Bad Chili

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “A Rambler, formerly white, before it was gutted by fire, was found in a pasture off Highway Fifty-nine.”

  “Was it Bill Duffin’s pasture?”

  “It was. And if I remember right, wasn’t that the pasture where the squirrel jumped you? We’re gettin’ lots of coincidences here. Black guy knockin’ knots on a biker guy’s head, shootin’ a twelve-gauge, drivin’ a Rambler.”

  “Then I’ve really got no choice,” I said. “I have to leave.”

  I slipped on my pants without underwear, pulled the gown over my head and tossed it on the bed. I put on my T-shirt.

  “All I’m asking, Charlie, is you give me some space here. Okay?”

  “Hap, I’ve done you guys a lot of favors. But—”

  “Do us one more.”

  “You see how it looks. He went in there, lost his temper, knotted up a biker’s melon, ran off in the Rambler, bikers chased him down. He shot the guy off the bike from the car. Then the others overtook him, burned the car to slow down identification . . . then . . . well, I don’t think they took Leonard out to dinner.”

  I pulled my socks and shoes from the closet. I said, “They didn’t find a body, so I’m going to figure on Leonard being alive. He isn’t indestructible, but he isn’t any pushover either. Did they find a shotgun and a revolver in the car?”

  “No, but so what? Bikers could have taken that before they burned it. Why not? Good shotgun and a revolver. They’d want it.”

  “Maybe. But I’m thinking he got away, and he’s out there somewhere, needing help.”

  “Hap, man, say he is alive . . . I’m crazy about the guy. Leonard, me and him are tight. But we’re talkin’ murder here. I don’t never get that tight with nobody. Hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sounds like self-defense to me.”

  “What? He goes in and beats a guy up and the guy goes after him and Leonard kills him. Biker wasn’t armed, Hap.”

  “You say the Rambler was found in Duffin’s pasture. That isn’t near where the biker was killed, is it?”

  “So they chased him. He tried to dart into the pasture and hide. They caught him. It stands to reason.”

  “He certainly ran them a merry chase from Old Pine Road all the way out to Duffin’s pasture.”

  “Yeah. All right. That’s a point. But it could have happened way I said.”

  “Bikers say they saw Leonard shoot this guy? Anyone say that?”

  “No. They just say they chased him. But a lot of questions haven’t been asked yet. They caught up and killed him, they ain’t gonna admit it right away. For all we know, they’re tannin’ his hide somewhere, gonna make him into a rug.”

  “He’s already tanned. I don’t want much time, Charlie. Leonard did this, you can have him. It’s not like he’s going to go on a murder spree. And if he is dead, what’s the rush, huh?”

  It was Charlie’s turn to consider. “All right. Twenty-four hours, then I got to let my cat out of the bag. And in the meantime, I got to start seein’ there’s more in the bag than just one cat. Investigation might bring something forward I can’t hold back. Things can develop. A cat can have kittens. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Fully. And Charlie. Thanks.”

  I sat down in the guest chair and put on my socks and shoes. I checked my wallet. Yep. Still had my two dollars and a couple of large uncashed checks from offshore work.

  The nurse who had threatened to tell my doctor I was a bad boy came in just as I was starting out.

  “Mr. Collins, what do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not checking out. I’m going for a morning constitutional. I’ll be back in time for my next shot.”

  “You can’t do that,” she said. “That’s five days from now.”

  “Hide in the bushes and watch,” I said, and went out.

  A moment later I came back in. Charlie was listening to the nurse fuss about my departure. He was nodding and saying nothing. They both turned to look at me.

  “Charlie,” I said, “I know this messes up my exit, but you think you could give me a ride? To the house. I forgot I don’t have my truck here.”

  5

  Charlie drove me home and let me out. He didn’t have much to say on the way over, but as I started walking toward the house he called out through his open window, “Just a little bit, Hap, then I got to bring Leonard in for questioning.”

  “Yeah. I know. What time is it?”

  He told me.

  I said, “Twenty-four hours. From right now. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I mean twenty-four hours. Not twenty-five. And if something new comes up, deal’s off.”

  I nodded at him, and he drove away. I got my key and walked up on the porch feeling ill. Partly it was the cold I had, along with a bit of fear about leaving the hospital like that, knowing I still had shots to take, and thinking about the doc’s story about the boy who died tied to a bed, biting at the air.

  I tried not to worry too much. I had five days before the next shot, and nearly two weeks after that before the last. But I had to wonder what I had been so all fired excited about.

  Now I was out of the hospital and at the house, I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do next. I felt as if I had tried to play a scene from Hamlet during a grade-school production of Red Riding Hood. It had been a dramatic moment, but it was inappropriate. It sure didn’t add up to anything that could help Leonard.

  As I went into the house the smell of mildew and dust hit me like a blow. I had been gone for months, and since I had returned to East Texas, I hadn’t even been home. I had gone off with Leonard to shoot cans and talk. Things had gone downhill from there.

  I felt a combination of pleasure and dread as I entered. Dread, because my place is essentially a shit hole. Much in need of repair. There’s also the fact that the contents of my house spoke of, if not a miserable existence, certainly a lame one. I still had aluminum-foil-covered rabbit ears for my TV. Not even a roof antenna or a satellite dish.

  The happy feeling that wrestled with the dread was due to the fact that I was home, free of the offshore drilling job where I had for months served as a heavy oiler, which is a glorified title for an idiot who pours oil onto machinery. I hated the work and vowed never to do it again. I also vowed, for the umpteenth time, to change my life. To find something better, to finally prepare for the future. Which, considering half my life was over, might not be a bad idea. Perhaps, if I had real plans, I could begin to think of my glass as half full, instead of half empty. Or half empty with a bug in the bottom.

  I left the front door open, threw up the windows and let some fresh air into the living room. The air was rich with spring and I could smell the scents from the woods.

  I went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, knowing full well there was nothing there, but it was something to do. I closed the fridge, found the cookie jar and looked inside.

  There were a few cookies—the vanilla ones I stocked for Leonard—but the ants liked them too and they had been there first.

  I used a long spoon to break up the cookies, poured the crumbs and ants into the sink, turned the water on them and watched them swirl down the drain.

  Fuckers couldn’t swim for shit.

  I found a can of coffee, opened it, got a pot going, then discovered a tin of sardines. I used the key on the can to peel back the lid, got a fork, sat at the table and ate the fish, wishing I had crackers.

  I poured a cup of coffee and sipped it while I walked around the living room thinking. That was when I noticed there were footprints in the dust in front of my bedroom door. I turned and looked about. The footprints led from one of the windows I had opened, and they were overlapped with my footprints, but they definitely were not mine. I realized that when I had opened this particular window, the one with the footprints below it, it had not been locked.

  That hadn’t struck
me as odd then, as I’m not always wise about remembering to lock my windows, but when I examined the window more closely I saw the lock had been busted. Someone had forced something under the frame and prized it up.

  I felt strange suddenly, realized there was a bad smell coming from under the bedroom door. I had sniffed it earlier and had attributed it to dust and mildew, but now that I was closer I could really smell it, and it was not dust or mildew. Closer I got to the bedroom door, stronger it became.

  I walked quietly back to the kitchen, set my coffee cup on the drain board, got a butcher knife out of the utensil drawer, and crept toward the bedroom. I inhaled a deep, sour breath and turned the knob slowly, expecting to be jumped at any moment.

  I slid into the bedroom. It was hot in there. Dust swirled in circles. The midday light flowed through the curtains like a rush of yellow toxin. The window glass that peeked out between the curtain slits was filmed with cataracts of dust and fly guts. The window screens were layered with pollen.

  Dead roaches and other desiccated insects lay on the windowsills with their legs poking at the air. The carpet was still brown, though it had originally started out a kind of bright rust color. Sunlight and lack of proper shoe cleaning had brought it to its present dried-shit hue.

  My dresser was in its spot. The old-fashioned poster bed was still the same—except for the fact that there was someone lying on it, under a sheet, their head covered. This someone had stained through the sheet and turned it black. Their feet were sticking out at the bottom and were housed in black Roper boots, and the soles of the Ropers were gummy with some sort of black mess that might have been dried cow shit; it was evident the stench was coming from the boots and the body.

  I took a deep breath, didn’t like the taste of it, eased around to the head of the bed, took hold of the sheet and lifted it.

  Leonard, the twelve-gauge beside him, a revolver in his waistband, his face sweaty, scratched, dirty, and unshaven, cracked one eye, said in sticky voice, “Howdy.”

  “You piece of shit,” I said.

  He opened both eyes, though not wide, said, “No. Actually pieces of shit are all over me, but I’m still just me. What you got that knife for?”

  “What the hell are you, nuts? You’ve got cow shit all over my bed.”

  “Actually, it’s pig shit, and it’s a cold manure. Did you know that? It doesn’t work as well for fertilizer because it doesn’t heat up the same. Don’t try and compost it. Just doesn’t do right. Just a tidbit of information I thought you might like. I’m full of stuff like that.”

  “You’re full of what’s all over you. Get out of my bed.”

  “Do I have to? I’m really tired. I’ve been, to say the least, a little busy.”

  “I thought you might be dead.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “A little. I can’t believe you didn’t take off your fuckin’ shoes and clothes before you got in my bed. I do that to you, get shit on your bed?”

  “I don’t even remember having on shoes and clothes, Hap. You didn’t bring home anything to eat, did you? I couldn’t find nothing but ants and sardines, and I don’t eat either ants or sardines, though I think I’d prefer the ants to the sardines. Goddamn ants ate my cookies.”

  “Those were my cookies.”

  “Yeah, but I know you keep them for me.” Leonard swiveled to a sitting position on the bed. “Is that coffee I smell?”

  “All I smell is shit,” I said.

  “That’s because you’re not used to it yet.”

  “What in hell has been goin’ on?”

  “I’m just too pooped to pop right now. I need some food, some coffee, and a blood transfusion.”

  “You’re injured?”

  “I’ve got a cut or two, but nothing serious.”

  I had plenty of questions but decided for the moment it was hopeless. Leonard was too goony, hungry, and stinky to be around. I said, “Get off your ass and take a shower. I’ll run to town and get some food. You and I have some serious talking to do. And throw those clothes away. Wear some of my stuff.”

  “I think not. None of your underwear’s got designs or colors, or, for that matter, room enough for my equipment.”

  “I sure hate you aren’t going to have colored underwear. You got a date?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Raul?”

  “It’s a nightmare.”

  “Leonard, you are in some serious shit.”

  “Serious pig shit.”

  “Look. Take a shower. I’ll be back shortly. But I do have one question.” I nodded at the twelve-gauge. “You haven’t shot anyone lately, have you?”

  “No, but I’ve certainly wanted to.”

  “Never mind right now. Listen up. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t go anywhere and don’t shoot anybody. And don’t piss on anyone either.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  6

  When Leonard went into the bathroom, I took the sheets off the bed, folded them together, toted them to the trash can out back, and stuffed them inside. I got my keys and climbed in my truck.

  The truck I loved had been lost in a flood in Grovetown, Texas, and my latest ride was a blue, ’79 Datsun pickup with a rust hole in the side. I didn’t love the Datsun, but at least I didn’t have to push it up hills. While I was offshore Leonard had made a point to come out and start it and drive it a bit to keep it running, and it hummed like a sewing machine.

  I hummed it into LaBorde, cashed my checks, put some money in the bank, pocketed the rest, bought some groceries and cold medicine, got some food at Taco Bell, and drove back to the house.

  When I got home the place had aired considerably, and Leonard, wearing my blue jean shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of my black jeans, was seated at the kitchen table with his legs crossed, wiggling one bare foot. He was drinking a cup of coffee. He looked a hell of a lot better than when I left him.

  “You look like a black man again, instead of a gray man.”

  “Well, I feel like an asshole. Hope you brought plenty to eat. I’m starved. Say, aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital? I mean, now that I notice, you don’t look so good yourself.”

  “I got a cold.”

  “You got out of the hospital for me, didn’t you, Hap?”

  I told him what Charlie had told me. I told him about leaving the hospital. I told him Charlie was giving me a bit of time to sort things out.

  “Goddamn,” Leonard said. “This has turned into one serious fiasco.”

  “Thing is, it hasn’t gotten out of hand yet. Charlie’s keeping the connection between you and this biker’s murder to himself. But that won’t last. He’ll have to say something eventually, and who’s to say someone else won’t put it together? Once the connection is established, you better have a damn good idea what’s clickin’, and it better be plain as day.”

  “I don’t know exactly what is clickin’.”

  “Did you kill the biker?”

  “I told you I didn’t shoot anybody. I didn’t even know the sonofabitch was dead until just now. You think I’d kill someone and not tell you?”

  “I had to ask.”

  “All right. You’ve asked.”

  Leonard looked pouty for a moment or two. I said, “Start by tellin’ me what happened. You didn’t just decide to roll in pig shit, did you?”

  “No. That was sort of a natural by-product of my adventure. And believe me, without you it just wasn’t the same. We’re like the Hardy Boys, you know.”

  “No. I’m a Hardy Boy, and you’re Nancy Drew.”

  “I’ll let that slide. Hap, when we were at the hospital, and I went out of the waiting room, I didn’t really plan to go anywhere. But the Doc was taking his time, and I thought, well, I’ll step out, get something to eat for us and come back. But it didn’t work that way. I drove off and couldn’t get Raul off my mind. The boy drives me crazy.”

  “Aren’t we a little old for this kind of infatuat
ion? All this huffin’-and-puffin’ shit?”

  “I guess, but I got to thinking about him and drove out to the house. I thought he might be there. Had his fling with the biker, and maybe it was over and he’d come back. Wild thoughts, but that’s what I was thinking. Thing was, I didn’t know how I’d feel about him coming back if he did, but I wanted to see him again. It’s that simple. Little bastard had my nose open.”

  “Want to open your nose, you should try pig shit. I have a cold, and that opened my nose right up. That mess on the carpet, you’re cleaning that.”

  Leonard nodded. “What say we eat first, then go out on the back porch and talk?”

  We finished the Taco Bell food, and I opened a can of tuna and a jar of mayonnaise, whipped a tablespoon of mayonnaise with the tuna and put it on bread. Leonard ate the sandwich and then another. When he finished, I made another pot of coffee and we went outside with cups of it.

  The back porch wasn’t much. It was close to giving up the ghost. The boards were gray and fiercely weathered, but the view out there wasn’t bad. There was the dark East Texas woods, topped by the sky, which was a peculiar blue this day, made all the more beautiful by the golden brightness of the sun; the clouds flowed across it like lilies cast upon a great and tranquil ocean. Off to the right was a creek. You could hear the water gurgling, like a happy woman humming. There was a slight breeze. Outside you couldn’t smell the mildew, dust, and pig shit. Leonard talked.

  “Stuff I was gonna tell you about me and Raul, it don’t seem like much now. Not after what’s happened. All I can say is things were falling apart. I guess I knew they would in time. We were just too different. He was a little too young for me, from another world really. Wanted someone didn’t like guns and boxing and martial arts. Someone more refined.”

  “I hear the word refined, Leonard, I think of you.”

  “You bet. But we weren’t doing so good, and he got so he wasn’t coming home like he should, and here I was staying up nights watching Dave Letterman and John Wayne movies, and he’d come in tired and cranky and short on explanation. Hell, I guess I knew he was fuckin’ around. But I love the guy, you know, so it blinds you. I thought maybe I was just being stupid jealous. Thought the trouble we were having was a stage we were goin’ through. I believed his shit about he was working—”