The music critic glanced at me, gave a casual nod, and pulled out a Big Walter Horton album, taking the vinyl out and twirling it between his index fingers as he crossed the room toward me.
This one was the obvious leader, older than the other one, somewhere in his thirties. He was beefier, and he'd let his hair grow enough that you couldn't see the fissures in his skull. He had a close-cropped beard and steel-toed boots with silver tips, straight-legged jeans and a black shirt buttoned to the collar.
"Lemme guess," I said to the music critic. "You're the brains of this operation." I glanced over at the TV critic. "Which makes you the nut sack of the deal."
The TV critic punched me. My head snapped at the blow. His knuckles slid across the puke on my cheek, and there was a cold comfort when he muttered "Motherfucker," and he tried to shake the vomit off.
Everything blurred for a moment, long enough that two versions of the music critic wavered before me. He tapped the album gently against one leg.
"The fucker got vomit on me," the TV critic said.
"You punched him, Earl," the music critic said. "He had puke on his face. What the fuck did you expect would happen?"
I took a deep breath, accidentally sucking in a little bile. I tried to spit it out, but all it did was dribble down my chin.
"I hadn't planned company or I'd have cleaned up the joint," I said. "Sorry to disappoint you gentlemen."
"You need better beer," Earl said.
"I'll hop right on that," I said. "I'd hate to think a connoisseur of the finer things like yourself wasn't pleased with the beer selection of the house."
Earl looked at the music critic. The music critic stared at me and said, "He's making fun of you."
Earl moved toward me and the music critic said, "Back off, Earl. You'll just get more puke on you."
"I'll hit him on the other side," he said.
"Not necessary," the music critic said, bringing his arm back and swinging wide and smashing the album across my face. The plastic shattered, and a dozen sharpened shards scrapped across my face. I closed my eye in time to feel one brush across my eyelid. Another caught underneath my eye and I felt the flesh rip and blood run down my cheek.
The music critic drove one of his silver-tipped boots into my side, right beneath my ribs. Air evacuated my lungs, and I pushed my head between my knees in time for whatever remained in my stomach to make a prompt, violent exit.
The music critic grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back. I gasped for air as he crouched in front of me.
"You are fucking with shit that isn't your shit to fuck with," he said. "I'd recommend you back the fuck off and stay out of said shit."
I inhaled and exhaled, then spit in his face. He didn't blink, didn't change expressions, just keep looking at me, holding onto me as he pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face off.
"This is the warning you get," he said. "There won't be a second. Understand?"
I swallowed and regretted it as the burn of acid ran down my throat.
"What d'you do to Izzy?" I said.
"What, faggot?" Earl said. Earl had gone back to the couch and had turned the TV to ESPN.
"Careful," I said. "You might see a black person. Hate for you to burn your corneas out."
"Nothin' but niggers on there anyway," he said, changing the channel. He hit a music station. Kanye and his ego swaggered on about something. Earl struggled to work a groove up, swaying back and forth to the beat.
The music critic turned and looked at Earl. "Turn that shit off now."
"But–"
"Now," he said. Earl clicked the power button on the remote and the TV fell silent.
The music critic returned his attention to me. Lucky me.
"Is Izzy the dog?" he said.
"Yes."
"We did nothing to it. It was asleep when we got here."
"She."
"What?"
"'She.' She's a 'she,' not an 'it.'"
"Very well. She's never moved. I would never harm an animal."
"She's not your type anyway, I mean, if you hoped to ask her out."
He jerked my head and thumped it against the wall. Then, to throw a little accent mark onto things, he punched my knee. I screamed as the world flashed white with shock and pain. I sucked in air and prepared another wail as he shoved his handkerchief into my mouth.
I focused on breathing, pushing and pulling everything through my nostrils. I slammed myself around, tears welling in my eyes, straining to get my arms loose.
The music critic rose to his feet. I blinked through the tears and watched as he drew back a boot and slammed it into my chest. Ribs crack.
He stepped behind me and pulled a knife from inside his coat. There was a snap and then my arms hung free and loose. The sensation of pins and needles ran from my shoulders to my fingertips as blood worked its way through. Not that I was in any shape to do anything. At that moment everything in my brain focused on me not shitting myself, or puking and choking to death.
"Come on," the music critic said. I turned my head away and pulled the handkerchief out of my mouth as they walked out of the room. The front door opened and closed.
I don't know how long I laid there, waiting for something to stop hurting. From the corner of my vision I saw something poke through the doorway. Izzy, sniffing, first at the puke, turning her nose at it, then walking over and licking my face.
I scratched her behind the ears. "You're the worst fucking watchdog ever," I said.
She licked me harder. It hurt like hell but I didn't make her stop.
12
Woody said, "You look like a meat loaf."
"'An American Werewolf in London,'" I said.
"I'm not quoting the movie. This is a statement of fact. You look like the dinner special at Bob Evans."
The pool of people you can call after you get beaten up by white supremacists tends to be shallow. Woody was the only name on my list. He came over with a first aid kit and two cups of coffee from Sheetz.
We sat at my kitchen table as he wiped my face with peroxide. It burned, and I could hear it bubbling. I bit the inside of my cheek.
"Don't be a pussy," he said, pouring peroxide on a fresh cotton ball.
“It hurts,” I said.
"Hey, I can leave and let you suture yourself up. I’m sure that would be interesting to see."
"Sorry if getting wailed on by neo-Nazis puts me in a foul humor."
“You sure they were skinheads, and not just the regular bigoted morons?”
“They seemed to speak the mono-syllabled language.”
"Ten will get your twenty they're with the Brotherhood."
"The Brotherhood" was the National Brotherhood for the Advancement of European Heritage. What sounded somewhat official and prestigious if you weren’t paying attention and didn't notice it was in reality nothing more than a bunch of white trash crackers with a 200-acre compound in Parker County. The Brotherhood was the lynchpin for a network of so-called "white nationalist" groups claiming to be preparing for what it said was an inevitable race war. Mostly, though, they were a group of grade-school dropouts who liked owning guns and seeing how far they could push “open carry” laws by toting an assault rifle through Walmart.
"I'm seeing 'em in town more often," Woody said. "Which is different. The Doctor used to keep everyone on the farm."
"I think we'll both agree the world's changed in recent years."
"The Doctor" was Doctor Frederick Randolph Mayhew, a debunked biologist from Idaho who'd established the Brotherhood after his university decided they didn't want faculty who claimed "the superiority of European genetics is blatantly obvious when compared to the mongrel nations of Africa." It must not have read well in the alumni newsletter.
Mayhew had passed on a decade prior from lung cancer, going to whatever white wonderland waited for him on the other side. Lacking unified leadership, the organization fell apart not long afterwards. Obama's first election fueled a
resurgence, though, as your grandmother started spouting Kenyan conspiracy theories and coworkers began sharing email chains about FEMA death camps. Nothing seemed to make a certain class of cracker more nervous than his or her president being a guy who, a few decades back, you could have demanded to move to the back of the bus.
No one was sure how many folks were on the compound. Mayhew had always prided himself on the group’s self-sufficiency, staying off of the grid, raising its own food, all but declaring its sovereignty. Recently, though, more members were seen in town, playing the role of “good neighbor,” buying groceries and seeing local doctors and working to integrate into the community. The Brotherhood hadn’t gone so far as sponsoring a Little League team, but hey, give it time, I supposed.
All of that was easy enough to do when you considered that part of the reason Mayhew had chosen Parker County was because it was the least racially integrated county in all of West Virginia. Hell, society had already done all the work for them. I’d gone through 12 years of school without once ever knowing someone who was another skin color.
"What I want to know," Woody said, "was how you didn't know they were here. What'd they do, park and hike over here?"
Billy's property sat a quarter-mile off the main road, up a paved road Billy had paid for himself since he said he didn't intend to bust a truck axle hauling ass up and down a gravel road. But it was Parker County, and hilly land surrounded damn near everything around you.
"That'd be my best guess," I said. "Not like it'd have been difficult."
Woody closed up the wounds on my face with a few stitches, wiped away the rest of the blood, and handed me my coffee. "So who you pissing off enough to bring the Brotherhood down on you?"
I told him about Bobbi Fisher. He listened and drank coffee and finally said, "Walters strike you as the kind to hang with the Brotherhood?"
"Wouldn't surprise me, but it doesn't feel like it's a match made in Heaven. The Brotherhood's more of a 'jackboots on the ground'-level organization, and I can't imagine Walters inviting them over to dinner. I doubt McGinley and Kurt would be happy if they had a white power fiend on the payroll, though."
"They wouldn't care if he was Jack the Ripper so long as he billed hours and didn't leave bloodstains on the furniture." He rested his elbows on the kitchen table. "You going to keep looking for her?"
“No reason not to, outside of common sense. My calendar is clear, and I don't take well to being told what to do.”
Woody put away his medical supplies into a dopp bag. "While we're on the subject of what you should or shouldn't be doing, any reason you had beer in your refrigerator?"
"Kept it for company."
"You keep loaded guns for kids to play with, also?"
"Don't 'Big Book' me Woody. I'm not in the fucking mood for it."
"I'm not going thump on you, because it's plain you've had enough of that for the night. I will say you might not want to keep booze around the house unless you intend to drink again." He looked at me with one of those long, soul-searing looks I absolutely hated. "Are you drinking?"
It was hard to lie to a man who'd come over to my house and stitched up my wounds. But I did it anyway.
"No, I'm not," I said.
Woody nodded. "If you're saying you're not, then you're not." He motioned toward Izzy. Izzy was stretched out next to the table, face buried between her front paws, asleep. "How was she during all of this?"
"Grand. She slept through most of it."
"She might not be the best guard dog."
"No, but she's one hell of a doorstop," I said.
Woody leaned over and rubbed her head. Izzy perked up, rolled her head upward and licked his hand.
He gave me a serious look. "You got a gun."
"An old .38. Keep it in my sock drawer."
Woody smiled. "I'm sorry, I meant a 'gun,' not some a pea-shooter." He rose to his feet. "I'll be right back."
Woody went out the front door. I sat at the table, feeling every hurt and pain my body had to offer. It was a staggeringly generous amount. I tried to imagine what sleep would be like that night, what just laying down would be like. My imagination wasn't good enough to picture it.
Woody walked in with a nine-millimeter pistol and a box of ammo. He set both on the table in front of me.
"A CZ-75," he said. "They made 'em in the Czech Republic. Sixteen shot magazine. Excellent stopping power."
It was heavier than I expected, and it caught me off guard and I fumbled with the weight.
"They're not the best concealed carry gun,” he said, “but if you have it drawn and you shoot someone with it, they’re stop moving, no questions asked." He stood up. "Come by the house and you can practice shooting it. Think you can manage to not get your ass kicked between now and then?"
"I'll do my best."
I walked Woody to the front porch and watched as he got in his car and drove away. Back in the kitchen I stared at the pistol. I stared at it until I got tired. That took 10 seconds, tops. I double-checked the locks on the door, then realized the pair from the Brotherhood had gotten in despite the locks, so I jammed a kitchen chair underneath the doorknob until the door couldn't move, and I did the same to the back door, checked all the windows, and took Izzy and the gun to the bedroom.
Izzy sprawled out on the bed, slumping her fat head on the pillow next to mine. I loaded the pistol and set it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock and climbed underneath the covers with my clothes on. Everything ached, and what didn't ache didn't count, and I laid there for a while before exhaustion won over and I fell asleep.
13
I invited Doria over to dinner the next night, an act of monumental stupidity since my abode reeked in both the literal and metaphorical sense of “brooding loner.”
"I was wondering if you ever planned to call," she said when I called.
"I was playing hard to get," I said.
"Don't. I don't like using my energy chasing something when I could use playing with what I catch."
Jesus Christ, but what the hell could I say to that?
I spent that afternoon cleaning and dusting and hiding all variety of sins, shoving things into closets and underneath the bed. I also dumped all the booze down the kitchen sink. I heard Woody's voice the entire time, sounding smug and superior and right.
This was all done between bouts of wanting to scream from pain and breaks to catch my breath. I popped Aleve along with the pills for my knee, and together they cut the edges off of everything enough to make life tolerable.
Doria showed up looking sexier than she had the night at the bar, dressed in jeans and an untucked man's dress shirt and a paper-thin blue cardigan sweater. Part of the sexiness was in knowing what was going on underneath the clothing.
She held a bottle of wine. "Thought it'd be nice to go with dinner." Then she caught sight of me. "What the hell happened to your face?"
"The Jehovah's Witnesses got mad when I wouldn't take their magazine," I said as I took the wine and kissed her.
Izzy walked up to Doria and pushed her face in hand. Doria laughed and rubbed on Izzy’s head.
“Cute horse,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s Izzy. I plan to ride her into battle someday.”
I'll admit I don't possess a huge repertoire of cooking options, but I've got a few things I used to make regularly, back at a time I had shits to give. Weirdly enough, one of them was shrimp scampi, or at least my version of it, which was just sauteing shrimp in enough butter and garlic to stop a beating heart. The noodles were boiling, and I had just put the shrimp on as we walked into the kitchen. I took a wooden spatula and pushed the shrimp around the inside of the skillet while Doria rummaged through drawers.
"You have a bottle opener?" she said. "Open this bad boy up and let it breathe."
I pointed toward a drawer. She found the corkscrew and pulled the wine cork open with a "pop."
"What about wine glasses?"
"Somewhere," I said. "
Most of my wine experience is with a screw-top lid, and those don't need much in the way of breathing or glasses."
She took two Mason jars I used as drinking glasses out of a cabinet. "A Boone's Farm man. I can appreciate that." She filled one glass and tipped the bottle to start the second when I said, "None for me, thanks."
Doria paused and looked at me. "Are you serious? Because if I drink this bottle by myself, I'm gonna look like a drunk, you know."
I kept my mouth shut and focused on the shrimp. The noodles finished boiling, so I dumped them into the colander in the sink.
Doria sipped wine and leaned against the refrigerator. “So what’s the situation with you and your little woman?” she said. “I mean, it’s obvious she’s never lived here, since no woman in her right mind would actively have anything to do with this place.”
"I'll leave your comments with the decorator. And that seems like something of a trick question."
"Afraid you'll get caught up in the snare of a husband-hungry middle-aged cougar?" Doria said.
"I might not have used that exact phrasing, but it's close enough for government work, sure."
"Good. I'm not much for snares, though I've enjoyed the occasional four-point restraint."
"You do know the right thing to say to keep a boy's attention, Doria. It's an intriguing trait."
"'Intriguing' will do in a pinch. And I'm waiting on you to answer my question."
I added liquid to the shrimp. “We’ve been separated two years, and she still lives in Morgantown. We've not seen each other in more than a year.”
“Why aren’t you divorced yet?”
“Because I haven’t always been sure I wanted to be divorced. There’s complicated feelings there. Maggie and I, we separated after I left the state police, and I started drinking too much. It’d been fine for years, because Maggie was a reporter for the newspaper in town, and those people can hold their booze, and she’d always been able to keep up with me, but it got to a point where she couldn’t because I had nothing holding me back, so she kicked me out. That was my wake-up call, I suppose, my ‘bottom,’ they call it in meetings, and I spent a few months getting sober and I thought that would work and it didn’t. She decided she was content without me, so I licked my wounds came back to Serenity, because I had nowhere else to go.”
Midnight Lullaby Page 5
