PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay

by Neal Barrett Jr.

"Yes, sir."

  "That stuff you were reading. That's not right, that's a mistake."

  "Which one is that, sir? There's thirty-two here."

  "All of 'em. I was falsely charged, officer. If you got the record there, you know I was acquitted on every fucking one."

  "I'd prefer you hold back on the obscenities, sir."

  "Yeah, fine. Only what happened is, there's people in the same business I'm in, I'm just trying to make a living, okay? These people I'm talkin' about, every time I fuc–every time I turn around, they're accusing me of something I didn't even do. I never did any that stuff you're reading there."

  "Mr Kenny..." The cop folded up his paper and stuffed it in his pocket. "I've got no reason to hold you here. There's nothing I can charge you with, nothing you're wanted for. You want to get in your car and go, that's fine with me."

  "Well...yeah, okay." Hutt felt a great sense of relief. The cop could see it too. Hutt didn't like that, but he didn't let it show.

  "You're just doing your job," Hutt said, "what you're supposed to do."

  "Have a good trip," the cop said.

  Hutt got in his car. Put his seatbelt on, which he hardly ever did. The cop put his hands on the sill, leaned his head in. Looked at Kenny a second, looked kind of funny for a while, said, "Would you hit that trunk release for me, Mr. Kenny, then step outside of the car?"

  "Huh? What for?"

  "'Cause I asked you to, sir."

  "I don't get it. You said we were fine, you said it was all okay."

  "Hit the release, and step out of the car, please, sir."

  Hutt did. Something was wrong now, he didn't know what. The cop waited for him, waited so he'd be behind, and Hutt was in front. Walked him to the back, walked him to the big Buick trunk open wide.

  Hutt took one quick look, made an awful sound, staggered back and covered up his eyes. The smell hit hard, hit him like a wall, hit him so hard he nearly fell. He could feel the steak fingers and the fries, The vanilla-Coke malt, everything he'd had for a year, was coming up fast. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, held it all back.

  "I didn't smell 'em till I leaned in the car, Mr. Kenny. Just a whiff is all. Figured something bad was back here. You acquainted with either of these persons, sir? You know who these fellas are?"

  Hutt Kenny didn't, didn't know the joker with his zipper open and his pecker hanging out. Didn't know the guy in the aviator jacket that was black or maybe brown. Didn't know either one, but knew how they got there, knew who'd stuffed them in his trunk, and even knew why, fucking Cecil R. Dupree...

  "I don't know 'em," Hutt said, "never saw them before in my life."

  The cop shook his head. "I don't think I could stop at a Dairy Queen, something like that in the car. I sure couldn't handle that." He let his hand rest on the big black pistol at his side. "Might be good if you put your hands on your head now, sir. I expect you know how to do that..."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jack thought about Utah, Arizona, maybe Montana, somewhere he'd never been before, somewhere they'd never heard of Mexican Wells or Cecil Dupree. Canada maybe. Canada sounded fine. He'd seen a thing on the Travel Channel, it sounded okay. They had some nice babes up there; he'd seen them on the tube. French babes, too, and everybody knew what they liked to do.

  What he couldn't do, he couldn't stay at Piggs. You kick Cat Eye in the nuts, you don't want to work on the same fucking planet anymore, you got to go somewhere else. Cecil wouldn't let Cat kill him, 'cause help is hard to find, but Jack knew he'd wish he was dead by the time Cat was through. Cat was good at that. Cat couldn't blink unless someone showed him how, but he knew how to hurt, he could hurt real good.

  The sun was blazing hot overhead by the time he slipped into the hole behind Wan's. He was tired, he was beat, his gut was on fire, but he felt okay, he was feeling just fine. The cellar was cool, it was dark, and nobody knew he was there. Funny how the place could do that, make him feel safe, make him feel everything would turn out right. It fucking wouldn't, not until he got to the fucking North Pole or somewhere, but now it seemed fine.

  When his gut cooled off, he wished he'd thought to slip into Wan's, make a butter and jelly, get something to drink. That's one thing he meant to do. Get a loaf of white bread, couple cans of something, bottles of water to keep down there.

  "This is what I got to start doing," he said to himself, "I got to start thinking, got to start planning shit instead of just letting shit happen, which is what it's going to do you're not thinking ahead. You're not thinking, shit's thinking for you, and that's the kind of stuff you're going to get."

  Jack lay back on the concrete floor and looked up in the dark. He could see little slits of light between the boards, but no one was up yet at Piggs, no one was moving about.

  Funny how he wasn't even scared. He'd be scared later, when he had to figure some way to get a few bucks and get out of town, clear out of Texas before Cat knocked a few teeth out, broke a couple ribs. Canada was further off than Kansas. Further than the big square states that were stacked on top of that. A few bucks wouldn't cut it; he'd have to get his hands on a bundle for a jump like that.

  See there you go again, not planning or thinking, just letting shit flow through your head...

  What did he think he was doing, running off to do dirty stuff with French babes, leaving Gloria behind? He didn't want girls like that, he wanted her. Jesus, what would she think, he did a thing like that? It'd break her fucking heart, and they hadn't even had a date yet, hadn't even gone for pie.

  Jack felt awful, and promised he'd make it up to her somehow. If he had to, he'd hold up a 7-Eleven, which would be a fucking chore. The way they did now, dumping cash right in the safe soon as some fucker gave them a twenty dollar bill, he might have to do three or four.

  If he had to, he would. He wondered if Ortega would let him borrow his car. He'd have to say it was medical, something like that. Jack didn't like to lie to friends, but he didn't know Ortega that well, and who else would let him have a car?

  Jack dreams about Cecil and Grape. They're talking, and Jack can hear everything they say. It's like he's a fly or something, sitting on the wall. He doesn't have to listen real hard, so maybe flies can hear better than we know.

  "...So the fucking kid's calling, Junior himself, he's getting on the phone. I'm thinking, this little shit's not smart enough to dial, find the numbers on the phone."

  "Junior, the old man's kid, he's calling, he's calling on the phone."

  "What the fuck I tell you, Grape? I say the kid, he's calling on the phone. He's all upset, he's whining, you know, he's whining like a kid."

  "Fucking little kid."

  "That's what I'm saying. Fucking little kid. He's telling me the cops got Kenny Hutt. Kenny's in serious shit, they got him in Liberty County, they got him in the lockup there, they're finding some stiffs in his trunk, the guy's are in a fucking rental car. This is all my fault, the kid's saying, I gotta do something, I got to get him out."

  "Hutt Kenny, that's who we're talking 'bout here."

  "What did I say?"

  "Nothing, it's Hutt Kenny is all, it's not Kenny Hutt."

  "I give a fuck? I give a fuck, some asshole from Maine or Vermont, he's got a Kenny and a Hutt?"

  "This has got to do with Cat. I'm thinking it's got to do with Cat."

  "It's got to do with Cat. Why am I telling you this, you know what it's all about? I'm putting this kid on hold, I'm looking for Cat, Cat's jackin' off somewhere. I'm saying, 'Cat, who's the other dude in the trunk, what the fuck's he doing in there?' 'Guy was pissin' onna wall,' Cat says, 'he shouldn't oughta do that.'"

  "I hear him say that, I think I'm going to piss on myself. I'm trying not to laugh, I don't like to laugh, anything's got to do with Cat."

  "You want to laugh, Grape, go ahead and laugh. Cat breaks your legs, I'm going to stand and watch."

  "I told you, I'm not going to laugh. Not if it's got to do with Cat."

  "I wouldn't, I was you."<
br />
  "So you get back on the phone, you're talking to the kid."

  "I get back on the phone, I'm telling the kid I don't know what he's talking about, I got nothing to do with what his guy's got in his trunk, and you shouldn't be telling me shit like this you're talking onna phone. I'm hanging up, he's calling back."

  "I heard him calling back."

  "He's saying, the phone's okay, I don't got to worry 'bout that. I'm saying, I'm glad to hear this, I'm worried anyway, I'm talking to a klutz like him. I tell him, fuck Kenny Hutt, fuck a guy wears a collar don't match his shirt. I'm saying, you want to sell your product, send me up a guy don't got any tassels on his shoes. Send me a guy, he's got a little respect."

  "Hutt Kenny, that fuck, he don't know about respect."

  "That's what I'm saying, that's what I'm telling fucking Ambrose Junior, Junior says wait a minute, I know he's talking to somebody else."

  "He don't know what he's doing, he's talking to somebody else."

  "That's what he's doing, it's not his old man, his old man's got troubles with his dick. He's coming back, then, he's saying, 'I'm sending a guy. He'll look okay, he won't be dressing like Hutt. But we still got to do a partial, Mr. Dupree, and don't take offense at that.'

  "I tell him fuck the partial, you little prick. You want all the pay, you bring all the shit. Keep it, you don't want to do that."

  "You're hanging up on the kid."

  "I'm hanging up, the kid isn't calling back."

  "He'll send a guy, he's not backing out."

  "Fucking guy's in his car right now, Grape, you can bet on that. Junior's a prick, but he's his old man's kid. He ain't about to back up."

  "Fucking guy's on his way. The kid wants the deal, he isn't backing out."

  "What did I say? What did I fucking say just now? Get me somethin' to eat, I don't want nothing Chink, get me something else. And get that fucker Jack. You find him, I don't care where the fuck he is, I want him here, I want him now, you get that little shit back to Piggs..."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Ever'body they lookin' for you, mahn. Grape he coming here talking to me. Where the fock Jhack is? I am saying, how the fock I know, Grape he hitting me beside the head, you see? I getting hitted for you, Jhack. Don' be coming here, dey hitting me some more, I don' liking dat."

  Jack didn't listen. He sat on the floor, hunched in the corner, scrooched in the corner in the kitchen at Wan's, squatted in the corner stuffing rice in his mouth, rice from last night or the night before that, shoveling that rice, gulping water from a glass, rice falling out of the corners of his mouth.

  "Mahn, you making me sick, you know dhat?" Ahmed said, "I am raised in the focking desert, we got better manner than dat. What you do, man, pissing ever'body off, why these som'bitches lookin' for you?"

  "Rhino coming in? I don't want to be here, he's coming in. Rhino going to go right to Cecil, tell him where I am."

  "Me, I am going to Cecil, tell him where you are, you don' get outta here. Gimme the bowl, you got enough of thees crap. You going to be 'sploding like a boomb, you know dat? You know what is happen, dey throwin' rice at the weddings? The pigeons is eating the rice, dey drinkin' some'ting, dey 'sploding. Jus' like dat."

  "That's rice hasn't been cooked, you fucking raghead. If it was, 'bout a million fuckin' chinks's be exploding every day."

  "I am cooking Al Denny. You cooking dat way, you hardly cookin' at all."

  "I never heard of nothin' like that."

  "This is because you a fockin' waiter an a deeshwasher, Jhack. Fockin' waiter don' have to know 'bout Al Denny or nothin' else. Gotta carry plates an' shit, dat is all you got to know."

  "I kicked Cat in the balls. Last night at Piggs. I didn't mean to but I did."

  "Shit, man..." Ahmed slammed his hands against his head, slammed his head twice. Rolled his eyes, did his Arab act, said "faya-baba-daba," or words to that effect.

  "This is a bad t'ing to do, I t'ink he goin' to kill you for dat. This is what they doing in my country, mahn, only there doin' it twice."

  Jack was beginning to think Ahmed was right. All that rice, he was swelling up fast. Not to the point of explosion, but close enough to throw up, or something worse than that.

  "You ever been to Canada? I'm thinking another country's the way to go now."

  "I am t'ink you maybe right," Ahmed said. He washed Jack's bowl and put it on a stack. Anybody wants to look, nobody's used a bowl, all the bowls are in a stack.

  "I t'ink I would go somewhere else. Is fockin' cold in Canada. I am t'inking Whatamala, mahn."

  "What?"

  "Whatamala. Is hot, mahn, you don' freeze you ass off, you got a beach down there."

  "I don't think so. Everyone down there's a Mescan or something close. I wouldn't like it at all."

  Ahmed laughed. When he laughed, Jack could see his bad teeth. He could understand that. You wouldn't have a lot dentists, out in the desert like that. You're a dentist, you can do a lot better nearly anywhere else.

  "What you don' like, Jhack, is people who maybe got a name like Ricky Chavez, somethin' like dat. Maybe someone got a bank or somet'ing, is liking someone you are liking too."

  "Hey, just can that kind of talk, okay?" Jack pulls himself up off the floor, which isn't easy, his stomach is cramping up fast.

  "I thought we was some kind of friends, Ahmed. I'm not talking 'bout friends that like each other, I'm talking the other kind that don't."

  "I t'ink that's what we got."

  "Yeah, well you don't show it much. I come here thinking I can maybe talk to somebody, all I'm getting is rice ain't even hardly cooked. That and shit 'bout Ricky Chavez and that other part I don't appreciate."

  "Don' be getting you hair up in the air, Jhack. You maybe t'inkin, Ahmed, who is not my friend, he is tellin' Cecil, he is tellin' Cat, Jhack is livin' in the doggie place, he is livin' under Piggs. You t'ink I tellin' them dat? You hurting my feelings, Jhack, an' I don' 'preciate that."

  "What? I ain't living in no dog place, what you talking about?"

  "Hey, I see you comin' out the hole, like the rhabeet or somet'in, Jhack. I know there is the Gino's Fine Fish Restaurante before the Piggs, and the Sunset Vet before dat. I know these t'ing because I am cook for the Gino's and putting the puppy dog to sleeping at the vet. I am feel so very sad, I am doing that.

  "Don' be tellin' me what's where an' what's not. De places is changing, but Ahmed is not. I am being here all the time, Jhack."

  "Jesus," Jack said. He wished his belly didn't hurt so bad, he'd whack the fucking Arab right there, see if Ortega would loan him the car, take off right now. Fuck Ortega if he didn't like it, he'd whack the Swede greaser too. And while he's thinking, Ahmed's thinking too, and he's gone, vanished, out the kitchen door, leaving Jack no better off than he was before...

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gloria Mundi sits in the pilot's seat of the Junkers JU-52. She rests her hands easy on the wheel, which is just like the wheel of a Ford or a Buick or any other car, except the upper part's gone It isn't broken, it's simply not there. Beside her, to her right, is another seat, with another wheel, just like the one in front of her. This is where the co-pilot sat. Gloria is certain the steering wheel's made like this to help the pilots see. She's taller than the average girl, and it's still hard to see out the front or out the sides. It's cramped in there, and everything's small.

  It was surely cramped for Hauptmann Wilhelm Klass, who was six feet three, and a good hundred eighty two pounds. All this Gloria figured from the way Germans measure things, which is not the same as ours. Gloria looked it up in the library over to Luling one day. The lady there gave her a look, and said she remembered the war, and wondered why an Americans would want to know stuff like that.

  Gloria didn't mind, she was plenty used to that. Her daddy hadn't built the BATTLE OF BRITUN FAMILY FUN PARK to show off German skills in the air. He'd built it to show those Kraut motherfuckers they'd lost. Daddy had other colorful descriptions but that was hi
s favorite of all.

  Daddy hadn't fought in the war, he'd barely been born at the time. But he had a good background from comic books and movies with Audie Murphy and Alan Ladd. He'd watched "Hogan's Heroes" and knew what he liked, and what he didn't like at all.

  Considering the times, Gloria felt that was likely fair. That's where Daddy was coming from, and the library lady as well. Germans weren't our friends at the time. Especially fucking Nazi butchers with acne and piggy little eyes who struck without warning from the air. That was the worst kind of all. If you went through the BATTLE OF BRITUN at the time, you could see these butchers, plaster pilots formerly from Fricker's Mens Store, dying in the cockpits of Heinkels, Arados, and Messerschmitts of every shape and size. They were splashed with red paint, and had real bullet holes from Daddy's .45. When the park closed down for the night, Daddy liked to roam about with a bottle of Vat 69, and shoot Germans in the head. For a while, there was screaming from the bad PA, but tourists didn't seem to like that.

  Still, Gloria couldn't bring herself to hate Hauptmann Wilhelm Klass for what he might have done at the time. Could never bring herself to feel that way, for he was the only man she'd ever loved at all. Fate and the cruel years had deemed they'd never meet in this life, but that didn't mean they'd always be apart. Gloria believed this was true. She felt she knew Wilhelm better than she knew a lot of people living at the time.

  Whatever he'd done so bad, he'd done it some sixty years past, and so had a lot of folks as well. Shoot, was he any worse than Cat Eye or Grape or Cecil R. Dupree? Lord God, he'd have to be pretty fucking bad to get as low as that.

  Gloria could look at the faded picture on Wilhelm's ID, stuck right there on the panel with all the little dials since l943, and look in his faded blue eyes and know he was good inside. One thing for sure–you're dancing buck naked every night for a bunch of truckers and such, you sure as hell know about eyes. You know what some fella's thinking, and it isn't always what you'd imagine it would be. Sometimes, it's something you wouldn't ever guess. And the thing she saw in Wilhelm's eyes went right to her heart, touched something there that always brought the hot tears, made her know he was with her somehow, right there close by.