by Benton, Ken
Joel didn’t talk to Red again until they were in the shed, and only to discuss where to store everything. Red then went inside the cabin to use the restroom and shower before retiring to the goat pen.
Joel decided to stay outside and sit on the porch step for the remaining minutes of twilight. He had a few things to mull over.
It wasn’t long before he heard new footsteps approaching on the driveway.
* * *
“Mort’s pissed at you?” Marshawn said. “Might be time for you to move out of the music hall.”
“And go where?” Chili replied glancing at the Nashville evening sky. “All the nocto gangs are tight, and you know what happens to anyone caught outside their own sphere now.”
“Yeah. But sometimes you don’t need to be outside your sphere for it to happen. Speaking of which, it’s getting dark and I gotta get indoors. You interested in the intel or not? I’ll take ten, man. Half a pack.”
“Oh I’m interested.” Chili dangled what was slightly more than half a pack of Merits in front of him. “But I’m skeptical. You’d tell me anything to get these. So you are going to have to show me, and if it pans out, they’re yours.”
“You know that will take too long, Chili. I’ll be caught out under the stars, and then find myself up on your stage—and all I know is hip hop, man. I don’t think Mort will be getting his groove on.”
“You said it’s close by.”
“It is, but my safe house is two blocks the other way. I never screwed you, Chili. You know that. We got history.”
Chili shook his head. “I know we do. That’s why you have a pass. But like you said, some homies have already had their best friend for supper. I need your intel to produce. Otherwise it might damn well be my flesh you smell on the grill in a few hours.”
“I can’t promise it will produce,” Marshawn said pulling his faded pink hoodie over his head. “But I can tell you what I know. Got it firsthand from my boys working the bridge today. They scored a whole truck full of fresh food and camping supplies, and I’ve seen it. Tell you what. Give me three—just three smokes. If it produces, you owe me the other seven tomorrow.”
Chili tilted his head, removed three cigarettes from the pack and slapped them into Marshawn’s waiting palm.
“Two white boys jumped off the bridge,” Marshawn said stuffing his fist with the smokes in the hoodie pocket. “I mean really white. Young, like early twenties, and fed. They swam to the south bank about twenty yards east of the bridge and climbed into the bushes there. Only one of them came out up top. The other was moving slow like he was hurt, so has got to still be in those bushes—alive and breathing, most likely.”
“How badly hurt?” Chili asked.
“They don’t know, but he was still able to swim and get up into some cover. That’s it. I gotta go, man. Good luck.”
Marshawn began jogging away.
Chili turned toward the rotunda. A couple of the guys were still hanging out there after the gang cut the prisoner loose and brought him inside. One was Jimbo, standing with his sawed-off shotgun.
Chili approached him.
“I know this one,” Jimbo said shaking his head. “From my old neighborhood. His name is Enzo. He’s all right. When he recognized me, he pleaded with his eyes. I’d really rather not eat him.”
“Maybe you won’t have to.” Chili motioned toward the river. “I got a lead on a possible contestant holed up in the riverbank.”
“Marshawn give you that?” Jimbo asked.
Chili nodded and lit a smoke. “Care to go for a walk?”
“What’s he doing there?” Jimbo shouldered his weapon, which required putting his large elbow fairly high in the air. “Is he all busted up or something?”
“Hurt enough not to climb out,” Chili answered. “But not hurt enough to spoil any meat, is the assessment. A nice healthy young guy.”
“Armed?”
Chili frowned and looked in the direction Marshawn left by, but he was long gone.
“You forgot to ask him that?” Jimbo said in a mocking tone.
Chili shook his head. “I’m sure he’s not. Marshawn would have mentioned that. I paid him for the intel. Plus the dude jumped in the river and swam to shore.”
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t armed, or that his gun won’t fire.” But Jimbo began slowly nodding. “I do like the sound of it, though. I’ll go get Bat. We should have another weapon with us, just in case.”
Chapter Eleven
“Morbid attractions tend to hold addictive snares,” a tall man at the diurnal table behind Ricky said. “That’s why it’s so dangerous to flirt with anything vile. Like pornography, for example. Or heroin. You say to yourself you’ll check it out once or twice to see what the lure is, or a friend talks you into having a taste. It becomes easier to take a third taste and then a fourth, especially for those of weak conscience. Next thing you know you are lusting after every person you see, or wanting to roast their liver.”
Laughter and objections erupted around that table. Ricky found the man speaking there captivating for some reason, and strained to keep listening to him—which had the unfortunate consequence of making him appear rude to the nocturnals at his own table who were trying to converse with him.
One in particular Ricky did not care to interact with any further. But he was the one who kept pressing the uncomfortable conversation. This guy was in his early thirties, clean cut, and sat across from him to the right. Ricky thought he heard someone call him Vern.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t smoke,” Vern said chewing much slower than everyone else. “Cigarettes are currency here. You can use them to get whatever you do want.”
“I can’t think of anything I want more than my hat,” Ricky answered. “Thanks anyway.”
“I can think of one thing you’ll want in here,” Vern replied in a cool but ominous way. “A friend or two. Someone who has your back, you know? You are brand new, so should think about that. Refusing to trade in a place like this isn’t going to make many people like you.”
“Shoes,” Ricky blurted as if the idea just came to him. “I could use some better shoes.”
Vern pointed his steak bone at Ricky. “Now you’re coming around. Good. You can use the cigarettes to trade for shoes with someone.”
Ricky shook his head. “No, I’d have to see them first, make sure they fit, are in decent condition, and that they look good. I would maybe trade my hat for the right shoes, but not for cigarettes, or any other form of currency, when I don’t even know if I can find ones I like. I’m a size nine and am partial to Nike or Adidas sneakers. Locate me something good and we can trade.”
That made Vern think, but he was likely only carefully forming the words for his next subtle threat as his jaw opened and closed agonizingly slowly. Ricky could tell this guy might become a problem for him. The other prisoners sitting around them heard the exchange, but no one interrupted. They were a mixed lot of age and ethnicity. Other than a snicker or a coy smile in one or two places, they minded their own business and paid more attention to devouring their chow than anything else. Some were clearly still groggy after sleeping all day.
It was probably not wise to ignore this Vern character, but Ricky nevertheless tuned him out in order to resume eavesdropping on the diurnal table behind him. The tall one who spoke so philosophically had by now waited out all the ribbing before issuing a new response. Ricky heard one of the last jeers, asking him if he was a preacher.
“No I’m not a preacher,” the man replied. “But I am a licensed psychologist. So I know what I am talking about when I discuss the human mind’s vulnerability to addiction born of fascination with whatever we are told to stay away from.”
More laughter and jeering. That diurnal table was much livelier than the nocturnal one Ricky sat at. But then, they were having dinner and the nocturnals breakfast. Same food, though, which wasn’t bad: thin steaks that could be cut with a fork, along with a starchy porridge and half an orange.
“And with cannibalism there is another factor at play as well,” the psychologist continued. “Studies have shown that tasting human flesh releases dopamine in the brain. So a sense of pleasure becomes associated with the activity, which causes a person to want to replicate it.”
“So eating people gets you high?” another voice boomed. “Well why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
Riotous laughter boomed all around him. Ricky noticed a guard suddenly running between the tables. Almost at the same time, he realized Vern had been speaking to him again. The commotion at the table behind drew everyone’s attention, so Ricky had a good excuse to turn his head and look behind. A person sitting next to the psychologist had his fork held against the psychologist’s throat. He was obviously clowning, and dropped it to raise his hands over his head, cackling, when shouted at by the guards. His utensils were taken as punishment, and he was told to finish eating with his hands—but everyone by now was mostly done with their meal.
“So what about it?” Vern said to Ricky when he turned back around.
Ricky shrugged and replied, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? What the hell does that mean?”
“I already told you, I am only interested in Nike and Adidas sneakers and need to inspect them before agreeing to the trade.”
The nocturnals who’d finished eating began getting up to roam about the yard.
“Man, did you hear any damn thing I just said to you?” Vern said slamming a hand on the table.
“To be honest, I was listening to those guys,” Ricky answered pointing a thumb behind him. “Sorry.”
Vern responded this time purely by expressions, which alternated between insulted and incredulous looks.
“Sorry,” Ricky repeated. “I don’t mean any disrespect. But all you’ve done through the whole meal is try to talk me out of my hat, even after I told you multiple times I don’t want to part with it. The ruckus at the other table caught my attention.”
At that moment Carlin sat down next to Ricky and said, “No one ever asks me to trade for my hat.”
Vern glanced at him with a coldness that included a measure of respect before promptly standing up. He left the table without saying another word.
“I guess he was right,” Ricky said to Carlin.
“About what?”
“About needing the right friends in here.”
“Eh,” Carlin replied lighting a cigarette. “Don’t worry about him—while you’re awake, anyway. I have good news.”
Ricky stared at Carlin beneath his ridiculous British cap and raised his eyebrows.
“You must know someone, or else sweet-talked the soldiers who arrested you with one heck of a sob story, eh?”
“Um, no,” Ricky replied. “To tell you the truth I was pretty much an ass to them. And to the neighbor who caught me stealing, too.”
Carlin blew a puff of smoke and tilted his head. “So now it’s stealing? Earlier you said it was a miscommunication on an agreed trade—except for the eggs.”
Ricky turned around in his seat. “From his point of view, I meant.”
“Let me worry about his point of view. You stick to yours, because we have a good defense. Unless there is something you’re not telling me?”
“Nothing you need to know, I guess.”
“It is usually best to let your counsel decide that,” Carlin said.
Ricky leaned his head back to stare at the darkening sky. “I didn’t know the eggs were in the tackle box. Lyle must have taken them and put them there.”
“Lyle didn’t get arrested?”
“They didn’t see him. He must have been hiding behind the shed.”
“And he let you take the fall?”
“I don’t blame him,” Ricky said. “No point in both of us getting hauled in.”
Carlin struck a thoughtful pose and took a couple more puffs.
“You’re right,” he finally replied. “I didn’t need to know that part. Odd as it may seem, confessing to the egg theft as an irresistible opportunity is a stronger defense, as long as we can convince them you did have some kind of verbal arrangement with the neighbor in regards to use of the fishing tackle. If only you gave him a fish or two, it would be rock solid. The court officers don’t take to responses of ‘I didn’t do it’ when the evidence suggests otherwise.”
“Then forget it,” Ricky said. “I’ll say I took the eggs. And yes, I did give him a fish or two. Big ones. The arresting soldiers ended up with one of them, a 6-pounder. They probably fried it for lunch today.”
The cigarette fell from Carlin’s mouth. He slapped his knee and let out a belly laugh before bending to pick it back up.
“Well that seals it, Ricky. And explains the prejudicial treatment. This will be a piece of cake, and I guarantee you’ll walk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Ricky asked.
“Yes, that’s the good news. They put you at the front of the line. Your tribunal is tomorrow night. They must have really liked the fish.”
“Oh,” Ricky said. “Tomorrow night.”
“Of course. You’re a nocturnal. By your tone, I’m not sure you understand how fortunate you are. Some of these guys have been waiting three weeks for their day in court.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Carlin. I do appreciate it. And thanks for helping me. It’s just that I may have already made an enemy here, so I’m not liking the idea of having to survive an entire night and day with him.”
“You could simply give him your hat,” Carlin suggested. When Ricky frowned he quickly added, “But showing weakness may not be the best thing to do, either. Hey, if you really are a cathemeral maybe we can bump you to the day docket tomorrow. Of course, I would no longer be your counsel.”
Ricky chuckled. “Who would, out of curiosity?”
“Tom,” Carlin said looking at the nearly-empty diurnal table next to them. “Did he go in yet? Oh, there he is.”
Carlin pointed at the tall man, now slowly walking towards the bunkhouse.
“The psychologist?” Ricky asked.
Carlin laughed. “You heard him talking, huh? Yeah, that’s him.”
“Excuse me a minute please,” Ricky said standing.
“Sure,” Carlin hesitantly replied.
Ricky went jogging after Tom the psychologist.
* * *
Another confrontation was just what Joel needed to end this perfect nightmare of a day—especially with these two. Enough light remained for him to see Archer scowling around at Joel’s yard as he and Jessie approached. He and Jessie both wore light-colored sweatshirts.
Archer’s shotgun, formerly Joel’s Remington 870, rested on one of his shoulders. His other hand clutched what could only be several of those confounded purple gas vouchers.
It was easy to surmise what was coming. Joel stood up off the first step of his porch.
“Where is my truck?” Archer asked when they came a little closer. Jessie’s face featured the same scowl, which looked to be permanently forming into the lines of her face. What a shame. She used to be cute.
“Hi Jessie,” Joel replied to screw with them both.
Jessie’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth and uttered something not loud enough to hear before crossing her arms and kicking at the dirt. By her lips, Joel was pretty sure it was “hello.”
“My truck?” Archer repeated.
“You mean your old truck?” Joel answered. “The one you traded me for that shotgun? The guys took it on a road trip. How’s life at the Dunn compound?”
“Road trip where?”
“Idaho. Are you two sleeping in the house these days, or do they make you stay out in the shambles motel?”
“That’s my truck!” Archer shot back. “It’s not yours to give them. I never traded it! The title is in my name and I never signed it over.”
“As I recall, Archer, you put it up as collateral for bringing me that shotgun back within 24 hours. That was the last I saw of you, well o
ver a month ago.”
“I couldn’t bring it back because you went to prison, remember? After instigating a gunfight and killing three of our guests?”
“You mean the bandits who stalked us here 400 miles to murder Sammy and me? And whose side you both took when talking to the soldiers, even after I brought you to my country home and gave you safe shelter from the fallout of civilization?”
Joel watched both their eyes move to Joel’s leg a second before he felt something brush against it—and then heard a bark come from there. He reached to pet Jules without looking down at him. Joel knew that bark. It was mostly inquisitive, probably a reaction to sensing the hostility in Joel’s voice.
Joel then turned to continue following their eyes behind him. Debra and Callaway now stood on the porch. Callaway leaned on the railing with both hands, but his attention was held by the sky above. Debra had both her hands inside the pockets of her sweater and seemed fixated on Jessie.
“Debra, say hi to your old friends,” Joel said before turning back around.
“Hi old friends,” Debra said in a perfectly neutral tone, playing along.
Joel spoke again. “You know, I think this is the first time we’ve all been together since … well, in any case, it’s a bit awkward, isn’t it? After all, we,” Joel pointed between him and Jessie, “and you two,” Joel pointed back and forth between Debra and Archer, “and now,” he made hand motions all around, ending by holding them towards Jules—who barked again on cue, sounding happier this time.
Archer gaped at him. Joel couldn’t tell if it was more in reaction to his audacity or the fact that his truck was gone.
Jessie spoke, loud enough to be heard this time. “Joel, do you have to be such an ass about it?”
“I second the motion,” Debra chimed.
Debra was a master of communication by tone. How she said something was much more important than what she said. At this point Joel figured he and her could get along fine even if they spoke different languages. Right now, she had Joel’s back every bit as much as Jules did. Her tone communicated a confident alliance, even if her words consented to calling Joel an ass. That was good, because a short while ago Joel was starting to feel his only remaining ally had somehow become the ex-highway bandit currently in his shower trying to wash an impossible wad of hair.