Badger Games

by Jon A. Jackson

  “I’m gonna turn her around,” Boz said.

  Kibosh jumped down with the groceries and went to the door. There was a note stuck there on a nail. He picked it off and stuffed it in his pocket while he opened the door and carried his goods inside. Boz turned the truck around and parked facing down the trail.

  Boz sat out on the stump, sipping at a beer and enjoying the pleasant fall evening, while Kibosh bustled around inside, frying up some supper. After a bit the old man came out with the grub—scrambled eggs, sausage, toasted bread—and they set it out on handy stumps to eat.

  “Damn, this is good,” Boz said. “By God, Kibe, you got the fuckin’ life!”

  After dinner they sat back to watch the evening settle in. Kibosh smoked his pipe, and Boz sipped beer. “Where’s that rifle of yours, Kibe?” Boz asked.

  Kibosh brought it out and handed it over, proudly. It was a deer rifle, a .30-06. Boz hefted it and looked through the scope.

  “By God, I can see the cars on the highway,” he said. “How far is that?”

  “Oh, a mile or more, depending on where ye’re lookin’,” Kibosh said. “Them lights goin’ up the grade,” he said, glancing at where Boz was aiming, “that’d be two mile, easy.”

  “I believe I could hit it,” Boz said, his finger curling around the trigger.

  “Oh, Jesus! Don’t!” Kibosh said. He reached for the barrel, but Boz pulled it away.

  “Leave off,” Boz said. “I ain’t gonna shoot, you old fool! But, Jeez, looks like I could.” He looked through the scope again. “Too far. You’d never hit nothing at this range, what with elevation, wind.” He set the rifle down beside him, leaning it against a pine.

  “Them thirty-ought-sixes’ll carry, though,” Kibosh said. He was a little nervous about the gun staying by Boz’s side, but he didn’t say anything. “Folks a been kilt, from ca’tridges fired two mile.”

  “What was that you was telling me about walking to Butte underground?” Boz asked. “Was that bullshit?”

  “Wal, as to that,” Kibosh said, feeling sobered, “I mighta ’zaggerated there. Butte’s a good ways. I knowed a feller in Butte, though, that claimed he could go from one end a town to t’other, underground, and I b’lieve ’im.”

  “So it was bullshit,” Boz sneered. “How about to Basin?”

  “To Basin? Wal, no. The river cuts in, see. But French Forque, hell, yes,” Kibosh said. “Wal, ye’d come out ’bout a mile from Forkee, maybe a little closer. I never did it. I got through to the river, a little further up, an’ come out above Frankie’s place, oncet.”

  “Frankie. You’re always talkin’ about that kid.” Boz frowned, then said, “You mean the Oberavich kid? Grows dope up there, up the crick?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout dope,” Kibosh said. “Ain’t none a my business what he grows, nor nobody else’s.”

  “Don’t matter to me,” Boz said. “I just heard a rumor. So where’d you come out at?”

  “There’s a ridge, comes out ’long the river ’bove his place,” Kibosh said. “I got to foolin’ ’round in there one day and I’ll be damned if I didn’t come out acrost the crick from his place. Took me the better part of the day. But I walked right back in a couple hours. See, I marked the way with chalk, so’s not to git lost.”

  “You got a map?” Boz said. “I’d like to see where you’re talking about.”

  They went inside, Boz carrying the rifle. He leaned it up against the shelves next to his chair while Kibosh cleared away some of the clutter and spread out some forest service maps.

  “See, here we are,” Kibosh pointed out. “And there’s the crick. Ye can see it ain’t but a mile or two, ’cept that there’s a whole damn mountain in betwixt.”

  Boz looked at it carefully. The mountain was part of the ridge that determined the course of the Forkee. It angled to the northeast, so that the highway angled as well, before it reached French Forque. By road, it was at least six or seven miles, then the ten miles or so of twisting road that ran up and around and through the jumbled hills, to come out onto the big meadow that formed the major part of Oberavich’s place. The southern bank of the river was very steep, high cliffs in some places, whereas the north side was a gradually rising block of another mountainous structure pushing down from the north. A straight line through the ridge was amazingly short. But any system of tunnels and mine shafts would not run straight through, Boz understood.

  “Is it dangerous?” he asked Kibosh.

  “Oh, I dunno, d’pens.” Kibosh opened a bottle of bourbon and poured them each a small glassful. “Been a couple year since I been back in there any distance. I ain’t noticed no falls, but ye never can tell. Durn thing could be plumb blocked off.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Boz said, “walkin’ under a whole damn mountain.” The idea was scary, but he had an urge to try it, especially since finding he’d been robbed—he was positive it had been that Joe bastard. Only the thought of crawling around under an actual mountain of rock that could fall and crush you … old shafts with rotting timbers … maybe getting lost, unable to find your way out…. Plus, he considered, he was a little drunk.

  He decided to put it off. He’d rest his wound some more, sleep on it. Tomorrow would be plenty of time. This decision made him feel better. He relaxed and drank down the good, warming whiskey.

  The old man bustled about, washing dishes, feeding the cat on scraps. “Forgot to turn on m’light,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Leave it,” Boz said. “You don’t want no one up here, any way.”

  “That’s jist it,” Kibosh said. “Folks don’t see the light, they know I’m dead.”

  “Oh, all right then.” Boz poured himself another glass of whiskey.

  Kibosh came back, closing the door against the night’s chill. He turned on his old radio, and music crackled out.

  “How in hell do you get radio in a cave?” Boz said, surprised.

  “Got a aerial, runs up the tree. Purty good reception, too.” He started to tune the radio. Boz reached over and shut it off.

  “No radio,” he said. “I hate music.”

  “All right,” Kibosh said. He sat down and began to stuff his pipe.

  “No pipe,” Boz said. “I hate that stinking thing.”

  “All right.” Kibosh set the pipe aside. The cat leaped onto his lap and he began to caress her.

  “So you spent how many years in the can?” Boz said. “Five? Five years for killing a man. At that rate, let’s see …” He scratched his unshaven chin in calculation. “I’d of been in for five hundred! Maybe more. But you know how much I spent? None. Oh, I spent a night or two, when I was a kid, but that’s all. What do you think of that?”

  “Five hundred years! Wal, I’ll tell ye, five was plenty.”

  “What’d you do for five years?” Boz was interested.

  “I kept to meself,” Kibosh said. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “D’you get fucked?” Boz said. “That’s what they do, ain’t it? Young guy like you was, I bet you got fucked. Some big ol’ nigger, I bet. Fucked you up the ass. D’you get to likin’ it?”

  Kibosh didn’t like the way this was going, but he didn’t say anything. Boz laughed. He was feeling frisky. Also, thinking about sex, a little horny. He thought of how he’d almost had that little bitch the other night—it seemed like several nights ago now.

  “Well, did you?” he demanded.

  Kibosh thought about it. He’d been a pretty tough young fellow, capable of taking care of himself. He’d made the right friends, too. There were some good fellows in the pen, at least in those days, he thought. You made the right connections and played it careful, you got by. Serve your time, get out. Don’t get back in, ever. He looked at this young man across the table from him. He had seen men like this in prison. He could see, now, that it had been a foolish mistake to be friendly to Boz. This was a mean one. Like a wild creature, he could turn on you in a flash, if he sensed your fear or you said the
wrong thing.

  “How’s yer wound?” he asked. “Mebbe I orta put some a that antiseptic on it.”

  “It’s all right,” Boz said. He stretched his arm, twisted in his chair. “Yeah, it’s a little stiff, but it’s all right.” He drank. “I had me a piece a ass last night,” he said. “That’s how come those guys came at me.”

  “Looks like someone shot you,” Kibosh said, then was instantly sorry to have brought it up. He stroked the cat.

  “Naw, nothin’ like that,” Boz said. “Fucker tried to spear me with a pool cue. Grazed me, is all. Tore my coat, though, the bastard.”

  Kibosh knew a gunshot wound when he saw one, but he didn’t dispute the foolish lie. Better to let the man blow his horn—maybe it’d make him feel better. “Why’d he do that?” he asked him.

  “Cuz his girlfriend was givin’ me the eye,” Boz said. “You know what I did? I took her out to the car and she give me a blow job and then I fucked her—bent her over the fender. She squealed like a pig! What do you think of that? When’s the last time you got laid?”

  Kibosh forced a laugh. “Oh, I kinda give that up quite a while back. Never found no wooman’d take me.”

  “Jesus, I don’t believe I could do without it,” Boz said. “Hell, I’d fuck anything when I get horny. I’d fuck that cat.”

  “A cat!” Kibosh held the cat more closely.

  “Hell, yes!” Boz his voice rising, suddenly excited. “Cat, dog, chicken! I know guys fucked a chicken! You know how you fuck a cat? Verrry carefully!” He laughed and poured himself another glass, drank.

  “The trick with a cat,” Boz said, “is you gotta break her legs. Can’t scratch, then. Fuck ’em up the ass. The cunt’s too tight. Here, give me that cat. I’ll show you.”

  He reached across the table but Kibosh jumped back, overturning his chair, clutching the cat in his arms. The cat wriggled free and ran away. Boz laughed and stumbled after it, knocking over another chair. The cat whisked behind the shelves at the back of the room and disappeared. Boz laughed and turned around. Kibosh was reaching for the deer rifle.

  “Hey!” Boz yelled. He took two strides and seized the old man, slinging an arm around his neck. He was much taller and stronger than Kibosh. He jerked the man up until his feet left the ground.

  “You don’t wanta do that,” Boz breathed in his ear. He hugged the old man. “By God, I think I’ll fuck you. You ain’t had it in years, you say. You’ll like it. They say an old man is almost as good as a boy. Just another asshole. Something warm to stick it in.”

  “Please,” the old man gasped, “let me down.”

  Boz laughed and set the old man back on his feet. He had knocked Kibosh’s old hat off. He picked it up and flapped it against his knee, wincing a little bit from his wound. “Damn,” Boz said, but he grinned. He tousled the old man’s thin strands of matted hair, then clapped the hat onto his head.

  “Hey, did I scare you?” he said. “You sure look scared. You look like a …” But he couldn’t think of an apt comparison and let it drop. “C’mon, sit down. Here, here’s your chair.” Boz righted the chair and pushed the old man into it.

  He sat down in his own chair and poured them full glasses of whiskey. “Here’s to you, Kibe!” He saluted with the glass and drank. “Go ahead, drink!”

  Kibosh drank. It steadied him. He breathed more calmly, staring at the young man and waiting for the next eruption. It occurred to him that the crazy galoot might get so drunk that he’d collapse. He poured him more whiskey.

  “No harm done,” Boz said. “Right?” He drank.

  Kibosh nodded. “No harm.” He drank.

  “So, what do you do all these long nights?” Boz said. “Got any dirty books? Don’t worry, I ain’t interested in your shit-smeared old butt.” He grinned. “C’mon, now. Where’s the dirty books?”

  The old man went to his crib, a wooden bin containing a mattress and a tangled mess of blankets. He fished out a tattered copy of Playboy and brought it to the table.

  “All right,” Boz said. “I knew you hadda have something to get you through the night. Let’s see, now.” He picked up the magazine and began to page through it. “Go ahead,” he said, “pour us another round. The night is young.”

  After a minute, Boz found a page of pictures of young women cavorting by a pool, in the nude. “That’s it,” he said. “Goddamn! Look at the jugs on that one!” He turned the magazine to show it to Kibosh. “That your favorite?”

  Kibosh craned, then nodded. “Nice-looking wooman,” he said.

  Boz nodded. “I’ll say. ’Cept for the tits, she looks like the one I screwed last night.” He began to pore over the magazine, absently sipping at the whiskey while Kibosh sat across from him, tense and watching.

  This went on for some time. Boz went through the magazine once, twice, studying certain pictures for long periods of time. At last, he yawned. He threw the magazine on the table and stood up. He stretched, groaned, and felt cautiously at his side.

  “Well, I hate to break up the party,” he said, “but I’m a little weary. C’mon, let’s take a piss.” He picked up the rifle and ushered Kibosh out the door. The cat streaked by him and out into the darkness. “Goddamn, look at pussy go!” He laughed.

  They went out to the edge of the dark yard, lit only by the light from the door and the high, overhead light filtering through the pine boughs. Boz rested the rifle butt on the pine needles, holding it by the barrel while he unzipped his pants. “Go ahead,” he told Kibosh, “take a leak. I know you’re busting.”

  Kibosh unbuttoned his fly. He was unsure of what was going to happen. But when he saw that Boz was, indeed, pissing, he joined him. Boz pissed for a long time, then shook himself and zipped up.

  “Happiness,” he said, “is being able to piss off your front stoop.” The rifle was still in his hand. But now he turned and looked at Kibosh in a thoughtful way. He easily hefted the rifle by the grip in one hand and let the barrel swing up until it was pointing at the old man’s belly. “Be safer to just let the air out of you,” he said, as if to himself, running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip.

  Kibosh stood, helplessly. He had no doubt that the young man could and would shoot him if his calculation ran one way rather than another. But after a long moment, Boz racked the bolt back, catching the released cartridge deftly in one hand. He removed the bolt and dropped it into his coat pocket.

  “Safer that way,” he said, grinning. Kibosh felt relieved. “C’mon, Kibe. Time to lock up.”

  Inside, while Boz was locking the door, busying himself with jamming a chair under the handle for added security, Kibosh took the great risk of casually turning off the yard light. There was only a single window, a small pane of filthy glass with a dusty scrap of cloth hanging over it. Kibosh had put it in to tell if it was light out. As long as the light in the room was on, Boz wouldn’t notice that the yard light was off, and probably not even when the inside light was off.

  Boz said, “Now, where we going to sleep? I’m damned if I can take that pallet again.” He sat down and untied his shoes, shucking them off, the earthy stink filling the space around him. He wriggled his toes.

  “I’ll take the pallet,” Kibosh said. “Ye can have the crib.”

  Boz smirked and stood up. He drank a dipper of water. Then he prodded Kibosh over to the crib. “Room for both of us,” he said. “You take the wall. Well, for Chrissake, take off your boots at least.”

  While the old man peeled off his boots, Boz folded up his coat carefully and placed it next to the crib. He motioned the old man in, then he turned off the light and crawled in behind him. He arranged the blankets around him and, throwing an arm over Kibosh’s shoulder, he curled up against his back and relaxed.

  “You know,” he said, practically in Kibosh’s ear, “this is damn cozy.” He pulled the old man closer to him.

  Boz breathed quietly for several long minutes, and Kibosh thought he was collapsing, at long last. My God, he thought, what a way t’end u
p. After years of livin’ free, makin’ a life for yerself, givin’ up certain things in order to be yer own man…. It was enough to break a man’s heart.

  Then Boz began to talk, a low drone in the utter blackness of the crib. “I’m not no one, you know. I been all over the world. I seen a lot. I been a soldier. I saw terrible things. I been a hobo, rode the boxcars. A hobo ain’t a bum, you know. He’s a man who chose the free life. I knew a boomer tramp, an old man like you. I learned a lot from him. He called me his punk. You know what that means? He liked me. I ain’t no punk, though. I come from the old country, you know. Americans think it’s different over there. It is, but it’s the same, you know? It’s the same ever’ fuckin’ where. I had a lot of money, at times. Women. Women always liked me. They like that big dick.” He laughed, a low chortle.

  “I was in a cave like this before, in Kosovo, or maybe it was Bosnia, I ain’t sure. Just like this, only it wasn’t a mine. A cave, but not fixed up like you got it. We were waitin’ for this guy. I got hot, lookin’ at this little bitch. The bastard didn’t come back. Finally, I just had to fuck her. There was other people in there, just skunks, they were. They got … well, they didn’t like it. I had to shut ’em up. Bunch of assholes. Always something, to git in the way.”

  He rambled on. Kibosh listened in terror, wrapped in the ogre’s arms, feeling his breath on his neck. His eyes felt wet; he blinked it away.

  “You ever cut a man’s throat?” Boz whispered. “Or a woman’s? It’s easy. They struggle, but they can’t get away. It’s over quick. Messy, though.”

  Kibosh could hardly breathe. Please, he prayed silently, jist conk out.

  Frank was worried about Kibosh. He told Joe after supper, when they walked outside while Helen and Paulie cleaned up, that he had a mind to drive back over to the Seven Dials and see if he was all right.

  “He never goes far from home, anymore,” he said. “He pokes around in those mines up there. One of these times something’s going to cave on him, or he’ll have a stroke or something. I hate to think of him just lying up there, hurt, maybe dying.”