Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  By and by, a muscle began to twitch nervously in his jaw. This was the real thing.

  As the clock’s slender sliver of silvered steel approached 4, Kauffmann pressed his lips hard together.

  As the half minute was approaching, the lightweight threw in the towel.

  Betty watched the fraud open his eyes, fake a yawn, and pretend to be wide-eyed in surprise at discovering her presence.

  “Hello, Miss Mean-mouth.” The part-time carpenter stretched his long, sinewy arms. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

  “Give me twenty dollars.” The girl had a way of getting right to the point.

  This time, his surprise was genuine. “What for?”

  “Because I asked you for it. And don’t take all day; I’ve gotta catch the bus into town.”

  Mike Kauffmann raised his angular frame to a sitting position and planted both of his booted feet firmly on the floor. “I ain’t worked in over a week, sugar dumplin’, and the rent’s due today so I don’t have that much cash to spare—”

  “Yes you do. Put it there.” Betty extended her sweaty palm.

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Momma’s liable to show up any minute now.” The pregnant girl cocked her head. “You don’t give me twenty bucks, I’ll tell your older girlfriend something you don’t want her to know.”

  His weasel eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  The girl smirked. “Like who my baby’s daddy is.”

  A flash of cloud-fire illuminated the parlor windows.

  Crouching tensely on the couch like a cougar about to pounce, Kauffmann glared hatefully at his tormentor.

  Three thumping heartbeats after the lightning, thunder rumbled.

  For about four more, his eyes burned holes into the flaccid face that had been so attractive a few months ago. Finally, he said, “Hell, you don’t even know who the father is.”

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Betty reached out to flick a finger at his red hair. “But what if baby turns out to be a cute little carrot-top?” She laughed. “If I was to drop a hint to Momma that you was the daddy, she’d sharpen up her butcher knife and fix you so you’d never father another brat.”

  Kauffmann knew that Betty wasn’t bluffing. The defeated man pulled a wallet from his hip pocket, removed a wrinkled greenback, and slapped it onto her hand. “That’s my onliest twenty,” he whined. “All I got left is six dollars.”

  “Tough cookies.” Betty stuffed the take into her bathrobe pocket. “By this time next week, I’ll be needing s’more cash money, so you’d better go over to the furniture factory and ask the boss man to scare up some work for you to do.” She winked at her victim. “Maybe somebody died last night and they need a nice pine box to sleep in.”

  Mike Kauffmann’s hands made fists as he muttered under his sour, beer-scented breath, “By this time next week, you might be needing—”

  * * *

  Might be needing what?

  It is irritating, when awaiting the completion of a presumably witty riposte, to have the barbed end clipped off. But that is precisely what the thoughtless fellow has done.

  The question is: “Why?”

  The answer is: “Because.”

  Because even though the storm rumbling ominously over the mountains had drowned out the sound of Wanda Naranjo’s arriving automobile, Michael Kauffmann heard Betty’s mother climbing the squeaky porch steps and stomping across the loose boards to open the door to the parlor. Whatever the boyfriend thought Betty might be needing this time next week must remain his dark secret. We shall not fret about it; the knowledge is surely not a great loss. Though Mr. Kauffmann is a competent carpenter, he is not known among the hammer-and-nails set for his verbal virtuosity. His pithy comeback was probably something like: By this time next week, you may be needing a new set of teeth. If so, the fellow’s attempt at a snappy comeback was far off the mark.

  Seven days hence, Betty Naranjo would not be in the market for a single incisor, bicuspid, or molar.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A ROUTINE DOMESTIC DISPUTE

  Slamming the door behind her, Wanda Naranjo simulated a convincing shiver. “Before long, it’s gonna be raining fuzzy cats and hairy dogs and fat toad-frogs.” Receiving no greeting from either her taciturn boyfriend or her sulky daughter, the forty-eight-year-old nurse’s aide dropped her purse onto a parlor armchair, pulled off her shabby coat and tossed it over the purse, strode into the kitchen—and screeched like an edgy banshee whose flank had been prodded with a red-hot branding iron: “Aiiieeee!”

  Such gut-wrenching screams tend to raise the small hairs on bystanders’ necks and make them wonder what the matter is. Hairs did bristle on the necks of Michael Kauffmann and Betty Naranjo, and both were perplexed about the cause that had produced this alarming effect. Had the lady of the house actually been branded with the Bar-Double-X logo by a whimsical cowboy who—mistaking the rear entrance of the Naranjo residence for Pinky Dan’s Last Chance Saloon—had entered the premises in search of some wholesome entertainment? While the probability of this scenario could not be set at zero, the arrival of a prankster-cowpuncher armed with his brand-new DeWalt battery-operated branding iron seemed somewhat unlikely. It was deemed more plausible that Wanda had encountered a far more dangerous visitor in her kitchen. Betty imagined a nine-foot rattlesnake, coiled and ready to fang her unfortunate mother, swallow her corpse whole, and—with characteristic reptilian rudeness—burp up Momma’s indigestible rubber-soled shoes. Mr. Kauffmann, who had viewed hundreds of excessively violent flicks, pictured a humongous, hairy, ski-masked gorilla who was about to decapitate his sweetheart with a samurai sword that was already stained with the blood of dozens of ill-fated nurses’ aides. Though both daughter and boyfriend were perplexed and troubled about Wanda’s distress, neither made a move to leave the parlor and investigate—much less lend a hand in the lady’s defense.

  Evidently sensing their curiosity and realizing that some kind of explanation was required of her, the horrified woman yelled, “There’s water all over the floor!”

  His memory triggered by this hint, the man in the parlor nodded. Oh, right—the leak Wanda nagged me about was in the kitchen. As the likely consequence of this circumstance occurred to him, Michael Kauffmann’s long face dropped. With the floor to mop, there’s no telling when she’ll get around to fixing me some breakfast. Major bummer.

  The furious woman in the mauve uniform surged back into the parlor to glare at her boyfriend. Mike was sitting on the couch, doing his best to look as innocent as a week-old pink-skinned infant who had never known sin. This deceitful ploy served only to further enrage his girlfriend. “I told you about it last night—so why didn’t you fix it?”

  About eleven men out of ten hate to admit to their shortcomings, such as a tendency to disremember odd jobs that need doing. This virtue conserves considerable energy, which they expend in making excuses. “I ain’t got the right kinda tools to work on water pipes.” The carpenter shrugged. “And even if I had some pipe wrenches and solder and whatnot—I ain’t a qualified plumber.”

  “Well, you could have called one!”

  Kauffmann countered this unkind assertion with a drawling whine: “It wasn’t much of a leak when you left for work last night—just a little drip.”

  You’re a big drip. Wanda gave him a look that would have curdled fresh milk.

  Showing her a grimy palm, the clueless fellow yawned into the hairy side of his hand. “I figured it could wait till you got home.”

  “Oh you did, did you.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, I ain’t got enough money to pay a plumber.” Mike Kauffmann shot an accusing sideways glance at Betty, whose blackmail had reduced him from poverty to penury.

  “Well, then—I guess I shouldn’t have bothered you with my little problem.” Wanda Naranjo’s tone had softened to silky smooth, her lips curved into a smile. Dangerous signs.

  But ones that did not register with the freckled-faced man whose
intelligence quotient hovered a few notches below room temperature. I knew she’d cool off.

  In a manner of speaking, she had. The cold water had soaked into the canvas seams of Wanda’s blue rubber-soled shoes and was wetting the bottom of her white cotton stockings. Curling her chilly toes, she picked up a cordless telephone and carried it into the kitchen to make the call. After describing the location of the leak as well as she could, the bone-tired woman asked, “How soon can you get here?” She was wide-eyed with surprise. “That soon?” The man on the other end of the line assured Mrs. Naranjo that he wouldn’t be late. But this sounded too good to be true. I’ll be lucky if the liar shows up tomorrow. The destitute woman didn’t dare ask how much the service call would cost. “Okay, I’ll be looking for you.” She returned the turquoise telephone to the parlor, laid it gently into the matching cradle as if it were her plastic baby. Taking no notice of her worthless boyfriend, Wanda spoke to her daughter: “What do you want for breakfast, honey?”

  Betty shrugged. “I’m not all that hungry.”

  “Well, I am.” Kauffmann patted his flat belly.

  Wanda pointedly ignored the odious fellow. “Don’t forget that you’re eating for two.”

  “I know,” Betty said. “I already made me a baloney and mustard sandwich to go.”

  Wanda’s brow gathered itself into a frown. “To go where?”

  “To see Dr. Whyte.”

  “That geeky shrink who works for the high school?”

  “Dr. Whyte’s my counselor.” Betty felt a vigorous kick in her belly. “My appointment’s for eleven o’clock.”

  “Soon as I get on some dry stockings and shoes, I’ll make you some scrambled eggs.” The weary woman groaned and rubbed at a stinging ache in the small of her back. “Then I’ll drive you over to see the doc.”

  “No, Momma. You’ve worked all night at the hospital—you need to get some sleep.” The girl gave her mother a hug. “I’ll walk down to the road and catch that little bus.”

  Wanda Naranjo was surprised and pleased at this uncharacteristic display of affection and concern. “But it’s going to rain.”

  “Not right away.”

  The mother’s tone hinted of some suspicion. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “I like to ride the bus.” The girl glanced at her Walmart wristwatch. “It’s free and it’ll come along in about a half hour, so I’d better get my shower and get dressed.”

  “Well, I guess it’ll be all right then.” As Betty trod off to the bathroom and shut the door, Wanda realized that her daughter’s shower bath would provide an opportunity to take care of some serious business. I’ve been putting it off for weeks, and right now is the time to get it done.

  GETTING SHUT OF AN EGG-SUCKING DOG

  That’s how they put it down in West Texas, where Wanda Naranjo had spent a few formative years in Pecos, Fort Stockton, and Alpine. She picked up her purse, hitched it over her shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she positioned herself halfway between the couch and the front door. The lonely woman experienced a slight twinge of regret for what had to be done. Except for having a face like a rat, he’s not all that bad-looking. “Come over here, Mike.”

  After helping himself to a satisfying yawn, Michael Kauffmann eased his lanky frame off the couch and padded across the parlor to look down his long, pointy nose at the stocky little woman. Wanda’s always sorry after she mouths off. Now she’ll want to kiss and make up. Primed for puckering, his lips turned upward at the corners.

  Wanda returned his Kewpie-doll smile. “I have something to say to you.”

  “Aw, you don’t hafta ’pologize, sweetie peach.”

  Sweetie peach pointed at the door. “Hit the road, Jack.”

  Who’s the hell’s Jack? He stared. “What?”

  “And don’t come back.”

  “But … I don’t understand—”

  “I’ll try to dumb it down for you, moron.” Wanda’s smile was beginning to show some teeth. (The lady had a fine set of canines.) “Make tracks. Vamoose. Scram.” The pointing finger of her left hand waggled. “Skedaddle. Make yourself scarce. Beat it.”

  Kauffmann was beginning to get the gist of it. “You want me to go somewheres?”

  “That’s right, Einstein.” She told him where. Down there.

  Well. That was a bit strong, and a man has his pride. “Now you listen here, woman—”

  “Hush your mouth, Mike.” Wanda’s right hand reached into her purse, produced a .38 caliber revolver, and pointed it at his brass belt buckle. “I’ll give you to the count of five. One—”

  The startled boyfriend made a grab for his WWW gimme cap.

  “Two.” Betty’s momma cocked her pistol.

  On a dead run for the door, the natural athlete snatched his jacket off the floor.

  “Three.” She closed her left eye and raised her arm to look down the short barrel. “Four.” Wanda had the back of his cap lined up in the sights.

  Kauffmann yanked the door almost off the hinges, bolted onto the porch—

  “Five!” She pulled the trigger.

  Ka-bam!

  No. Wanda Naranjo did not shoot his head “clean off.” Betty Naranjo’s malicious little momma had a lot more horse sense than Michael Kauffmann and all the other jackasses it would take to pull a wagonload of fool’s gold over Slumgullion Pass. At the count of five, she had deliberately aimed high. But not too high.

  The spinning slug passed six inches over his red hair. Or, as folks say in these parts, a good six inches. Indeed, these were the goodest half-dozen inches that Michael Kauffmann had ever been gifted with. Ignoring the steps, the nimble fellow made a gazelle-like leap from the porch, an admirable two-point landing on the earth, and in less time than it takes to tell about it was inside his rattletrap Jeep Wagoneer and tearing off down the lane toward the paved road like all the hungry grizzly bears in Alaska were nipping at his rear bumper.

  Wanda Naranjo waved her pistol from the front porch and yelled, “Don’t ever come back, you #*&$% lowlife—if I ever see you again I’ll shoot you right between the eyes!” When it occurred to her that a head shot would probably not prove fatal, she giggled. But fun was fun and there was work to be done, so the lady returned the pistol to her purse and comforted herself with the assurance that … Mike’s gone and gone for good.

  But he was not. Not by a long or a short shot.

  Barely aware of the damp breeze that was whipping up dead leaves and bits of trash in the yard, the woman went back inside. As she closed and latched the door, her freshly showered daughter turned off a noisy blow-dryer and called from the bathroom, “Did I hear gunshots?”

  “Yeah.” Wanda grinned. “I chased off a mangy old coyote.”

  Betty brayed a harsh laugh. “So we say goodbye to another boyfriend.”

  * * *

  The moment Michael Kauffmann was out of pistol range, his gut-wrenching fear was replaced by a flood of relief. After bouncing down the rutted dirt lane and rolling onto the smooth blacktop, he made a hard left to head south out of town. I’ll crash for a few days at my little trailer. But within half a block, he pulled into Big Moe’s Stop ’N Shop and braked the Jeep to a lurching stop by one of a half-dozen Chevron pumps. This morning’s double humiliation was really over the top. First, Betty blackmails me out of my last twenty-dollar bill and then her nutty mother shoots at me because I forgot to fix a piddling little water leak! As he seethed with a volatile mix of rage and shame, the carpenter’s lanky body began to tremble. A prideful man can take only so much, and this one boiled over. Erupting with a string of obscenities, he banged his knobby fist on the steering wheel—very nearly shattering that inoffensive circle of plastic and steel. But by and by, the heat of his fury began to subside. Kauffmann stared straight ahead, hardly seeing the dirty concrete where isolated pellets of rain were making dark spots in the dust. As plump blobs of water began to thump the Wagoneer’s hood and windshield, the driver’s left hand automatically reached for the wiper switch
. When he was a small boy in Yazoo City, Mississippi, the sound of rainfall on a steel roof had soothed him. It still did. He closed his eyes and took a series of long, deep breaths that swelled his thin chest … and enabled his racing heart to slow. By some mysterious melding of man and machine, Kauffmann’s left and right ventricles became synchronized with the wipers.

  Brrump … thrrump.

  Ssswish … ssswipe.

  Within a few dozen heartbeats, he was suspended in that gray region between consciousness and trance. As he drifted in this twilight space, the hint of an impish smile began to appear on his face. Time seemed suspended. Later, the carpenter would be uncertain about how long he had parked his Wagoneer in front of the convenience store. It might have been for two minutes or twenty. But by the time he’d pulled away, Mr. Kauffmann was a man with a plan.

  * * *

  Betty pulled on her black raincoat and slipped a formidable sandwich into one of the rubber coat’s big pockets. (A half-inch-thick slab of baloney, two slices of Velveeta, and a generous helping of French’s Honey Dijon mustard, all on white bread.) Thus prepared and without so much as a goodbye to her mother, she walked out the front door, across the porch, and down the rickety steps.

  As Wanda Naranjo watched the door close behind her daughter, she remembered the unpleasant task awaiting her in the kitchen. I guess I might as well go mop the water off the floor. But at the very thought of that dismal labor, an overpowering weariness settled onto her like the weight of a mountain. Oh, I am so tired to the bone. The nurse’s aide also felt a dull pain in her lumbar region. My poor back aches like all get-out. And that wasn’t all. My feet are soaking wet and feel like they’re going to freeze. Betty’s overworked mother eyed the tempting couch. Before I do any hard work, I’ll grab me a little catnap.

  Seating herself, Wanda untied her soggy shoes and pulled them off. Oh, that feels soooo much better. After removing her stockings, she stretched out on the couch. I hope Mike drives his old jalopy into a big pine tree and gets smashed flatter than a tortilla. No, an instant death was too good for the SOB. I hope the bastard gets a really awful venereal disease—her mouth gaped in a huge yawn—and hangs on for years and years and slobbers all the time and the pain is really terrific.…