Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Quirt cackled at that while his attention shifted from me to the motorcycle. Finally, he got the thing on its kickstand and looked it over. A bent fender; high chrome handlebars, off square, above a black teardrop gas tank with white script: No mercy. I watched his bionic hand become a vise. He twisted the fender straight with no effort. Same with the handlebars. Brushed away grass and dirt clods, but not fussy. When done, he started to say, “Marion—that’s a damn sorry name for anyone who stands up to piss. Why’d your folks—” but then music in his pocket caused him to reach for his phone. “I might have to take this,” he said as if apologizing. “You mind?”

  He steadied the bike, then checked caller ID. An awkward moment for Quirt—should he remove the helmet or put the phone on speaker? I was thinking, If he turns his back, I’ll break his neck.

  Quirt, a survivor, wedged the phone under his helmet instead. Told the caller, “I’m sort of in the middle of something, so don’t talk, just listen. You didn’t tell me to dress for company. Understand my meaning? So give me a few minutes—dumbass.”

  The phone rang again as he put it away, the same music which I finally recognized: “Flight of the Valkyries.” What had thrown me was trying to match the tune with some cowboy classic—or country rap, which I wouldn’t have known anyway.

  Quirt, phone in hand, confided to me, “Persistent prick, isn’t he?” and this time put it on speaker, saying into the phone, “Harris, you got the brains of a duck. Don’t you know how to take a hint? A fella here named Marion Ford is listening to every word, so go ahead, shoot your mouth off all you want. You remember Marion—the ol’ boy who took your rifle, then should’ve spanked your bitch ass.”

  The crazy biker knew about the rifle incident, too.

  Harris Sanford didn’t speak for several seconds. Then said, “I must have the wrong number.”

  Quirt jumped on that. “Don’t you hang up on me, you prissy bastard. I got a question—no, two questions. Harris? Don’t pretend you can’t hear me.”

  Another long silence before Harris said, “Christ, I called three times. We didn’t expect Ford and the old man to be here. Don’t you check messages?”

  “Son, on the back of a Harley Shovelhead, especially the muffler system I got—” Quirt got that far, then realized what he’d just heard. “What old man? If you done screwed up again, I got no choice.”

  Harris said, “Don’t threaten me. Jesus Christ, why are you talking to Ford? He’s the one who—”

  “Threaten you?” Quirt cut in. “When I stick a gun up your ass, that’ll be your first clue. I asked a simple question: How many people did you invite to this monkey hump?” Then glanced at me as if we were buddies, two good ol’ boys bonded by this rich kid’s stupidity. Actually covered the phone to ask me, “Can you believe this shit?”

  I replied, “Leland Albright, that’s who he’s talking about. He owns the property.”

  “The head honcho, huh? Where is he?”

  “About three hundred yards up the road. You’ll see a black Escalade. Why not put the rifle away and we’ll get this straightened out.”

  That ended our friendship. “Shut your damn mouth,” he said, then asked Harris, “Did you bring your uncle’s whatchamacallit?”

  Silence, then Harris answered, “His lockbox, yeah. It’s in my truck. But we haven’t done the other thing yet because they were here when we showed up.”

  Quirt didn’t like that. “Goddamn it, then get your froggy flippers on or whatever it is you use. I ain’t leaving here without at least five hundred K in ivory. Or cash money, which you don’t have being a worthless punk.”

  “You’re taking advantage of something that’s not my fault,” Harris argued. “Why?”

  Quirt said, “’Cause your eight seconds are up, cowboy,” then asked, “What about the elephant? You harvested them tusks yet?”

  I don’t know why that surprised me. The biker had dropped enough hints.

  Harris stammered, “No . . . no idea what you’re talking about—” which pushed Quirt over the edge, him saying, “You better be up to your elbows in Jumbo blood by the time I get there. And have a chain saw primed. I want that ivory.”

  He slammed the phone against his thigh, the rifle slipping from under his arm before he caught it with his bionic hand. Got it under control, put the phone away, then said, “I’m startin’ to hate that song,” when “Flight of the Valkyries” summoned him again.

  He didn’t answer this time. Gave me his full attention while he limped closer, feeling the spill he’d just taken. Stopped and considered the saddlebags, wondering if a .357 revolver was a better choice than a Winchester. Decided it was but kept track of me while he made the switch. Once he had the revolver out, he checked the cylinder before leaning the rifle against the Harley. Brain-damaged but still a careful man.

  “This is the last place I expected to see you,” he said. His voice different, talking like a farmer, with his sideways mouth, but deep into something, his mind already made up. “You got your gun in there?” He meant my truck.

  “Look for yourself,” I answered. “You don’t really expect Harris to kill an elephant with a .22 rifle, do you? He’s the one you need to worry about. The other day, he almost shot me in the head.”

  Quirt said, “I heard that story. But I like the one where you left Deon out there to drown better.” He used his big-barreled pistol to designate a grassy patch. “I want you on the ground before I go through that truck. You sure a pistol ain’t in there?”

  “I never claimed there wasn’t.”

  “Don’t get sassy. If I find a weapon—listen to me, now—if I do, I’m going to call Deon and tell him to burn down your house. He’s on his way to Sanibel with high hopes for them Pelican cases. Oh—and five gallons of gas.”

  I thought, Warn Tomlinson, but said, “He won’t find what you’re after.”

  “Then he’ll start a nice fire and convince the hippie. Or set the hippie on fire—I don’t give a shit as long as I get what I came for.”

  “There’s an easier way,” I told him. “I’ll take you there myself—but call off Deon.”

  “What I want is not to have to repeat myself. On the ground, goddamn it!” He waved the pistol. “Toss your wallet toward me first. And I’ll need the PIN code for your debit card if you got one.”

  Apparently, he was going to shoot me execution style. I took my time emptying my pockets while my brain discarded one hope after another. I hadn’t brought a gun, and there was nothing in my truck but a seine net, a pair of white rubber boots, and two scuba tanks, both secured in an aluminum rack. Throw a boot at Quirt and charge him—that was suicide. Or sprint away, zigzagging, and hope he’d miss with the revolver before he remembered the rifle. Almost as stupid.

  The air tanks provided the out I needed when Quirt, after going through my wallet, noticed them. “You’re a scuba diver?”

  I said, “That’s why I’m here. My gear’s in the cab.”

  “You any good?”

  “Better than Harris. You can’t trust him if he’s going to dive that pond. How will you know what he sees and what he doesn’t?”

  Quirt gave that some thought. “I might be willing to postpone this thing between you and me—but it’s gonna happen. I knew from day one.” Then flinched, as if an ant had bitten him, scratching at something under his helmet. “Shit . . . this brain bucket drives me nuts—never had to bother with one before.”

  “Then take it off,” I said.

  He did. I watched him remove the helmet . . . scowl . . . then lob it toward his bike. Didn’t look at me for a moment, then turned, letting me see his face. No mask around his neck today. “What do you think?”

  “This doesn’t have to go south,” I replied. “The cops have you down for a stolen plate and vandalism. So what? If you shoot me, though—”

  “Not that,” Quirt said, “the
job that asshole surgeon did on my face. When the sun’s low like this, his needlework looks like seams on a football. I’ve been thinking about hiring a lawyer.”

  I said, “Oh,” as if interested, then used my shirt to clean my glasses.

  Quirt talked while I made up my mind, asking, “Why don’t you trust Harris?”

  “If you met him,” I said, “you already know.”

  “A whining little punk, yeah. I can’t disagree. Him and the other one, Owen—that’s his name—they’re in to friends of mine, a sort of organization, for three hundred thou. Which those fools let grow into a half a mil. That’s the trouble with rich kids. They don’t know the value of a dollar.”

  “Leland, the property owner,” I replied, “he was just saying the same thing.” Then took a long look at the biker’s face before adding, “I’ve heard that if you sue a surgeon for forty thousand or less, their insurance doesn’t even bother fighting it. Turn a little to your right—the light’s better.”

  “That’s how this happened,” Quirt said, tilting his head. “A kid in his daddy’s Corvette caused me to dump my bike as he was pulling out of a Denny’s. Forty thousand, huh? That ain’t nearly enough.” He glanced at me to warn I’m not stupid, then forgot he was posing and strode to my truck, pistol ready.

  “Ask four million and let them pick a number.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “and sue the kid’s daddy, too. I look like a turd dropped in cat hair, but he didn’t give a shit. I’ll tell you this”—Quirt opened the truck and leaned inside, tossed my dive bag onto the ground, before continuing—“That accident gave me what you’d call a different outlook on life. A few years before—you’d find this hard to believe—I was quite the stud. Even did some art modeling at school. Sparks Community College, which is close to Silver Springs.”

  “You’re talking about Nevada?”

  “The Fighting Cougars, yeah. We were ranked as high as seventeen, Division II football. Point is, that art teacher didn’t hire me ’cause I was a faggot. I had looks.”

  I was thinking, Keep him talking until he makes a mistake. “If you sue,” I said, “the problem will be convincing a jury your financial position has been impacted. What position did you play?”

  Quirt opened my glove box after checking under he seat. “Quarterback—I wasn’t just another pretty face. That’s something else that hitting the asphalt at seventy-plus will do. After business school, I was on the fast track, got recruited by the Plaza. That’s a hotel in Vegas. I would have been a blue-chip prospect, maybe worked for the Bellagio. But then a shit sandwich appears in the form of a Corvette. This idiot hippie kid, tanked up on waffle syrup, with a full-on Denny’s buzz. Two years later, I’m wearing a steel plate in my head and collecting for loan sharks. No more beauty queens fighting to tickle my pud. Instead, now what I do is, I play Frankenstein and scare the shit out of deadbeats like those two.”

  He stood, looked down the road, letting his anger build, his mind on Owen and Harris. Or not. I was worried the word hippie had connected Tomlinson with the Corvette.

  “Did you date any fashion models?” I asked him, Ava Albright on my mind.

  Quirt gave me that look again—I’m not stupid—and slammed the truck door. “I was sort of hoping I’d find your pistol. If it wasn’t for them scuba tanks, I’d’ve loaned you mine. My rifle, I mean. Put it in reach, with you on the ground, and backed away ten paces. Ever see A Fistful of Dollars? Sort of like that. It’s still going to happen, but let’s take care of some business first.” He went to the Harley and yanked the rifle from its scabbard.

  Insanity . . . now he was challenging me to a showdown.

  I said, “Quirt, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but it doesn’t make much sense to collect money from Owen and Harris, then risk it all in a shoot-out. Think about it.”

  “Hell, hoss, I’ve done it. You’ll be my fifth notch—not that I’d notch these fine buffalo-horn grips.” He held up the revolver to show me black handles on chrome.

  The man was unbalanced, so I tried twisted reasoning. “This is different. For one thing, I don’t owe you money. But what’s really going to piss people off is if you hurt that elephant. Shoot me, to be honest, it’s no big deal—the news media, I’m saying. But shoot an elephant, people are going to be screaming for your head. I’m telling you, Quirt, this is a bad idea.”

  He filed that away, then motioned to the hood of the truck. “You ride up there. I want your back to the windshield so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll drive.” He waited until he’d opened the door to ask, “Are you saying I’m crazy?”

  “A college quarterback is smart enough to walk away from a situation like this. Something’s not right with the way your mind’s working—have you seen a specialist?”

  Quirt appreciated me not ass-kissing. “Good for you. I was losing faith in your style, ol’ buddy. But now I’m gonna tell you what’s what. ’Bout three weeks ago, I finally found that kid in the Corvette. Who wasn’t such a kid, it being six years since the Denny’s incident, but he still bawled like a baby when I gave him my rifle and backed away. What I told him was, ‘You get first move.’ He was still bawling when he made it . . . my fifth notch.” White ceramic teeth grinned while he added, “I’ve got me an undefeated season going.”

  “Your fifth gunfight,” I said.

  His grin widened. “Sure as hell not the fifth person I’ve killed. You got any idea what it’s like collecting for Vegas loan sharks? Those boys are like ticks in Italian shoes.”

  I said, “That’s my point. Your lifestyle’s not normal.”

  Quirt extended his arm; the stainless snippers made a hedge-clipping sound. “Normal? Hell, I left out the best part. See, what I did was I cut the kid’s trigger finger off first—but not for the reason you think. Well”—he wanted to be honest—“there’s no doubt cutting his fingers off gave me an edge in a shooting contest. What I’m saying is, I like hurting people since my wreck. It was just my way of thanking the kid for opening up a whole new way of life.”

  He said it in a bragging way to conceal what I believed he actually meant. “You want someone to stop you—is that it, Quirt? If it is—”

  Face coloring, he shouted, “Let me finish my story! This happened out in the desert, mid-May, not even a month ago. No one around, so I cut that boy’s nose off next, and”—he clicked his pincers to illustrate—“a snip here, a snip there. Well, I just sort of lost control after that. As you can understand, that had to be my last night in Nevada. As to the loan sharks, they’ll be looking for me, too.”

  He enjoyed my reaction—a look of disgust—and was adding gory details when we heard pop . . . pop-pop: a small-caliber weapon, three careful shots fired long spaces apart. It puzzled him. He reached for his phone, saying, “That dumbass Harris, he told me his daddy had a Remington big bore rifle he could use—something that could handle the job.” Then dialed and put the phone to his ear.

  “Shit—voice mail,” he said, and tried again, muttering, “Answer, damn you.”

  He was dialing Harris Sanford a third time when his hopes were realized. BOOM . . . BOOM—the report of a heavy-caliber weapon from somewhere near the pond. A trumpeting call, more like an elephant’s scream, followed. Then a third shot, BOOM, that chased a flock of egrets out of the sunset, a sky streaked with pink and turning indigo.

  Moonrise was hours away, but it would be dark soon.

  Quirt smiled and put away the phone. “Hope you’re hungry for elephant steaks. Now, sit your ass on the hood like I told you.”

  On the wild ride to the pond, I was thinking, He didn’t make bail. The crazy bastard escaped.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The pasture gate was locked as we bounced toward the Escalade and red Dodge Ram parked outside the fence, no one around, so Quirt laid on the horn, driving way too fast. That’s when Leland staggered out, holding his chest, the office d
oor open behind him, garage open, the concrete building leaden against trees.

  The man’s shirt didn’t show blood but looked wet. He’d been shot. On the hood of my speeding truck, I lay back and banged at the windshield.

  Quirt saw him and locked the brakes. I expected that but still went flying from the hood, which is what he wanted. I landed on my feet but momentum tumbled me. The crazy biker was out, revolver ready, by the time I was up.

  “Shitfire,” he said, “them boys were supposed to be here.” He reached through the window and used the horn again. Looked at the red truck, his mind on the lockbox Harris had promised, but sniffed and said, “Goddamn place stinks. I thought goats were bad.” Then studied the pasture, the musk of elephant strong in the air, it was true, but Toby was not in his usual spot. “That weed-chopper sounds nasty, hoss. I bet those rich pricks locked the gate.”

  The electric fence, he meant, four cables spaced ten feet high. High voltage, low amperage, Owen had told me. Not lethal.

  I hoped that was true, because Leland needed help. He had stumbled to one knee, blood on his face, and was trying to get up.

  “The combination is under the solar panel,” I told Quirt, then ran toward the fence before I could change my mind. The bottom cable was a yard off the ground, humming in synch with three cables above—a sizzling sound. With enough speed, I told myself, I could dive between the first and second cable without feeling much.

  I didn’t feel much . . . until my trailing foot snagged as my hands touched ground on the other side. A hundred thousand volts sparked behind my eyes . . . then it was gone . . . and I was on my feet, Leland’s face dazed as I ran toward him.

  “You’re . . . not burned?” Albright, in shock, was coherent enough to call out. Then pointed vaguely at the pond and said something I didn’t understand. By the time I got to him, I saw what he was pointing at: a bright blue shirt near the cattails, a human arm protruding from what might have been a body.