The Art of Disposal

by John Prindle

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  Eddie laughed. “He's sorry, he says. That's a hoot. You don't know shit, Champ.”

  “I can see why you don't talk about Junebug.”

  “Frank thinks he's tough. Huh. Lose a kid and find a way to keep on going… then you're a tough guy. Some mom that lost her kid, and still shows up to work with a smile on her face? There's a tough guy for you. Thugs like Max and Carlino don't know a dog turd from an ice cream sundae. Frank's got some nerve sending them here.”

  Yep. I was the middle man all right.

  I calmed Eddie down. Reassured him that Frank Conese was all right and hadn't said a damn thing to me. I was tempted to tell him about Frank's unsavory plan, of course, but what good would it do? I took my Uncle Carl's advice and decided to do nothing at all—not until I had a better handle on the situation. Eddie puffed on the Davidoff, and told me a funny story about how he stole a Ford Galaxie 427 when he was a teenager, and dropped it back off after joyriding it. Bullfrog stopped by and dropped off his weekly dues. Then Dan the Man walked in, and I could see how Eddie was thinking the same thing as me: that Dan was touching Death's right hand. We probably wouldn't spend another Christmas with him.

  “Goddamn shame,” Eddie said. “You'd think the government, scientists, colleges—whatever; you'd think they could at least come up with a cure for cancer.”

  “No dice,” Dan said, a little out of breath. He took a seat and watched the angelfish drift by for a moment.

  “They'll probably find it the day after they plant you in the ground,” Eddie said.

  “I ain't goin' in the ground.”

  “You ain't for cremation,” Eddie said.

  “I am. And I'll tell you why. Years ago, I went to my Bubby's funeral outside of Boston. She died of cancer too. Anyways, there she lay, her mouth all pursed up and her eyelids pushed shut, and a couple of creepy little girls on the steps by the casket, daring each other to touch the corpse, and giggling like it's the zoo. That was enough for me.”

  Dan the Man paused, but then he was electrified with another thought.

  “And the casket. White and glossy. Hand-painted roses. Handles with gold trimmings. Like a Beaner's Cadillac or something. Out at the cemetery, I got to sit in the front row. They played some corny music. Had us family members throw Holy Water on the coffin, and pluck a flower from the arrangement on the top. Then the whole shuh-bang goes into the ground and gets covered up with dirt, and there it sits—with Bubby, pickled inside of it—for a thousand years. That's a waste, right there. Of money. Land. A waste.”

  “Mister Greenpeace over here,” Eddie said. “Pretty soon he'll be riding a bicycle to work. What about the resurrection, you dummy? If you're burned to a crisp, Jesus ain't taking you nowhere.”

  “Jesus don't want me,” Dan said, lighting a smoke.

  “What about Dotty? She'll want a standard funeral. Broad like her needs closure,” Eddie said, and folded his arms like he'd just won.

  “Ehhhh. Dotty. Dotty, Dotty. I ain't sure how to break it to her. She's mighty traditional. But I'm telling you guys what I want, and it ain't to be spread out, open-faced, like a sardine in a goddamn can. Make sure they don't do that to me.”

  We promised him they wouldn't.

  Then Eddie started having a weird fit. His whole chest heaved in and out, like his soul was trying to get out of his body—and then he started to cry. It's not easy to watch a grown man cry, and it's not easy to be the grown man doing the crying. When a grown man breaks down, I mean really breaks down, you almost wonder if you should call the guys in the white coats.

  The angelfish floated back and forth in peaceful ignorance of the horrors that happen every day on the other side of the glass. Eddie rubbed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He moaned, and worked on getting himself back together. Maybe he was thinking about Junebug. Wondering what kind of job she'd have, and what his grandchildren would've looked like if God threw some better dice.

  “It ain't fair,” Eddie said, wiping off his eyes and desperately taming his emotions. He shook his head back and forth a few times and called out, “Goddamn it!,” like it was a wizard's spell to toughen him up again.

  “You guys are worse than Dotty when she watches Doctor Phil,” Dan said, giving me a sideways glance that said: I told you Eddie don't do well with death. “Anyways, it ain't so bad, how I'm gonna go. You wanna see bad, Ronnie? Let's go see Griffin Shaw.”

  Eddie blew his nose.

  “You got him?” I said.

  “It's me you're talking to.”

  “Weren't they ready for someone?”

  “Not me,” Dan said, and cracked his knuckles. “Let's just say he's a little short-staffed at the moment. It's wide-open in Sturgis.”

  Eddie blew his nose again, crumpled the tissue, and did a free-throw shot to the wastebasket a few feet away. He missed.

  “Let's roll,” Eddie said.

  “Now?” I said.

  “Trust me—you're gonna want to see this.”

  “We been waitin' for you to get home, just so you can see what we done with him,” Dan said, standing up and putting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. He zipped the jacket-front closed, and the sound was short and loud. Eddie picked up the tissue, and dropped it in the can. Then the three of us went out to Dan's Camry and headed up into the wooded hills.

  * * * *

  The wiry road that runs up to Eugene's house is called Huckleberry Lane. Every time I pass the crooked street-sign, I think how the name is far too wholesome, and I wonder if there are, or ever were, any huckleberries growing along those tarnished hills.

  “Hallo, hallo!” Eugene said to us, a bit wobbly on his feet.

  “How's our friend?” Eddie said.

  “He veeshing he never keel dog, much for sure.”

  “Where's your truck,” Eddie said. “You sell it?”

  “Ha! Me selling my truck, no vay. Problem vith engine. I take it to city for to look at.”

  Eugene's forehead reddened. Eddie stared at him for a minute, then he softly punched him on the arm. “Next time you have engine troubles, you call me. I know a mechanic. He would've done it for half the price.”

  “Okay boss,” Eugene said.

  Then we heard a soft scream, like something stored in a tin can far away. My mind drew twisted sketches, with Griffin Shaw in various states of living death down in that basement.

  “Get me one of them beers,” Dan the Man said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Iced tea?” Eugene said to Eddie.

  “What is this, a goddamn diner?” Eddie said.

  Eugene fetched the beers (and a spare can for himself) and we walked down the basement stairs. Every few steps I took a quick nip of the Olympia, ice cold and bitter, and I prayed that Shaw was at least in one piece. I've never gotten any pleasure from torture. I'd rather just kill a guy quick and be done with it.

  Griffin Shaw was locked up in an industrial grade extra-large dog kennel: the all-metal kind, with thick steel tubes that look like they could hold a gorilla. He was naked and his eyes were wild. When he saw us, he grabbed the bars and shook them as hard as he could. But the effort was pathetic. Eddie laughed.

  “It ain't the Hilton, but the price is right,” he said to Griffin. “Enjoying your stay? It's peaceful out here. Kind of a nice B and B vibe we got going on.”

  “What's a B and B?” Dan said.

  “Bed and Breakfast,” I said. “Like going to a hotel, but it's someone's house. And they serve you breakfast in the morning.”

  “It's like hanging out with your in-laws, but you have to pay for it,” Eddie said, turning his head to look at Dan. Then he looked back at Griffin. “We've got quite the menu here at the Huckleberry Chalet, don't we?”

  “You're a dead man!” Griffin said.

  “Au contraire mon frere… you're the dead man.” Eddie laughed again. You could see he was relishing each tasty word.

  “Did he eat yet?” he asked Eugene.
r />   “Nuhsing,” Eugene said. “Sree days and no eating. Plenty votter though.”

  “Right there in front of him. See?” Eddie said to me.

  I walked closer, but I made sure not to look right into Griffin Shaw's eyes; the same way you pretend not to see the homeless guy in front of the grocery store, holding up a cardboard sign with his newest sob story.

  On a tray in front of him, on a white plate, sat three sausages; the dried and powdery sort that are usually seen hanging, chain-like, from a deli's rustic ceiling. A folded paper towel and a bottle of Grey Poupon mustard were sitting near the plate, making the cheap tin fold-up tray look like a prop on a movie set.

  “From Brentino's,” Eddie said. “But Eugene doctored 'em up a bit.”

  “I won't eat, you piece of shit,” Griffin said.

  “Hunger strike. He's a regular Gandhi,” Eddie said.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” Griffin pleaded. “This ain't right. I'm sorry about the dog, man. I'm real sorry. I gotta get out of here. Come on, man.”

  “You hear that Dan? He don't like it in there.”

  “I'm all broke up,” Dan the Man said.

  “He screamy and banging around,” Eugene said. “Middle of night. Can't vait till he gone. Let me keel him now, quick like hammer to backs of head.”

  “No,” Eddie said, his thumbs working his suspenders like they were the strings of a harp. “He's gonna die just like Barney did. Don't you dare do it different.”

  They'd locked him in that cage, his only food some strychnine sausages like the ones he'd used to kill Eddie's pug. Tit for tat. Simple revenge. It wasn't like Eddie was pulling out his fingernails one by one or anything. All Griffin had to do was eat and die, or die from not eating.

  “I got a heart,” Eddie said. “Only two of 'em's poisoned. Pretty good odds, if Mister Shaw feels like gambling.”

  “Come on, Eddie. We're both businessmen. Forgive and forget, brother. I just want out of this box. If it's money… let's talk money.”

  “There ain't enough money in all of America to get you out of that box, Shitkicker. You're gonna eat a last meal—just like Barney did.”

  Griffin Shaw summoned up a wad of spit and launched it to the floor. “I ain't yer entertainment,” he said. He looked at me, and I made the mistake of looking right into his hollow eyes. “Come on, man. This is cold-blooded. Don't let him kill me like this. It ain't right.”

  “It was all right for Barney though,” Eddie said.

  “Look what you done to my boys.”

  “Allegedly done to your boys.”

  “Come on, man. I got money,” Griffin said, gripping the bars and looking like the worst dog in the pound. He was almost out of hope, but he wasn't going to let Eddie taste it. He was a scrawny hillbilly, but he was tough. You had to give him that.

  “No more nights vith thees guy,” Eugene said. He was standing near his boombox and ABBA poster, fiddling around with some old cassettes. He loaded one into the machine.

  “No music,” Eddie said. “I can't think with music on.”

  “Boss. Vie we wait so long? You vunt pain, I geev pain… but now. I chop off zeh fingers; I very slow saw off leg so you hear plenty screaming.”

  “It ain't so bad in here,” Griffin said with wide eyes.

  “Don't you worry none. I ain't into torture,” Eddie said. “I got empathy. All you got to do is eat a tasty treat, just like Barney did.”

  Griffin turned his head like a thoughtful bird. “I'll get my chance. I'll get—”

  Eddie pulled his gun and fired a single round into the back of Eugene's head. The gangly Ukrainian dropped to the floor like a pair of huge scissors had just cut the strings of a marionette. The can of unopened beer he was holding hit the floor too, and it spun around, and sprayed and foamed, coming to life in stark contrast to its dead master a few feet away.

  “Jesus,” Dan the Man said, checking his face and hands for blood spatter.

  Eddie blew dramatically across the barrel of his gun. He walked over to the ceramic water pitcher, poked it with a single finger, and the pitcher crashed to the floor and burst into a thousand wet pieces.

  “Hope you drank up,” Eddie said.

  Then he walked over to the boombox and hit the PLAY button. “Heart of Glass” came on, already somewhere in the middle of the song: “ooh, oooh, ahhh, ahhh.”

  “The Best of Blondie,” Eddie said, reading the cassette case. He threw it onto the workbench and motioned for us to get going. “Adios, Shitkicker.”

  “Hey. Wait up. Wait up!” Griffin said.

  We walked up the stairs, Dan the Man in the back running a handkerchief along the railing as we climbed, while the pleading sounds of Griffin Shaw drifted through my dull brain.

  “Eugene's a loner!” Eddie called out. “No one's ever coming back. Could be years before they find you. Real old school. Skeleton in a cage!”

  Eddie shut the basement door.

  “Why'd you kill the Ukrainian?” Dan said.

  “Greedy Pete Bruen. Said they picked up Eugene last night on a Dooey—that's why his truck ain't here. It's in the impound. Pete drove him home. Shitfaced. The Ukrainian lied to me. And Pete says he's got a real loose tongue.”

  “They'll be up here for sure now; if Eugene's a no show,” I said.

  “No show? Eugene don't do nothing.”

  “His court date.”

  “Ain't for three weeks. That's plenty enough time for Griffin to wither and die.”

  “Then we torch the place,” I said.

  “Bingo,” Eddie said.

  “We should get rid of the Ukrain—Eugene,” I said.

  “You wanna saw him up and dump him in a barrel, be my guest,” Eddie said. “Me, I'm going home to watch This Old House.” He looked at his watch. “I hope Irene hit record on the DVR.”

  “I love that show,” Dan the Man said. “Norm Abrams is all right. I saw that guy build a little boat—a boat. And it was nice, too.”

  “You all right, Champ?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” I said. But I wasn't sure if I meant it.

  EASTER ISLAND

  I was doing my best to ignore the cackling hillbilly broad and her slew of unfortunate kids, perpetually in the parking lot, like somewhat-sentient weeds. I placed Nelson Scott's pocket-watch on my nightstand, and tried to nap. Sometimes I'd roll over, pick up the watch, turn it this way and that, with the hope of getting it started again. But its heart was dead. It stared back at me, a useless golden relic.

  I must have drifted off completely, for I was back in Indiana at the farmhouse, and Uncle Carl was throwing handfuls of grain to the chickens. Aunt Stella was pinning my t-shirts and jeans to the line that ran from the front porch out to the monstrous oak tree. Then I found myself walking along the old road that ran from the farmhouse up to the trailer park, where my “Grandpa” Hallot lived. He was related somehow to Aunt Stella, and he would stop by sometimes after church, or on a summer evening to gab on the front porch swing with Uncle Carl. When I was fifteen or so, I took to walking all the way out to his trailer, where I would find him at work on a birdhouse, or a wooden train set for the Sunday School. He had a shed that served as a woodshop, and I could while away a whole day out there, where it smelled like sawdust and turpentine. But in this pleasant dream, just as I approached old Jim Hallot, looking as always like a tall water-bird, I was yanked cruelly from the soft depths of reverie, and assaulted by the low-class howling of my ugly neighbor.

  I stuck my head near the window-screen, and I yelled out, “Keep it down!”

  She looked up at my window, then she cupped her hands around her mouth.

  “This here's my porch, dumbass!” she cawed. I've heard plenty of crows with sweeter voices.

  “It's a parking lot, and other people live here,” I said.

  She turned toward her own window and shouted something inside, no doubt to summon her old man to the rescue. Ten seconds later, he was standing in the middle of the parking lot, shirtless,
a beer in one hand, and wearing a dirty baseball cap.

  “You shout at my woman?” he yelled.

  “She's a woman?” I yelled back. “I'll have to take your word for it.”

  By now, a few of the doors had opened, and people were easing out into the parking lot to wait for any action that might result. There's nothing a hillbilly loves more than a good brawl.

  “Get yer ass down here!”

  “What fer?” I yelled with a twang.

  “I'm gonna beat you down, that's what for.”

  “You wanna beat me off? No thanks, buddy.”

  A few of the people laughed. He puffed around like a rooster.

  “Get down here!”

  “I'm trying to take a nap up here,” I said. “Tell your old lady to shut up.”

  One of the shirtless onlookers actually stepped up and sided with me. “He's right, Cody. I'm sick of hearing her too.”

  “Yeah!” a scrawny woman joined in.

  “Yeah!” another set of neighbors said.

  Cody looked around and shouted some insults. Then he pushed a guy, and the guy pushed back. It was hard to see the details of it, but it ended with Cody down on the ground and a couple of redneck women slapping the fat broad around and pulling her hair. I shut the window and watched the scene unfolding, in silence, like the strange reel of an old movie.

  I thought about the promise I'd made to myself: how I would move into my own house as soon as the Ricky thing was done. But my assets were all in cash. I could buy a two hundred thousand dollar house outright, but what about the knock on the door from the IRS? Guys like Eddie and Frank wash their money; mine just goes in a duffel bag, under the bed.

  And I was still sad about Dan the Man. I always pictured me and Dan carrying boxes up and down the stairs, and drinking a few cold beers when the whole thing was done. Who would help me now? Dan's cells were dividing, unchecked, and Dotty was keeping him at home on the sofa.

  Someone knocked on my door. I got my Beretta, just in case Cody and some of his tavern buddies had come to fight, but it was only a rough-looking blonde and a teenage girl.