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The Nightrunners - Joe R. Lansdale.wps

Page 3

by phuc


  She sipped her coffee, looked over the cup at Monty.

  He smiled the silly smile.

  The rain danced more briskly-on the cabin roof.

  THREE

  Later, after a vain attempt to entertain themselves with small talk, Monty and Becky gave it up and went to bed.

  The rain grew heavier, and the rhythmic beat of it on the roof lulled them to sleep.

  And less than fifty miles away, the '66 Chevy rolled along, drawing itself up the concrete line of the highway like a yo-yo engulfing a string.

  FOUR

  October 30, 1:OO A.M.

  In the dark, when hit from time to time by the light of flashing skies, Malachi Roberts' skin looked purple.

  He lay in bed with the sheets pulled halfway down across his thick chest, watched the lightning come and go outside his window. Watched the rain fall. Listened to the low growl of gentle thunder; an occasional Chinese gong crash that shook the house.

  Malachi sighed. He could not sleep, and it was not because of what was happening outside his window. Not the rain, the lightning, not even the thunder. He was lonesome somehow. The pit of his stomach felt as empty as the end of the world and his heart was wet slush in his chest.

  Careful, so as not to awaken his wife, he slipped his worn body from beneath the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and wished for clear skies and plenty of daylight.

  Lightning flashed.

  His black skin jumped purple. Jumped back black again.

  Holding up his hand, he spread his fingers and waited for the sky to explode once more.

  It did.

  Black fingers went purple. Purple went black.

  He grinned to himself. He felt like a kid. When he was a boy he used to do that; watch the lightning between his fingers, see the color the quick-flash made his skin.

  For a moment, loneliness left him, but like a bounding flea it leapt right back.

  Rising slowly, wearing nothing but his under-shorts, he padded softly into the kitchen.

  Maybe he was hungry.

  Rain cascaded down one corner of the kitchen, gathered whispering into a big black pot.

  Damn, Malachi thought. Every time it rained, same thing. He'd been telling himself he was going to fix that leak for over a year now. But when it was dry, he didn't think of it. It was amazing Dorothy didn't complain more.

  Malachi knew that he was not a lazy man, but after a day of turning bolts and dipping his hands in grease and oil and gasoline and crawling over the insides of cars, he just didn't want to do anything with his hands.

  What he wanted to do was sit on his front porch, smoke his pipe and watch the world go by on the highway. Or watch his snowy television set, or take his woman to bed.

  But that damned leak.

  Angry at himself, he went to the refrigerator, got a half gallon of milk out, drank right from the carton.

  No. That wasn't what he wanted.

  He sat down at the kitchen table, the carton of milk in front of him.

  From where he sat, he could see out the window above the sink, could watch the lightning sew a crazy stitch across the sky. It was really getting fierce out there, and it didn't show any signs of slacking off.

  He glanced at the kettle. It was almost full. He'd have to empty it now if he didn't want it running over before morning.

  Taking another draught of the milk, he returned it to the refrigerator, crept back to the bedroom, pulled on his pants and slipped on his shoes without bothering with socks.

  After looking at the sleeping form of his wife, and smiling, he tiptoed back to the kitchen, quietly rummaged a pan from beneath the cabinet.

  Being as careful as possible, he slid the kettle aside and replaced it with the pan.

  For a moment, water struck the pan with a sound like dried peas falling.

  Malachi glanced apprehensively toward the bedroom.

  Usually, the slightest noise would awaken Dorothy, but tonight she slept like a rock.

  Unusual for her.

  He was glad of that, her health being what it was. Her blood pressure had been giving her a particularly hard time of late. She needed all the rest she could get.

  After a moment of waiting, of listening for bed-springs or padding feet—for he fully expected Dorothy to appear in the bedroom doorway with hands on hips and a wry smile on her face—he took the heavy black kettle and began duck walking it toward the front porch.

  He set it down temporarily to prop the door and screen open, then managed it onto the porch, tilted the water over the side. It made a loud noise as it hit the bare and muddy flower bed below.

  He glanced back inside the house.

  So far so good.

  Leaving the kettle on the porch, he went inside and got his pipe and tobacco off the drainboard. He packed it, lit it, went back outside for a smoke. This time he closed the door behind him.

  He looked out at his yard. Just one big mud pie. Beyond it, the surface of Highway 59 appeared to boil. Above him, the tin roof rattled and trembled beneath the buckshot rain.

  Then he saw the light. Way out on the highway, coming from the south; car lights made fuzzy by the rain.

  He thought whoever was driving that crate was going much too fast; cruising like they had bone-dry highways and lots of light.

  "Gonna end up in a goddamn ditch," he said around the stem of his pipe.

  And now the car was splashing by with a hungry roar—

  —and Malachi felt cold; more so than any rain should make him, even a late October rain. The wet slush in his chest that had been serving as a heart turned to a fist of hard ice.

  He shivered.

  For a moment it was as if nothing else lived in the universe but him.

  Lightning flashed, lit the night bright as day. Malachi could see the car clearly—a black '66 Chevy turning off 59 onto the Old Minnanette Highway, which was hardly a highway at all anymore.

  Then it was night again and there were only the taillights winking away in the cold, dark sockets of night and the growl of the engine receding in the distance.

  Suddenly the driver hit down on his horn.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Sharp, harsh punctures in the messy, wet night.

  Then silence.

  Malachi shivered again. Thought: It's as if Old Man Death himself just drove by with his window cranked down and his breath leaking out; the rotten, chilling breath of the sick and the dying.

  After a moment the sensation passed. Malachi thumped the contents of his pipe out and hauled the kettle inside, put it in its place and put the pan away.

  Then, removing his shoes, pinching them between thumb and forefinger, he stole silently back to the bedroom, pushed the shoes beneath the bed and removed his pants. He eased softly under the bedclothes and for a moment lay still on his back, looking at the ceiling.

  Dorothy did not awake.

  He had it made now.

  Gently, he rolled on his side and put his arm around her—and felt the marble-cool flesh of the recently dead.

  FIVE

  October 30, 1:30 A.M.

  The black car pulled off the Old Minnanette Highway and rolled down a wet, clay road. It found harbor in front of a barbed-wire cattle gate. Sat there while the sky went about its wet tantrum.

  After a moment, a back door opened. A girl got out, moved across the road and into the woods behind the car. She found a place thick with overhead branches and surrounding foliage, dropped her pants, squatted to pee.

  She could see the car from where she squatted, and even in the darkness, she could see the white face of the driver. It was pressed up against the door glass, looking out at the night. It didn't look quite human, a white, pasty thing with gun-barrel eyes; eyes loaded with hate and fury.

  She shivered.

  "Blessed Mother," she mumbled to herself, "how did I get into this?"

  All she wanted was a wedding. The sort with a veil, a lon
g bridal train dragging behind her. Nothing more. Except Jimmy dressed in a suit instead of greasy jeans and jacket for a change.

  That was hardly what she had gotten.

  But then, not getting what she wanted or expected had become a way of life for her.

  It had always been that way.

  Each day was just one bigger shit-brick than the last.

  Her first memories of her father were of him speaking Spanish drunkenly, fondling her between the legs—until her mother caught him one night, and that was the last she saw of him. Here today. Gone tomorrow. No big loss.

  The thing she remembered best after that was her mother constantly making her strip and lie on the bed so she could explore with cold hands— always cold hands—the inside of her snatch. Make sure she was still a virgin. This was an obsession with her mother, making sure her daughter was unsoiled.

  She went out on a date, her mother would be waiting. Then she'd get the strip, cold fingers in the snatch routine.

  If her mother suspicioned she had been near boys, it was the strip, cold fingers in the snatch routine.

  Look at a boy's picture too long in a magazine, it was the strip, cold fingers in the snatch routine. What was she expecting to find in there? The refuse of wood-pulp jism?

  Was the guy in the magazine going to come out of the picture and stick a paper dick in her? What was the deal?

  The routine got to be daily.

  She began to think maybe her mother just liked smelling her fingers afterward.

  That and looking at her religious crap were her only pastimes. Had the shit all over the house. A living room full of tiny Blessed Mother shrines and crosses. And in the kitchen, over the sink, so she could watch it while she did the dishes, there was a five-dollar plastic Jesus with batteries and a lightbulb inside. Touch the switch—cleverly located in the statue's side wound—and J.C.'s eyes glowed like a cat in the dark.

  And there was that stupid 700 Club blaring all the time. Lots of preachers in expensive suits with hair sprayed down hard enough to look like concrete curbing.

  It was enough to drive a madman sane.

  Some life.

  Then she met Jimmy. Ugly, pimple-faced Jimmy.

  But he was nice and interested in marrying her, could take her away from the shrines and the 700 Club.

  She met him one day after school. He was sitting on the hood of an old battered white Ford. When she walked by he yelled, "Hey," and she stopped.

  He climbed down off the hood of the car, went over to her.

  "Hey, I'm Jimmy. What's your name?"

  "Why do you need to know, taking a survey?"

  "'Cause I wanta."

  "Why?"

  "I like the way you look."

  "No kidding, so do a lot of other guys."

  "Yeah, I bet."

  "Really?"

  "Sure. You say so, I believe it. Besides, look at you."

  "That some kind of crack?"

  "Naw, no way. I mean, look at you. You look good. Lots of guys would like the way you look, just like me. I mean, you could probably have any guy you want."

  "Yeah, yeah, maybe I could."

  "You could."

  "Yeah, okay, I could."

  "Now, will you tell me your name?"

  "I guess. . . Angela."

  "Nice name."

  "Yeah, well, Jimmy isn't so hot. I had a hamster named Jimmy. My mother killed it with a broom."

  "So it's not a good name. Do I look like a hamster to you?"

  "A little."

  He smiled. "Carry your books, Angela?"

  "I guess."

  He put her books under his arm and started walking toward the Ford. "I'll give you a lift.

  Where you going?"

  She thought a moment. "Nowhere," she said, and meant it.

  At first he was something to fill the hours, someone to spend time with after school. And each day, after she left him, and after her mother made with the exploration through the country of her privates, she would find herself looking forward to the night, to when he came to her window. He'd sneak up the back alley and scratch on the screen and they'd talk, sometimes until way into the morning. Talk was all they did, nothing more. She never even unlatched the screen.

  Jimmy never tried any funny business with her, just told her he loved her and wanted to marry her.

  It was an idea, she told him, but he didn't have a job. What were they going to live on?

  He admitted it was a problem.

  Shortly thereafter, he dropped out of school and got a janitor job at the Galveston courthouse. Didn't pay much, but it was something.

  Each week he brought her the bulk of his earnings, and now she was unlocking the screen, taking the money, holding his hand, and leaning forward to take his lips.

  Things were looking good for Angela baby, and that should have been a clue.

  Because suddenly, it was shit-brick time again.

  Yep, she could count on it. Soon as she started having a pretty good time and things started looking up, the shit-bricks would fall.

  Angela's feeling good. Look out! Here comes the shit-bricks.

  Angela's luck looks like it's going to change, and watch it! Because here comes a whole wall of tumbling shit-bricks, right down on top of her little Puerto Rican head.

  This time was no exception.

  The first shit-brick to fall was not the last, not by any means, but it was certainly a doozy.

  Hit right smack on the head of her dream.

  Jimmy got buddies, and suddenly he was a tough guy. Started seeing her less, and when he did come around he'd say: "I'm not so sure about this marriage stuff. How do I know you're going to be a good piece of ass? I mean, I haven't seen any action."

  She let that go for a while, then one night, while he was singing the same song, one hundreth verse, she said: "Whatever happened to my nice Jimmy?"

  That seemed to get him a bit, but he said, "Part of my problem. Too much Mr.

  Nice Guy.

  What's it got me?"

  "After we're married you can have me."

  "After we're married, after we're married, that's all I ever hear about. You got stock in marriage licenses? I'm not so sure I want to get married anymore. I mean, I might be getting a pig in a poke, you know what I mean? Or maybe a pig that won't poke, know what I mean?"

  "What's with you? . . . You're different."

  "I'm learning some things about women."

  "From your friends?"

  "Yeah, they've taught me some stuff. Sure. Real cool guys."

  "Things like how to treat women?"

  "Things like that."

  "You love me, don't you, Jimmy?"

  "Yeah, I guess . . . I'm just not sure I want to get married until I've sampled the water, you know what I mean? Get in there and get my feet wet."

  "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"

  "What's that?"

  "Think about it."

  "Don't try and turn the tables on me, Angela."

  "I'm not trying, you asshole, I'm doing. I don't care much for the new Jimmy. You can take these new friends of yours and shove them up your ass."

  "Hey, you're getting loud. Your mother will hear."

  "What do you care? I'm giving you your money back."

  "Hey, why's that? We're getting married."

  "Who's getting married? You haven't gotten to sample the water." She started away from the window.

  "Say, Angela, I'm sorry, baby. Really."

  "Mean it?" she said, turning back to him.

  "Yeah . . . Yeah, I mean it."

  "You sure?"

  "I said so."

  "Just being the tough guy for no good reason?"

  Silence.

  "Come on, say it, Jimmy."

  Nothing.

  "I'll get your money."

  "Okay, okay . . ." Softly: "Just being a tough guy. No good reason."

  "Where I can hear you."

  "I said it, that's enough." />
  "Want me to get you money?"

  "Yeah, get the fucking money. I've had it."

  "Fine." She started across the room.

  He called through the window, just above a whisper. "Sorry."

  She turned. "Did some wind blow through here or something, or did I hear you talking?"

  "Sorry," he said.

  ""How sorry are you, Jimmy?"

  "For Christsakes, what do you want from me?"

  "I want the old Jimmy back, the one without the tough mouth and the tough-guy friends.

  The one that cries at movies when they're sad."

  "Goddamnit, I don't."

  She smiled. "I've seen you. It's okay."

  A moment of silence. Then: "I'm sorry. Real sorry. These guys, they say I let you push me around too much. That I see you too much. They say I'm pussy-whipped."

  "How's that? You don't get any."

  "Well, they don't know that."

  "So you been telling them how it is with hot little Angela?"

  "Not exactly."

  "But you suggest?"

  "Sort of ... I mean it isn't manly for me not to ... You know?"

  She crossed the room, rested her elbows on the windowsill. He moved his hands up, clutched her elbows gently. Softly, shyly, he said: "Sorry."

  "Yes, you are."

  "Don't deny it. It's just that . . . well, I want to run with these guys. They're neat . .

  . and they got this house. I thought when we got married we could move there. Wouldn't cost us much. Later . . . well, later we could get us an apartment."

  "Who are these guys?"

  "Real cool heads."

  "Who are they?"

  "Just some guys I met around the pool hall. They got this big house and some girls live there with them sometimes."

  "Change girls like socks, huh?"

  "Guess. I don't know. Don't care."

  "Jimmy?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You're acting like an asshole. Your friends sound like assholes. All they're good for is trouble, I know it."

  "You don't know them."

  "I don't need to. I can smell them on you, and I don't like the stink."

  "I'm not acting like an asshole. And they're not assholes neither."

  "Take my word for it, you, them, assholes. Big ones."

  Jimmy sighed. "You're the hardest girl I ever did know."

  "Assholes,"

  "All right, assholes. I'm an asshole and they're assholes. Happy?"

 

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