Men from Boys

by John Harvey

  People’s Forest sounds Chinese, Doug thinks, although he doubts it really is, because there are exactly five Chinese people in the whole county and they run a restaurant out on 44 where they got a five dollar all-you-can-eat lunch buffet on Wednesdays that Camelletti always insists on going to.

  ‘But the food is shitty,’ Arthur argues, even though he agrees to go with him every week.

  ‘Yeah, but there’s lots of it,’ Camelletti says.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s shitty.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s five bucks.’

  Doug has listened to them debate which is better – more shitty food for five bucks or less shitty food for five bucks – but for Doug the concept of shitty food is a non-starter.

  Now he looks out the car window at the river below. It’s pretty – all silver and black and white and dark gray as the water rushes through the ice and snow, and the trees in the background are dark-green.

  It’s only twenty minutes away from Torrington but he hasn’t been here in years. His memories of the river are summer memories, when him and Edley and a couple of girls would come out and get sandwiches from the general store in the nearby village and then go out and sit at picnic tables on the river bank. In summer the river is slow and brown, not the fast black water cutting through the winter ice, and after they ate, him and Edley and the girls they’d toss inner tubes into the water and sit in them and float downstream to a little sandy beach off an eddy and they’d lie down in the sand and make out.

  Those were good days.

  Whitey turns right on to a dirt road that switchbacks uphill through a thick oak forest. He pulls over on a wide spot in the road next to a long, snow-covered meadow. ‘We’re here,’ he says.

  Doug gets out of the car.

  The snow crunches under his feet.

  ‘Aren’t your feet cold?’ Whitey asks, looking at Doug’s Chuck Taylors.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We gotta get you some decent frickin’ shoes,’ Whitey says.

  Doug’s noticed that Whitey and Clark have been treating him different since he agreed to do this favor for King. Not like he’s an equal or anything like that, but their attitude has changed now he’s agreed to kill this guy.

  It’s a fucked-up world, Doug thinks.

  ‘We get back today,’ Whitey says, ‘we’ll go to Payless Shoes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Get you some boots.’

  Whitey opens the trunk, takes out a 9mm Berretta and a box of shells. He shakes a few of the rounds into his hand and loads the pistol. Then they walk across the meadow to an old gravel berm where the snow trucks used to take out gravel for the roads.

  ‘You ever shot one of these things?’ Whitey asks.

  ‘I never shot anything.’

  ‘Good, I won’t have to unteach any bad habits,’ Whitey says. He hands Doug the pistol. ‘It’s easy – you slide this back, you’re ready to go. Then it’s just like them computers they got these days. You just point and click.’

  Doug raises the pistol, which feels heavy in his hand, and points it at the berm.

  ‘You walk in,’ Whitey says, ‘pull the gun, point the gun, shoot the gun. Keep shooting until the bang bang becomes click click.’

  ‘That easy, huh?’

  ‘There’s no skill in this, Doug,’ says Whitey. ‘You want skill, shoot a bow and arrow. That’s what I do, I come up here during bow season and get me a deer. That’s skill. This is just pulling the trigger. Try it.’

  Doug raises the pistol again and shoots into the berm.

  It feels great, he thinks, through the ringing in his ears, like each jerk of the trigger is getting something off his chest.

  He can see how you could get to liking this.

  Whitey sees the look in his eye and gives him this weird, almost embarrassed smile, like they’re sharing some kind of dirty secret, like they’re looking at some kind of sick porno or something and getting off on it.

  ‘So it’s simple, Doug,’ Whitey says. ‘You walk into this guy’s office, guy’ll probably be sitting behind his desk. You walk in, don’t hesitate, just pull the gun and –’

  ‘You sure the guy’ll let me in?’

  ‘He’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘But he won’t be expecting . . .’ Doug gestures with the pistol.

  ‘No,’ Whitey says. ‘He’ll be expecting, you know . . .’

  Yeah, I know, Doug thinks.

  He’ll be expecting Douggie Doughnuts.

  Doug don’t eat breakfast that morning even though he’s got money in his pocket.

  He walks right past the diner in his new Merrell boots, not because he’s pissed at Andy or nothing but because Whitey has told him that sometimes guys, especially their first time, throw up after they do it, right on the spot, and what’s in the puke could be, believe it or not, evidence. Cops see like bacon, eggs, toast, home fries on the floor they’re goin’ straight to the diner and ask Andy who had breakfast in there that morning.

  So Doug walks straight to Dunkin’ Donuts, picks up his usual order and walks over to King Real Estate, not even feeling the cold because he’s got them warm, fur-lined boots on and because this is his last morning doing this. Today he does this favor, then Clark gives him twenty k in cash, the keys to a clean car and a one-way air ticket, New York to Mexico, where he can stay until this whole thing cools down – his debt forgiven and money in his pocket – and then come back.

  Or not, whatever he wants.

  Maybe not, Doug thinks as the heavy boots trod down the old, dirty snow. Maybe I’ll stay where it’s warm all the frickin’ time. Maybe I’ll go south like the jobs did, and stay there, like the jobs did.

  He turns up the walk into the office.

  Sets the cardboard tray down on the reception table, takes out the coffees, then goes in and sets the doughnuts down on a paper towel on the kitchen counter. He takes the pistol out of his pocket, pulls the slide back, and puts it back in his pocket. He slides the plastic glove onto his hand, then puts one of the doughnuts on a plate and takes it and the cream two-sugars to King’s private office.

  Knocks on the door.

  King yells, ‘That you, Douggie Doughnuts?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Doug walks in, sets the coffee and doughnuts down on King’s desk. He can smell the man’s aftershave and his hair spray.

  ‘Cream, two sugars?’ King asks. Like usual, he don’t even look up.

  He don’t see Doug take the pistol out of his pocket and point it at his head. He don’t hear the bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang as Doug empties the clip into him. Well, maybe he hears the first one, but he don’t hear the second because the first goes right into his brain and turns the lights out.

  Doug does feel the vomit building up in his stomach but he fights it down, drops the gun like Whitey told him to do, then walks out of the office.

  Whitey’s standing behind Clark’s desk, gives Doug a nod of professional respect as Clark hands him the cash, the car keys and the tickets. Doug walks out of the house and, right to the plan, the stolen car is sitting out front, tank full of gas. Drive down to New York without stopping is the plan. Get on the plane to Mazatlan, enjoy himself while Clark and Whitey carve up King’s business like the Christmas turkey.

  Doug drives down Main Street past the boarded-up stores, past Stewart’s Furniture, Cristofaro’s Plumbing and Hardware, and Kenyon’s Department Store where he used to look in the window at Christmas.

  He pulls over beside Main Diner and parks.

  Goes in, takes off his coat and hangs it up, sits on a red vinyl stool at the counter.

  All the guys, Andy and Camelletti and Arthur and Petit just stare at him as he lays the twenty k in cash on the counter and says, ‘Andy, I’ll have two eggs over easy, home fries, rye toast, bacon, sausage and coffee, please.’

  Andy sees the weird look in Doug’s eyes and decides it ain’t the time to ask any questions, so he just pours Doug a coffee into one of them stained white cups and the
n cracks the eggs on to the grill and starts shoving the home fries around with his old spatula.

  Doug takes that first sip of coffee and it tastes great.

  Hot and bitter going down, like coffee should be.

  Andy sets the plate on the counter in front of Doug. The food is beautiful, the grease sparkling like a fresh field of snow in the sunlight.

  ‘Thanks, Andy.’

  ‘Sure. Anything else, Doug?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Doug says. ‘Call the cops. I just killed Frank King.’

  ‘Jesus, Doug, what happened?’

  Doug looks at him, then at the guys sitting at the booth by the window. He shrugs and says, ‘He called me Douggie Doughnuts.’

  Doug picks up his fork and digs into the food.

  It’s frickin’ wonderful.

  He’s just finished eating when the cops come.

  TWO THINGS

  Daniel Woodrell

  When she comes over it is in a rattly old thing. Color yellow, it got white ring tires that rime the way round and the exhaust has slipped loose and is dragging sparks from it. There are stickers from the many funny places she been to on the bumper and two or three of her ideas are pasted on the fenders. A band-aid that look just like a band-aid only it is a monster has been momma’d on to the hood like the rattly old thing got some child sore in the motor.

  Now this official had mailed us a note that tell Wilma who is the woman who is my wife and me that this lady wants to visit. It seems she teach Cecil something useful at the prison.

  The door flings out and she squats up out of the car coming my way. I have posted myself in the yard and she come straight at me smiling. Over her shoulder is a strap that holds up a big purse made of the sort of pale weeds they have in native lands I never saw.

  She call me Mister McCoy right off like who I am is that clear cut. Her name Frieda Buell she go on then flap out a hand for me to shake. I give her palm a little rub and tell her she is welcome.

  When I see that sits with her good I tell her to come into the house.

  That is something she would love to do she tells me.

  This is a remark I don’t believe so I stand back and inventory her. She is young with shaggy blonde hair but she knows something about painting her face as she has done it smashing well. Her shirt is red and puffy and her shoes have heels that tell me walking is not a thing she practices over much. Her shiny pants is black and wetted on to her like my hot breath on a cold jewelry window.

  The porch has sunk down so it hunkers a distance in front of the house. I ask her to be careful and she is. Inside I give her the good chair but I keep standing.

  Right away I tell her I want to know what this about.

  What it is about is a lulu. My son Cecil is a gifted man she says. He has a talent that puts a rareness to the world or something along those lines.

  Cecil? Cecil a thief I tell her. And not that sly a one neither.

  Once was she says. No more.

  Always was I put in. My mind is made up on that. But what’s got me puzzled is what is this rareness he puts to the world or whatever?

  Poetry is her answer. She reach her hand that has been overdone with various rings into the big purse and pulls out a booklet. She says Cecil has written it and the critics have claimed him as a natural in ability.

  I take the booklet in my hands. It is of thick dry paper and the cover says ‘Dark Among the Grays’ by Cecil McCoy. That is him all right I say. Tell me do this somehow line him up early for parole?

  It could she says. She trying to face me bold enough but her eyes is playing hooky on her face and going places besides my own. She been teaching him for two years she says and what he has is a gift like she never seen before.

  Gift I say. A gift is not like Cecil.

  May I have the book she asks. I hand it to her. She opens it to a middle page. Like this, listen to this. She begin to read to me from what apparently Cecil my son has written out. The name of it is ‘Soaring’ and it is a string of words that say a bird is floating above the junk yard and has spotted a hot glowing old wreck below only the breeze sucks him down and he can’t help but land in it. When she done reading the thing she look up at me like I should maybe be ridiculous with pleasure. I can’t tell but that is my sense.

  Is that one chapter or what I want to know.

  She lets out one of them whistly breaths that means I might overmatch her patience. These are poems of his life on the street she tells me. But they are brimful of accurate thoughts for all. Yet grounded in the tough streets of this area.

  They have junkyards everywhere is my comeback to her.

  But the bird Mister McCoy. The bird is soaring over death which is an old car wreck. The poet is wanting to be that white bird winging it free above death. What it really signifies is that Cecil want to be let off from having to die. That is the point of it she says.

  Now to me this point is obvious but I feel sad for a second about Cecil. Two things he never going to be is a white bird.

  Read on I suggest.

  She slides out a smile for me that lets me know I’m catching on. Then she turn the book to another page. This was in some big-time poetry magazine she says. Then she read. The words of this one are about a situation I recognise. The poet has ripped off his momma’s paycheck to pay back some bad dudes he ain’t related to.

  Hold it there I ask her. That is a poem that actually happen several times lady. Cecil a goddamn thief.

  No no no. He wants to make amends for it. He wants to overcome the guilt of what he done.

  I tell her it would be in the hundreds of dollars to do that. Is these poems going to get him that kind of money? My question is beneath her. She won’t answer it.

  This poem has meanings for all the people she says. They look into it and see their selves.

  That is nice and interesting I tell her but how come Wilma and me has to pay for this poem all alone? Everybody who looks in it and see their selves ought to pay some back to us.

  This comment of mine puts pressure on her cool and she begins to pace about the room. The room is clean enough but the furniture is ragged. I have a hip weakness and janitor work pains it. Wilma has the job now.

  The lady stops and looks out the window. Two cars is blocking traffic to say what’s going on to each other. Horns are honking. People get hurt over things like that.

  Mister McCoy do you love Cecil?

  There was a time I answer. It was a love that any daddy would have. But that was way back. If I love Cecil now it is like the way I love the Korean conflict. Something terrible I have lived through.

  He has changed Mister McCoy. He has got in touch with his humanity. If he had a place to live he could be paroled to start fresh.

  I believe I will sit down. As I say it I drop to the three-legged chair by the door. I am thinking of my son Cecil. He was one of a whole set of kids Wilma and me filled out because we had only each other. He ate from the same pot of chili as the rest but he turned out different. His eyes were shiny and his nose turned up instead of being flat. The better he knows you the more relaxed he is about stealing you blind. Same pot of chili but different.

  I don’t believe we want to take him back I say.

  But you are his family. There is no one else for him.

  Family yes but main victims too lady. I reach up and pull the bridge from my mouth which leaves a bad fence of my teeth showing. See that I ask. Cecil did that. He wasn’t but fifteen when he did that.

  He has changed she says again. She says it like that settles it.

  I don’t believe it. He may well write out poems that say he sorry and guilty but I am leery of him. You listen to this lady. This porch right here. I was standing on this porch right here when it was less sunk and Cecil was out there in the street with a mess of boys. They were little but practicing to be dangerous some day. One of them picks up a stone and tosses it at the high up street light there. He misses it by a house or two. He ain’t close. I stood there on the porch out
of curiosity and watched. They all flung stones at the light but none was close to shattering it. Then Cecil pick up a slice of brick and hardly aims but he smash that light to bits. As soon as it left his hand I seen that his aim for being bad was awful accurate.

  Well she says. He seems sensitive to her.

  Oh he can do that lady. He could do that years ago.

  You are a hard nut she tells me. He is lost without you. His parole could be denied.

  Tell me why do you care? I ask her this but my suspicion is she would like to give Cecil lessons in gaiety.

  Because I admire his talent Mister McCoy. Cecil is a poet who is pissed off at the big things in this world and that give him a heat that happy poets got to stand back from.

  You want us to take him home because he pissed off? That ain’t no change.

  Artistically she goes, wheezing that putdown breath again.

  Lady that ain’t enough I tell her. Let me show you the door.

  When we are on the porch she wants to shake hands again but I don’t chew my cabbage twice. I have been there so I lead her across the yard. Her cheeks get red. I look up and down the neighborhood and all the homes are like mine and Wilma’s. The kind that if they were people they would cough a lot and spit up tangled stuff. Spit shit into the sink.

  At her car she hands me the booklet. It is yours she says. Cecil insisted.

  I take it in my hands. I say thank you.

  She slips into the rattly old thing and starts the motor. A puff of oil smoke come out the back and there is a knocking sound.

  I lean down to her window.

  Look lady I say. Wish Cecil well but it is like this. He ain’t getting no more poems off of us.

  Her head nods and she flips her hand at me. The monster band-aid on the hood has caught my eye again. What kind of craziness is that about I wonder. I want to ask her but she shifts the car and pulls away. So I am left standing there alone to guess just what it is she believe that band-aid fix.