Bloodfire

by John Lutz

  Junior was smiling broadly and sweating hard. He smelled stale and sour, and faintly of fish. There were perspiration stains on his bib overalls. He ducked a shoulder as he got close to Beth. Reached out for her.

  Carver slashed with the cane. Felt solid contact with Junior’s wrist. Junior drew back his hand and rubbed the wrist, looking annoyed. He said, “Shouldn’t have oughta done that.” Carver knew the blow would have broken the wrist of an ordinary man, but Junior was a subspecies.

  A shadow flitted in the corner of his vision. B.J. rushing him, striking like a snake.

  Carver swiveled in his chair, whipped around again with the cane. It caught BJ. across the forehead and sent him reeling back. He looked astounded and enraged. Blood was flowing into his right eye from a cut at his hairline.

  He said, “Why, you dirty cocksucker,” and came at Carver again.

  This time Carver jabbed with the cane. The tip caught B.J. in the sternum, just below the heart. Breath whooshed! from him as he staggered backward. He dropped to sit on the floor and began to gasp.

  Carver turned to keep Junior away from Beth.

  But Beth was standing and had moved toward Junior, gripping the aluminum cylinder as if it were a peg she was about to jab into the hard ground. As Junior lunged for her she dragged the sharp keys across his eyes. Wheeled so her back was to him for an instant, and struck at his genitals with the pointed end of the cylinder. All so fast it was like a choreographed and practiced dance maneuver.

  Junior released his grip on her arm. He groaned, then let out a long, whistling sigh and doubled over. His forehead was pale and creased in pain. He’d just raised his head to focus his scratched and bleeding eyes on Beth when she screamed, startling and freezing him even if he could have moved quickly. She hacked at his bull neck with the edge of her hand. Carver watched, amazed. Karate bullshit.

  Beth brought up her knee and caught the side of Junior’s face. Denim swished over flesh. Carver was standing, supporting himself with his free hand on the table, He glanced at B.J., who was just struggling to his feet, still gripping his stomach. No danger there yet. Carver brought the hard walnut cane down on top of Junior’s head. The vibration of solid contact ran up his arm as he heard the thwack! of wood on flesh and bone.

  Junior didn’t go down, but he backed away, looking puzzled and pressing his hand to the top of his head, as if unfamiliar with the bother of persistently uncooperative victims.

  B.J. was standing with his lean body swaying, obviously thinking about another charge and how to handle Carver and the cane.

  A deep voice said, “ ’Nuff of this shit, you hear!”

  A broad-shouldered black man was standing near the counter. He was holding a baseball bat in his right hand. Marlene was cowering behind him and looking uncertain, as if someone had threatened to sue about a fly in the soup and she didn’t know what to do.

  Junior and B.J. drifted closer together and seemed to lose interest in attacking Carver and Beth. Junior said, “This nigger-lover started it, Whiff.”

  Whiffy stared at him with deep brown eyes that showed crescents of blue-tinted white beneath the pupils. He said, “I’d just as leave you didn’t talk that way in here, Junior.”

  Junior said nothing, but he couldn’t meet the black man’s steady stare.

  B.J. said, “Things just got outa hand, is all, Whiff.”

  “You keep control of that brother of yours,” Whiffy said.

  “No problem,” B.J. said. “C’mon, little bro. We was about finished here anyways.”

  Beth said, “You sure as fuck were.”

  Without looking at Carver and Beth, both men walked out of the restaurant. B.J. was pressing a white paper napkin to his head. Junior had one hand on his crotch. The other hand was rubbing the side of his neck where Beth had hacked at him.

  Carver looked at Beth. “You okay?”

  “You bet.”

  Whiffy said, “Don’t imagine they’ll forget this. A black woman an’ a guy with a cane gettin’ the best of ’em, you surely fuckin’ with their machismo.”

  The old guy at the end of the counter hadn’t moved. He was still staring into his coffee cup, but grinning now. Without looking up, he said, “Was the Brainard brothers started the pot boilin’, Whiff.”

  “Figured such.” Whiffy laid the bat on the counter and moved toward Carver and Beth. He was average height but thick-boned and with a compact muscularity about him. Barefoot and wearing black shorts and a gray T-shirt that said BRAVES. The flesh around his eyes was puffy, as if he’d been sleeping when Marlene had summoned him to deal with a problem in the restaurant. His ebony face was pockmarked and he had a thin black mustache neatly trimmed a half inch above his upper lip. After giving Carver an appraising stare, he smiled with even, white teeth at Beth, and with a different kind of appraisal. “Siddown, you two, an’ I’ll tell you the facts of life accordin’ to the gospel in Dark Glades.”

  Carver nodded to Beth and they sat. Marlene brought two Budweisers, and another glass of ice water for Beth. A tough audience like Junior and B.J. found Whiffy worth listening to, so Carver wanted to hear what he had to say.

  23

  “GUESS YOU WORKED OUT my name’s Whiffy,” Whiffy said. “Real name’s Willard Renfrow.”

  Carver introduced himself and Beth, and shook Whiffy’s strong black hand. He noticed several fingers were crooked and had oversized knuckles, as if they were arthritic.

  “They’s about four hundred folks in Dark Glades,” Whiffy said, after taking a hearty pull of Budweiser and flicking foam from his narrow mustache. “That includes the ones live outside the town proper. “ ’Bout a hundred of the citizens here are black, and they live mostly down Cypress Avenue on the east side of town. Like in a lotta towns, you’ll recognize the poor, mostly black area by the ramshackle houses an’ the old cars. Per capita income ain’t for shit. The black families in Dark Glades are descendants of north Florida slaves moved down here after the Civil War, an’ they still got a slave mentality. Civil-rights movement never really caught on in these parts, an’ these last ten years it’s backslid ’bout as far as it could go.”

  A motorcycle downshifted and roared by fast outside. The kid on the Harley? Carver said, “One thing I don’t get. You’re black and you own the town’s main restaurant in the white section. And B.J. and his brother listened when you talked to them.”

  “They was listenin’ to a white man.”

  Carver sat wondering if there might be something in the water in Dark Glades that impaired reason.

  Whiffy glanced at Beth and grinned. He said, “Man don’t understand. I’m good as white here for two reasons, Carver. I got money, an’ I used to play pro ball. Came up from the minors to catch for the Atlanta Braves seven years ago. Went to bat a hunnerd an’ fifty times, till my elbow got broke by a hard-throwin’ Cardinals right-hander. Ended my career. Didn’t matter; I was only hittin’ .223, with thirty-five strikeouts, so the Braves were plannin’ on sendin’ me back down. Pitchers soon found out I had a blind spot. Couldn’t hit a high, tight fastball, which is why I got tagged with the name Whiffy. That’s what that right-hander threw me, an’ I was too slow to get outa the way, much less hit the ball.”

  “You saying money and major-league status bought you respect here?”

  “I’m sayin’ they made me white. These yahoos figure a black man’s inferior, so if one of us does better’n most white men in a way can’t be denied, it don’t tally with their thinkin’. So what they do is make him white in their minds, sort of. That way there’s no breakdown of their fucked-up logic. Don’t just happen here. Look around, you’ll see it all the time. There’s a story in baseball ’bout a manager didn’t want a black player on his team. Then the man hits a triple first time at bat. Manager jumps up an’ down an’ yells, ‘Looka that Cuban run!’ ”

  Carver exchanged glances with Beth. She nodded, smiling sadly.

  “It helps, too,” Whiffy said, “that I can still swing the bat well enough
to break a few skulls if I got to. And they know I’ll swing it. What I’m tryin’ to get across to you is that this here’s a backwater town where interracial couples just ain’t gonna be accepted. An’ you two don’t have to be sleepin’ together; you just walk around together an’ some of the Neanderthals around here’ll be ready to lynch you both.”

  “Like B.J. and Junior Brainard?”

  “ ’Specially like them. They live in a rundown cabin out in the swamp an’ support themselves dealin’ dope an’ poachin’ ’gators. Get to know them two, an’ you might think the theory of evolution can work in reverse.”

  Carver said, “What about the law here?”

  “That’d be Chief Ellis Morgan an’ two part-time officers. He does what he can, but he’s an elected official, if you catch my meanin’.”

  “He plays along with the bad guys.”

  “No more’n he has to, but he plays.”

  “How dangerous are the Brainard brothers?”

  “They killed before, I’m sure of it. You run dope an’ you poach the way they do, murder can become part of the game. Swamp hides bodies an’ they never turn up.” He nodded toward Beth. “I don’t mean to shock the lady, but it’s a fact.”

  Carver said, “She understands.”

  Whiffy tilted his head to the side and stared at Beth. “Where’d you learn to be such a bad-ass in a fight, Miss?”

  “My husband taught me. He thought it’d be good for me to know.”

  “Husband?”

  “Not me,” Carver said.

  “You two made big enough fools outa the Brainards they ain’t gonna sleep well till they make things even. ’Specially Junior, bein’ fucked over like that by a woman. So if I was you, I’d finish whatever business I had in Dark Glades an’ move along without a forwardin’ address.”

  Carver said, “Sound idea.”

  “Some people I run from,” Beth said, “some I don’t.”

  Whiffy shook his head. “That martial-arts shit don’t work against a shotgun.”

  “Good point,” Carver said.

  Whiffy said, “You got sense, man. Try to talk a little into her.”

  Beth arched an eyebrow at Whiffy. “You’re still here, and you gotta use a baseball bat from time to time.”

  “I got family roots here go back to Southern Reconstruction, honey, or I sure as hell’d be livin’ in Miami or someplace else where mosta the houses got indoor plumbin’.” He peered hard at Beth, then looked at Carver. “I ain’t convincin’ her, am I?”

  “My guess is no.”

  “Listen here,” Whiffy said, leaning so far back in his chair that Carver thought the rear legs would slide under on the smooth linoleum, “I don’t know what the relationship is between you two an’ don’t much care. But this ain’t an enlightened part of the world here. People are gonna assume the worst an’ act on it, an’ not necessarily accordin’ to law.”

  Beth shot him an icy look. “We’re only business associates.”

  “Just travelin’ through, I hope.”

  “We plan on staying awhile,” she said firmly.

  “Hmm. You two at the Casa Grande?”

  “How’d you know?” Beth asked.

  “Only real motel close in to town.”

  Beth said, “Gonna be our home for a while.”

  Whiffy drained his beer mug, let his chair drop forward on all four legs, then stood up. “The desk clerk at the Casa, little guy name of Watts, is a good man. You get in any kinda trouble over there, it’s somethin’ to keep in mind.”

  Carver said, “Thanks, we will.”

  “You folks go ahead an’ finish your supper now. We can warm it in the microwave if you want.”

  “No thanks,” Beth said. “I worked up an appetite. I’d rather eat cold food than wait for hot.”

  Carver looked at the congealing cream gravy on his chicken-fried steak. He waved Marlene over and handed her his plate. Beth took a huge bite of her hamburger and chewed lustily. He caught a hint of onion from across the table.

  Whiffy said, “Marlene, you come get me if there’s any more trouble, you hear?”

  “I hear, Whiffy.” She disappeared into the kitchen with Carver’s dinner.

  Whiffy tucked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his shorts. They sagged low. For a moment Carver thought the man might absently scratch his crotch, a major leaguer in the batter’s box. Habits died hard. But he released the waistband and it snapped loudly against his stomach. He said, “You folks best not stroll around an’ explore the town when you leave here.”

  Carver said, “We’re going back to the motel.”

  “Good,” Whiffy said. He looked at Beth and shook his head slowly. Then he walked toward the kitchen and the back exit, his hairless calf muscles bulging. His sweaty bare soles made soft ticking sounds on the linoleum with each step.

  At the swinging doors behind the counter, he turned and said, “You two get back to the motel, you lock your doors.”

  Carver said not to worry, that was in the plan.

  Beth took another bite of hamburger.

  Dolly Parton began singing again as Marlene brought Carver’s warmed-up supper.

  After leaving Whiffy’s, Carver and Beth made one stop, at the ambitiously named but tiny Everglades Drug Emporium near the end of Cypress. The place had a plank floor, a glass-and-wood display case full of dusty bottles and discolored boxes. An old man in a yellowed white shirt and a string tie leaned near the cash register, waiting for them to decide what they wanted to buy. Next to him was a soda fountain with three stools. On a shelf behind it was one of those old green Hamilton Beach blenders used for making milkshakes in stainless-steel containers that kept them cold. Carver thought a milkshake here might taste good before they left town.

  Beth bought a package of disposable razors and a tube of Colgate toothpaste. Carver picked up a bottle of Tylenol, in case the swamp humidity made his knee ache. He felt as if he might be forgetting something, but he couldn’t draw it to the top of his mind.

  Then they bought some magazines to read. Carver picked out Time and Newsweek. Maybe he could figure out what the hell was going on in the world. Beth chose Vogue and Money, noticed Carver smiling, and told him if he laughed she’d kick him where it hurt the most.

  He didn’t laugh.

  That night she left the connecting door between their rooms standing open.

  He realized what he should have bought at the drugstore.

  24

  WHEN HE AWOKE SHE was still in his bed, the white sheet pulled up to her chin, one long, golden leg protruding into the cool room and extending off the side of the mattress. Carver squinted against the brilliant morning light cascading through the crack between the drawn drapes and watched her sleep. Her eyes were closed lightly, the composition of her features calm. He remembered last night’s explosion of warm flesh and desperately seeking hands and tongues. How he’d lost himself in her. She didn’t seem like the same woman this morning, this long, evenly breathing image of calm.

  Without opening her eyes she said, “I know you’re watching me, Carver.”

  “How?”

  “I can sense things like that. Being hunted gives that to you.”

  He twisted his upper body and leaned sideways, making the bedsprings squeal, and kissed her on the lips.

  When he drew back, she opened her eyes and stared at him, her dark pupils sparking with morning light. “Thanks, lover.”

  He didn’t know what to say to such a simple and sincere expression of affection and appreciation. He was a little embarrassed and tried humor. “Last night means we gotta get married.” Lame.

  “Can the bullshit, Carver.”

  “Okay, canned.”

  Mornings were something—mornings after certain nights before. He lay back and closed his eyes, listening. The air conditioner was humming away, but the swamp seemed very near, in the room with them, Insects screamed their perpetual frantic lament. Something grunted in the distance. A bullfrog was croa
king nearby. Carver said, “Truly wild.”

  She misunderstood, reaching a hand out from beneath the sheet and touching his arm. “No, you were gentle.”

  He looked at her. “Last night was gentle?”

  “Comparatively speaking.”

  Carver thought about Roberto Gomez and liked him even less.

  Beth slid both hands behind her head and lay staring up at the ceiling. “I had an uncle used to do a lotta fishing, Carver. He’d tell me that sometimes life was like a lake.”

  “Deep,” Carver said.

  She glanced over at him to see if he was trying to be funny again. He wasn’t sure himself. She said, “You fish in the Midwest and you learn something. In the spring, when the lakes thaw and warm up from the sun, the water in the bottom, below the frost line, has stayed warmer all winter and warms up even faster than the top half of the lake. The fire of summer’s stayed alive in it all those cold months. When it gets warm enough, it rises and the cooler water sinks. An inversion’s the technical term. The lake turns, as they say; bottom water on top, top water on the bottom, where it stays cooler all summer. That’s when the season’s really changed and the fishing gets good in the spring, soon as the lake turns. Well, sometimes people’s lives turn that same way. A kinda change brought on by a different season.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Carver said. “People aren’t lakes.”

  “You don’t know till you fish.”

  “People have control.” Then why did he feel guilty about betraying Edwina? And as worried as a high school kid after his first sexual experience?

  She said, “I didn’t have control last night. You didn’t, either.”

  “I wouldn’t argue.”

  “Bet you wouldn’t.”

  He shifted his weight on the bed. His lower leg accidentally touched hers. He left it there.

  “Incidentally,” she said, “when Adam was born I had a tubal ligation; no way I can get pregnant again.”

  Hmm. He scooted over to her. Kissed her on the lips, hard this time, using his tongue.

  At first she didn’t respond. Then her long, lithe arms unwound from behind her head and wrapped around him. He heard the sheet rustling as she worked it off her body. She moaned and pressed the firm, eager length of herself against him. He lost control again.