by Urban, Tony
Down an alley Wyatt had the unfortunate luck of spotting an older woman bent over at the waist and naked as the day she was born while a man with a wild mane of coal-colored hair pounded her from behind. Wyatt locked eyes with her thousand-yard stare and thought she must be sixty, maybe seventy. The skin around her toothless mouth collapsed inward and her face was a roadmap of wrinkles and age spots and strange growths.
The man screwing her grunted and spasmed. Then he yanked up his jeans and handed the woman a can of food before shoving her to the side and stomping away from her. She flopped onto the pavement, popping the top of the can and drinking its contents, not even bothering to dress herself.
When the man emerged from the alley, he caught Wyatt watching him. “The fuck you staring at, boy?”
Wyatt turned away.
“That’s good. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look.”
Further up the street, a trio of women in barely there outfits shared a blunt underneath the tattered awning of a one-time pharmacy. They watched Wyatt’s group with hungry, desperate eyes.
One of them, a woman with dirty blonde hair that had matted into long dreadlocks, took a step toward the quartet. “Been a long time since I seen a dog,” she said. “Can I pet it?”
Wyatt gave a brief nod and she staggered their way, crouching down beside Supper. She pushed her slender fingers through his fur, then buried her cheek in his side. Supper loved the attention, but Wyatt didn’t.
From the windows and doorways, the few denizens stared with wide-eyed curiosity. Wyatt felt like he was an animal in a zoo and he didn’t enjoy being on display.
“He got a name?” The woman’s voice reminded Wyatt she was still there.
“Yeah. Supper.”
She laughed, but it was a tired, joyless sound. “Don’t keep him here too long or that’s what he’ll end up being.” She looked up at Wyatt. Her eyes were so pale blue they were nearly transparent. As if the color had drained from her irises just like the life was draining from her body. It hurt to look at her.
“This ain’t no place for a dog. No place for people neither,” she said.
“We don’t plan on staying,” Trooper said as he pushed past her. The others were clearly expected to follow but Wyatt felt bad about pulling Supper away from the woman.
“How about you? You got a name too?” She asked.
“Wyatt.”
She stopped petting the dog and pushed a hand toward Wyatt. He accepted, thinking it felt so fragile he might break the bones if he applied any pressure. “I’m Allie. And you’re a pretty one. If you want to get to know me better alls it’ll cost you is a smoke.”
Wyatt released her palm and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his pants as he didn’t want to come across rude. Still, the temptation was there. “Don’t got any.” He walked, but she followed.
“How about food?”
“None of that either. That’s why we’re here.”
“You must got something in that shopping cart. Why else bother pushing it?”
“Clothes is all.”
She laughed again. “Oh. I don’t got much use for those if you couldn’t tell.” She did a clumsy pirouette that revealed her scantily clad figure. As much as Wyatt didn’t want to, he appreciated the sight.
“Allie!” A man’s voice shouted. Wyatt looked and saw him standing by the other two women. He was in his thirties, lean, and his narrow face was twisted in annoyance. His bald skull was shaved but covered with a tattoo that Wyatt guessed was supposed to be flames, but the work was so bad it was hard to be certain.
Allie forgot Wyatt existed and ran to the man. Wyatt watched him grab her wrist, saw her face contort in pain.
“None of our business,” Trooper said. “Come on now.”
Wyatt quickened his pace and caught up with them.
“What is this place,” Seth asked.
“Post eleven.” Trooper kept a steady pace, ignoring the lookie-loos.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” Seth’s head snapped side to side like a spectator at a tennis match.
“To trade. To restock.”
Now Seth’s attention went to Trooper and he asked the question Wyatt had been pondering since this idea was proposed. “How are we supposed to trade when we’ve got jack shit? You really think they’re going to give us anything of value for my Portland Pirates sweatshirt?”
“We keep that info to ourselves,” Trooper said.
Wyatt didn’t like that answer. Not one bit. As the prying eyes watched them, he wished they’d have stayed on the road, where they were alone, or could pretend to be, anyway. They could have checked all the houses and lived off the occasional can of corn or packet of dry onion soup mix. That would have been better than strolling into this place.
“Look,” Barbara whispered. They followed her gaze and saw a shopping cart turned onto its side in front of a squat, brick building. It had a red plastic cover across the handle that looked all too familiar. It was the Hannaford logo Wyatt saw nearly every day growing up in Maine.
“Is that ours?” Seth asked.
“If I was a betting man, I’d say so,” Trooper said.
A broad, beast of a man with a mole the size of a walnut above his eye stepped out of a building and into what passed for the daylight. He tilted his head back as he drained the contents of a soda can. When it was empty, he crushed it in his oversized fist and chucked it sidearm into the street. It skidded past Wyatt and he knew immediately that it was Moxie brand cola.
Wyatt watched the man, a little too long, and Trooper jerked on his coat. “Not now. Keep moving.”
Ahead, a group of eight men clad in leather jackets huddled in front of a clapboard building and guzzled beer and liquor. The men watched, silent at first but as Wyatt’s group got nearer one of them, a gray-haired tub of lard with a beard down to his belly unleashed a shrill wolf-whistle through the gap where his front teeth had once been.
“Hey there, mama,” the man yelled. “Come over here take a seat on my lap. We’ll talk about the first thing that pops up!”
He and his cronies guffawed like that was the most original and amusing joke they’d ever heard. Wyatt didn’t see the humor and shot a pissed off glare in their direction. Before he could do something even more stupid, Trooper stepped in front of him, blocking the view of the tough guys.
“Listen to me,” Trooper said. “This is not a safe place, okay?”
“No shit,” Seth piped in from behind.
Wyatt knew Trooper was right and that sending snark the way of the man who’d catcalled his mother would have been a dumb, maybe even a deadly mistake. He nodded. “So what is the plan?”
Trooper glanced around, checking their surroundings. “First, we acclimate. Far as they know, we’re just passing through like any other party.”
“Then what?” Wyatt asked.
“Then we rob these motherfuckers.”
Wyatt had to fight to keep his mouth from falling open. “You’re kidding?”
Trooper looked him in the eyes and he knew the man was dead serious. “We need to case the town, find its weak spots. I’ll take Seth. You stay with your mother.”
Wyatt nodded. “Alright.”
“And don’t piss anyone off.” After that Trooper looked to Seth who held up his palms in a Who, Me? gesture.
“Are you sure about this Trooper?” Barbara asked.
“Hell no, I’m not. But do any of you have a better idea?”
No one said otherwise.
“That’s what I figured. We’ll meet up in a few hours.”
Wyatt didn’t think anything about this was a good idea, but it was Trooper’s show now. He watched as he and Seth continued up the street, eventually heading to a storefront that had once advertised Men’s Clothes and Hats.
Wyatt turned to his mother. “Do you think this is a mistake?”
“Do we have a choice?”
She was right. They were down to four cans of wax beans and had hundreds of mile
s to go before they neared their destination. Despite that, he struggled to see how in the hell this could end well.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Seth followed Trooper into a building that seemed to be a cross between a grocery store and a boarding house. A half-dozen men and two women slept off hangovers on cots that lined one long wall. On the other side of the store, shelves contained a variety of canned goods, with the occasional box of dry pasta or rice mixed in.
A scrawny woman who Seth thought must be at least seventy-five stared at the shelves in a way that seemed all too familiar. He remembered family trips to the grocery store and having to navigate his chair around the old bittys who took ten minutes to decide whether they wanted their green beans whole or French cut. Seeing this woman do the same thing now elicited a snort of laughter.
The old bitty looked his way, as did a middle-aged man who stood behind a counter and read a paperback novel.
“Something amuse you?” The bitty asked.
Trooper glared down at Seth then looked to the woman. “Forgive the boy, ma’am. He’s feeble not just of the body but of the mind.”
She responded with a Hmpf then went back to staring at the canned goods.
Seth wasn’t offended. In fact, he enjoyed play-acting and wondered how far to take the role. He started by letting his jaw hang low and a thin string of saliva trickle from his mouth.
Trooper approached the man at the counter who dog-eared the page he’d been reading and set the book aside.
“Help you?” The man wore a pair of glasses that had only one lens.
“Possibly,” Trooper said. “This your place?”
“It is.”
“I’m traveling through with some friends and we’d like to stock up. What are you looking for in the way of trade?”
The man tilted his chin toward the food. “I take booze, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and gold.”
Seth wondered what good gold was in a world where there was so little to purchase.
“You have any firearms?” Trooper asked.
The man shook his head. “I do not. Guns are Big Josh’s turf and his alone.” His hand drifted to a ragged scar that curved from his temple to his jaw. “Learnt that lesson the hard way.”
“Understandable.” Trooper leaned in and flashed what Seth thought was the fakest smile he’d ever seen. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Big Josh takes in trade, would you?”
The man leaned away, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “How’d you find this place, anyway? Ain’t exactly on the beaten path.”
“We’re from up north. Maine, to be exact. I used to do a fair amount of business at Post One.”
For some reason, Seth thought the man seemed less nervous now, albeit by a marginal amount. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’d you deal with?”
Seth felt like this was a test and hoped Trooper wasn’t bluffing.
“Nathaniel,” Trooper said and the man’s eyes grew wide. “But he hasn’t been up north in a long while. Heard he settled in Louisiana for the time being.”
Whatever trepidation the man had been experiencing faded away. He even managed a smile but when Seth saw his rotting, black and brown teeth, he wished he’d have remained less jovial. “That’s right.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Graham.”
“Trooper. And this is Seth.”
Seth reached toward the man but kept his wrist bent at an awkward angle and faked spastic, uncoordinated movements. After missing twice, Graham gave up on shaking and settled on a nod. He spoke slow and loud. “Nice. To. Meet. You.”
Trooper looked down on him and shot him a look that said don’t overdo it. That made Seth decide to skip the slurred speech he’d been saving up and remain wordless.
“Tell you what,” Graham said. He moved from behind the counter and toward the food. “A friend of Nathaniel’s is a friend of mine.” He grabbed a can of refried beans and a can of mixed fruit off the shelf and handed them to Trooper. The latter was rusting around the base and Seth thought that his generosity had its bounds.
“Well thank you, Graham.” Trooper dropped them into his bag. “Could you point me in Big Josh’s direction?”
Graham did just that. Before they vacated the store, he pointed to the cots. “If you need a place to flop tonight, stop in. I usually charge but for your party, it’s on the house.”
When they left the store Seth whispered to Trooper. “Who’s Nathaniel?”
“Fellow I used to know from my days on the State Police Force.”
“A cop?”
“No. He operated on the other side of the law.”
They headed up the street, toward an ornate limestone building which Graham had said was Big Josh’s. Carved into the stone above the entry was “First National Bank”. Seth wondered if Trooper really planned to rob the place and, if so, whether he saw any irony in the situation.
Chapter Twenty-Six
With Seth and Trooper gone, Wyatt felt even more exposed standing in the middle of the street. The wannabe Hell’s Angel’s who’d ogled Barbara seemed to have lost interest but there were dozens more who all eyed them up like they were fresh-caught shrimp on an all you can eat buffet.
“Let’s get out of here,” Barbara said.
That sounded like a brilliant idea.
He followed his mother toward a building where the front door hung agape and a painted sign above it declared “Ale and Licker - Cheap.” It wasn’t the kind of place Wyatt would have chosen but he supposed they had to start somewhere.
“Supper, come on, boy,” Wyatt called.
The dog followed, close on his heels. He gave Wyatt a lick on the hand and Wyatt thought he’d have to look for a collar and leash first chance he had. The last thing he needed was someone thinking they’d get a hot meal off his dog.
From the exterior of the saloon, Wyatt had low expectations, but the inside managed to be even worse than he’d assumed. It had a dingy green and red and white color scheme with tacos and burritos painted on the walls. But its time as a Mexican restaurant was a past life.
Now, most of the windows were broken and bullet holes dotted the walls, floor, and ceiling. Eight or ten tables were scattered haphazardly through the main room, along with a random assortment of chairs of the folding and lawn variety. Worst of all, it reeked of piss and puke and from the scattering of puddles on the floor, it was easy to see why. He sidestepped the bodily fluids as they made their way to the bar.
On their side of it a man with straggly gray hair that clung to his bare upper body like ancient spaghetti nursed a beer and struggled not to fall off his stool. Barbara went to the other end of the bar and took a seat. Wyatt claimed the spot next to her. He patted his thigh and Supper huddled beside him.
A handful of drunks sat at tables, doing what drunks do. One couple in their twenties lounged next to a jukebox that hadn’t played a tune in years and sucked face. Sprawled on the floor was a teenage boy who had clearly shit his pants. Charming place, Wyatt thought.
What he didn’t see was food or guns and that was pretty much their only reason for being here. He was about to tell his mother that they should move on when a woman in her fifties approached from behind the bar. Her hair had been sheared into a buzz cut while her arms were as big around as milk jugs and covered in tattoos. Wyatt thought she looked strong enough to kick the ass of most men.
“Pick your poison.” She leaned against the bar which looked as sticky as a bathroom floor and the idea of touching it made Wyatt queasy. When she leaned, her low cut tank top gave an obvious look at her ample breasts. Despite everything else, Wyatt had to admit it wasn’t a bad distraction.
“Nothing. We’re just waiting for someone.” Barbara said.
“If you’re not buying, you’re just taking up space. Either order or get out.” The woman stared Barbara down.
“What are the choices?” Barbara asked.
The woman turned around and showed the array of bottles that lined the
shelves behind the bar.
“How about water?” Barbara asked.
The woman let out a throaty laugh. “Sure, but I don’t know if you can afford it.”
“How much?”
She shrugged. “Let me spend some time with your boy toy here and I’ll give you a gallon.”
“Spend some time?” Wyatt had an inkling what she meant, especially when the woman licked her lips.
Barbara narrowed her eyes and leaned across the bar. “That’s my son.”
The bartender shrugged. “Well then, how about you, sugartits?”
Wyatt watched with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment as his mother grabbed the strap on the bartender’s tank top and jerked her over the bar. Before she had a chance to react Barbara kissed her roughly. The woman put her hand behind Barb’s head, entwining her fingers in her hair, and kissed back.
“Mom!” Wyatt said and the two broke apart.
The woman laughed and slapped her thigh. “Hot damn!” She pulled a quart of water from under the bar and passed it over.
“That’s it?” Barbara asked.
“You want more, take me upstairs.”
“I think this’ll do,” Barbara said.
Thank God, Wyatt thought.
“Plus a round of vodka, on me, and I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.” The woman slammed three shot glasses on the counter and poured until they verged on overflowing.
Wyatt reached for the glass, but the woman grabbed his wrist. He’d been right earlier, she was so strong it was almost scary.
“Where’s your ID kid?”
Wyatt opened his mouth and fumbled for words. “I, uh, I’m--”
She unleashed a course laugh - HA! HA! HA! “I’m just fuckin with ya, handsome. Now down the hatch.”
She took her own shot and threw it back before Wyatt had a chance to even pick up his glass. When he swallowed, the liquid burned like molten lava flowing down his throat. The only thing that kept him from barfing it back up was knowing it would hurt just as bad the second time around.