by Keith Nixon
Would Old Man Wilkes just put the fear of God into him somehow? Roger could’ve either been brave or foolish, and since a brave man would’ve let his mistress go, that left Roger too much a fool to let even God give him pause.
Jeremy went to the fridge to get a jar of the lower–proof ‘shine. Roger dumped it off on him, thought it was shit, but it was mellow, probably Roger’s best batch. Roger was capable of great things, if only by accident.
Roger bought his story about the logger coming in light. Didn’t even look funny at it, didn’t comment, and he always had a comment when it came to a screwing–in–progress. Jeremy guessed Roger could only be bothered with one screwing going on. Of that, he didn’t talk either, the whole ride back from work. He just ground his teeth and smoked cigarettes. Jeremy tried to coax him off the battle–horse he was on, but he just gave up.
I’ll handle it, Old Man Wilkes said. Jeremy knew the longer he kept trying to put a leash on Roger, the more he risked spilling about his earlier spilling. So he just turned on the radio and dropped Roger off to his house, a Queen Anne farmhouse with a wraparound porch, decorated in rural poverty; paint–chips, moldy, splintered wood and a hodge–podge of materials stuffed in the places where the clapboard siding fell prey to the seasonal gales. Jeremy saw Laurie in the front door in her bathrobe and waved as he walked to the driveway to pick up his car. She waved back and Roger’s hunched–over form was swallowed up by the house.
Jeremy drifted off to sleep in the chair with an empty pack of cigarettes on his chest and the residue of ‘shine killing germs in the bottom of the glass.
***
Jeremy woke up to three calls from Roger’s landline at two–thirty, two–forty–five and three–fifteen a.m., most likely Roger cursing him in blood for ratting on him. He must have tried something. Jeremy deleted the messages; no use knowing how Roger planned on punishing him for the betrayal. He showered and shaved, and drove to Maddie’s for breakfast.
Maddie gave Jeremy the wide eyes she normally reserved for funerals and Yankees pennant losses.
“Seen Roger?” Jeremy asked as he sat down.
“You don’t know?”
“Uhh… I’m guessin’ I don’t. Know what?”
“Honey, I don’t know how to tell you,” She lifted her apron to wipe off her already spotless hands. Uh oh.
“Roger got shot last night.” She said. Sweat cooled Jeremy’s forehead as his heart coughed out an irregular beat. The diner grew and shrank at once. Jeremy stuttered, held the counter in a vise–grip.
“How? Who? When?” Jeremy forgot the five ‘W’s, but he figured he knew at least four of them already. The how was the only one he really needed.
“Sheriff Mulley was in this mornin’, him an’ a couple deputies. I got nothin’ official, just whispers of this and that. They say Ray Wilkes was checkin’ on a van of his, out by the ball field, where the kids, you know…”
“Yeah, ‘Lover’s Lane’, gotcha’.”
“Anyhow, turns out it was his kid and that floozy Jess that been runnin’ around with Roger before, and every other guy before that.”
She picked up the syrup dispenser and wiped the spout. “But, and this is just the hearsay, Roger showed up first. Ray told the Sheriff that Roger had a gun on his kid. And he had a twelve gauge on Roger.”
“Roger’s dead?” Jeremy said.
“Well, you catch a twelve gauge slug in your chest, ya’ don’t live, right?”
“Holy shit.”
“I forgive ya’ on account of your friend, but watch the mouth, okay?” Maddie said.
“Sorry.” Jeremy was swimming in the humid air of the diner. “They arrest Old Man–, Ray, I mean…”
“Not that I heard. Said they found a gun, so it matched up to his story. Not like they’d be in a hurry to arrest Ray Wilkes for anything.”
“Did they say when it happened?” Jeremy said.
“They were sayin’ two, about then, maybe a little earlier. You’re lucky you weren’t with him.”
“Roger was obsessed with that girl, Jess.” Jeremy said. “I was glad to be home last night. I mean, not to speak ill now, but he wore on me sometimes.”
“I’ll bet.” Maddie said. “If he didn’t make the best ‘shine, he’d have been run out of here on a rail long ago.”
“Bad as he was, though, I’m gonna miss him.” Jeremy said.
Maude poured Jeremy a cup of coffee. “I’m gonna miss the ‘shine.”
***
Freddie caught up with Jeremy when they were on break. The old man had taken the day off.
“I just want to say I’m sorry, Jer’,” he said. “I know he was your friend.”
“How’s your dad?” Jeremy said.
“A little shook up. Truth be told, I’m more shook up, I think.” Freddie was wringing his big, calloused hands. “Are we cool, you and me?”
“I never had a problem with you, Freddie,” Jeremy took the lettuce out of his sub. “Roger was an idiot. I don’t wanna’ say he got what he deserved, but…”
“So we’re cool?”
“We’re golden, Fred. Golden.”
***
The mill was quiet that day. No whispers, no wisecracks — it was like Old Man Wilkes was pacing the floor all day long. Jeremy felt weird driving back without Roger, but he had to stop at Roger’s house. The calls from the landline had to have been Lorraine.
He pulled up to the farmhouse. Looking at it, if Roger cared enough about his house as he did about his piece of side–ass, he’d have a decent looking place. Jeremy rang the bell. Lorraine answered in her bathrobe. Her makeup was smeared through tears, and she just stepped aside to let Jeremy in.
“I tried calling you last night,” she said. “You never called me back.”
“Sorry. I thought it was Roger, drunk.”
Lorraine paced the living room, a glass in her hand. White wine, if he had to guess.
“You okay, Lor’?”
Lorraine wiped her face, tried a thin smile. “I wasn’t crying for him, Jeremy. You have to know that.”
“Are the kids home?”
“No,” Lorraine fiddled with the knot in her bathrobe sash. “They’re with Jeannie. I told her I needed some time.”
“How are they handling it?” Jeremy said.
“Did you know? Before, I mean. Did you know before?”
“About what?” Jeremy pulled out his cigarettes.
“They told me he was trying to kill a man over a woman. Is that true?”
Jeremy didn’t want to answer. But Laurie’s gaze pierced him.
“I knew about her,” Jeremy said. “And I knew it was over, that she’d moved on, and Roger couldn’t deal with it. That’s it, though. All I know from last night is what I heard from Maddy.”
Lorraine sunk down on the couch, her long, slender arms slumped around the glass.
“How am I going to keep this place? Raise the kids? Bastard didn’t bother to give a fuck about that. To hell with him.” Jeremy could hear Laurie’s sobs, and knew she was sobbing over the loss of a miserable life — her own.
Jeremy sat down next to her. He wiped the hair from her face.
“I can get you a job at the saw mill, and someone to look after the kids while you’re working,” he said. “The Old Man owes me a favor, as long as you can work for him after… after this.”
Laurie nodded. She turned to Jeremy, and in one deft move, undid the sash of her bathrobe. Her breasts, as much masterpieces as they were five years ago, the first time Jeremy saw them, invited his hands, her full lips invited his.
“So where does this leave us, Jer’?” She whispered as Jeremy probed her neck with kisses.
“A supportive friend consoles his friend’s widow,” Jeremy said. “They fall in love, over time. You know, that’s bound to happen, of course…” His tongue tickled her ear. “Kinda’ like it happened, just starting now, that’s all…”
“Do you mean that, Jeremy?”
Jeremy stroked her s
houlder, his gaze lost in her hazel eyes.
“Of course, Lor’,” he said. You know I can’t just let you go.”
A WEEK OF SUNDAYS
T Maxim Simmler
“How ‘boot givin’ that noggin’ o’ yours a shave, Derek?” Graham threw him a quick glance before turning his attention back to the mirror, tightening the belt a tug, and checking if his arse was pronounced enough now. “Really – yous blimp like you’re goin’ to hug de punters, instead o’ scarin’ de cunts into behavin’.”
“It’s five millimetres, Gram. I’ve got to give it another month before I can think about a ponytail.”
“Hasan’s not goin’ te like it.”
“Not exactly news.”
Derek patted his black tee shirt, with the strip club’s name in warning–sign yellow, down, stuffed it into his black jeans, and tied the black Doc Martens. That was as far as he’d go with the dress code. He wasn’t going to shave and polish his head, nor would he practise the fuck–you–stare. Looking like a pit bull on PCP just meant inviting trouble. Drunken youngsters, testosterone high on boobies and cheap booze, tended to take it as an invitation to measure dicks. Derek preferred to look casual and a bit bored. Bored came to him naturally anyway.
And unlike his colleagues, Derek didn’t actually like his body – not the muscles bulging on muscles, not the tits rivalling the ones the ladies had gifted themselves, nor the stomach to grate concrete on. Had he liked eating better, he’d have buried the thin guy inside him under a burger fall every day. Pumping iron also took two or three hours out of the day. The other bouncers? You couldn’t place them near the mirrors, or they’d only notice the bar burning down when the wax on their heads caught fire.
He worked three to four nights a week, from nine to five in the morning. Money was fine, and most nights he came in, stood on his place, got his money and went home again.
Derek scanned the crowd. A lot of business guys, soon to be loud, priggish, and wearing their ties around the foreheads. Some giggling youngsters, a bit too agitated already. At least half of them would be drunk as skunk and gone within two hours. And then there was the table in front of the stage. A guy, thirty–five, maybe forty, his thinning hair slicked back and parading bleached, expensive teeth under a constant smirk, held court to six twenty–somethings in sumptuous hoodies and baggy trousers. Three gold chains scintillated through greying curls on a chest as wide as the man’s gestures. A seventh kid commuted between the bar and the table every couple of minutes, serving rum & cokes. The kind of folks who put the ‘ass’ in hassle.
The first dancer of the night balanced towards the pole on heels high as her hip. The DJ threw a bit of German hardcore techno that sounded like it had been recorded inside Rommel’s tank, on the turntable. The music drowned out all conversations. The basses, heavy and full, dulled every sense at 144 beats per minute but one – the thick thuds vibrated through the floor, up the cheap wooden benches and straight into the groin, massaging the punters’ balls. If the girls didn’t make you horny, the music would get to you. The stripper, clad in a transparent plastic coat zigzagged around the pole, her face powdered white, with black lips and Elsa Lanchester hair swaying like a pine in stormy weather. The music softened down, and urgent strings weaved a melody around the bass lines. Viscid dry ice swathes poured out of brass bowls like velvet lava, dissolving before they touched the ground. The sweet, chemical smell of the ice mingled with the even sweeter, tacky perfume the girls bathed in before a show, with the stench of stale beer and cloggy liquor, cigarette fumes and an occasional whiff of weed. Three hours and your clothes smelled like a run–down carnival.
The business guys and the youngsters, hands freudianly clenched around their long–drink glasses, were easy bait. One of the girls came over to them every couple of minutes like an ad–break, to offer a private dance, thrusting their hips forth and back, fucking the solid air. All men leant collectively forward, trying to catch a sniff of pussy, waving 20 and 50 Euro bills. They had some mighty desperate fun.
Derek and the girl on the stage locked their eyes for a second. In the sharp, clinical light a wrinkle, running straight from the left side of her mouth down to her chin, looked like it had been carved in – a steady reminder of the months she had wasted away here, despising the customers. Esther was the only performer Derek had talked to. Small talk, mostly. But he liked her. He especially liked that her tits didn’t look like an artificial, separate life–form.
When the music stopped, she gave a little bow, grabbed the plastic coat and went behind the stage for a quick cig and a drink before it was her turn to make the table rounds. The DJ fired up a bit of rockabilly, and a stripper Derek hadn’t seen here before jittered and doddered to spitfire guitar chords like an electric eel out of water.
A few minutes later he noticed Esther dancing for Smirking Man and his posse. While the young ones kept their fingers to themselves, some even sitting precautionary on their hands, their boss was over her like a horny octopus. She tried to escape his tentacles and his tongue flickering towards her nipples. When he started to toy with her G–string, Derek went over.
“You might want to stop that.”
“Not really.” His smirk widened and looked oilier than his hair.
Derek pushed Esther away from the table, and leant forward.
“House rules. Made to stop you from behaving like a monkey with a banana up the arse.”
“Do you know who I am, you cunty wee twat?”
Now that was a classic line. One he had heard from third assistant bank managers, guys who usually ask if you’d like a big Coke to go with the chips eight hours a day, and every other kind of people so low on the totem pole, they needed a straw to breathe.
“Some clown pretending he’s Ronald McDonald, out to impress a bunch of kids?”
Esther was squirming, signalling Derek to calm down. Her face reddened under the make up. He looked at the man again, a bit longer. No, he didn’t know him.
“Piss off, faggot.” His smirk didn’t falter when he stood up, wiped his glass from the table and slapped Derek with the back of his hand. Two more bouncers had joined them, one whispering something into Derek’s ear, another one trying to drag him away. Too late. His temper got to him. Derek shrugged his colleagues off, grabbed the guy by the collar, dragged him closer and head–butted him. It sounded like someone had ground down a cigarette butt on gravel. He fell back into his seat, his nose bleeding, and while one bouncer took care that the youngsters stayed cush, Graham grabbed Derek’s arm and dragged him away.
“Bloody hell, Derek. Go home. I’m tryin’ ter stop de shit comin down onto yous like god’s bill cack o’ wrath, but, fer de sake o’ blue fuck, bowl round os. Now.”
Derek looked at him, confused.
“What’s going on, Gram?”
“Go home. I’ll call you.”
“Fuck that,” he mumbled. “Didn’t like the job all that much anyway.”
Back home, he took a beer from the fridge, rolled a joint. Tried again to place the punter’s face and failed. He switched on the telly, waited for Gram to call, and fell asleep.
His phone woke him at six in the morning. Derek fiddled a Winston out of the pack, lit it, coughed thoroughly, and answered on the eighth ring.
“Fuck, Gram. Look at the time.”
“Fuck?” Graham’s voice was merely a whisper, but an urgent one. “Really? ‘Fuck’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.‘Fuck’ is waking up with the taste of seventeen year old pussy with a fake ID on your tongue. ‘Fuck’ is fingering a chick and ending up fiddling a dick. This is a whole new definition of fuck you’re in here. It’s four–dimensional fuck. It’s a bloody quantum fuck.”
“Slow down, Graham. Just tell me who that guy is, and why I should’ve let him eat Esther out at his table.”
Something was really wrong. Graham had lost his accent.
“Derek,” Graham paused for a few seconds. “The magic word is ‘was’. As in ‘who was the guy I kil
led with that stupid noggin of mine’.”
Derek put his feet firmly on the ground, but his room was still a merry–go–round.
“Killed?” The ‘k’ came out like a creak of defeat. His head felt surreal, heavy and detached, and he noticed he had forgotten to breathe.
“Yeah. After I saw you out, the fucking dune coon was sitting there, cursing you and nursing his nose, and then he tried to stand up and dropped flat down again. Died two hours later at the hospital. Turns out the poor cunt had an aneurysm in his head and was at the club to have a bit of fun before checking into the hospital for the operation. Getting your fucking head in the face was not helpful, Derek. And that’s not the worst of it.”
Of course it wasn’t. Derek stumbled for the fridge, looking for another beer.
“The worst thing is that you put Hasan’s cousin in the morgue. No, wait. Sorry. That wasn’t the worst of it.”
Who’d have guessed that? Derek took some Jim Bean from the cupboard and drank straight from the bottle.
“The really worst thing? He happened to be the owner of the club. Hasan’s just a front, cause he couldn’t get a licence with his rap sheet. But de facto our dear departed did everything from hiring the girls to doing the books and printing out the menu. And you killed him. The one guy who knew about running a business. To say Hasan’s pissed is an understatement. Cause he also really loved his cousin. He wants you sliced, kibbled, marinated and fed to his Rottweilers.”
“Why didn’t tell anybody tell me that before I decked him?”
“I actually did. You just didn’t listen. You were busy with your white knight shit.”
“So what’s happening now?”
“You pack a few things and travel a bit. Call a mate, crush on his couch, or sleep in his cellar. And no – I’m not that mate. Sleep under a bridge if you have to, but stay far, far away. Hasan and his family are still at the hospital, but a couple of his friends just hopped into a Mercedes, and I think I know where the ride’ll take them.”