by Edward Lee
But now the Irish brutarian laughed all the more. “Oh, Mister–you yanks are somethin’, aye? We ain’t all from New England, ya know. How is it ya can be so hot on Bliss while ya know nothin’ about her?”
“I assure you, Sir,” I snapped, “that I am not in reception of your meaning.”
“Things are different all over. See, Bliss’s father and her husband are one in the same,” & then the bout of laughter redoubled.
Evil, evil, evil, I thought, wanting to vomit. To hang myself summarily would’ve been better than learning this. My voice trembled along with my hands when I demanded, “That may well be, Sir—nevertheless I insist on purchasing an allotment of time by which I may share in some of her company.” I emptied my billfold & shook my entire stack of notes at him. “How much?”
“No amount of money is enough tonight–”
My ire grew to full-scale rabidness. It was not even a “trick” I wanted, but only a few moments to convince her to come away with me, not that I could have told him that. “What’s that supposed to mean! Is there something irregular about me? How is it that shylocks such as you & your ‘carny’ brethren refuse hard cash?”
“Best to let your dander down, lad,” the rapscallion adjured gregariously in spite of the nihilistic cast. “Your money’s good as the next one’s, but Bliss won’t be turnin’ no tricks tonight on account of–” but before the explanation’s remainder could be made sonant, a brief commotion ensued from the darkness of the adjoining canvas corridor, then from the murk emerged 2 more overly muscled toughs.
They were bearing a makeshift stretcher fashioned from heavy sheets of fabric wrapped about 2 poles; upon this lay a wan form beneath some sheets.
No, no, no, my psyche groaned even before my eyes registered the truth. It was Bliss who lay crumpled, shivering, & battered upon the stretcher.
“What in the name of all things decent happened!” I yelled.
A large hand opened over my heart & pressured me back. “You keep yer dander down, man, else I’ll be introducin’ your kisser to my fist. Bliss got a bit of a pranging is all–”
Spittle flew when I yelled further, “A pranging? Someone’s beaten her senseless!” & as I made the exclamation, she was carried briskly past me, one eye swollen closed, her cheek a grotesque purple contusion, mouth crimson with blood. In that last irreducible fraction of a second that I saw her, her good eye opened, bloomed at the sight of me; then she smiled & susurrated “Howard . . . ”
Then she was taken away, & I knew, somehow, that I would never see her again.
“Why was she beaten?” I pled. “What could someone so filled with benevolence as Bliss have done to incur such wrath? Was it a customer–er, I mean, a john, a trick, or whatever it is you call it?”
“Wasn’t no john, my good fellow. See, Bliss’s job when she’s not doin’ her peep-tent is to work johns’n turn tricks. Earlier today, when she should’a been haulin’ in some possum-belly quickies before her show, the lazy tart was loiterin’ about & squandering time with some fella she had eyes for—”
“Some . . . fella?” I questioned, my throat going dry.
“Aye, ‘s’what I heard. Whores do that on occasion, turn a lotta tricks, make a lotta cash, then they start gettin’ a big head’n thinkin’ they’re somethin’ special. Specially the good ones, the ones like Bliss that can suck a dick like dicks never been sucked or lay a fuckin’ on a man so good he just can’t get her out’a his head so’s he keep comin’ back over’n over’n over again, handin’ over his cash. That’s Bliss, see? Every so often, she gets ta takin’ her life for granted, forgettin’ that she wouldn’t have no life if’n it weren’t for Mr. O’Slaughnassey marryin’ her.”
Of all the interminable outrage; all the diabolic abuse. My blood seemed to crackle in my veins as my guts sunk deeper & deeper as if into a bottomless pit of roiling bitumen.
“So,” the Irishman continued, “you can understand that she was properly punished. No bones was busted, and nothin’ of her insides was broke accordin’ to the doc. She just got mussed up a bit is all.”
Mussed up. The words curdled my stomach. This human animal perceived women as mere property, as pets to be utilised for profit, & when they misbehaved, they were mussed up. Had I a revolver, I surely would’ve emptied it into this bounder’s noxious face. But the worst insinuation was already festering in me as a malignant growth. “And you say that she was beaten for squandering time with . . . some ‘fella’ in particular?”
“Some skinny chap was all I heard. She didn’t even try to work him for a trick. Had eyes for him, even though she’s married proper.”
The “skinny chap,” of course, had to be me. Hence, I was the primary cause of her unspeakable beating.
I wished for that revolver again, to put, this time, to my own head.
“So’s get’cher mind off Bliss, lad, and take your pick of one’a our other lovely whores. We got all kinds’a doxies, just you believe it–ah, there’s one now!” & down the insubstantial corridor I momentarily glimpsed a willowy strumpet with bare breasts like white cupcakes on her chest. She disappeared into a flap. “That lass there, Sir, is called Squeegee, and she’s as fine a place ta drop your baby-batter as you’ll find.”
“Squeegee?” I asked, perplexed as to the name.
“Pussy so tight, when your John Thursday’s sluggin’ in and out of it”–he nodded–“makes a sound like cleanin’ winda’s, it surely does.”
“How . . . unrepresentative,” I offered.
“All our harlots, my friend, are fine as bloomin’ China. Not a schlupper among ‘em.”
My curiosity left me unable to resist. “Schlupper?”
“Aw, lad, are ya daft! A gal that while’s you’re fuckin’ her? Her pussy makes a sound like soldiers marchin’ through mud. Schulp-schulp-schulp. You know?”
“How . . . majestic . . . ”
“My point is, when one’a our lasses is done with ya? You’ll not have a drop’a sap left in the two balls God put in yer sack.”
This man is deplorable, I thought with the sharpest of frowns. But before I had time to decline, footsteps were heard, & from the adjoining corridor, an ectomorphic, stooped figure proceeded. At once, my vision was riveted.
The coattails, string tie, & white vest seemed to shout at me, as did the thin face & hooded eyes.
“Why, Mr. O’Slaughnassey,” the Irishman greeted. “Now that you’ve got the wife back in line, perhaps you’d care for a nip.” He produced a vulgar hip flask.
The 60ish show owner’s voice creaked like old timbers. “No, McMullen, I’m tipsy enough from the joy of beatin’ that cunt’a mine silly, don’t cha know?”
“I’m sure I do, Sir. And it ‘twas as fine a beatin’ as I’ve seen in a long while.”
“The more ya do for ‘em, the more they lie and connive. Leaves a man no choice but ta bloody ‘em up.”
“Aye, Mr. O’Slaughnassey.”
The hooded eyes turned to me. “And what a coincidence this is! I’ll be damned if the gentleman to your side is not the same scoundrel who wasted so much of Bliss’s time earlier, and cost me money!” His bony finger pointed right at me.
Odd as it seems, it was not trepidation that ensnared me, but a very pure & unadulterated furor. The sight of this treacherous man–a father who would marry his own daughter, cripple her, & pander her out; indeed, the very man who’d just beaten Bliss unmercifully–sent my wits asunder, leaving only my physical body fueled by the rage of humankind’s ancestral days of half-ape barbarity. I flew past the Irish ruffian, & in a second had my hands about O’Slaughnassey’s thin neck, spitting words of venom, “An abomination you are! A slime of the worst of human effluence from the bung-port of Hell!” I began to squeeze the thin neck. “May a pox be on you, you who would maim & molest your own daughter solely for profit in this flesh market that can only be described as luciferic!” but just as my grip would tighten in this crazed phantasy of strangling the wretch, fists the size of gra
pefruits battered me from behind until the entire world was spinning about me.
“A right rat bastard this one is, Sir,” I heard the Irish accent through head-pounding fog. My face was in the dirt.
“There’s one in every crowd, my good Irish.”
“Aye, and did ya know that he was workin’ me for info about your wife?”
“Hmm. Knowing that, I’ll have to beat her all the harder.”
“The whole job for ‘im, Sir?”
“For scum like this, we should let the dogs have at his cock and balls, but, no, McMullen. This droog counts for naught–for less than what’s on the corncob after I wipe—and as easy as the police are to pay off, I’ve not the patience for the inconvenience. He’s a mere fly-speck, not worth a good man’s time or effort to set straight. Just throw him off the property.”
“With pleasure, Sir!”
“But first . . . ”
The collision of the Irish fists to my head had me seeing double. But the next collision was not from a fist at all, but O’Slaughnassey’s heavily booted foot.
Directly to my groin.
“Here’s a good one to remember me by . . . ” A wizened laugh. “I’ll say, McMullen, all this violence has my old dog up and barking. I think I’ll go to Bliss’s trailer now and knock her about some more, then put some vintage cream up her backside.” His foot roughly nudged my wobbling head. “You hear that, Yankee scum? For raising a hand to me, I’ll keep Bliss uglied up for a good long time. Think about that.”
I believe his words caused me actually to vomit. Pain cocooned my body, & amid a dark, accented chuckle, I was carried off much the same as a sack of refuse. My consciousness winked in & out, & the agony betwixt my legs existed as an entity of its own. I thought sure that my testes had been ruptured to slush.
I saw only in mazed blinks: inquisitive faces, staring eyes, agape mouths. I was hauled out of the carnival’s entrance & dropped to the ground, heart hammering. Senseless, I heard an abrasive sound—
Kuuuuur-HOCK
—as the surly thug spat copiously into my face.
“A fresh Irish oyster for ya, lad, with my compliments. And if you’re stupid enough to ever come back here? Ya won’t be leavin’ alive.”
The rogue tromped off, his laughter like the peals of a satanic bell.
Many minutes passed before I could reconstruct my wits. Bloody-faced & half-blind, I stumbled away from the staring crowd that waited for admission. Ahead of me: the vast field of scrub crammed with motor-cars & the smear of twilight-tinged sky. One hand to my head, the other to my groin, I staggered away; away from that screaming, hadean dervish-saturnalia; away from the leering, sin-faced throng; forever away from O’Slaughnassey’s Travelling Show . . .
I knew not what crested most precipitously in my spirit: my humiliation, my rage, or my horror for Bliss. Would that malefactor O’Slaughnassey really beat her further for sport? Would he anally rape her as he’d implied, & keep her “uglied up” because I’d assaulted him? The prospect made me moan in the most fathomless despair.
Relocating Nate & the unbecoming bus driver was akin to the needle in the haystack proverb; so, too, was the prospect of finding Nate’s claptrap vehicle. Instead–always one given to lengthy walks–I stumbled straight away from the carnival’s noise, crowds, & infernal lights, re-taking the unpaved road that had delivered me to this pit of lust, thievery, & con men. Soon the wicked din was far behind; & each of my strides away grew longer & more stable. I wiped my bloodied face with my handkerchief, regaining my breath, as reason soon returned to my mind. Ache as my testicles did, a painful but brief physical inspection assured me they’d not been ruptured. The police! I resolved. What other course did I have? Once I returned to the garage, I could use the telephone to call. But then the prospect dwindled. In uncharted backwoods such as these? A domain of “rubes,” “red-necks,” & “crackers?” Local police were surely prone to corruption; O’Slaughnassey himself said that he had them in his pocket. It’s my word against theirs, and I’m the outsider here, I knew. The police would likely arrest me on a trumped up charge, taking payment to do so. Now I felt hopeless.
Was there no other course I could take?
In my soul I was at war with myself. Where there was no justice, a real man could effect his own. The greater segment of my conscience wanted nothing more than to return to that dreadful, evil-imbued carnival—that cauldron of greed & indulgence & lechers—infiltrate its perimeter, & then . . .
Find O’Slaughnassey and kill him.
A real man, yes, but was I such a man? A soft-handed scribe lacking brawn & bravado? Could I really depart from my sheltered & sensitive ways & be the crusader who ended Bliss’s life-long terror?
I stared at the moon as if awaiting an answer, yet none was forthcoming.
Plodding steps took me back the way I’d come, along the dense woodline, while a strange dirge-like litany played in my head–a litany to failure. I knew I’d be back at the garage in little more than an hour’s time, but what then? To pass a sleepless night on the immobile bus, to fret over Bliss & what her perverse father/husband was doing to her? A dense, nearly deafening chorus of crickets & night-birds accompanied the dirge in my head, yet over time, these natural sounds of wildlife ceased. I stopped, taking notice of the silence that shouldn’t be. & then?
Commotion.
From the woods, frenzied shouts rose at a distance, but closer came a deliberate thrashing, as of madly running feet through brambles. It all transpired so fast I could scarcely react. & next:
“Good God!” I shouted.
From the woods a blocky frantic figure shot out: a man obviously being chased, for in the background those other voices increased in tenor; I heard rough accented exclamations, the likes of “Don’t let the varmint git away!” “Which way’d he go?” “Toward the fields, I reckon!” & “Pray the Lord on High we don’t lose him!” Yet the man to which these voices referred, the frantic figure, had just bolted from the woods & was heading right toward me. The moonlight revealed the terrified face of an unkempt, wild-haired man of about 40, his eyes inflamed by a wedding of madness & panic-fear. I don’t think he saw me on the road for he kept running straight, shooting glances behind. Then a voice boomed in the background, clearly addressing me: “You there on the road! In the name’a God stop that fella just run out the woods! He done raped’n murdered a child!” The words had not even consciously registered in my brain before my arms shot out & in what must have been complete surprise “clotheslined” the alleged murderer. It was the inside of my elbow that caught him directly across the throat. There was a gargled grunt, then the figure flew backward against the unseen obstruction, & landed hard on his back.
Half a dozen brawn-stocked men of the sort that are known as “hillfolk” surrounded the scene with guttering torches. The fallen man foundered at their feet, groaning.
A hand callused like sandpaper slapped my back to the extent that I nearly lost my breath, then a hardy voice in the local dialect boomed, “Sir, we are, I say, we are in some tall debt to ya for so bravely stoppin’ this white-trash killer in his tracks! The bastard almost got away!” & at once the entire rustic group chattered their thanks & shook my hand. It was the first hillman who shook my hand, though, with the vigour of a well-pump. “My name’s Eamon Martin, and these all’s my kin, other Martins, Tucktons, Bishops mostly. We live out yonder in the woods, preferrin’ not to mingle much with the outside world, seein’ how evil it’s a-gettin’.” The alleged fugitive was hoisted up by 2 well-muscled men in overalls, then shaken around. Perhaps the power of suggestion impelled me, but the face on that man in the torchlight was truly a face filled with malevolency. He wore heavy-fabric’d garb with a # stitched on the shirt; that along with the iron ring about his ankle left no doubt as to his status: an escaped convict. “This pile’a swamp-rat shit must’a been in a chain-gang’n managed ta bust his shackle. Then he come through where we all live and-and . . . ,” & then Eamon gulped in a choked sadnes
s. “Ain’t no doubt’a his devilish crime ‘cos it was Constance Butler, the preacher’s wife, who done caught him in the act. Rapin’ the high heaven out’a li’l Sary May Boover, and when he done got his nut, he up’n raped Constance too. But poor Sary weren’t but thirteen, and he busted up her insides so bad, the poor girl bled to death.”
“That’s-that’s horrible,” I croaked. “And it seems that such eye-witness testimony verifies this man’s guilt beyond all doubt.”
“That it does, Sir. And now’s time for us ta right as much as we can, while’s all we can do is pray for young Sary’s immortal soul. Foller me, it’d be our pleasure to at least offer ya some refreshment.”
Amid my own calamities, I was about to decline the rustic’s offer of hospitality, but suddenly I was aware of a mighty thirst, and I think I could trust in my judgment of men that these hillfolk were sincere. So I accepted, and followed.
Eamon & the entire group then wended their way back into the over-nourished forest, torches bobbing. “Mind yer fire men, and take care,” Eamon ordered, then to me, “Ain’t but a short walk, Sir. Now I can tell by lookin’ at ya that you’re a man of some soffister-kay-shun, likely a city man, am I right?”
“I’m from Providence, Rhode Island, yes, and I appreciate the compliment.”
“No, Sir, ‘tis us who ‘preciates you takin’ down this akker-lite’a the devil. He’d shorely be gone now weren’t it fer yer bravery.”
“Really, it was mostly luck, I must admit; I did little more than throw my arms out to catch him in the throat.”
“Aw, yer too humble, Sir! Ya stopped a godless monster in his tracks! But bein’ a city fella, there’s things ya need ta understant. Down here, see, the way the world is leaves us no choice but to take care’a our own. The police? Shee-it, they ain’t no better’n common criminals theirselfs. And what I’m a-gettin’ at is city ways don’t work out here, only backwoods ways is what works. What’s right is right–it’s that simple. You follerin’ me, Sir?”
