The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, you’re pretty bad. And you’re pretty drunk, too.”

  “Help me.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t help the bad thing. You’re just gonna have to learn to live with it. The drunk thing, though . . . some sleep will help that. Get some sleep.”

  “Sleep,” I said. “Yeah, I’ll get some sleep. Be sober in the morning.”

  “Right.” She came over, helped ease me back onto the cot, took my boots off and tossed them across the room. “You’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s just too bad,” she said, “that you’ll still be such a bad, bad man.”

  She laughed, a real laugh, looking down at me, and I couldn’t help it, I started laughing too. I watched as she crossed the room, turned down the kerosene lamp until the flame died and the cabin fell into shadows.

  Then she came back, pushed her way into the cot next to me, and covered us with a blanket.

  “Goodnight, Charlie,” she said.

  I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep. I didn’t dream.

  The next day, Saturday, mid-morning, I saw the first of them.

  Right outside the diner, where I drank coffee and forced down a couple of eggs and nursed my raw head, he walked past the window and glanced at me and kept moving. No sign around his neck announcing BAD LUCK INC., no gat in his hand or gang colors, but I knew who he was.

  I paused with the coffee cup halfway to my lips. A black kid, rough looking, out of place in Cuba Landing. Probably the same age as China Bones, but older in almost every way that mattered.

  He made me, no question—hell, he probably made me long before I made him. Walked by the diner, just to check, just to make sure I hadn’t ducked out a back exit or something. Not good.

  I woke that morning to Tassie coming in with the bags of canned foods I brought. “Well, the beast awakens,” she said, smiling, and set the bags on the table. “I was beginning to think alcohol poisoning had finally taken its toll on you.”

  I sat up in the cot, mouth dry, head cloudy. “Coffee,” I said. “Is there coffee?”

  Shaking her head. “Not unless it’s in one of these bags. Did you bring some?”

  “Shit.”

  “Or maybe we can find a few drops of moonshine around here. What do ya say? A little hair of the dog?”

  “Shit.”

  She laughed. I pulled myself out of the cot, stood up. My hand ached. I looked at it, saw that the cuts from the night before were almost gone, healed while I slept. It was just too goddamned bad this healing thing didn’t have any effect on hangovers.

  Tassie had carried the bags all the way up Moker’s Hill from the Rover, a difficult little hike even without baggage. While I got my bearings, she pulled cans out, examined each one. “Canned peaches. Hmm, okay. Hormel chili, hey, that’s always good. Yams? Yams? What the hell were you thinking, Charlie, with the yams? What is this, Thanksgiving all of a sudden?”

  “Sure, it’s Thanksgiving.” I went to the sink, ran the water, washed my face and hands, stuck my head under the faucet and gulped greedily. She kept talking while I drank but I couldn’t hear her.

  When I straightened up, she said, “Hey, how ’bout some breakfast? I was just thinking how great some corn beef hash and yams would be, would you care to join me?”

  I shook my head. “No. I have to get back to town.”

  “You need coffee that bad?”

  “Important things to do.”

  “Ah. You mean there’s some booze left in town somewhere that you didn’t get around to drinking, right?”

  I gave her a look, what I hoped was I’m not in the mood for this, but was probably more like, I am zombie. She just smiled. Smiled and unpacked the grocery bag.

  When I left a few minutes later, she saw me to the end of the clearing and said, “Are you coming back soon?” and her tone wasn’t quite so flip. She even sounded a little sincere, for her anyway.

  “Soon as I can.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Hopefully.”

  She nodded, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her short black hair mussed and the band-aid on her forehead coming loose. I looked at her for a moment, and she found her grin and pasted it on for me. “Well, okay,” she said. “Supper’ll be ready at six, and I’ll be sure to have your pipe and slippers ready.”

  “I might be at the office late today.”

  She squinted one eye at me. “Charlie, are you sleeping with your secretary?”

  Not a word that morning about Bad Luck Inc., although both of us were thinking of them. Well, not entirely true. Tassie was thinking of them, probably, but my head was somewhere else, mulling over the ugly job ahead of me, replaying last night’s encounter with China and his family, thinking about Perrin and Elise and who the boy’s father could be. Drinking coffee, forcing down the eggs, contemplating all of this. And then the thug strode by the diner window and I had more immediate concerns.

  “More coffee, Charlie?” Gloria, standing by the table, coffee pot poised.

  I shook my head, dropped some money on the table, and stood up and left without saying goodbye.

  The thug had been heading west on Main Street. Standing in front of the diner, I looked in that direction, couldn’t see him anywhere. I started walking. Two doors down, in front of the bike shop, he stood in the doorway lighting a cigarette and didn’t look at me when I passed. I kept walking, saw from the corner of my eye the cigarette he’d just lit flicked out onto the street.

  I knew without looking that he was following me now and my headache disappeared and my hands began to ache.

  I had to wonder how he made me. What did he do, wander aimlessly around Cuba Landing until he happened to catch a glimpse of me strolling down the street?

  I went into the bookshop and, ignoring the lady that ran the place, headed straight for the rear exit.

  It let out in a clean, narrow alleyway just big enough for deliveries. No parking back here, just a dumpster and a view of the backs of the shops that lined Antigone.

  No sign of the thug. I expected him to be there, to catch on quickly to the old “slip out the back” thing. Gave him too much credit.

  But getting away wasn’t the plan.

  So I waited, leaning up against the dumpster, watching the mouth of the alley. He didn’t keep me waiting long, bless him. After only a few moments, he appeared, peeking around the brick corner, cigarette dangling from his lips. He spotted me watching him, started to duck out. I said, “Hey.”

  He stopped, stared at me, his face blank and dull.

  I said again, “Hey, man.”

  He nodded at me, and I said, “You got a smoke, man?”

  Still staring, dumbly, blankly, then nodding again and moving toward me. Possible scenarios playing through his head, different approaches he might take to this slight complication. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

  “Thanks, bud, I ran out, dying for a smoke.”

  He handed me the pack, saying, “S’cool,” knowing something was up but not sure of anything else. I took one, handed the pack back to him, and then leaned over to meet his light. With the cigarette going, he put the pack and lighter back in his pocket, started away, and I tossed the smoke on the ground and grabbed him by the back of his collar.

  He tried to twist out of my grip, but I had him good and jerked him off his feet. He tried to spin around, get a shot at me, but I shoved him forward into the dumpster and he exhaled a short sharp burst of air. I grabbed his belt then and forced him to the ground.

  But my footing was sloppy and I stumbled a bit and he managed to pull away from me. While I regained my balance, he scrambled to his feet and swung wild and missed. I backed up one step, on my right foot, then snapped my left up and connected my heel solidly along his kneecap. There was a satisfying crack.

  He howled and dropped, clutching his shattered knee. I knelt down and grabbed him again by the front of his jack
et, pinning his arms with my knees, and pounded his nose, two, three times, until blood and snot and tears covered his face and he was blubbering something I couldn’t understand.

  “Where’s your friends?” I said. “Where are the others?”

  He shook his head, crying, and I hit him again.

  “Where are they?”

  “Ain’t here, man, they ain’t here yet, they ain’t here.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “S’jus’ me, man, please…”

  I looked at him. “Bullshit,” I said, then poised my fist to hit him again.

  “No, please, man, please, izz jus’ me, I swear to fuckin’ God, man.”

  “Why are you alone?”

  “I’m waitin’ on ’em, man, I spotted you and I called Hobby and I’m waitin’ on ’em.”

  “Hobby? Who the hell is Hobby?”

  “The boss, man. Hobby’s the boss.”

  “When did you call them?”

  “Yesserday, after I lost you.”

  “What?”

  “Followed the bitch, man, followed her down. Waitin’ for her to lead us to you, man, so we could whack botha you . . . but she got in your ride and you both bugged out, couldn’t find you. . . .”

  “And then you just happened to spot me at the diner today, that what you’re telling me?”

  “Been lookin’ all over town. . . .”

  He was starting to calm down, the hysterical tone evaporating. So I hit him again, just to remind him of his situation.

  “Stop, please, man, I’m tellin’ you, what do you want?”

  “When are they gonna be here?”

  “Today, man, I don’t know when, sometime today, please . . .”

  “With your boss? With Hobby?”

  “With Hobby. Please, man . . .”

  So he was a scout, charged with keeping an eye on me once he found me again, waiting patiently for the others to arrive, waiting for me to lead them to Tassie. Waiting to take both of us out at once.

  I moved my knees off his arms, pulled back enough to jerk his head off the concrete. “You’re gonna deliver a message for me,” I said. “You’re gonna deliver a warning, you understand?”

  He looked at me, his face bloody and already swelling, tears running openly. “You . . . you ain’t gonna kill me?”

  I placed one hand over his mouth, the other at his stomach. “Did I say that?”

  And the fire flared in my hands, and he screamed against my palm and flailed with all his remaining strength. The fire sizzled against his skin, burned into his stomach, amber light surrounding his torso until his eyes rolled up and he was dead and my hand was buried deep inside him.

  I pulled it out, all bloody and shaking.

  Then my whole body started with it, started trembling, and my teeth chattered like it was winter and I stood up. Hard to breathe. The light faded from my hands and I struggled to draw air into my lungs and concentrated on not trembling.

  After a moment, I pulled it together. My right hand dripped blood, not mine this time. I looked at it, watched it pool in my palm and drip to the concrete and then I stumbled away.

  You’d never guess looking at me that I’d murdered a man in cold blood only half an hour ago. Murdered him, hefted him up into a dumpster and went on my way. Stumbled over to the park, wiped my bloody hands on the grass there, as best I could, then smoothed my hair and walked on.

  They’d find the body in the dumpster, I knew. Probably before the day was over. They—being Oldfield or Forrey or some hapless citizen or the garbage man—and it would make the local paper at the end of the week but by then everyone would know about it. It would be a great mystery. Some black kid, not from around here, no one knows who he is . . . found dead in a dumpster, his stomach nothing but a bloody, gaping hole. And no one would know who killed him or why.

  No one except those who would follow. They’d know, all right.

  And that made me smile, pulling up in front of Ishy’s home. They’d know, and they’d know that taking me down would be no cake walk, not by a long shot.

  The police cruiser was parked in front. One of the town’s fine law enforcement officials visiting, sitting back a spell. I climbed out of the Rover, made my way over to the little concrete stream that flowed from the fountain. I washed my hands more thoroughly, wiped them dry on my pants. Then I crossed the wide expanse of lawn to the front doors.

  Jeannie Angel answered. “Oh,” she said, voice stiff. I was surprised to see her there and ran through the last few days in my head, trying to remember if I’d done anything to her in particular—so little time, so many enemies—but couldn’t come up with anything. I decided to just assume she wasn’t a friend, be done with it.

  Her black hair hung loose over her shoulders today, a bit more casual than the average personal secretary to the mayor, but at least she had all her clothes on and that was more than I could say for Mrs. Ishy the last time I saw her. She said, “Mr. Wesley.”

  “Jeannie Angel.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, and she said, “You’re here to see Bishop? The mayor, that is?” and I said, “Yes,” and then it dawned on me what the problem was. She knew I knew. About her and the Reverend.

  I almost laughed. As if it mattered, for God’s sake, as if her sleeping with Reverend Childe was the most secret and horrible thing going on in this town. Ishy still hadn’t told her he knew all about it, apparently, still hadn’t revealed that her ongoing romps had been the catalyst for this whole ugly mess.

  Really, I almost pitied her just then.

  I followed her into the hall, leaving the front door open, and into the living room. The wide windows were thrown open to the summer afternoon, gauzy white drapes stirring sluggishly and motes of dust floating in the glare of light. A nice room, big and bare of everything but the essentials—plants, a sleek white sofa and chair, a painting of a cornfield hanging over the cold fireplace.

  “Can you wait here?” Jeannie Angel said. “Mr. Ishy is upstairs right now, I’ll just run and fetch him.”

  I nodded, and she stood there a moment longer, looking uncertain. As if she wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come. I smiled at her, shoved my hands in my pockets, and she went upstairs.

  I stood absolutely still in the middle of that clean white room, oak wood floorboards under my feet and furnace-hot breezes blowing half-heartedly through the open windows. No books to look at, no TV to turn on. No distractions, just me and my thoughts.

  I made a decision right then. As far as I knew, Ishy didn’t have an inkling about his wife—he knew all about Jeannie Angel, yes, but how would he react if he knew his wife was getting the very same Reverend treatment? He’d hit the roof, no doubt about it. He’d start salivating, cursing, calling down all the Hosts of Heaven with his rage.

  That, I had to see.

  I heard somebody coming down the stairs in the foyer, turned to the door just in time to see Forrey in all his craggy-faced glory.

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at me speculatively. He leaned against the doorframe, big hand resting on his gun belt, very Gary Cooper. After giving him a few seconds to feel cool about himself, I said, “Afternoon, Officer Forrey.”

  He grimaced. “That’s Captain Forrey, Charlie. What brings you here?”

  “Here to see the mayor, Officer—excuse me, Captain Forrey.”

  “He’s very busy right now. Tell me what you want, I’ll relay the information.”

  I said, “Well, I suppose I could do that. But see, I’ve come all this way, and you don’t wanna send me home all disappointed, do you?”

  He pushed himself up from the doorframe. “Charlie, disappointing you is just about the least of my concerns presently. Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

  I said, “No, I don’t think so, Officer Forrey. I’d just as soon wait and see Mr. Ishy personally.”

  “Not today, Charlie. If you don’t wanna tell me what’s on your mind, I suggest you leave.”
<
br />   We stared each other down for a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, and amazingly enough, I blinked first. And would you believe that I sort of liked him right then? Of all the people in this town, Forrey’s hatred of me was probably the purest and cleanest and least selfish. He hated me because I was a cop killer and that was a pretty good reason when you really thought about it.

  I said, “I don’t have any bones with you, Captain Forrey. But I need to see Ishy.”

  He apparently sensed the change in my approach, because his aggressive stance eased and he slowly moved his hand away from his gun belt. “The mayor’s a trifle indisposed just now, Charlie.”

  “I think he’ll want to see me. It has to do with our little blackmail arrangement. Need to keep him up to date.”

  He made a little hmph sound back in his throat. He took another step into the room, his face not changing. “Talk to me, Charlie, or leave. Simple as that.”

  “I ’preciate you putting it to me straight, Captain. Just the same, I think I’ll wait.”

  He sighed, and now my bullheadedness looked ready to pay off. Given other circumstances, he’d arrest me, maybe knock me upside the head for good measure, anything to get me out of Ishy’s house. But of course, I was a bit different from most other two-bit criminals; I was a two-bit criminal who’d made a deal with the mayor.

  Just then Forrey’s walkie-talkie squawked, and Oldfield’s tinny voice jumped out of it: “Car Three to Forrey . . . request back-up for possible altercation at 45 Main . . . reports of a disturbance in alley . . . en route presently.”

  Forrey scowled, unclipped the talkie from his belt. “Ten-Four, Car Three. Presently at the mayor’s residence. In route.”

  Oldfield responded with something I couldn’t make out and Forrey clipped the talkie back on his belt and frowned irritably. He looked at me. “If I had any sense, I’d just arrest you and take you with me in the back of the cruiser. Hell, if I really had any sense, I’d just whup the shit outta you and send you on your way.”

  I gave him a look of studied non-committal.

  He shook his head and said, “The mayor’ll be down directly, Charlie. You just sit tight right here in this room in the meantime. Even move, next time I see you I’ll go with my instinct and tear you to pieces.”