by Bobby Norman
At the time, he thought it might be good luck. He’d asked hisself no tellin’ how many times since then, though, how in the world the knife that had put the finishing touches on one o’ the nastiest witches he’d ever heard of could bring anybody good luck, but when he was in the back o’ the truck, something told him to pull it out. Even when he was doin’ it, it was like he was watchin’ from a distance. In the three decades since, it’d poked many a slice o’ bacon and gutted many a gator belly, but that was about as far as good luck’d gone. It hadn’t brought him riches, that was for sure.
He stuck the blade in the end of a bacon slice, helt it up and let the fatty end drop in his mouth. It burned his tongue and he sucked in air to cool it off.
“Hot?” Phillipe chuckled.
Suddenly, the dogs jumped up, hackle-backed, growlin’ real low and lookin’ into the swamp. Bob and Phillipe looked in the same direction. Then they heard the motor. Movin’ as quickly as only skittery gator poachers could, they set their cups and plates on the buckets, snatched up their rifles—.22 single shots that wouldn’t do much more than make a little noise—and scanned the swamp ‘til they saw the familiar pair approaching in another skiff. They waved and re-stowed their implements of minor destruction.
Coozie LeGrange, thirtyish, and Gerard Boot, in his early twenties, waved back. Laid out in the bottom o’ their boat was the same pitiful take Bob and Phillipe’d garnered the day before—half a dozen three-to-five-footers. Gerard tossed a rope tied to the front o’ the boat to Phillipe, standin’ on the bank. He caught it, and after he and Bob pulled it as far up the bank as possible, Gerard and Coozie jumped out and helped beach it higher.
“What took ya s’long?” Phillipe asked. “We ‘spected ya las’ night.”
“Had t’wait out th’stoam,” Gerard replied.
Bob looked over their catch and shook his head. “Watah dogs.”
Gerard looked at the catch stretched out on the boards. “You oughta know.”
Gerard and Coozie waded back into the water. “Gimme a hand ovah heah,” Coozie said. He reached in the water for a rope trailin’ from the back o’ their skiff.
“Whatchu got dere?” Phillipe asked.
Gerard said nothin’ as he untied the rope, slung it over his shoulder like he was about to haul a barge upriver, and started for the bank, but there was somethin’ in the little smirk. Bob and Phillipe met him and took aholt o’ the rope.
Phillipe felt the weight when they started haulin’ it in. “Watchu got tied up ‘ere?”
Slowly, the carcass of an eighteen-footer surfaced. Bob’s and Phillipe’s eyes popped open.
“Oh, my God,” Bob said, “where you get a subm’rine?”
“Yestadee, we seen ‘im on the bank, gettin’ a tan, layin’ in a sun,” Coozie said, beaming. “He slud in a watah ‘n it took us all day t’fine ‘im agin. When we do, he dead.” He shrugged. “Dunno why. We look ‘im ovah but din see nothin’ ‘at kill ‘im. But, ‘at’s fine wi’me, as big’s he is, I wudn wanna hafa fight ‘im nohow.”
Gerard wrapped the rope in his hand. “Les get ‘im up b’foe a big one come ‘long ‘n wanna eat ‘im.”
They all pulled what they could to shore, but quite a bit still remained in the water. Phillipe looked it over. “I ain’t nevah seed a beast ‘at big my ho’life.”
“You gotta go waaayyy out t’get ’em like dis,” Coozie said, “but dis ol’ man only ‘bout foah mile back.” He affectionately ran his hand over the carcass. “Jus look a’dat! ‘Cept f’da scahs on ‘is head, he damn neah pufec. Nobody gonna wanta head nohow.”
They all admired the hide, then Gerard rubbed his hands in anticipation of the work ahead. “Well, les get ‘is clothes off!”
They put their backs into it and with the use of leg, back, and ropes, rolled it over, belly up.
“Mm mm mm,” Phillipe said, tappin his boot toe on the fat tail, “some good eatin’ ‘ere.”
“Gimme yer knife,” Gerard told Bob.
Bob walked to the fire, picked up the short-bladed knife, brought it back, and handed it to Gerard. Gerard got down on his knees, stuck the blade in the anus, and started sawin’ up. “Dis gonna make a lot o’ hanbags,” he laughed.
“How ol’ you tink he is?” Phillipe asked.
“Ohhhhhh, my,” Gerard said, givin a learned observation, “I dunno, t’irty, mebbe more. Watchu tink, Cooz?”
“Yeah, mebbe eben fohty.”
Phillipe, Bob and Coozie were still lookin’ the beast over when Gerard exclaimed, “Wat d’….” He used the point of the knife to lift one side o’ the incision, then jerked his arms up like he’d been shocked. “Oh, Lawd….” He sat there lookin’ at the incision.
“Wat?” Coozie asked, big eyed.
Gerard used the blade to lift the flap again. He tilted his face to look underneath. “Wat d’Hell...”
He lifted the flap enough that he could stick the fingertips of his other hand just inside the incision and pull out a bundle of blood-stained hundred-dollar bills, still bound in a wrapper. The others eyes popped open in conjunction with their mouths. Again, using the blade to open the incision, he leaned to the side and peeked inside the bloody cavity. He slipped his hand in again, and, one at a time, pulled out three more bundles, and it was Coozie’s turn to voice the required and appropriate, “Wat d’Hell….”
Putting his fear aside, Gerard continued to probe for more.
“Da bank dohn have dat much money,” Phillipe said.
The other three laughed but they were nervous laughs. When Gerard scrunched up his brows, the other three spidered back. They knew it’d been too good to last. Then their own brows scrunched when he pulled out a chain, slowly, carefully, one link at a time.
“I’s tooken a lot o’ tings outa gatah bellies,” Coozie said, “but…he et a chain?”
“Maybe a whole boat!” Gerard said, continuing to pull the chain, when suddenly, he jumped back and crossed hisself. “Ohhhhhh, Sweet Blessed Mudda o’ Jesus, hep me!”
Coozie couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “Well, come on, wat is it?” He looked back and forth between Gerard and the hundred-dollar-bill-spewing-monster.
Gerard inched back to the gator, poked the tip o’ the knife in one o’ the links and lifted it out. Slowly, there appeared…a scarred and deformed human arm. Phillipe, Coozie, and Bob moved off with a full round of chest crossings and Lawdy, hep me’s.
Both ends o’ the chain were still locked to a wrist rubbed raw from the struggle at bein’ consumed, and what was more, the fist on the end o’ the arm had a death grip on two leather handles. Having pulled out the entire arm and chain, Gerard flipped it to the dogs. Immediately, they commenced tearin’ it apart.
“…and th’lowest o’ th’low’ll fight over yer bones.”
About the Author
Bobby Norman's literary career began as an actor. A member of the Screen Actors Guild since 1991. Black Water is his first published book. He graduated from Santa Ana High School the same year as The Chantays and Diane Keaton. He lives in Norco, California, horse capital of the United States, with his wife, Ilene, and a varying number of furry and winged critters. One of his goals is to have dinner with J.K. Rowling and Stephen King. And they buy.