The Deader the Better

by G. M. Ford

  Floyd looked my way. “You figure we should deal with this now?” he asked with a smirk.

  “What the hell,” I said.

  Monk was driving. It figured. Only a short guy would have a truck so tall. Mickey and Dexter Davis rode in front. In back, two older guys I’d never seen before. Fortysomethings. Too much chin and not enough forehead. Beer bellies, baseball caps, red necks, white socks and Blue Ribbon beer. Each man carried a five-foot length of heavy chain in his hands. Mickey Davis rocked side to side on his feet. He shifted a big box end wrench from hand to hand. “I told you, man. I told you it wasn’t over.”

  “How’s the mouth, Dexter?” I asked his brother.

  “Oooo fud me up, oooo modafuuuder.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a mouthful of mashed potatoes,” said Floyd, easing his right hand casually toward his jacket. In the background, I heard shouts and could sense people scurrying around. Monk waved an aluminum softball bat like a flag. He was feeling bold now. One of those assholes who stays in the back until the fight is decided. Unless, of course, there’s five of him and two of you, and him got weapons and you all don’t, and suddenly sphincter boy starts thinking he’s Bruce Lee. That’s why he darted out from the safety of the pack and began shaking the bat in Floyd’s face.

  “This your girlfriend?” he demanded of me in a shrill voice.

  “That how come he was pushing the wagon?” He laughed at his own joke and darted away.

  Floyd looked my way. His face said, I told you so. Mickey started for me, with the new guys bringing up the rear. Twirling their chains now, like mutant majorettes. Dexter held his ground. I guess he was just along as a symbol. I pretty much thought it was over. Not for us…for them. Floyd’s hand was inside his coat. The odds were stacked against us. I had no illusions. No way Floyd was going to take any kind of a beating. Somebody was about to get shot, and then things were going to get ugly. Monk saved the day by skittering forward and jabbing the bat at Floyd’s face.

  “Huh…are ya…huh?” he screeched.

  In a single fluid motion, Floyd snatched the bat from Monk’s grip, flipped it end for end like a juggler and then backhanded him across the mouth with the business end, sending a spray of blood, spittle and broken teeth arching out into the air. Monk dropped to his knees. Sounded like he was humming Beethoven underwater.

  Floyd flipped the bat across the car to me. I caught it in both hands. With a disgusted look, he pulled his hand from inside his coat and reached down into the side pocket, but I didn’t get a chance to see what he was reaching for. The sight of his buddy communing with mud enraged the chain-swinger on the left. With a bellow, he shouldered Mickey aside and came at me, twirling the chain at head level, grunting now as the chain began to whoosh like a propeller. I had no doubts. If he caught me with the chain, I was never going to play the piccolo again. Mickey was using him like armor. Keeping away from the chain, moving forward in the wake. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Floyd moving toward the other chain swinger. I stepped out from between the cars and faked a lunge at Chainman’s groin and then quickly stepped back. He grunted and gave it everything he had, swinging from the heels, trying to wrap the chain around my neck. I dropped to my working knee. The chain bounced off the car on my left, shattering the rear window. I covered my head and retracted my neck like a turtle. I felt the metallic breeze as the rusted metal passed about a foot over my head and then heard the crash as it plowed into the car on my right. Fortunately for Mickey, the cars had taken most of the bone-crushing velocity out of the chain. Unfortunately for Mickey, Chainman seriously underestimated the physics of force, which sent him spinning, lurching backward as if he’d reached out and grabbed hold of a speeding bus. In an attempt to maintain his balance, he did what every other primate on the planet would have done. He let go. The middle of the chain hit Mickey just above the knee. Leaving three feet of corroded links to wind up Mickey’s leg. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a heavy U-bolt was attached to one end of the chain. I noticed it now, because it hit Mickey in the nuts, sending the wrench clattering to the ground a nanosecond ahead of Mickey. The wrench just lay there. Mickey, on the other hand, clutched his crotch and kicked his feet, his breath coming in gasps, his eyes screwed shut.

  I heard a series of sounds like somebody was playing pot roast tetherball. Floyd had his right foot on a piece of chain. The guy at the other end of it was sitting in a puddle. Nose bent way over, like he was trying to sniff his own ear. Spitting blood into his cupped palm, as if the fluids could be saved and used later.

  Floyd shrugged and opened his hands. Couple of rolls of quarters. Nasty. If you’ve got the sinew to swing them, not only does it save your hands, but the other guy feels like he’s being hit with a hammer.

  Chainman put up his hands, as if to say, Enough. Looked just dumb enough to be dangerous, so I drew the bat back and waited. Never got a chance to find out, though. The Sheriff’s Crown Victoria slid to a stop about a foot from the guy sitting in the puddle. I exhaled for the first time in about three minutes. My body had that lighter-than-air adrenaline rush going through it. Fear is a focuser. Allowing into the senses only those items vital to short-term survival and eliminating the rest.

  When I forced my eyes off Chainman and looked toward the cruiser, I found myself looking down the barrel of Nathan Hand’s revolver.

  “Not me,” I said. “Them.”

  “Hands on your head,” he screamed.

  I dropped the bat, but kept my hands at my sides. Bobby Russell was a lot closer to Floyd than Hand was to me. The barrel of the riot gun must have looked like a sewer pipe. From forty feet I could see the kid’s finger twitching on the trigger, and I didn’t like it a bit. Floyd must have noticed. He stood absolutely still with his hands held out to his sides.

  “Hands on your head,” the sheriff screamed.

  “Do it!” the deputy yelled.

  Floyd looked at me with a bemused expression.

  “Why do they always scream? Do they teach ’em that in cop school?”

  “They must,” I said.

  “Hands on your heads,” Hand bellowed again. Floyd flicked his head toward the rear. As if choreographed, we both turned and put our hands on the tops of the cars directly behind us. I could hear the scraping of their shoes as they moved carefully toward us and then, as I was about to turn my head to see what was taking so long, a gun barrel was jammed hard under my right ear, as if trying to lift me from the ground.

  “The criminals are behind you, Sheriff,” I said.

  “Shut the hell up,” he growled. “Put your right hand behind your head.”

  I followed directions. He slapped a bracelet on my wrist and then dragged it down behind my back, where he attached it to the other one. He grabbed me by the collar and turned me around. “I warned you,” he said. “Now we’re going to see.”

  “Well, looky looky,” Deputy Russell said, holding Floyd’s silver-plated . between his thumb and forefinger.

  “It’s licensed. There’s a copy of my carry permit in my wallet,” Floyd said calmly. Russell stuck his shotgun under Floyd’s chin, forcing his head back. “I want to hear from you I’ll say so,” the deputy said. “Till then you keep your smart mouth shut. You hear me?” When he jerked the gun away, Floyd grinned and rolled his neck a couple of times, then hawked up a little phlegm from his throat and spit a thick green glob onto Deputy Bobby’s shirt. Good shot. Half on, half off the badge.

  The deputy went postal. He began to shake. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to blow Floyd’s head off. Instead, he drew back the butt of the riot gun, his eyes ablaze, aiming to bash Floyd’s brains in, but by then the sheriff had covered the distance between them and grabbed him by the wrist.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  “Do you…did you see…” Russell sputtered. He tried to kick Floyd, but Hand held him off.

  “We’ll add your shirt to the charges.”

  Mickey had stopped break dancing and n
ow rocked rhythmically on his spine, breathing heavily through his mouth. Dexter knelt by his brother’s side. He looked up at me. “Oooo on o a itch,” he mumbled.

  “You really ought to consider speech therapy,” I said. “You sound like Scooby Doo on quaaludes.” Drugs and cartoons. I figured he’d get it.

  Mickey was panting like a spaniel and kneading his groin with both hands. Dexter reached out and, in a touching display of sibling support, patted his brother’s arm.

  “Why doncha kiss it and make it better,” I suggested. He sprang to his feet and started for me. I heard the sheriff shout, “Dexter,” and begin moving our way. Slowly. At an amble. He figured to let Dexter have at me for a few minutes before he intervened. As for me…I figured I could whip a cretin like Dexter with or without hands. I waited until Dexter was six feet away and then threw myself back along the trunk of the car, pulled my knees to my chin and planted both feet in the middle of his chest. The impact sent him staggering backward, sucking for breath. He fell over his brother and landed on his back in a puddle, next to a bloated bag of Doritos and a box of Wheat Thins that bobbed on the brown water like barges. Mickey caressed himself and whimpered. Dexter sucked air in ragged gasps. Tough day all around for the Davis twins. From the other side of the parking lot a small voice sounded. “Those aren’t the ones, Sheriff Hand.” It was Samantha.

  “It’s the other guys.”

  “You just stay out of the way, now, and let us handle this.”

  She pointed to Dexter and Chainman. “It was those moron Davis brothers and those others. They started it. Ask anybody. They almost ran me over.”

  An elderly woman in a bright purple ski jacket stepped out from between some cars.

  “The girl is right,” she said. “These fellas were just defending themselves. They very nearly ran that young woman down.” She waved a hand. “Made all this mess.”

  “S’true,” slurred an old geezer in a red plaid hat with earflaps. They came out of the woodwork to support our side of the story, probably ten people in all, but Hand didn’t give a shit. He began to drag me across the lot by my handcuffed hands. In the distance a siren wailed.

  “Keep back and out the way, now,” he said.

  “But they didn’t do anything,” Samantha insisted.

  “Dey bufted my teef,” Monk gargled.

  “We’ll sort this out down at the station,” Hand said.

  “They got what was comin’ to ’em,” said the woman in purple. She pointed over at Dexter and Mickey. “Those two Davis boys ain’t got the sense God gave a gopher. You know that well as I do, Mr. Hand.”

  Hand didn’t like it. He had the beginnings of an insurrection on his hands. “Let ’em go,” somebody hollered.

  “Have another doughnut,” a shrill voice suggested. Hand turned to Russell. “Put him in the car,” he said, and began dragging me along behind him. I played to the crowd.

  “Dey bufted my teef.” Monk again.

  I knew the voice right away. “Why aren’t you listening to these people?” she said. Hand stiffened and stopped yanking at me. He took a deep breath and turned us both around. Ramona Haynes stood with her hands on her hips.

  “What’s your problem?” she demanded. “These folks here are telling you what happened. Open your ears.” Her cheeks and chin were bright red.

  Hand seemed to choose his words carefully. “You witnessed it, did you, Miss Haynes? Seen it all. Beginning to end.”

  “From beginning to end,” she said. She pointed to her left, where her truck blocked the end of the aisle, motor running, door open. He let go of the cuffs. Put his hands on his hips and looked around at the crowd.

  “Do you want us to sign something or what?” Ramona asked.

  Hand ignored her. Instead, addressing the crowd: “I don’t know whether you folks noticed or not, but several of your fellow citizens have been seriously injured here.”

  As if to punctuate the point, a red and white aid car with a fire department logo slid to a stop behind Monk’s truck.

  “Dey bufted my teef.” Right on cue.

  “They got what was comin’ to ’em,” the old woman repeated.

  “That may be well and good, Mrs. Franklin, but don’t none of that bears on the assault on Deputy Russell.”

  “Only assaulting I seen was you on them,” said Earflaps.

  “Dinna have no cause to be wavin’ a scattergun around.”

  “Why dontcha shoot ’em with your goddamn radar gun, Sheriff?” somebody yelled from behind me. The line got laughs and scattered applause.

  Ramona Haynes stepped over next to the old woman.

  “Tell you what, Sheriff, we’ll all forget about your use of excessive force, and you forget about a little spit.”

  A trio of EMTs started in on the wounded. To my right several store employees were picking our groceries from the mud and water.

  Hand removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He wagged a finger at his deputy. “Turn him loose,” he said.

  “And check that permit he says he got.”

  For a second, I thought Deputy Russell was going to refuse. His face was the color of Boris’s beets. His hand shook slightly as he pulled the key out of his watch pocket.

  “Turn around,” he said. Sounded like he was being strangled.

  Floyd obliged.

  “You, too,” Hand said to me. I turned and offered my manacled wrists for liberation. He grabbed the chain and jerked me close. Whispered in my ear. “I were you, I’d make sure I was somewhere far away. There’s more where these old boys came from. Do you hear me?”

  I did horrified. “Are you threatening me?” I asked in a stage whisper.

  He did incredulous. “Threat? Heh, heh. What are you talkin’ about?”

  I rubbed my wrists. Something about being restrained always makes me feel dirty and less human. As if the way the metal bruises and disregards my flesh somehow carries over into the realm of the spirit and injures me there as well. I turned my back so he couldn’t watch as I tried to massage away the feeling. I worked at calming my breathing, counting my breaths until my senses began to widen and I could hear voices and the rush of tires. The booming of rap on a stereo. And then the shrill kaak of a gull. I looked up to a pair of herring gulls gliding above our heads, air surfers, swooping low toward the litter, gliding close enough for me to make out the black and white polka-dot tails and the perfect red circles decorating the sides of their bills. Dexter and Mickey were on their feet, both bent at the waist, looking a little green but otherwise seemingly intact. Chainman shuffled over to their sides. They formed a tight whispering knot as they watched Monk and his remaining teef get wheeled off on a gurney, along with redneck number two, who walked himself to the aid car with his face pressed into a towel. The deputy got out of the squad car. “Permit’s valid,” he announced.

  The sheriff tilted his head. With a childish show of disgust, Bobby dragged his heels over to Floyd and returned both the permit and the automatic, both of which quickly disappeared into Floyd’s coat. Floyd reached into his pants and pulled out a roll of bills. Opened it up. Took out a couple of singles and held them out.

  “For your dry cleaning there, sport.”

  The kid’s eyes bulged. He slapped the bills to the ground, turned and strode to the far side of the patrol car, stood there with his arms folded, looking out toward the highway. A cough. People began to move off. Cars started. The Davis brothers and redneck number one left in Monk’s truck. Watching Mickey and Dexter struggle up onto the seat brightened my spirits considerably.

  I crossed the lot to Samantha. Gave her my thanks and twenty bucks that I eventually had to stick in her apron pocket. Next thing I knew, the store manager was at my elbow saying they felt terrible about what happened and were going to replace our whole order for us. I started to protest, but he didn’t want to hear about it. When I turned back looking for Floyd, Ramona Haynes was standing about three feet from me.

  “See,” she said. “I told
you. You’re just too dangerous to be at large in this town without supervision.”

  Something adolescent in me wanted to ask her if she was volunteering, but I had an unexpected flash of lucidity and said, “Thanks for the testimonial,” instead.

  “Seems like every time I run into you it’s some kind of disaster.”

  “Chaos is my medium.”

  Floyd appeared at my elbow. “Store says they’re going to replace our stuff,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Back home they’d drop a littering charge on you.”

  “That’s the beauty of small-town life,” Ramona said.

  “And here I was thinking it was you,” said Floyd.

  The smile she gave him reminded me of that line from Voltaire when he was asked what he thought of the so-called Enlightenment and he’d answered, “I used to be disgusted, now I’m just amused.”

  “Thank you…Mr…”

  “Floyd,” he said with an enigmatic smile of his own. Sheriff Hand’s cruiser splashed by, both cops throwing their hardest looks our way. Floyd waved bye-bye. “Ta-ta,”

  he hollered. He took a step backward. “Nice to meet you,”

  he said to Ramona and then looked at me and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll see to the provisions there, boss,” he said. We watched as he skirted a cavernous puddle, hopped another and disappeared inside.

  “Interesting guy,” she said.

  “He’d be glad you thought so.”

  “Does he always carry a gun?”

  “Even when he sleeps.”

  She searched my eyes with that back-and-forth, up-anddown thing women do.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is Floyd his first or his last name?”

  I shook my head. “Not a clue.”

  “He’s your friend and you don’t know his whole name?”

  I shrugged. I’d never thought to ask. Silly me.

  “I’ve heard that men friends don’t talk, but…”

  “Who said he was my friend?”