He lit up and took a long, soothing drag. Two left. Shit. He still had half a shift. He’d have to lift a pack when the old man went for a dump. Assuming the idiot hadn’t counted them all first. The guy was really getting stupid lately, going on about how people were stealing from him. Cash from the till. Smokes. Sure, he took a pack now and then, but cash? Okay, he did the once, but that was it, about a year ago. Old bastard was losing his marbles. Probably the goddamn heat. The radio said it was supposed to break, but Christ, they were playing that old song back in May.
He shaded his eyes and squinted into the cloudless sky. The sun stroked his weathered, off-colored skin (he’d had jaundice as a newborn, and his color had never quite recovered, had always held a slight tinge that wasn’t quite green, wasn’t quite yellow … just off, as some kid had once told him; he had also suffered a spell ten years back, but that had cleared up, thank God, although that first time he’d looked down and spotted that tea-colored piss in one of the Wild’s urinals, he had damn near shit himself). The heat was brutal. He heard it was cooler out west, especially in northern California, and that’s where he was going, just as soon as he got the cash. Soon as that bitch wife got that inheritance she was supposed to, like that big city lawyer from New York had told her. Her sister had snared some rich sonofabitch two years ago, some car dealer from Automobile Row, and damn if they didn’t drive one of his fancy Chrysler 300’s off a bridge six months ago. Fifty feet down … three grand up. Three G’s would get him—and only him, no bitch wife and no pain-in-the-ass kids allowed on this gravy train—out there in style. Yeah. I-80. Keep on ‘til he hit the coast. Eureka. He even liked the name. That idiot cousin Ronnie was there, no kids, just him and that hot little wife, Rhonda. Ronnie could never shut up about how cool it was, how sunny it was, how blue the Pacific was, how just plain nice it was all the time. Hell, Ronnie even told him how Eureka was Greek (or was it Italian? he could never remember) for I have found it, or something like that. And didn’t he say it was some kind of motto out there? Californians. Go figger. And what about that Rhonda? Well, didn’t she just bounce about the juiciest pair of jigglies west of the Mississippi. He’d had her more than a few times, when Ronnie used to work swing out at the rail yards, and sure as shit he’d like to find those jigglies jiggling in his face again. Eureka.
He coughed a fit. That sharp pang sliced across his chest. His lungs burned, achingly thick with the filth inside of him. The cigarette slipped from his thin, crooked lips. He almost nabbed it, but the lip. Fucking thing. If only he’d hit the grass instead of the pavement way back when. Six fucking inches. Six. Fucking cheap-shit bike. Doc was a whole lot younger then, a whole lot steadier, had wired him up with thirty-seven stitches. But he’d screwed up, the sonofabitch, had sewn him up too tight, at least that’s what his old man had told him, and his upper lip had never healed right. Never closed right. Girls had always laughed at him. Still did. Could always see his teeth. What was left of them, that was, all chipped to shit they way they were. And rotten. Like bad meat.
Speaking of which, Doc was telling him he should be eating better, too. Pack on some beef. He was one-thirty-two, down a good twelve pounds from last month, but lately, he just couldn’t keep stuff down. Not that he had much of an appetite these days, but he couldn’t taste a whole lot when he did eat; meat tasted like the paper it came in, and beer, well, the old suds held about as much flavor as kissing Myrna. Flat. Even his smokes (and he liked them pretty much more than anything, except for maybe a nice pair of jigglies) were starting to taste like a mouthful of cow shit. Still, he reached down and picked up the precious smoke, blew the dirt off it and stuck it between his lips. He held it as he stifled another cough. He fell into another rough bout, then horked up something nasty. Something lime-green and slick. He swept it into a dirty slimeball and over the curb.
He looked up and down the street. For a Saturday afternoon, things were dead as a doornail. A couple kids riding bikes. A few parked cars. An old gray tom. He was about to go in, see if the old bastard was out back pinching a loaf, when a big Chev wagon turned the corner. Normally he wouldn’t have bothered with it, but it stopped short when the tom scooted right out front. The driver waited for it to scamper off and then carried on. The Chev pulled up on the opposite side of the street, and when he realized just who it was behind the wheel, he felt another burning ache. Not in his chest, but in his shorts.
Ray’s wife. Driving Al Hembruff’s wagon. Right. After what happened to Ray’s old pickup.
She opened the door, and his cock stirred. She had on a plain summer dress that, when she got out, revealed a perfect pair of legs. Her hair was down, flowing along her shoulders. Her eyes were bright. She had a great pair of jigglies, too, almost as nice as Ronnie’s bitch. Ray had fucked it all up with her, of course, but if she was his woman, instead of that dumb bitch he knocked up (the last, another boy, died in childbirth, God blessum, keeping him hog-tied with just five of the ungrateful fuckers), he’d be porking this one six ways from Sunday. Oh yeah. He’d treat her right. Not like that crazy fuck, Bishop.
She saw him staring, and he went back to his all-important task. Sweeping slowly and mechanically, the bristles barely touching the pavement, he followed her from the corner of his eye as she crossed. She stepped up on the curb, and as she passed him and made it up the steps into the open doorway of the store, she stopped and turned.
“If you want to look at my ass, Frank, do it in your dreams.” She went inside.
Fucking bitch. Oh yeah. Six ways from Sunday.
He heard the proprietor welcome her with that tired cackle of his, heard him going on about the heat. The old fart said he heard what had happened, how everyone was still on about it, how it was one helluva thing, why, he knew all about explosions, don’tcha know, did I ever tell you what happened in the Ardennes, lend an ear, child, lend an ear. It went on for over twenty grueling minutes, long enough for that half-breed to come cruising up the street in his half-breed pickup. The dusty vehicle, a jade, rust-bucket ’46 Mercury on four bare wheels and missing a headlamp, pulled up on the store side of the street.
Kid had some fucking nerve coming into town. Brass fucking cojones. Either that, and this made a helluva lot more sense, the kid was just as dumb as a stump, just as thick as his old man. Too stupid to accept what was right as rain.
The kid got out. He was a whole lot taller than the last time he saw him. Whole lot bigger. Fucking half-breed, probably been eating horseshit for breakfast. It was spooky. He looked just like his old man, mostly, anyway, except for the white in him. The good part. Same dark hair. Same narrow eyes. Eyes you couldn’t trust wouldn’t knife you in the back if you weren’t careful.
The kid saw him, and he welcomed him with a What the fuck YOU lookin’ at? look. Kid didn’t flinch.
He went back to his half-hearted broom-work. Kept an eye on him. Safer that way.
The kid started round the front of the pickup, but something caught his eye. He looked like he had something on his mind—the cocky sonofabitch gave him a look—and just when he thought the kid was going to lay some smartass remark on him—just try it, you little cocksucker, just fucking try it—he turned, stepped across the street, and rounded the passenger side of the Chev. What the fuck?
The little bitch was there—Ray’s little girl. Finally got those bandages off from the look of it. She was quite the nice piece of ass, looked just like her old lady. He’d never tell Ray that, of course. Crazy sonofabitch’d tear him limb from limb and stuff both his arms up his ass. Probably douse him with gasoline and throw a match on him. But wouldn’t it be nice, just once, to pound that little bitch?
Christ. She was talking to him. The fucking half-breed. Well, not exactly; looked like he was doing most of the talking. Did he really think she wanted him there? He had half a mind to go over there and wipe that goddamn grin off his face. Show him how things are.
Did he even know who he was talking to? No-brain fucking Indians. Animals. Nothing but i
nstinct. And when they aren’t cheating you, they’re stealing from you, and—
—and fucking your women.
The kid did know her, didn’t he?
Sonofabitch! Kid figures he can get his hands on Ray’s little girl. Get back at him for what they did. It wasn’t like it was some secret. Pretty well everyone in the county knew, for Chrissake. They didn’t know everything that happened that night—sure as shit they didn’t—but they knew enough. And so did Mr. Injun here.
Thing was, she didn’t look like she minded. Oh, she wasn’t talking much, nodding, mostly, but she sure as hell wasn’t telling the kid to back off. But when he thought about it, she was probably afraid of him. Yeah. Afraid he might rape her. Fucking animal.
He was about to tell the little fucker to mind his own business, take a hike back to the woods with all the other savages—and he would have, he was pretty sure—but then Ray’s wife stepped out, a small bag of groceries tucked under her arm. She gave him a look, not a very nice one, and made it down the steps and hurried past him. She stepped onto the street, but when she realized just who it was chatting her daughter up, she held up short. But didn’t it take her all of three seconds to get to her car after that.
He got close to the curb, swept a bit, and held a wide ear. She seemed pleasant enough to the kid, but it was clear as glass she was in one big hurry all of a sudden. He couldn’t make it all out what with her turned away from him, but now the kid was asking if it was all right if he could take the girl to a show. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Kid had balls. Or a death wish.
She didn’t think so, at least he thought that’s what she said, and didn’t she sound all polite as all get-out. Told him she’d have to talk it over. A line. Had to be. The kid’s face, well, it was just about what you’d expect. And damn it all if the dumb fuck didn’t just stand there all clueless as dogshit, nodding like the dumb fuck he was.
She turned and caught him staring again. He faked a coughing fit, although once he got going it was the real thing, and it hurt like hell. She gave him another nasty look, but there was a lot more to it than that. Wasn’t there.
She couldn’t get behind the wheel fast enough. The kid said Have a nice day, and she started the car without saying boo. She turned to see if the way was clear, and just as she started to pull out, she looked back toward the store. Right at ol’ Frankie.
Oh yeah. Her eyes were shining. Shining like glass.
She knew. Knew he’d be seeing her old man soon enough, likely out at the Wild tonight—and wouldn’t that be an interesting conversation. Wouldn’t it.
He stared back at her. Nodded to her. And then he wired her a small grin. Chipped teeth and all.
The Chev took off. The kid stood like a stone, all puzzled to shit. Like he just couldn’t figure how it was that a good white woman wouldn’t want those filthy hands touching her daughter. Like it was a real fucking mystery. He even waved, for Chrissake.
He would have said something when the kid crossed and went into the store, but the fact was, the kid was big. Nearly as big as his old man. When he came out a minute later with a soda, he gave him a good old-fashioned How do you do, half-breed, instead—just a look, mind you, but dark enough to make it clear he wasn’t welcome round these parts. But didn’t the bastard give him a blast, tell him to stay the hell away from him if he knew what was good for him, and all he could do, besides nearly piss himself right then and there, was start coughing up a lung. And didn’t it hurt like a bastard. The burning was getting worse.
The kid slipped in behind the wheel. Stared him down with those deep half-breed eyes. Oh yeah. He knew those eyes. Dark and black like a swamp. The kid started the engine and gave him the finger. He would have taken the broom to the little cocksucker, whacked it right upside his half-breed head—that was, if Ray or Jake were here—but he didn’t. What he did do was stand there like a coward, watching the old Mercury slip down the street and round the corner. And when he stopped trembling and headed up the steps to see if the old man had gone for a dump, he stopped cold. Caught his sorry reflection in the shop window.
His nose was bleeding.
~ 18
The young man looked weary, very old and very trodden, as if a combination of worry and drink had punished him for years. He seemed lesser than he was. His tanned skin had grayed. His voice, usually smooth and youthful, held a roughened, toughened edge, one that suggested, if not wisdom, the hard lessons of experience; this, despite his age. He sounded cold and hard and frightened. But mostly, he sounded small.
“Sometimes I lie in bed, listening to the thunder,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I do. You ever do that?”
Ryan shifted anxiously in his seat. He waited for a reply and received not a word.
“Like I was saying … it was just over two years ago. The old man was out late. Guy could celebrate a fart with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I couldn’t sleep. The thunder. It must have been three in the morning when I saw the headlights on the ceiling.
“I got up to see. I’d watch him sometimes, and … sometimes … well … well sometimes he brought home a woman. I think Ma knows. I hope she doesn’t. This time he was alone. He came in, and Beaks barked. He kicked him. I know that sound.
“I heard him stagger upstairs. He almost fell. But then I heard this really soft knock. Not on my door. He never knocks at his door. Why would he? Thing was, Ma was up at my granddad’s place. He had a small setback the day before. His heart. You see? Pa knew she’d be out.
“It was Lee’s door. I heard him sneak in. Her door creaks when you open it slow like that. I heard them come out, and when I cracked my door I saw them heading downstairs. I think I heard Lee say ‘No,’ but I can’t be sure. He said ‘Shut it.’ That I heard. Then I heard the front door, and I went to the window.
“It was hard to see them in the rain. The lightning made them look like ghosts. He led her by the hand, but she didn’t want to go. She couldn’t keep up. Kept slipping. On account she had slippers on. He got the spare key above the door—same way I got in. Sorry. Anyway … he made sure she went in first.
“He looked up at my window, but I don’t think he saw me. I went downstairs. Beaks had mud on his coat where the bastard had nailed him. He was really in a bad way. I petted him for a bit, to calm him down. Then I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my coat.”
The boy stopped. He looked sickly.
“She didn’t fight,” he said. His voice had fallen. “I think maybe that’s what got me most. She just laid there and took it. Let him have his way. God—like it had happened before, you know? All she could do was close her eyes and cry. I wanted to kill him.” He said it matter-of-factly, like a man asking for cigarettes along with the magazine. He said it again.
“I was so scared, Kain. I didn’t know what to do. I started to slip away, like a coward. But he saw me. The lightning. I panicked. I pounded on the window … so hard I cracked it.”
The boy drifted a moment.
“He snapped,” Ryan said. “It was in his eyes. They were big black balls. He came out screaming he was gonna kill me. I figured if he went after me, Lee would be okay. Didn’t think he could run that fast. Not in the rain. Not drunk.”
“He caught you.” Kain did not expect a reply. Not really. “You okay?”
“No,” Ryan said, sniffling. “He dragged me through the mud. Tied me up in the barn like an animal. Hog-tied me. Tied us both.”
Silence hung there like death; the boy couldn’t bring himself further. It was as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, blind, some dark whisper daring him one foot forward. But then, he bolted sharply from his seat, and with all the vigor he could muster, flung his glass as hard as he could. It shattered not far from where Beaks got run down.
“Why the hell did he do it? WHY?”
He was shaking, nearly in tears.
Kain rose. He hesitated, and then he risked a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“If I had the chance, Kain … I would kill him.”
>
Ryan turned. His eyes told of black secrets long buried; he looked like a man in a burning building, who has come to know there is no recourse but to jump. He started to say something, but then his gaze fell. He trembled slightly, and without a word, turned away. He untucked his shirt, and then raised it slowly.
“Good God.”
The boy’s back was rife with the rigors of healed burns. The ravaged skin was flabby and rippled, discolored and hideous.
“Enough,” Kain muttered, and Ryan let his shirt back down.
Slowly, the boy turned about. He was weeping. Trying not to show it.
“He was gonna kill us,” he said. “I think he almost did. Sometimes I wish he had.”
“You don’t mean that.”
The boy shook his head weakly, as if to say, You have no idea.
“He whipped me with his belt. Whipped Lee. Said it was all her fault. For trying to look like Ma.” He stirred. “He burned her first.”
“Jesus.”
Ryan steadied himself. “He took a blowtorch to her arms. Did her legs after.”
Tears slid down his cheeks. “She screamed so much, Kain. I can still hear it in my head. Sometimes I wake up hearing it. Lee … ohhh, God, she was screaming … and so was I. Don’t you see? I wasn’t thinking about her. I knew I was next. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop him.”
“This wasn’t your fault …”
“Wasn’t it? If I hadn’t gone out there—if I’d just minded my own damn business—”
“He’d still be here,” Kain told him, cutting him off. “Still hurting your sister.”
The boy faltered. “Know why he burned her the way he did? Wanted to ruin her. For anyone. She’ll always be alone, Kain. Always.”
“She’ll find someone she can trust. She will.”
Ryan refuted this with a limp shake of his head.
“Know why he burned me?”
“No.”
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 33
