He stood up, pointed his finger at Mack. The finger almost touched Mack’s nose. The Reverend said, quieter, almost gently, “Do you understand that, Mack, my friend?”
The Aarons brothers were transfixed, obviously under the influence of more than just the potent moonshine. I took another drink.
In a reverent tone Mack said, “I . . . I understand. You’re . . . you’re the Preacher of the Apocalypse . . . ain’t you?”
The Reverend relaxed a bit, and the good ol’ boy smile reappeared. He sat back down, took the jug and had a drink, then said, “Hell, I don’t know. Just trying to do God’s work as I see it. Sorry for getting worked up and all. It’s just that I take my calling very seriously, and I wanted you to know that.”
Mack shook his head. “I’m the one should be saying sorry, Reverend. You’re as fine a Man a’ Gawd as I ever seen.”
Henry said, “Amen! We’re just awful proud to have ya here.”
The Reverend laughed, raised the jug above his head. “Damn proud to be here! Let’s have a drink on it!”
And the jug went around amid raucous laughter and a chorus of amens.
All the talk after that was easy, and the Reverend and me and the Aarons brothers were friends. Which, I found out later, was very important to Reverend Childe.
You have to become someone’s friend before you can betray him.
I remember the sky getting gray with the approaching morning, and a dull ache behind my eyes. I think I remember leaning out the car window as the Reverend drove and throwing up along the side of the road in a long and colorful stream of half-digested food. And I think I remember thinking, So much for Mrs. Edels’s chicken-and-dumplings, and laughing weakly.
He sang a song as he drove, riding on the dividing line as often as he rode in the right lane. I didn’t know it, but it sounded like a cross between a hymn and an Irish drinking song. I tried to ask him about it, but my tongue wouldn’t work, and halfway through my struggle I forgot what it was I wanted to ask him.
He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching the bottle of moonshine we’d taken with us when we left the Aarons brothers cabin. It sloshed all over the car seat and all over my leg. He laughed, and I laughed, and then I threw up again, sticking my head out the window just in the nick of time. The Reverend said, “You all right there, Charlie?” but didn’t wait for an answer. He was singing again.
How we made it back to the church without being caught, or without being killed, I’ll never know. But suddenly we were in the parking lot and the sun was coming up and we stumbled into each other and giggled stupidly as we made our way to the door. The Reverend fumbled with the keys, dropped them at least eight times. Each time they fell we laughed until tears streamed down our faces, made “shh, shh” noises at each other.
Both of us had to piss like crazy, so we half-walked, half-fell down the stairs and jostled our way into the restroom. We argued briefly over who would use the toilet first—I guess we forgot that there was a bathroom upstairs—then gave up and just pissed at the same time. The toilet was big enough for two, we reckoned, laughing like idiots.
He finished, zipped up, but my stream still went strong. I think I made a kind of victory noise, like “Whoo!” as if I’d proven myself greater than him by the sheer strength of my urine stream. Then I threw up again.
The Reverend got me a glass of water and some pills, helped me get them down, then said, “Okay, Charlie, ol’ son, ol’ boy, ol’ man. . . . Okay, Charlie, let’s get you ta bed.”
Despite my throwing up, it wasn’t until then I started to feel pretty bad. He helped me out of the bathroom and up the stairs. He was almost as drunk as me; his grip on me failed more than once and I almost toppled down the stairs. But he always managed to catch my arm or my shirtfront and haul me back up.
In my room, he let me fall onto my bed, then paused a moment to get his breath back. I murmured, “Uh. Christ . . . I don’t feel so good, Rev.”
“Well, damn!” he said, wheezing, “Ain’t no wonder. We went just a tad . . . just a tad over-board, didn’t we?”
I laughed weakly. “Just a tad . . . I’ll never drink again.”
Both of us found that remark hilarious. We laughed again, and he said, “Well, let’s not be saying nothing crazy, now.”
He started out of the room, singing that song again. I still didn’t know what it was. I remembered that I wanted to ask him about it, but then I realized I didn’t really care after all. I closed my eyes for the inevitable bed-spins.
And, far away, I heard him singing, or muttering, or talking. “Motherfuckers,” he was saying. “Motherfuckers, cocksuckers, stupid sons-a-bitches. . . .” And then he laughed, and said louder, so that I could hear him, “Hear that, Charlie?”
“Uhh.”
“Hear that? They’re stupid sons-a-bitches, brother. . . . And we got this fucking town in our back pocket.”
“Uhh.”
“Right in our back fucking pocket. . . .”
And that was all.
I woke up once about noon, stumbled into the bathroom to throw up one last time. I splashed water on my face, then fumbled back to my room and fell on the bed.
When I opened my eyes again, the bedside clock told me it was almost two in the afternoon. I lay there for a minute, then decided I felt all right. I sat up, took a deep breath. My mouth tasted like a sewer, but other than that, and a vague dullness in my muscles, I felt much better.
The Reverend’s room was empty. I went into the bathroom, took a couple aspirins just to be on the safe side, and climbed under a long cold shower. Then I shaved and brushed my teeth three times. Most of the pain from the dental work was gone now, but by scrubbing so vigorously I managed to draw blood.
I dressed in my new clothes and ventured downstairs. I didn’t exactly feel like a new man, but I at least looked it.
He was down in his study again, working on the sermon for Wednesday night. He looked up when I came in, his eyes bleary. A half-smile touched his lips. “Well, lookee you,” he said, his voice raspy. “Ain’t you looking sharp?”
I grinned, and when I answered him, my voice matched his for gruffness. “I look better than I feel, if you wanna know the truth.”
He chuckled, leaned back in his chair wearily. “Well, I reckon we had it coming. I just don’t know what we were thinking, getting all tanked up on that nasty shit. But . . . live and learn, huh?”
“That’s a nice sentiment, but I doubt we’ve really learned anything. Next time the urge comes on to get drunk, we’ll be right back up there at the Aarons brothers place.”
He lifted one finger in the air, said, “Ah! Not necessarily. I was thinking about that this morning while you was getting your beauty sleep. See, I’d plumb forgot that you were working for me now—”
“Oh, yeah. I guess I am.”
“But seeing as how I really don’t have anything ’round the church here for you to do, I figured you could maybe run an errand or something. What do you think about that?”
“Sure,” I said.
“If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you take the car to get a tune-up—” he paused thoughtfully, then added, “—and some new tires too, what the hell. Then go somewhere outta town here and buy us some real booze. Maybe four, five bottles of Jack. You feel like doing that?”
“You’re the boss, Rev. Actually, I was going to ask you if I could use the car today, anyway. I need to go back up to Memphis and buy a few things.”
He said, “You gotta go up there? Can’t you buy ’em here in town?”
“I need a suit. The store here didn’t have anything I liked, so I thought I’d hit a few resale shops up there. Do you mind?”
He shrugged. “Hell, no, I don’t mind. Just don’t forget the Jack.”
I promised him I wouldn’t forget, and he tossed me the keys to the Malibu.
At the garage, an overly-friendly mechanic whipped the car into tip-top shape—gave it an oil change, replaced the spark plug
s, adjusted the timing, put in a new oil filter, and slapped a set of brand-new Goodyear tires on it. I remembered the broken taillight right before I left, and the mechanic took care of it in short order at no extra charge. He took my money cheerfully, told me to come back any time. By three-thirty I was on the road north, and the Malibu drove like a Rolls Royce.
I still felt a little raw from drinking the hell-juice the Aarons brothers called shine, but going back up to Memphis made me feel better.
After about an hour, I crossed the state line into Tennessee, and in no time I was in Memphis proper. I spent a good amount of time just driving around and checking places out. I found a package store and bought four bottles of Jack Daniels for the Reverend and two bottles of vodka for me.
Just short of six-thirty, I’d dealt with all the business that had brought me back to town. By then, the heat of the day had begun to take its toll on my booze-ravaged head. I forced down a cheeseburger and fries at a fast food restaurant on Union, then drove around looking for a bar—hair of the dog was in order.
There were bars on just about every corner in Memphis, but I remembered one in particular that we had passed on Madison that previous Sunday. I found my way there.
It was a small, dark place with a jukebox and a pool table that took up half the floor space available. Men in t-shirts and baseball caps lounged at the bar, drinking beer, and looked up at me with brief friendly nods when I came in. Then they went back to their conversations. Two guys playing pool tipped their beers at me, then went back to their game. The waitress winked at me and said, “What can I get for ya?”
I ordered a shot of house whiskey and an ice cold Killians, and sat at a small table near the jukebox. A moment later, she came back and I slammed down the shot, chased it, and immediately felt better.
My intention had been to have my shot and beer and then leave, but the bar was so cool and comfortable I wound up staying awhile.
So I was sitting there, thinking warm little thoughts, sipping my second beer, when the chair across from me pulled back and the girl sat down and smiled at me.
I nearly choked on my beer.
Her again. The little back-street femme fatale.
Her smile, so disarmingly confident that I wouldn’t belt her, threw me off for only a moment; I gathered my cool quickly, took another sip of my beer, and said, “I have a new name for you. Bad Penny.”
“I like that,” she said. “If I didn’t already have a name, I’d choose that one.”
Clear brown eyes stared at me frankly. She propped her chin in her hands, her elbows resting on the table, and just watched me as if expecting me to perform a magic trick or something. Her black hair was slicked back and curved under her ears. She wore what could have been the same clothes she had on the night she suckered me—white t-shirt, black tights—sans the leather jacket.
Finally, I gave in under the pressure of her stare and said, “If you’re planning on mugging me again, you’ll have to wait. I’m busy drinking now.”
She said, “Oh, now, don’t be so mean. I wouldn’t think for even a second about mugging you again. Not after the other night.”
“No?”
“Not a chance.” She gazed casually around the bar, her pale face seemingly without a care, eyes skipping over the men who looked at her with unabashed interest. Fixing her gaze on the bar, she said to me, “Buy a girl a drink?”
I laughed. “What, are we friends now? I think you can buy your own.”
“I don’t have any money. See, somebody busted into my house and stole almost everything. Left two of my friends all bloody and bruised.”
“What a shame. Be sure to give them my regards.”
She looked back at me, eyes narrowed. I couldn’t make up my mind if the smile on her face was playful or dangerous. Probably a bit of both. She said, “Come on. One drink?”
Her sharp little tongue jutted out between her sharp little teeth and briefly touched the corner of her lips. I thought about that quick, crazy kiss, the sharp tongue touching at my mouth, and a bit of the wild madness it had inspired in me came back. Sighing, I motioned for the waitress.
The girl ordered a whiskey sour and I asked for another beer. We sat silently looking at each other until the drinks came. Her taut leg kept fidgeting under the table, and the smile never left her face. When the waitress brought the drinks, the girl took a long sip. She set the glass back down half-drained and said, “You know, I think that was exactly what I needed.” Then, “I suppose introductions are in order, what do you think?”
I didn’t answer.
She said, “My name is Tassie,” and stuck her small white hand at me.
I ignored it. After a moment, she dropped her hand, sighed deeply, and said, “Don’t be that way, huh? Here I am, trying to be friendly and all, and you give me the cold shoulder. Not very gentlemanly.”
“Look. I’m not sure what you’re used to dealing with, but in case you forget, we already have a history. You and your goons mugged me. You took every penny I had to my name. I don’t know what sort of fool you think I am, but—”
“You had your revenge, didn’t you?” she said. “You found me. You thrashed my friends—which was very impressive, by the way, I don’t think they’ll ever forget you—and you took almost all our money and one of our guns. Now, I suppose we could hold a grudge about that forever, but what the hell? Turnabout is fair play, like they say.”
“What do you want?”
She shrugged. “Gee, I don’t know. What about you?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I want you to leave me alone. In fact, why don’t you just finish your drink and move on?”
She shook her head. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. You and I need to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
She raised a finger at me in an imitation of disapproval. “You’re wrong. There’s lots to talk about. The way you cleaned up on Vinnie and Bone, for instance. I never thought I’d see anyone get the best of those guys, but you did it. Very impressive. And then just grabbing me and planting one on my mouth. Dashing. Big-time Errol Flynn.”
“It was a momentary lapse of reason.”
She nodded. “Those are the best kind, aren’t they? I have them all the time, and they never let me down.” She took another drink of her whiskey sour, then said, “You have the advantage over me now. I told you my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“No, I guess you don’t.”
She let out a harsh breath of air. “Still being the tough guy? Come on. I’m really debasing myself here.” I didn’t respond. She said, “Christ, man, can’t you get over it? What’s a little mugging between friends? And a little blood and money and wasted coke and quick kisses? In the long run, you know, they don’t mean a thing.”
Against my better judgment, I was softening. A remarkable girl. Obviously a criminal, but so forthright in her life of crime that you couldn’t help but be charmed. She also had the good fortune to be very attractive—sort of a post-punk Clara Bow, gone horribly wrong somewhere on the ethics scale.
But who was I to judge? Ethically speaking, I wasn’t exactly Joe Friday.
She could sense I was warming up. Grinning, she said, “Okay, let’s try it again, from the top.” She offered me her hand again. “Howdy, stranger. My name’s Tassie. What’s yours?”
I took her hand, but didn’t return the smile. “Charlie Wesley,” I said.
“Charlie Wesley . . .” she said. “Hm. Somehow I’d imagined a better name. Flint, maybe. Dash Lancer. Something like that.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, I’m not terribly disappointed. Charlie is an okay name. Sort of sounds like a cab driver. Or maybe a construction worker.”
Taking a drink of my beer, I said, “How did you find me here?”
She laughed. “Wow! Deja vu, huh? I remember saying something very much like that to you. And you found me by sheer luck, didn’t you? You just happened to be walking down the street, and—voi
la! There I was.”
“But it wasn’t sheer luck this time, was it?”
“Well . . .” She rolled her eyes in an imitation of coy. “No, it wasn’t exactly luck, except in the sense that you actually turned up. I’ve had eyes out for you. About twenty minutes ago, one of those eyes called me on the phone and told me he’d spotted you coming in here. Fortunately, I only live a couple of blocks away. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“If you and your goons don’t hold a grudge, why have you been looking for me?”
“I thought it was important that we talk.”
“You keep saying that, but you haven’t told me anything yet.”
She said, “Has anyone ever told you, Charlie, that you’re incredibly hard to get along with? Okay, then, I’ll lay out all the cards. But I tell you, I can’t stand you ‘right-to-the-point’ types. I mean, you take all the fun out of everything. Although—” she paused, looked thoughtful, “—I should’ve known you would be like that. I mean, what kind of guy just grabs a girl and kisses her, right in the middle of a hit? Someone who doesn’t like to play, that’s who.”
“You were about to lay your cards on the table.”
“Oh, right,” she said. She finished off her drink, motioned to the waitress for another, then got down to it. “This is the deal, Mr. Charlie. You fucked up my men royally. You nearly crushed Vinnie’s windpipe, and Bone is still wearing bandages all over his face from where you smashed his nose. Both of them were crying for your blood—I mean, they were seriously pissed, understand? But the more we talked about it, the more we realized . . .”
She paused when the waitress showed up with fresh drinks, then left me hanging while she drank. I sipped my beer.
The Bastard Hand Page 11
