by S. A. Cosby
“Ike,” Buddy Lee said. The large man’s arms continued to move the tamper like a piston.
“IKE!” Buddy Lee yelled. Ike froze. The head of the tamper was parallel with his chest. It was stained red like a painter’s brush. Ike stared at the garden tool like he had never seen it before. A guttural groan escaped his lips as he tossed it aside. It clanged as it skittered across the floor. It left behind narrow red streaks. Ike dropped to his haunches, then to his ass.
Buddy Lee skirted around the kid’s body and the rapidly expanding pool of blood that was quickly surrounding it. He eased himself down to the floor next to Ike.
“Guess we leaned on him too hard,” Buddy Lee said.
“I … I didn’t think he could get loose,” Ike said.
“Well, what do we do now?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike wiped his face with his shirt. When he looked down at it he saw dark splotches. He let out a long deep breath.
“I got a wood chipper, a bucket loader, and a two-ton pile of manure out back,” Ike said.
“I think that’ll work. He was real piece of shit,” Buddy Lee said. He’d tried to make the statement a joke, but neither one of them laughed.
FIFTEEN
Dome was five seconds away from busting a nut in the mouth of the brunette that had been crashing at the clubhouse since Saturday, when he heard the sound of metal smashing against metal. Reflexively he grabbed his .44 off the nightstand and popped his nut all in one movement. He pushed the girl’s head away and pulled up his pants with one hand. The girl slid off the bed and hit the floor with all of her considerable ass.
“What the fuck?” she said.
“Shut up,” Dome said. He took the steps two at a time as he flew down the stairs. Gremlin was already up and pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the door. Too Much pushed aside the plain brown curtain at the front window and peered outside. They called him Too Much because all the girls said he had too much dick for a guy who was just a frog’s hair over five feet tall.
“It’s Andy’s grocery getter,” Too Much said. His long brown hair fell in his face, and he pushed it aside with the back of his left hand. He had a .38 in his right. Dome opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Andy’s money-green LTD was parked on top of Keeper’s bike. Keeper was in the garage working on a tat for Cheddar. He either didn’t hear the commotion or didn’t care enough to stop working on Cheddar’s back piece. The parking lights on the LTD were still on, but the headlights were black pits like the eye sockets of a skull. The car’s big block 405 engine was idling rough. It was like the rolling tank was trying to clear its throat. Dome let his .44 fall to his side as he stepped down onto the first step.
The driver’s door flew open and rocked back and forth a few times. Dome pulled his gun up and aimed it at the driver’s side. As soon as he did it he felt foolish. If somebody was planning on spraying them up they wouldn’t have just parked there. Crashing into Keeper’s bike was a shitty thing to do, but it wasn’t the action of an assassin. Most likely Andy and Oscar had gotten lit instead of tossing the house. Grayson would be pissed.
Almost as if thinking his name had summoned him, Oscar emerged from the car.
“Holy shit,” Dome muttered.
The big man’s face was covered in so much blood Dome was surprised he hadn’t bled to death. It was like he was wearing a mask made from his own plasma. Oscar took three halting steps toward the house.
“Hey, Dome,” the prospect mumbled. Then, like a marionette whose strings had been snipped, he fell face-first onto the gravel-covered ground. Dome rushed to his side.
“You guys come on and give me a hand!” Dome yelled. Gremlin and Too Much sailed off the porch. It took all three of them to get Oscar on his feet. They carried/dragged him into the clubhouse. They dropped him on the leather couch in front of the television. Gremlin got some water and whiskey from the kitchen. He handed both to Dome. Dome tossed the whole bottle of water onto Oscar’s head. His face seemed to melt like a candle as the blood was washed away by multiple rivulets. He blinked four or five times before his eyes focused on Dome. Dome put the bottle of whiskey to Oscar’s lips and tilted his head back. Oscar coughed, wheezed, then coughed some more. He motioned for the bottle again and Dome poured another shot down his throat. Oscar nodded his head and held up his hand declining another drink.
“What the fuck happened to you, man?” Too Much asked. Oscar put his huge paw of a hand on his forehead.
“You ain’t gonna fucking believe it,” he said.
* * *
Once Oscar had recounted the entire evening, Dome called Grayson. The president answered on the second ring.
“This better be important,” Grayson said.
“It is. Oscar’s back.”
“And?” Grayson said.
“And Andy’s not with him. Oscar’s head is busted wide the fuck open and he’s covered in blood. His own blood,” Dome said.
A hollow silence bloomed on the phone line until Grayson spoke again.
“Did he see who hit him?” Grayson said. His voice was deathly quiet.
“He didn’t, but he says he and Andy got into it with an old dude that was in the house when they got there. He thinks the old dude was the father of one of the punks. He also said he saw a truck parked near the house. Truck said Randolph Lawn Maintenance on the side,” Dome said.
“Randolph, huh?” Grayson asked.
“Yeah,” Dome said. Another few seconds of silence.
“I’ll be over there in twenty minutes. Call a church meeting. We gonna take care of business and deal with Father Knows Best,” Grayson said.
The line went dead.
SIXTEEN
Buddy Lee parked his truck right in front of the 7-Eleven. He cut off the ignition and listened to the engine dieseling for a few minutes. Once the motor stopped coughing and sputtering, he got out and went into the store. The sun had just risen. A ragged patchwork of clouds hung low in the eastern sky like cotton candy.
A robotic chime sounded as he walked through the door. Buddy Lee slipped down the center aisle and made a beeline for the cooler in the back. He plucked two tallboys from the rack and headed for the counter. He had considered just going cold turkey until they were done with whatever the hell they were calling this mission they were on, but that was just ridiculous. He hadn’t done that since the last time he was in the joint. He couldn’t go down that road again. That route led to shakes and vomiting and bugs in his hair that no one else could see. He could cut back, but stopping altogether was as likely as seeing a monkey driving a goddamn Cadillac.
Buddy Lee put the two cans of beer on the counter and waited for the clerk to turn around. The small brown man was stocking the cigarettes while whistling a tune that teased Buddy Lee with its familiarity. When the man finally emptied the carton he was working on he turned and scanned Buddy Lee’s beer.
“Buddy Lee. How are you, my friend? You look a bit unrested.”
“Well, good fucking morning to you, too, Hamad,” Buddy Lee said.
“I mean no harm, Buddy Lee. I am worried about you, my friend. You look like you have not slept a wink,” Hamad said.
“You don’t know the half of it, son,” Buddy Lee said.
After he had stabbed the kid and Ike had caved his head in like an overripe melon, they had stripped him naked and fired up Ike’s wood chipper. Ike had positioned the discharge chute directly onto the manure pile in the back lot of his warehouse. They used handsaws and machetes to break the kid down into manageable pieces. Once it was all done they pressure-washed the floor and the wood chipper. Buddy Lee had plopped down on the lime pallet and watched Ike mix up the manure pile with his economy-sized front-end loader. By the time they were done, it was two hours before sunrise. He supposed he should be shocked how fast his disposal skills resurfaced, but it was not really that much of a surprise. Chopping up your first body is disgusting. Your second is tiresome. When you’re doing your fifteenth, it’s all muscle memory.
“I know it
is hard,” Hamad said.
“Huh?”
“After the passing of your son. I know things are hard,” Hamad said.
“Yeah, I haven’t slept much since Derek … died,” Buddy Lee said. He’d never get used to the way the words “Derek” and “died” felt in his mouth.
“Everything seems hard when one you love dies,” Hamad said as he placed the beer in a brown paper bag.
“Mm-hmm,” Buddy Lee said. He handed Hamad a ten-spot.
“You will get through this, Buddy Lee,” Hamad said.
“I don’t know if I want to get through it, Hamad. I feel like every minute I’m not grieving I’m letting my boy down,” Buddy Lee said.
Hamad handed Buddy Lee his change.
“He wouldn’t want you to grieve forever, my friend,” Hamad said. A man and a woman came into the store laughing in that way that told Buddy Lee they were a couple, and a new one at that. Buddy Lee grabbed his bag.
“You sure about that?” Buddy Lee said.
The clouds had dispersed by the time he got to the cemetery. The headstones shimmered in the unrelenting sunlight. The temperature rose steadily, like a bottle rocket. In another hour it would be hotter than fresh-cooked fried chicken. Buddy Lee walked among the tombstones with a steady gait. He only stopped to cough twice before he neared Derek’s and Isiah’s graves. He came up around the red maple that overlooked his son’s final resting place and stopped short.
“Christine,” he said. His heart leapt up out of his chest and slapped the back of his throat. She was standing at the foot of the graves. Her honey-blond hair brushed the collar of her blue blazer. Those long legs he loved were wrapped in a sensible blue skirt that matched her blazer. Deep-set eyes the color of sapphires stared out at him from a heart-shaped face. How many times had he gazed into those eyes? Seen them change color like a mood ring. Darken with passion or sparkle with desire or glow blue hot with rage. She’d had some work done. Mostly around the eyes and her mouth. He didn’t blame her. Why not? From what he’d heard, her husband could afford it. The surgeon had only shored up what the Almighty had given her. Christine Perkins Jenkins Culpepper was as beautiful a woman as he had ever had in his arms. A few doctored crow’s feet couldn’t change that. No matter how much Christine would have liked to pretend their eight-year marriage had never happened.
“Where is the headstone? The other family said they had a headstone,” Christine said.
“It got damaged. What are you doing here? How did you even know where they were buried?” Buddy Lee asked. Christine pushed an errant blond lock out of her eyes.
“It was in the paper.”
“I gotcha,” Buddy Lee said.
“What happened to the stone?”
Buddy Lee cracked open one of the cans of beer and took a long swig.
“Somebody hit it with a sledgehammer and wrote a bunch of fucking nasty shit about gay people all over it,” he said. A sharp intake of breath from Christine sent a whistle echoing through the graveyard.
“That’s … unfortunate. Even though I didn’t agree with Derek’s lifestyle, there was no need for someone to perpetrate such a vile act of vandalism on his tombstone,” Christine said. Buddy Lee took a step toward her and she took a step back. She glanced down and realized she was standing on either Derek’s or Isiah’s grave and stepped toward the right.
“Is that why you didn’t come to the funeral? Because you didn’t agree with his lifestyle? Or was it because Gerald Culpepper didn’t let you?” Buddy Lee asked. Christine rubbed her nose and ran a hand through her hair.
“You wouldn’t understand. A man in Gerald’s position can’t be seen coddling a stepson who engages in perverse activities.”
“Oh, I understand. I understand you kicked our son out of your house right before the judge ran for Richmond City Council the first time. I understand our son was living on the street. Bouncing from house to house because you cared more about being the wife of some stuck-up, rich, first-family-of-Virginia asshole than being a mother to your child,” Buddy Lee said. He felt the color rise in his face. Tremors moved through his body like a high tide coming into shore.
“Don’t you stand there and get sanctimonious with me, William Lee Jenkins. You think you were Father of the Year? Our son dedicated himself to an immoral lifestyle. An abhorrent, sacrilegious life that neither my husband nor I could abide in our home. Yes, I made him leave but I never punched him in the face. I never slapped him to the ground. If you were so concerned about him, why didn’t you take him in? Oh, that’s right, you were behind bars, drinking toilet wine,” Christine spat at him.
Buddy took another sip of his beer.
“Those fancy etiquette classes Culpepper had you take was good. But your accent’s slipping. I can hear Red Hill County all up in your voice when you get mad. You ain’t that far from the back seat of my Camaro after all,” he said.
“I will not let you take my peace. I will not let you take my peace. I will not let you take my peace,” Christine muttered. Buddy Lee thought she was talking to herself, not him. She glared straight ahead as she clenched her fist, digging her manicured red nails into the palms of her hands. Buddy Lee studied her eyes again. She’d had some work done, but there was something else there. A manic look he recognized from many a backwoods trailer party.
“Christine, are you high?” Buddy Lee asked. His question snapped her out of her affirmation.
“What?”
“Are you high? Because your pupils about as wide as the bottom of this can,” Buddy Lee said.
“I have a prescription,” Christine said.
“I’m sure you do. I bet you got a shit ton of them.”
“I’m not going to stand here and be lectured by some white trash redneck ex-con,” Christine said. She stomped her red-bottomed heels past him. He caught a whiff of her as she passed. Not her expensive perfume, but her. The fresh-scrubbed sweet scent of her. In an instant he was back in the aforementioned Camaro. His mouth against her neck. His nostrils full of the same raw fresh scent. This exchange was a microcosm of one half of their past relationship. They’d hit each other with one verbal haymaker after another. Searching for the soft and secret places to make the deepest cut in a way that only someone who has shared your bed more than once can do effectively. There would be no replay of the remaining half of their past relationship. Buddy Lee sipped his beer. That part was always the fun part.
“We was both shit parents. But at least I showed up to watch him go in the ground. You coming here now is more than a day late and way more than a dollar short,” Buddy Lee yelled. He heard her stop in her tracks.
“Fuck you, Buddy Lee,” she said without turning around.
“So much for peace,” he mumbled.
He waited until he knew Christine was out of earshot. He walked up to the graves and knelt on one knee. He opened the other can of beer and poured the entire contents over Derek’s grave.
“No offense, Isiah, but I didn’t know what kind of beer you like. Derek was a Pabst man at one time. I gave him his first one when he was fifteen. This was before I went down for my last visit to the ‘graybar hotel.’ I thought it would make a man out of him. Stupid. I know that now,” Buddy Lee said. He finished his own beer before crushing the can.
“I just wanted to tell you that me and Ike, we did something. We got one of them. I know it’s not what you would want me to do. I think I’m finally starting to understand you could never be the kind of man I am and I couldn’t be the kind of man you was,” he said. He crushed Derek’s can and put both cans back in the brown paper bag.
“I know if you was here you’d tell me to let it go. That it wasn’t worth it. Then I’d have to steal one of your lines,” Buddy Lee said. He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his jeans. His eyes burned but he was too tired to cry.
“This is who I am. I can’t change. I don’t want to, really. But for once I’m gonna put this devil inside me to good use.”
SEVENTEEN
> Ike opened his eyes. His lower back felt like it was filled with spun glass. He rose from his office chair and listened to his knees pop like rifle shots. His watch said it was a little after eight. He checked his phone. Mya had called a few times. She’d also sent him two terse texts. Both asked where he was and when he was coming home. The first one was longer than the second. The guys would be rolling in in a few minutes. Jazzy would be late as usual. They had seven jobs today from Queen County all the way to Williamsburg.
Ike walked around his desk to the spot where he’d killed the kid. A pressure washer and some bleach had cleaned up the blood nicely. He hadn’t killed anyone in sixteen years. He hadn’t had a fight in eleven years. Eleven years of walking the straight and narrow gone to shit in a matter of minutes. The two of them had slaughtered that kid like a pig and fed him to the wood chipper like a mama bird feeding a chick.
The two of them. Eleven years. One plus one was two. When he was inside he had read a book that said some numbers had a mystical significance in some religions. Not for the first time he considered all the weird knowledge you could acquire when there was nothing to do but lift, read, and fight.
Ike went out to the back lot of the warehouse. He grabbed the water hose attached to a hose reel near the back door and pulled it over to a smoldering barrel near the corner of the building. He soaked the ashes in the barrel until they stopped smoking. The kid’s jeans and shirt had gone up like kindling. It had taken his boots a lot longer to burn down to barely recognizable lumps. He sprayed some water in his hand and splashed it on his face. He’d given Buddy Lee a big tough speech about spilling blood, but he hadn’t expected it to happen this suddenly.
That was the thing about violence. When you went looking for it you definitely were going to find it. It just wouldn’t be at a time of your own choosing. It jumped up and splattered your nice new boots before you were really ready. The thing is, if you chase it long enough, you realize you’re never really ready for it. Shit happens and you either roll with it or you don’t. Eventually you got used to it. When he was a kid he liked to think that made you hard. He hit the barrel with the hose again. After a few years inside he figured out that was bullshit. Human beings were wired to get used to just about anything. That didn’t make you hard. It made you indoctrinated.