Bo lit another cigar, puffed only a time or two before he put it out beneath his boot. He knew he should go down and mingle, but what news to give? He hated fielding questions. Dogger, unless you’re dead or behind bars somewhere, you’re in a world of trouble.
~
Dina rushed up to the old man as soon as she saw him, wanting to know when she would be moving up to the front office. Papa Bo, as usual, didn’t have the heart to tell her that the smell of the slaughterhouse was so deep in her skin now, he could never bring her up to the fragrant offices and air conditioning and visitors.
“Where’s Frank?” he asked her conversationally. Posing question for question might prove a worthwhile tactic.
“He’s down there mixing. Got a cigar?” Ah yes, a little smoky flavor to the aroma already surrounding her thin frame. Before Frank she was Dogger’s girl. Papa Bo had once caught them full-sweatin’ it among the carcasses.
She smoked, inhaling, as he looked for help among the crowd. It soon came in the form of Josh and Vera Culpep. They proved thoroughly sloshed, spilling their beverages all over each other as they accompanied their slurred words with gestures.
“When’s Dawg evuh gonna show?” Vera drawled, with more of the prison than the plantation in her deep southern voice.
“Yeah, what gives?” joined Josh. As if the whole cussed barbecue were about the two of them.
“He’ll be along,” said Papa Bo. “Don’t you worry. Where’s Bobby Boy?”
Josh looked around, craning strangely through his glaze. “Where is ‘at boy, Vera?”
“He’s such a good boy,” she extolled. She might have been talking about a dog.
They went off in search of cheese moons, only to be scooped up by the Afftons, who doubtless wanted to know what the old man had had to say. Dina stared after them, blowing billows of smoke from her lungs. “They don’t know where that boy is most of the time, Papa Bo. Wasn’t it Bobby Boy who cut through the fence so he and his friends could get a look inside the slaughterhouse?”
“Sure,” he said, reaching out to grab Den Helter’s arm as the burly man passed.
“Keep walking,” Papa Bo said in a low voice. “I’m trying to get away from Dina.”
Den didn’t seem his normal friendly self. It wasn’t like him to overlook an excuse to make some inanely humorous remark. His hands remained stuffed in his overalls as the much smaller Papa Bo squeezed his shoulder affectionately. When they were out of range of Dina’s radar ears, the old man asked Den if he was all right.
“People are gettin’ uptight, Bo. You know what I mean. They’re startin’ to make jabs at me and Lou both. Just like last year, when it was so damn hot and me and my brother took off our shirts. People get uptight, what with the beer, the sun, the waitin’ and all.”
“Come on, Den,” Papa Bo said encouragingly. “I think we need to get some suds in you, big fella. You’ll be all right.”
“Uh-uh, Papa Bo. Makes my belly poke out. I ain’t drinkin’ no more beer. Uh-uh.”
“Okay,” said Bo, “then why don’t we go have a look at how the pigs are comin’? Whaddya say?”
Den was for that, though he sulked as they went. Bo rather suspected the sensuous assault of the hot, slathered hogs would take care of his blues—hell, Bo himself could do with a tease to his palate. Sure enough, as they bobbed through the midst of too many mixed expressions, Den’s nose lifted, tasting the air. Very soon they found themselves encapsulated in the voluptuous coaxes of the pork and sauce bouquet. Ordinarily the designated applicator—in this case the normally imperturbable Ace Bolen—didn’t start applying the sauce to the buttered meat till Dogger had arrived. The waiting, it seemed, had gotten to everyone.
Stepping out of Den’s shadow, where he’d been hiding from potential inquisitors, Papa Bo asked after the sauce.
“Mona worked on it last night,” Ace said. “I’ve been addin’ beer here and there. You know.”
“Well, it’s looking delicious, Ace. Mouth-watering.”
“Right. So where’s Dog?”
Bo pursed his lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that, Ace. Because, unfortunately, I don’t have an answer.”
Ace nodded, adding more suds to the sauce. He stirred a moment then looked up, peering brightly into the old man’s eyes. “I hate to think what might happen, boss. Already they’re starting to gravitate towards certain folk.” He glanced at Den.
Den didn’t need the spelling. He said: “Just like I told you, Papa Bo.”
Papa Bo nodded. “Why don’t you and Lou go on home then, Den. I’ll send somebody when Dogger gets here.”
Den turned his hulking frame around to face the old man. “Huh?”
“I’ll send somebody. Go home.”
A dark expression came over Den’s features. He’d lost the ax-throwing competition three years running because of losing focus to a very similar expression. “Are you tellin’ me to go home before we’ve cut the meat, boss?”
Papa Bo regretted the suggestion. It wasn’t Den’s fault he was the big country boy he was—
A commotion caused both men to turn their heads. Den let out a yelp and began lumbering his way towards the crowd that had gathered around his brother. What next, thought Papa Bo, shaking his head at Ace Bolen and chasing after the big denim overalls. What damn next. Dogger, I’m going to kill you when you finally do get here.
The crowd brimmed with beer and uptightness. Fingers accused Lou of sins which weren’t sins so much as lot and circumstance. What did he think he was going to get, shoveling it down like he did? Routinely devouring whole animals for snacks? Fattening himself up like a hog for slaughter? It was time his big-ass fessed up that he was nothing but a slab of meat.
Den loomed, two great hands poised to remove the first two heads within his reach. Papa Bo let out a warning, but just as it escaped his mouth, the cranky blare of a laid-on horn sounded in the waning afternoon. All eyes turned to see Dogger driving up the road in the old refrigerated truck he had last been seen in yesterday morning.
A spontaneous cheer rose, with the voices of Papa Bo and Den and Lou right in there with them. Dogger pulled up in an ecstasy of gravel and dust, jumping out with a “Sorry I’m late! Ran into some setbacks.” In two long strides he was at the back of the truck, wrenching up the lever to release the bar. He cast both doors wide lest any eye miss the success he’d had on his mission for this year’s barbecue.
The cloud of cool air parted like curtains to reveal what lay behind. An initial collective inhalation was followed by individual gasps of appreciation as news spread from person to person. Out of a hard-summoned respect, the folk in front backed up so those behind could see. Patches of skinned meat became torsos, then whole bodies drawn up on hooks, moist fleshy flanks teasing the shared appetite of the witnesses. Big meaty buttocks! And not just three, as was the usual, but six! Twice the number of the pigs on the spit. Goddamn, Dogger, do be late more often!
Tom Krants and Berry Louis stepped forward to help the veteran cut the prime portions. Shooing the lolling tongues back, they carried the cuts across the barbecue yard to where the swine turned lovingly on the spit. Angie McPherson’s boy scampered out of the way, shaking his tired arm. Ace Bolen told the men to hang loose while he drew the skewer back out of the heat, then he helped them load the meat up under the ribs of the pigs. Now only to wait for the stuffing to warm up just right. The pigs had been cooked to a more than adequate depth to complement the choice flesh, and the choice flesh was best rare as possible.
Everybody was enraptured by the feast at last made whole, Papa Bo took Dogger aside. Before the old man could voice his mind, Dogger’s hand came up as if he had been the one fielding the questions.
“I know what you’re goin
g to say, Bo. What can I tell you? There wasn’t a single hitchhiker weighing over a hundred and a half. I had to visit the city.”
“So you bring back six?”
“Yes, yes, but Papa Bo, the city has such a crop to choose from.”
Papa Bo was about to ask his butcher if he’d ever heard of a telephone, then he reminded himself how despicable questions were—especially when the questioned had just saved the day.
Tousling Dogger’s hair, Bo led him back into the revelry without another word on the matter. As they went, however, the old man couldn’t resist sneaking a sidelong glance at his master butcher’s spreading flanks.
Junkyard Fetish
Ooh, had his sex, unh, had his body,
Had him beggin’ for my honey,
Had him chained and screamin’ mercy,
Quench my hunger, suck my thirsty…
The ooh and the unh got him, as always. He didn’t give a damn if he was on the freeway, he was unzipping. Alice helped him get it out, but when she bent down to do more, he pulled her away by the hair.
“What?”
He didn’t answer. He had seized his nobility in his hands and was stroking, hard.
Ooh, shared his lust, unh, shared his naughty,
We were bathin’ in the honey…
He was swollen to bursting already, and the song was still in its opening verse; the blood part hadn’t even come yet.
“Save some for me, won’t you?” Alice said.
“Shut up!” he panted.
Fucking Alice. She would never be the woman Amy was. Never.
“You’re gonna get us killed, Ricky. Here, let me have the wheel.”
He did, finding leverage with his free hand, giving it all he had with the other.
When he went, he went with a bang. Just like Amy, who had left him chained to the door of the Mercury.
~
Untwisting the wire that held the flaps of the torn fence together, they made their way among the wrecks to the same heap of mangled metal they always did. Alice was more eager than him today, maybe because of what she had witnessed on their way here. He remembered a time when he literally had to pin her down. An erstwhile stripper, having worked in one of the seediest spots in the city, she had encountered all sorts. But she had never played what he and Amy had always referred to as blood games until he introduced her. He didn’t know where one went to find such sport; he and Amy had discovered it on their own, with a little unintended help from Amy’s dad.
The rear door on the driver’s side hung askew, open enough to slip a heavy chain around each side of the window frame, but little more. Bits of safety glass clung to rotting rubber, and in place of the vehicle’s one shattered window was a thick piece of plywood, bolted in place, ragged from the claws of hounds, particularly around the holes the chains fed through. Dried blood still stained the area where the door had once molded with the car’s body. The place where the damage had occurred, where the impact of the truck had been absorbed, was rusted almost through. Buck, Amy’s dad, said the driver and two passengers were killed. Having been hired on at the junkyard long after the Mercury was dragged onto the lot, Ricky took the old man’s word for it.
The appeal of the Merc went beyond its history, though. The car was back in the corner of the yard, about as far from the office as possible. It had a huge back seat, everything two starry-eyed bloodlovers could ask for in an afternoon escape. But most attractive was the element of danger, pungent like old oil, shrill like stripped metal on the tongue.
Each day at closing time, the old man took a ride around the lot in a forklift, satisfying himself that everyone was gone before he let loose the dogs. He couldn’t see back in the niche where the Merc had been laid to rest, but they could hear him as he drove past. They knew they had minutes to attain the peak they had been teasing at for the last half hour or so, unlock the chains that bound whichever one was slab that day, and slip back through the rip in the fence. They had cut it close so many times, the old man thought nothing of his hounds racing off in that direction, howling their heads off. He assumed it was to do with the punks who lived on the next block, always pitching back tall boys and flipping people off.
The stupid old man probably never realized those were the very boys his daughter had formed her pop band with, went to fame and fortune with, leaving junkyard games to Daddy and Ricky and whomever else might want to experiment.
The visible links of chain worked at Ricky’s nerves and appetites as he approached in the company of his inferior replacement partner. He hated Alice and supposed eventually the game would go too far and he would kill her, leave her body for the hounds. The old man didn’t come back here any more, no need to worry about him finding what was left. And if he did, he wouldn’t be able to tell her from the bones of the woman who started the whole cycle.
It was all cyclic. Ricky had watched the afternoon shows enough to know it was all fucking cyclic. TV was all he had to do before he found Alice at the strip bar; he had quit the junkyard when Amy left.
He looked at Alice and wondered why he hadn’t told her everything—not through the casual remark, but in credible detail. In theory it would only enhance the experience. Maybe it was impatience. He'd virtually had to force her the first few times, before she finally admitted she had begun to crave their afternoons. He didn’t have the wait power to let her come to terms with the fact that Amy, as a teen, had witnessed the old man in the Merc with his secretary. Amy had not just gotten her eyes' fill of their kinky backseat amusements—the plywood had no doubt been installed to keep out the gnashing, maniacal dogs, which the old man clearly liked to have about when he drilled the woman—she had watched the old man kill her.
From the lot's chain-link perimeter, Amy had looked on. It was night, no less than the fourth in a row that her father had made her let out the dogs. Terrified of them and their insanely possessive loyalty to their owner, she carried out his wishes from outside the fence, using a long rod to shove aside the beam that held the double doors of the ramshackle structure which contained the beasts. The fourth night she had dared to see what the hell was going on in the back of the lot.
The way the old man did it was an image that screwed itself in permanently; he had pushed his secretary’s head into the crack of the askew door, where the dogs could get at it.
Ricky saw it in his mind’s eye as he led Alice around to the passenger side rear, opening the door on screechy hinges and shoving her inside.
The tools were on the floor, scattered among the safety glass, screaming at him as always to be picked up and used in one fell, double-fisted stroke. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Dead blood was no good to anybody. Besides, it was his turn slab. Alice got to work the instruments this afternoon.
“God, I loved watching you in the car,” she breathed on his neck as she closed the locks.
Per routine, he tried the locks, remembering how he had tried them then, that last day with Amy. As always they were secure; he was bound; he was slab.
Alice removed her shirt, revealing the scarred mounds of her once beautiful breasts. She placed one nipple against the mutilated tissue at the top of his scalp, where the hair no longer grew. She thought the area a product of the game from the past, which indeed it was, only in a different way. That particular experience he would never share, in detail or otherwise. It wouldn't shrug off like Alice's electing not to believe him about his former blood partner being the same Amy who was known in the world of pop music as Honeygirl. Funny, if she only bothered to look outside the blood-tainted windows of her little dollhouse occasionally, she would eventually come across the former-junkyard-girl-rises-to-the-top-of-the-charts story. He’d seen it himself on a couple talk shows.
Yeah, he understood how an old man could grow
sick of his dull, unimaginative partner. He could understand how one person might want to feed another to the dogs. This was why he did not hate Amy. He had forgiven her even before the unleashed beasts came howling and slinging their bloodthirst. He had loved her even as their snarling, salivating muzzles squeezed through the crack of the door, tearing at his head, which, thanks to her enviable, textbook expertise with the chain, she had rendered virtually immobile. He had delighted in her even as his fingers madly worked to get around the key, which she had left in the lock for him, like a last demented amusement. God did he love her.
Ooh. Unh.
“Come on,” he said through his teeth. “Come on, Amy.”
Alice was used to being Amy. She didn’t care. She liked the song too. She wouldn’t have cared if she had been presented proof that the Top Ten hit, The Games We Played, was silently dedicated to Ricky. Bloodlust just didn’t fucking care.
Ricky had long since fixed it so the old cassette player could be turned on via a direct link to the battery. The recorded tape came on now, somewhere between The Games We Played, The Games We Played and The Games We Played, the constantly recycled song of songs stolen from her debut CD.
A Dirge for the Temporal Page 14
