

  “See where they still haven't found them three dudes disappeared up around the New Cairo Drain. Man, that's really sompin'—people vanishing like that."

  “Yeah.” Chaingang just looked at him.

  “Hey, my man.” Chaingang not moving. “Awful lot of people goin’ up in smoke lately, ya know?"

  “Yeah?” He noticed Hora had a hand back in his hip pocket. Probably a piece in there. He was well out of reach of a thrown chain or a whipsickle.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “So.” Chaingang moved slightly and Hora tensed.

  “Too many folks turnin’ up missing. Gonna have to call it a day, ya know."

  “Whatdya mean."

  “I think you all better be moving on. No offense, my man, but I don't want any problems. I've already had heat around asking questions and shit."

  “I'm paid up for this month."

  “That was then. This is now. This is different. You got to git."

  Neither of them blinked. After a couple of heartbeats Chaingang said, “How much time you give me to get out?"

  “Now. Pack up, my man. Got to do it. Sorry.” The hand still in the hip pocket. The eyes hard and cold.

  “How much more to finish out the month?"

  “Can't do it."

  “Five thousand cash?"

  “Wheeeew,” he whistled. “I might could handle that. Up front with the money, of course."

  “Yeah."

  “When?"

  “I go get it now if you want it."

  “Yeah. All right. But that's it, then. To the end of the month, but I make no guarantees if the cops come around again."

  “Okay.” This was the longest conversation they'd ever had. Hora backed away carefully and when he was out of range turned and walked quickly in the direction he bad come from.

  Chaingang walked back to the sharecropper's shack and surprised Sissy, who was washing out some clothing in a tub, washing by hand, slowly, with an old-fashioned washboard, her belly swollen like she was carrying triplets.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He grunted and went inside to get his money. He had about nine hundred dollars left. He tore up some paper and carefully cut it to look like bills, put the real money on the outside, and rolled it into a tight roll. It didn't look good enough. He smoothed out the bills and the cut paper and made a stack, put a rubber band tightly around it, and put that into an envelope. Then he quickly wrote something on a sheet of his ledger paper. Printing in heavy, firm lines that left clear marks on the next page.

  The thing looked okay when he read it back, and the envelope felt right. Daniel took a small leather case not much larger than a shaving kit out of his duffel. There was a covered compartment that he kept the Colt Woodsman in, covered by a flap of yellowish vinyl that held it out of view. He laid the sheet of paper he'd written on and the envelope with the money and stuffing on top of the gun and it looked good.

  He pulled a small red box out and his huge fingers as big as thick, steel cigars delicately removed a half-dozen of the .22 rounds. He took the cap out of the pistol and pressed the round down into it. They had the word “SUPER” stamped on their bases. He pushed the clip up into place and racked a round into the chamber, thumbed the safety on and off again, then slid the Woodsman back into the case, covering it with the money and the paper.

  Hora was very good. He was experienced and he knew how good Chaingang was. It was one of those things where he'd just have to see what was what. If the time was right, then fine. Otherwise he'd use the contract to stall with and take the five-thousand-dollar mock-up package back under some pretext. No way would Hora sign anything.

  He went up on the porch of Hora's house where the slow wife was sitting.

  “Howdy doo."

  “Uh,” she grunted.

  “Michael here?"

  “Yo,” a voice said from the yard. Hora watching him, the hand in the pocket as before. Nothing personal. Just letting him know.

  “Hey.” Chaingang's face lit up in his least dangerous smile. Nice and natural. “Got it here."

  “Bring it down if you don't mind."

  Chaingang nodded pleasantly and tromped down the rickety wooden steps. He was pleased the boards didn't groan under his weight as badly as before. He held the case in two fingers the way you would if it was very light.

  “Like to get you to sign something, you know, just to protect both of us.” Hora didn't say anything or move. Daniel reached in slowly and pulled out the envelope, which he held with the case between thumb and first finger and then went back in with his right hand where Hora could see and removed the sheet of paper.

  It was very deft, the kind of move that a skilled killer practices the way other people work on a card trick. Doing it over and over in front of a mirror to get it slick, organic, so natural that it would put a move on anybody.

  Like a real head fake that leaves the other guy coming out of his shoes as he tries to check himself in time. Hora tensed, waiting for whatever it was, his reflexes honed to a level of lightning-quick speed. Daniel going in as the muscles clenched up, tightened, coming out with something, something harmless-looking, jerking it back just as Hora reaches, then smiling, saying, “Guess you'd like the money first.” And the envelope coming out and pulling that back as he goes back and gets the envelope and the piece of paper that begins, “Upon recpt. of $5,000 I do hereby agree...” and making the two fakes, the offered item, pulling it back, the other offered item, going back again, now coming forward a third time with paper and packet of money, it sets up a reaction of tense apprehensive movement.

  The third time the hand comes out you've bought it and the sudden thrust of the hand looks more natural and it is just in the first half-second of vulnerability that the trigger gets pulled. You have to know what you're doing, It's all in the timing. The fake-out depends on many things: position of the head, rapid eye movement, the mouth, the set of the chin, the upper torso, how you're holding your arms, the body language as you tell the other person without words just how nervous YOU are.

  “Here's the ... Oh, sorry, I mean HERE it is. Well, shit I'm sorry.” I know you want the MONEY but look at THIS too, and the five thousand is coming out at you, and a piece of paper which is now the substitute threat and the interlocking moves and smiles and vocal tone is all very complex and manipulative and you can be very good but you can only look at the broad, blurred field of semicircular vision as the pass and the force are accomplished and you never look at the left hand—you just don't, it's not where the action is—and the trigger is squeezed and a .22 SUPER smacks into your chest and you go right to your knees trying to pull the Llama out and just never get that extra half-second because fire is jumping out of gunmetal blue, and putting out your running lights and that's the name of that tune. Adiós, muchachos.

  And this is Michael Hora and so Chaingang goes right up close and puts one up in his ear and kicks the Llama away and is going up those rotten stairs but the slow lady she moves pretty good she's damn fast for being slow and she's already insid
e fumbling with a 410 when he plunks her in her pig back and she turns as if to say, Hey, watch it, and he plugs her right in her forehead and she goes down with one of the little chunks of dirty lead in her brain and he's grabbed the 410 and at a window, making sure Hora hasn't moved, and Sissy hasn't come outside but she could be looking out a window and he's got Hora by a boot and dragging him into the dilapidated tool shed in thirty seconds. It went all right.

  He goes next door.

  “Hear that shootin'?"

  “Yeah,” she says, still washing a huge shirt by hand out in back. Stray hair down in her eyes. Sweat pouring from her. She looks whiter than he's ever seen her. Shooting, shmooting, her body said. “I feel like shit."

  “Go to town. I want you to see the doctor. Ask him to give you something so you'll feel better."

  “I'm okay. I'm just hot."

  “Do as I say. Tell him you feel like you're gonna pass out."

  “I do feel a little faint.” What an idiot.

  “Right. Here's the keys. Drive carefully."

  “Okay.” She goes out and heaves herself into the vehicle. She can barely get behind the wheel even with the seat pushed all the way back. She starts the car and drives off at about fifteen miles an hour. At that speed she'll be an hour just getting to town and back. Fine, he thinks, getting the keys to Hora's pickup and starting to clean up the messes. Get the slow sow and Hora loaded and covered. Start for the bridge. He puts them down in the graveyard and drives back. Takes a marking pen and makes a sign for the door of the house and starts packing. He has everything ready to load into the Caprice by the time she comes back from town to find they're leaving.

  “He said I was okay."