Less Than Human

by Raisor, Gary

  Amy's eyes flashed angrily. "Winning, losing, that's all you two ever think about. Sometimes I feel like a stuffed toy at the carnival, waiting to go home with the first guy who can ring the bell. Three chances for a dollar. Win yourself an Amy Warrick."

  "An Amy Warrick. Gosh, I'd like to take a chance on that, but a whole dollar… I don't know…."

  Amy smiled, tipped Jesse's hat down over his eyes. "You're a smooth talker, Jesse Black Eagle, how am I going to trust you while I'm away at Arizona State?"

  All Amy could see were Jesse's white teeth smiling from beneath the brim of his hat.

  "Guess you'll have to come home and check upon me every chance you get," he said, his smile broadening. "We'll have so much hot sex I won't be able to walk for three months, let alone look at another woman." He inched closer until the entire length of his body was pressed against her. He tried to kiss her.

  "Oh no you don't," she said, giggling, "I'm still angry with you. Besides you're going to need all your strength for riding the bull tomorrow."

  Jesse groaned and leaned back against the windshield. "Just remember, if I get killed tomorrow, I went to my death unloved."

  "I doubt that." She kissed him, pulled away, suddenly serious again. "Jesse, what would you say if I told you I don't want to go back to school? That I want to stay here with you."

  "I'd say you lost your mind." He sat up. "Doing what? There's nothing here for you, Amy. Crowder Flats is the end of the line, some place you end up when you can't cut it anymore. Or if you never could cut it," he added. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her. "You listen to your mom and get your ass back to school."

  Amy pulled away, stung by Jesse's words. She watched the river for a while. "You ever feel like you're not living your own life, that what you want doesn't count?"

  Jesse tried to touch her, but she slid off the truck hood and walked to the edge of the rock outcropping. Below, the river was a silver thread sewn into the night. She stood there, looking down, the wind blowing her hair. "I feel like I'm living Mom's dream, Mom's life. Since I was small, that's all I can remember is her talking about sending me to college. Nobody ever asked me what I wanted to do."

  "She just wants what's best for you."

  "I know she does," Amy said, "and I wanted to live up to her expectations. It's a lot of pressure, maybe too much. When I was little, I used to dream about falling. Some nights I would wake up crying." She listened to the murmur of the river as though deciding whether to go on. "I called it the dream. I haven't had it since I was twelve, but the funniest thing is—I had it again last night."

  "Probably just nerves. Your little brother…."

  "Maybe that's it, I don't know. You ever dream, Jesse?"

  "Yeah, about you."

  "No, I mean when you were small."

  "I used to have a lot of weird dreams when I was little, mostly about my dad. I used to dream he wasn't dead." Jesse sat his hat on his knee and picked at it, his words coming slowly. "Sometimes after I woke up, I'd stay in bed all day long. That way I could pretend the dream was true. As long as I didn't leave the room…," Jesse realized he was saying more than he had intended. He put on his hat and climbed in the truck. "Come on, it's getting late. I think I'd better get you home before your mom sends the sheriff out after me."

  Amy kicked a few pebbles off the rock outcropping, watched them fall. In her dreams she had never heard the pebbles fall. She didn't hear them this time, either.

  They drove in silence toward Amy's house. As they topped a rise, Jesse thought he caught a flash in his rearview mirror. For some reason he couldn't shake the idea that a car was back there, following them without lights. He made some excuse about checking the tires, stopped, and got out. After listening nearly a minute, he decided his nerves weren't the best, either.

  They drove on.

  Steven Adler and Earl Jacobs sat in their red Caddy with the lights turned off and the engine silent. Earl stuck his head out the window, looked behind him at the darkened stretch of road. A big grin split his face. "You ain't gonna believe this, Steven, but I think somebody's following us." He tipped up his flask of George Dickel, took a long drink. "This thing is turning into a regular goddamned caravan."

  "No shit?" Steven sounded excited. "That's great. I thought this was going to be too easy." He started the Caddy and pulled back onto the road.

  After a while the third car followed.

  Chapter 14

  Louisa Warrick moaned, called out a name.

  The name was her ex-husband's and it echoed through the small stucco house. Died. Louise sat up in bed. A moment passed before she realized she had been dreaming again. John Warrick had left ten years ago.

  She felt lost and vulnerable, unprepared to deal with the emotions that washed over her in her empty bed, the need that would not go away.

  The need she could not will away.

  The phone calls from John had brought back all the old feelings, and she hated that. She ran her hands over her naked body, feeling the sweat trickle down between her breasts. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant. She was hot. In more ways than one.

  It had been a long time since she'd been with a man.

  The last man she had seriously considered going to bed with was Martin Strickland from over at the Broken R, but that was before she had gone out with him. The whole thing had been a waste of time. All he ever talked about was that slutty ex-wife of his who had run off to Dallas with a car salesman.

  Martin told her about the breakup on their first date, over barbecue and beer on their way to the drive-in at Steeley Point.

  The story started when Martin went to Harlan's Auto Salvage and Repo to take a little Chevy S-10 that he'd had his eye on for a test spin. It seemed the Chevy had been rolled by a Bible salesman from Omaha who had been run off the road by a car with no driver.

  "Well, actually there was a driver," Martin said, "it was just that the driver wasn't in the car at the time. A crazy Indian name of Rudy No Horses. Caught his ass on fire and fell out, but that's another story."

  Louise waited.

  "Anyway," Martin said, "I thought I should drive the truck first. Maybe take it over to Jesus Martinez at the Shell Station and have him take a look. Jesus can spot a bent frame faster than he can a bill collector."

  Louise agreed that spotting a bent frame or a bill collector was an admirable character trait.

  "Sometimes you can end up with a bent frame when a truck gets rolled," Martin explained to Louise, who was gamely waiting for him to get to the point.

  The salesman at Harlan's was agreeable about the test drive and handed over the keys.

  "I should have known something was up right away from the sideways way those two kept looking at each other," Martin said, "but shit, Doralee was always looking at other guys."

  Pleading a headache, Doralee said she would wait for Martin in the office.

  When Martin got back, he found Doralee and the salesman gone. Along with his car.

  "It was goddamn embarrassing, I can tell you," Martin said. "Not only had my wife ran off with a guy she had known for twenty minutes, it looked like I was going to have to walk home, too."

  "Did Harlan let you borrow the truck?" Louise asked.

  "He did better than that. Harlan felt so bad about his salesman running off with Doralee that he outright gave me the truck," Martin answered. "One truck for one wife. Seemed only fair. He threw in a Bible, too."

  Half a bottle of whiskey and a movie later, Martin swore he hated Doralee. A whole bottle later (it was a double feature) he said he couldn't never love anyone but Doralee. By the time the lights came up he was passed out.

  Go figure.

  Sometimes it seemed to Louise that nobody had any idea what they wanted. If they did somehow manage to get it, they damn sure didn't want it for long.

  Life was a messy business, Louise remembered her mother saying to her. The longer you lived it the messier it got. For once her mother had been right.
r />   Only Mom hadn't said how lonely it got, too.

  How could so many years have passed?

  Louise was a little frightened when she thought about all the years she had been alone. She would turn thirty-nine this year. No, not just thirty-nine, she was thirty-nine and alone. She slid her hands between her legs, touching what her mother had always referred to in pained tones as private parts. Don't touch your no-no, Mama had told her. Ever. It's not nice. It's not ladylike. No man will ever want you if you do.

  Well, right now, her no-no was the only part of Louise that wasn't soaking wet.

  A woman could dry up in this godforsaken town.

  Louise grimaced; something under the sheet was chafing her. She slid her hand under and came up with something gritty. A laugh burst from her as she turned to the window and identified what she held. "I goddamn knew it; my no-no has dried up, Mamma. It's got sand coming out of it."

  The laughter quit and she realized it had been a while since she had found anything funny.

  Dumping the sand, she thought about the dream that had brought her awake. Her hands felt their way to the nightstand of their own will and lit a cigarette while she waited for the unwanted feelings to pass. The images from the dream seemed more real to her than the memories of what had happened on that day ten years ago.

  The day John had left her.

  A trial separation, he said, a few months apart. That had been in July.

  A week before Christmas, John had a present delivered to Amy, a pony. Mister Bojangles was what was written on the card and it had been attached by a red ribbon to the pony's mane. The significance of the vagabond name wasn't lost on Louise. She guessed that was John's way of telling her that he wasn't coming back.

  Amy had never been on a horse before but she begged and begged until Louise gave in.

  A few minutes later, Amy had returned to the house on foot. She had been hurt when Mister Bojangles had thrown her, a small cut on the forehead that had looked worse than it was. When Amy had appeared in the doorway, her face covered with tears and snot and blood, Louise had panicked. She remembered screaming John's name.

  He didn't come.

  At that moment Louise realized he really was gone. For good. That she was going to have to deal with the crisis all by herself.

  Since that day she had been doing her best to raise her daughter without any help. Louise knew she had made mistakes with Amy and she agonized over them. Sometimes she pushed Amy too hard, but she didn't want her daughter to end up in some nowhere place like Crowder Rats, smoking unfiltered cigarettes in the dark and dreaming about some man who had been gone ten years.

  She looked at his picture on the dresser. He was showing Amy how to shoot pool and he had just made a shot that was impossible. He was smiling that easy smile of his. Dark hair. White teeth. He was a good-looking son of a bitch. He had been good in bed, too. God, she remembered their long nights of lovemaking. His lean, hard body next to hers. Her mouth still went dry whenever she thought about him.

  Amy said all the cigarettes that Louise smoked were really just a substitute for sex. Sublimation, Amy called it. A twenty-dollar word for fooling yourself was more like it. Louise couldn't argue with her daughter's diagnosis. Hmmmm. A smile, half-bitter, half-wry, touched her face when she looked at the overflowing ashtray. "Shit, kiddo, if cigarettes are sex, your old mama is turning into a nymphomaniac."

  Louise took one last drag, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs, before grinding out her half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. Damn, this was hard for her, but she had promised Amy she would cut back. This was about as close as she could get to keeping her promise. Lately she had begun coughing and it seemed to take longer for the coughing to stop. She wondered if she was getting cancer.

  The moon poured light through her bedroom window and she stared at it, drifting back to sleep, dreaming that Amy had fallen off her pony.

  The phone rang. In her half-awake state it sounded like a child crying.

  Louise picked up the phone on the third ring. "Amy, don't cry. It's just a scratch—"

  "Louise, it's me. I'm sorry to call so late." The voice was faint, filled with sadness. It scared her. Nine years ago she had received a late-night call from her mother telling her that her father was dead. Her mother had sounded the way John sounded now.

  For a long beat, she listened to the static on the line. "John, what's wrong?"

  "There's been some trouble. It's Leon. He's—"

  Louise felt something cold run through her. She knew what John was going to say and she didn't think she could bear to hear it. "He's dead, isn't he? Leon's dead," she heard herself say. The words seemed to come from someone else.

  "Yeah, I found him about half an hour ago. God, Louise, they hurt him before they killed him. They cut him up and then broke all his bones so they could stick him in the freezer. He was holding ajar of pig's feet in his lap. There was a hand in it. I think it belonged to Dorinda."

  "Why?" was all she could say.

  "A cue stick." More static on the line, and this time, when the voice came back, it was as brittle as old onionskin paper. "The cue stick that I stole. I got Leon killed, maybe Dorinda, too. Over nothing."

  "Why would anybody kill Leon and Dorinda over a cue stick?"

  "I don't know, I think these guys do this stuff for kicks. They were looking for me. I guess they thought Leon could tell them where."

  "Can you go to the police?"

  "I called them, but I didn't say who I was. They wouldn't believe me no way. My word doesn't carry much weight since Tucson. Anyway, I don't think I could prove these guys had anything to do with it. I get the feeling they're pretty good at covering their tracks." John hesitated and Louise knew he was working up his courage to say something else. She knew it was bad.

  "There's something more, isn't there?" Louise said. "You always save the worst news for last. Well, you're going to have to say it, John, you're not going to be able to send it on a cute card this time."

  "There was a message stuffed in Leon's mouth. It said to bring the cue stick to Crowder Flats. That means these guys might know about you and Amy." A deep breath. "And that means they might use you to get at me."

  Louise felt as if someone had stepped on her chest. She couldn't breathe. "Do you think they're here yet?"

  "There's a good chance they are. Leon was damn near frozen when I got to him and that means he'd been in the freezer a long time."

  "What do these men look like?"

  "One's young, wears a crucifix in his ear, looks like a biker. The other is old, looks like Randolph Scott gone to seed, wears a scruffy leather jacket. They might be driving Leon's red Caddy."

  "Anything else?" Louise asked.

  "Is Amy there?"

  "No, she went out."

  "Can you call her?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. She doesn't always tell me where she goes."

  "Try and find her, Louise. For God's sake, try. These bastards will do anything."

  "I won't let anything happen to her."

  A pause on the other end. "I'm sorry, Louise, I know you won't. I'll be there as quick as I can."

  Louise waited for him to hang up.

  "Louise, I… I never meant for anything bad to happen."

  "I know you didn't, John, you never do." Louise pressed down the receiver. She walked over to the closet, pulled out the twelve-gauge scattergun and laid it on the bed beside her. Then she picked up the phone and began making a call.

  Out in the corral, Mister Bojangles nickered.

  Louise stiffened at the sound, but quiet resumed. "Guess I'm not the only one having bad dreams tonight," she said. She waited for Stuart Johnson, Crowder Flats's part-time sheriff, to pick up on the other end.

  Chapter 15

  Crowder Flats.

  Sunday morning.

  Louise Warrick was scared.

  Even though it was a beautiful, sunshine-filled morning. Trouble was coming to Crowder Flats. The only question left—when
would it arrive? It would come with John, she decided. It always did. Louise wondered if he was here yet. A covered wagon rumbled by, almost brushing Louise. The Frontier Days parade was under way.

  The town had gone all out this year. Red, white, and blue pennants were strung from every building, flapping in the breeze. Everyone was dressed in Old West clothes, smiling and waving, but Louise barely noticed. She kept scanning the crowd of tourists, looking in the sea of shifting unfamiliar faces, trying to spot the two men who had killed Leon Wilson.

  The spectacle of the parade seemed subdued to Louise, like watching TV with the volume turned down too low. She heard a phone ring and looked around. Winced as she realized the sound was only in her head. It wouldn't stop ringing; it kept tugging at her like a child begging for attention.

  There was only one way to stop it: pick up the receiver. But if she did that, then she would have to hear the bad news again. That Leon Wilson was dead.

  Louise had loved the large black man. Out of all of John's friends, he had been her favorite. He always made her laugh no matter how down she felt.

  Leon Wilson, pool hall owner and gourmet cook, teller of bad jokes. Big booming laugh. Scary looking but the gentlest man Louise had ever known.

  Moments in time rushing past.

  He cried at sad movies. Liked cornflakes. Drank his coffee with three spoons of sugar.

  Loved his wife and daughter.

  Memories drifting toward Louise like snowflakes against a window, sticking for an instant, leaving behind bits and pieces of themselves that melted away all too soon.

  Gone before their beauty could really be appreciated. Louise, John, and Darlene, sitting at the dining room table at Leon's house. Fifth anniversary, Leon cooking. Fine china, candles in silver holders, roses, white linen tablecloth. Pig's feet for an appetizer. Leon sweeping out of kitchen, refusing to say what the main course was. Very mysterious. Everyone digging in. Compliments to the chef.

  At the end of the meal, announcing they had consumed squid.