The Hatfield brothers were among that group. They approached the casket, trying their best to be respectful, and gazed upon Fat Sam's earthly remains. Sid leaned over the casket and looked closely at Fat Sam's forehead. He looked at Eddie and motioned for him to take a closer look. Eddie didn't move.
"Fuck are you doing?" Eddie whispered.
"Eddie," Sid said, "I don't see no holes."
"They plugged 'em up, dumbass. They weren't gonna stick him out here in front of all these people with fuckin' holes in his head," Eddie hissed, looking around to see whether anyone noticed them lingering by the casket. Nobody had.
Another mourner, a man who owed his limp to Fat Sam's debt collection prowess, sidled up to Hatfield brothers. They exchanged nods and the man asked, "Did you know him?"
"You could say that," Eddie answered.
They looked at the corpse and the man said, "He looks good."
"I don't know as I would say 'good,' " Eddie said.
"He looks dead. That's good."
The music – "A Big Hunk O' Love" – began and Elvis strode to the podium, wearing black leather, as the mourners settled into the pews. The song faded and Elvis began, "We gather today to celebrate the life of Fat Sam …"
His voice trailed off and he squinted at the paper in front of him. Fat Sam's last name was Szczepanczski. Elvis stared at it for a moment. The mourners stared at Elvis.
Elvis could feel the drops of sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to form the letters into some kind of sound. He appeared to be chewing on something.
"Uh, Fat Sam, uh, something Polish, I guess."
Total silence. You could have heard a cockroach fart.
My first funeral, Elvis thought, and I already fucked it up. As consolation, though, it was going much better than his first wedding, which ended with him knocking the bride's father out with a chair. To his credit, it was self defense. The man attacked him after he made what the man believed to be a disrespectful reference to his daughter's rack. Elvis said it was meant as a compliment – the bride did have an incredible rack, a wedding present from her daddy – but some people are touchy when it comes to their daughter's breasts.
"Fat Sam was a big man, a very big man," Elvis said, gesturing toward the tub of human remains in front of him. "He was, you could say, a hunka ..."
Elvis paused. A cough reverberated through the sanctuary.
"He touched a lot of lives. Some of those who were touched by Sam are with us here today," Elvis said, surveying the congregation.
"And now, our father has called him home. You could say, he has returned to his sender."
Fuck me, Elvis thought, time to wrap up this abortion.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and what-not. Amen. Please join the choir in the singing of 'Return to Sender.' "
Papa passed Elvis as he headed to the office in the back of the church.
"Nice job, Elvis," he said as he pressed a few bucks into The King's sweaty palm.
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
Papa continued on, leaving Elvis in the hallway where he surreptitiously counted his fee. Twenty-five bucks. Cheap-ass motherfucker, he thought as he pocketed the bills.
The Hatfield brothers were already seated in front of the desk when Papa entered.
"Enjoy the service?" Papa asked.
"It was kinda short, wasn't it?" Sid asked.
"Well, Elvis' sermons lasted three minutes at most."
The Hatfield brothers stared at him vacantly.
"I mean, his songs. They were only about three minutes long."
More vacant stares.
"So, are we gonna get paid?" Eddie asked.
"Sure, that was five grand, right?"
"Yeah, five," Eddie said.
"How would you like to turn it into ten?" Papa asked.
Sid and Eddie conferred. Sid whispered something to Eddie. Eddie thought about it and whispered something back. And then it was Sid's turn to think and whisper. This went on for a while.
"Well?" Papa said. "It's not exactly fucking quantum physics. Do you want to make ten grand or not?"
"That sounds good to us," Eddie said. "Just one thing, Sid wants to be introduced to that stripper, the redhead."
"Oh, you'll get to know her soon enough. I guarantee it."
Kathy loitered with the investment bankers outside the church after the funeral.
"Some service," she said.
"Very touching," one of the investment bankers said.
"Bad touch," the other one added.
The sociologist walked by, tossing her hair at the investment bankers and giving them the kind of hard look that could cripple your grandmother.
"Is she still pissed off about that crack about her tits?" Kathy asked.
"You'd think she'd be over it by now," one of the investment bankers said. "It's not like there's much to be upset about."
Kathy glanced at the church just in time to see the Hatfield brothers skulking out the backdoor to their pickup.
Kathy turned to head to her car.
"I meant it as a compliment," the investment banker said. "Some guys like tits that look like bee stings. Jesus, if you make your living putting your ass in guys' faces, you shouldn't be so fucking sensitive. Especially if your ass looks like hers."
Kathy followed the Hatfield brothers as they drove out of town and into the mountains. She knew where they were going. She had to warn Smith. But how?
The dumbass refused to have a cell phone. Part of it was paranoia; he didn't want people listening in on his phone calls. He had seen on a TV show how the cops can trace cell phone calls now and it cemented his position. Besides, if someone needed to get hold of him, they'd have to make an effort. They'd really have to want to speak to him. It culled out people he really didn't need to talk to.
They drove for about an hour, getting closer to Nunn's cabin. Kathy tried of think of some way to stop them, to slow them down so she could get ahead of them and warn Smith.
She barely saw the deer run out onto the highway.
"Where'd he say this place was?" Eddie asked.
"You saw her lookin' at me. Admit it."
"He said it was off Route 322, right?"
"She is so fine."
Eddie was getting pretty tired of Sid going on and on about that redhead stripper. He got it – Sid was deeply in love. It wasn't his usual crush. Usually, he'd fall for a woman long enough to talk her into making a video that he'd then post on the Internet. He heard that was a good way to make money. But so far, he hadn't made any. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Maybe it was bad lighting or a lack of plot and character development. Or maybe people just didn't like watching Tom Petty's retarded brother humping heavily tattooed meth heads.
"You saw her titties," Sid said. "She has some fine titties."
"Uh huh," Eddie said as he steered the pickup through the woods. "I think the turn's right up here."
"And her ass," Sid said. "People write songs about that kind of ass."
"Uh huh," Eddie said.
"You know, like that one, 'I Like Big Butts.' "
"Uh huh."
"I'm not saying her ass is big. It's just right."
"Uh huh."
"You don't think her ass is big?"
"Uh, uh."
"You sayin' her ass is big?"
"I ain't sayin' nothin.' "
"Best not. I'm gonna ask her to marry me."
"Fuck!" Eddie shouted.
Sid started to say that he didn't give a shit what Eddie thought and his brother could go fuck himself for all he cared, but he couldn't get the words out before the front bumper made contact with the deer, spraying the windshield with a fine mist of blood while making the truck swerve sickeningly across the highway.
Eddie wrestled with the wheel and brought the truck under control on the shoulder.
"Fuck was that?" Sid asked.
"Dinner."
Kathy passed the Hatfield brothers and watched in her rearview mirror as
they loaded the bloody deer carcass into the bed of their pickup truck. Jesus, she thought, they eat road kill.
It was the break she needed. She mashed the accelerator, pushing her Hyundai to its limits up the side of the mountain. The car protested mildly.
"Piece of shit," she said.
About a mile from the logging road – Smith had given her the directions before he left, asking her to meet them there after things calmed down – her car developed a cough. It started out mild and soon turned into convulsive barking. The car bucked and danced and died.
"Shit," she yelled, pounding the steering wheel.
The pickup truck had just about caught up to her. She ducked as it passed. Too late. She saw the brake lights flash and the reverse lights come on. The truck pulled even with her car.
Sid rolled down the passenger side window and said, "Hi, my name's Sid."
He grinned. His teeth resembled a garden rake that had been run over by a lawn mower.
Kathy thought, My name is Shit. Nice to meet you.
Chapter Seventeen
Papa walked into The Happy Beaver and the first person he saw was Wiley, sitting at the edge of the stage, intently watching the doctoral candidate in Hellenic studies sway listlessly to Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon."
Doesn't anybody fucking listen anymore? Papa thought. He had been explicit, no more fucking Fleetwood Mac. He explained to the dancers just how difficult it was to shake one's ass to Fleetwood Mac. Besides, he said, that woman's voice sounds as if she's got a vibrator stuck up her vagina.
And Wiley. Jesus.
Papa nodded to Wiley and walked to his office. Wiley finished his drink, slipped a dollar in the Greek doctor's G-string and walked toward the men's room. He passed the men's room and went to Papa's office.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"You really should have a talk with that dancer. Fleetwood Mac?"
"Look, Wiley, I thought I told you to stay the hell away from here. I thought I was pretty clear about it."
"Well, I had some news that I didn't want to share on the phone."
"You could have come by the church. You knew I was there for Fat Sam's funeral."
"My condolences. I'm deeply sorry I missed it. I had a previous engagement. He will be missed. He leaves a large void. I will always cherish the times we spent together, our conversations about philosophy, religion, politics. His wit…"
"What do you want?"
"I bring good news. The feds arrested some Arabic guy for the bombings. Something Hussein."
"Hussein?"
"Yeah, bad break for that asshole. Right about now, I'd suspect his scrotum is lighting up like a Christmas tree."
Papa started to say something but the thought became lost as it tried to navigate around the image of a scrotum lighting up like a Christmas tree. He glanced at his crotch and thought that a scrotum doesn't look anything like a Christmas tree.
Great, he thought, now I forget what I was going to say.
"Forget what you were going to say?" Wiley asked.
"Fuck you and your scrotum…"
Wiley interrupted, "Hussein's scrotum."
"And Hussein's scrotum."
Papa rubbed his temples.
"So," Wiley said, "I guess we're even, right?"
"Not by a long shot."
Wiley rolled his eyes.
"Look, I got the heat off of you. They aren't looking for those two shitbirds who work for you. That was my deal, right? Eliminate the two shitbirds. Well, they've been eliminated. I mean, they're still alive, but nobody's looking for them so they might as well be dead. I'd say that's worth wiping out my debt and putting the past behind us."
"I disagree and last I checked, my vote counts more than yours."
"How long are you going to hold that over me?"
"Statute of limitations, I believe, never runs out on homicide."
"But it wasn't homicide. It was an accident."
"Evidence to the contrary, I would say."
"You would say that."
The feds pummeled Hussein with bad, loud music for days – they even broke out The Shaggs – and he still hadn't cracked and confessed.
The feds met with D'Onofrio, as a courtesy, and brought him up to speed. He wasn't surprised they hadn't gotten anywhere with Hussein because he knew he had nothing to do with anything and was a victim of Wiley's bullshit. D'Onofrio felt sorry for the guy, but he wasn't about to give Wiley up to the feds. Not yet, anyway.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling while one of the agents from the Department of Homeland Security, a former mercenary with a private army, described their efforts to pry a confession from Hussein. D'Onofrio decided he had had enough detail when the agent began talking about Slim Whitman's effects on incarcerated individuals.
"The yodeling is very effective …"
"OK, I get the picture," D'Onofrio interrupted. "So what's next? Are you going to cut this guy loose?'
"Negative," another agent said. "We have him; we're keeping him."
"But you don't have anything on him, do you?"
"Whoever said we needed something to hold the guy? We can keep him as long as we want and we don't have to even read him his rights because he has none. Technically, he's being held in the United Arab Emirates, and last I heard, they don't know shit about rights over there. We don't even have him. Never even heard of him. He doesn't exist. To whom are you referring?"
D'Onofrio shook his head. He didn't know whose bullshit was more dangerous, Wiley's or the feds'.
"So what're you going to do now with that person who doesn't exist?"
"We have the subject restrained and we're working on getting permission to utilize an audiovisual technique that the NSA developed recently at Fort Meade. Essentially, he's strapped to a table with his eyes held open with spring-loaded devices and forced to watch clips of Glenn Beck interspersed with hardcore pornography."
"And that's an effective method?"
"We're not sure. We haven't used on a human subject. The tests with chimpanzees went well, up until the point where they broke free of the restraints and started masturbating furiously."
"Oh, the porn."
"Funny. It was while they were watching Glenn Beck. We're still not sure what to make of that."
Smith sat on the cabin's porch, taking in the view. The late afternoon sun streamed through the trees, creating the kind of golden beams associated with paintings of Jesus' return. Inside, Spew was on one knee in front of the fireplace, poking at the fire. In the bedroom, Nunn was on both knees, poking at Traci With an I.
Smith had always heard how quiet it was out in the country. But it wasn't quiet at all. He heard the leaves rustling gently, birds making bird sounds, Traci yelling something about Jesus, the distant groan of an old pickup truck climbing the logging road.
"Shit."
It was nice and cozy in the cab of the old Ford – Eddie behind the wheel, Sid riding shotgun, literally, with a shotgun propped between his legs and Kathy stuck in the middle.
Kathy tried to stay focused on the road, but it was difficult with Sid staring at her and grinning like a brain-damaged lemur. He had been staring at her since they grabbed her and forced her into the truck. It was giving her the creeps.
Eddie watched the road, mostly, occasionally sneaking a glimpse of Kathy's breasts.
"You sure are pretty," Sid said.
"Thank you," Kathy said.
"My name's Sid," he said.
"Yes, you said that. Good for you."
"I really like you," Sid said.
"That's nice."
"I want you to marry me," Sid said.
Kathy had no response to Sid's proposal. She didn't think it was a good idea to antagonize a methed-up hillbilly armed with a 12-guage. But then again, being kidnapped and forced to live the rest of her life as the wife of some guy whose only previous long term relationship had been with a goat didn't exactly appeal to her either.
"Well, Sid, I'm
flattered, but…"
"So then you will."
Kathy felt bile tickling the back of her throat. She had the seed of an idea, and well, what the hell, she thought.
"You know, Sid, I like you and all, but I think I'm more your brother's type."
"What? Him? He's a ignorant pig fucker. You don't want that limp-dick asshole."
"Who you calling limp dick, you broke-dick goat porker?"
"Eddie, would you shut the fuck up. I wasn't talkin' to you."
Kathy cleared her throat. "Well," she said, "I guess what I'm saying is I'm kind of sweet on both of you, if you know what I mean."
Sid thought for a moment and then said, "What do you mean?"
"I think you know," Kathy said in a manner she had hoped would help her avoid having to explain it explicitly.
Eddie picked up on it right away. His eyes got wide. Damn, he thought, it'd be just like the movies. He could be the pool boy, or the pizza guy, and Sid could be the jealous husband.
Eddie's expression helped Sid figure it out. He didn't relish the idea of sharing the love of his life with Eddie.
"I don't want to share," he told Kathy. "I want you to have my babies."
Kathy was speechless, mostly because if she opened her mouth, she was going to puke.
Eddie jumped in.
"Now, Sid, I think we should do what the lady wants. She is a guest in our truck. If it makes it any better, you can be the pool boy."
"Fuck you. You ain't going to touch her. You do, I'll cut your dick off and shove it up your ass."
Eddie slammed the brakes and the truck skidded to a dusty stop.
"You were always a selfish motherfucker, never wanting to share nothing," Eddie said.
"Fuck you."
"Fuck me? Fuck you!"
They were slapping at each other over Kathy. Sid flung open his door and climbed out of the truck, leveling the shotgun at his brother. Kathy tried to merge into the seat to clear the shot.
Fortunately, Eddie jumped out of the truck and grabbed a crowbar from behind the driver's seat.
The two brothers circled each other while Kathy slid out of the truck and started edging toward the woods.
Don't Be Cruel Page 12