“Get up, Mr. Corliss.”
Lyle helped him, pulling on the side of the good shoulder.
When the fat man got on his feet, he pushed Lyle and Lyle went down on the grass, on his butt, kind of hard. The fat man was waddling in the moonlight, trying to run, heading for the Camaro. Lyle shot the gun in the air.
The fat man stopped.
Then he turned and he spread his hands, one of them bloody, from his shoulder. “Why, Lyle? Why?”
“Pa’s getting out of the food stamp business.”
The man’s eyes were round and yellow. “So you’re going to kill me?”
“When Pa gets out of something, he gets out all the way. He don’t leave no trail.”
“What, killing people leaves no trail? Are you crazy as well as stupid?”
“I’m not stupid, Mr. Corliss,” Lyle said. Thinking, he added, “Or crazy neither.”
“You don’t want to kill me, do you?”
“No, sir. Not particularly.”
“I have money. You saw that money, back at my bar. I can give you that. I can give you more.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You can get out from under your daddy’s thumb. A good-looking boy like you should be out in the world, making a life for himself. Not, not living at home with your old man.”
“Pa’s good to me.”
“I’m sure he is, but you got to be your own man, Lyle. Now, put that away, and let’s get in the car.”
“You’d bleed on my ’polstery.”
“No, no I wouldn’t do a thing like that. We’ll, we’ll use my coat, we’ll tear my shirt, we’ll stop up the wound. Take me back where I can get some medical help and I’ll make you a very rich kid.”
“No. I do what my daddy tells me.”
“This is crazy! How many people does your daddy expect you to kill?”
“You’re the last. You’re six.”
The fat man’s mouth was open; he couldn’t seem to think of anything to say to that.
Finally he did: “Over fucking food stamps?”
“My pa takes precautions. Step across the road, Mr. Corliss.”
The wind sounded like a sick animal, crying down a canyon.
The fat man looked determined all of a sudden. Proud, sort of. “No. You do it right here.”
Lyle walked over to him and pointed the gun at him and said, “Turn around then, Mr. Corliss.”
“Fuck you.”
“Turn around.”
Slowly, he did. He was trembling. His jowls were like fleshy Jell-O.
Lyle pistol-whipped him and he went down with a whump. Lyle waited for a moment, listening for cars, didn’t hear any, and dragged the fat man across the road, by the feet, like the carcass of some dead animal, which essentially it was. A slimy trail of blood was left behind, but Lyle figured that wouldn’t last. Traffic and weather would take care of it. That was about as smart as Lyle got, incidentally.
Pulling him through the grass and into the brush and trees was harder than across the mostly smooth highway. Lyle was only sixty yards or so into the woods when he dumped the body. He was out of breath, even though he stayed in shape. Mr. Corliss was real heavy. He thought about pistol-whipping him again, but figured the fat man would stay unconscious long enough for Lyle to go back and get what he needed.
He was right. The fat man was still out when Lyle came back and put on the yellow rubber dish-washing gloves and cut Corliss’ throat with the hunting knife. Lyle was proud of himself. He didn’t get blood anywhere but the ground and the gloves. He’d also brought the shovel, from the Camaro’s trunk, with him. It was hard digging in this cold ground, which had a lot of roots in it. And the hole had to be plenty big, for Mr. Corliss to fit in.
But the fat man did fit. Barely. Lyle kicked him, hard, really having to shove with his foot, to make him tumble into the grave. It was only four feet deep, but he just couldn’t dig any deeper. He poured some quicklime over the bulging body. That would help keep animals away, Pa said. Then he filled the grave in. Patted it down. Found some leaves and things and covered it over. It looked pretty natural when he got done. Lyle smiled to himself. Maybe I am artistic, he thought.
Lyle washed up at the Riverview—he really was staying at that particular motel, not having the imagination to lie about it, although his pa was not along (saying so had been Pa’s idea)—and changed his clothes. Just for the hell of it, he decided to drive through the Cities, before catching the Interstate. The night was young —maybe some night spot would catch his eye. Just before he reached the Interstate, one did. Nolan’s.
4
THE NEXT DAY, Sunday, in the afternoon, in Des Moines, Iowa, Nolan’s frequent accomplice Jon—who, like Nolan, had gone straight—stepped in shit.
The shit, dog shit to be exact, a pile of it on the sidewalk just outside the New Wax record shop on University Avenue near Drake University campus, was just the beginning. And Jon, who had sensed storm clouds gathering in his life for weeks now, knew the dog shit for the omen it was. He rubbed the sole of his right tennie onto the curb and went in the door next to the record shop, over which he and Toni shared an apartment.
He and Toni were friends; they slept in separate beds, in separate rooms, though on occasion they made love. Once or twice a week. They met through rock ’n’ roll—playing in a band together—and had been lovers at first, settled into being friends and, now, lived together. But it wasn’t love. Jon wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t love.
Jon was returning after two less than exciting days in Cedar Rapids, where he’d been a guest at a comics convention, that is, an organized gathering of comic-book fans. As a kid, Jon had been a comic-book fan himself—Batman, Superman and Spider-Man had been his best friends in a childhood that had buffeted him from one relative to another while his “chanteuse” mother traveled, playing the Holiday/Ramada Inn circuit—and, as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be a cartoonist when he grew up. Now he was grown up, more or less, and was the creator of an offbeat comic book, Space Pirates, a science-fiction spoof, not a blockbuster bestseller, but a cult item that was making him a modest living. An honest living—unlike those brief, volatile days when he and Nolan had . . . well, that was behind him.
He was short but had a bodybuilder’s build, which made sense, because he worked out three times weekly at a health spa, and had lifted weights and such since high school, where he’d been a wrestling champ. His hair was short and blond, a curly skullcap, and he had a wisp of a mustache. On this crisp winter day, he wore chinos and a long blue navy-color coat with a big collar, a military-looking coat which he had, in fact, purchased at an army-navy surplus store. Under the coat he wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, despite the time of year; on it was one of his own drawings, as the T-shirt was quite literally the first merchandising spin-off from Space Pirates’ cultish success: Captain Bob, the klutzy hero of his book, posed with a clunky ray gun in one hand and a bosomy alien broad in the other. He wore no gloves (Jon didn’t—neither did Captain Bob, for that matter).
It was only one floor up, the only apartment up there, and the door was unlocked, which made Jon grimace. His drawing board was set up in the living room, near the stereo and nineteen-inch Sony TV. It was a spacious flat, drywall walls painted a pale green and decorated with huge posters, promo stuff from the record shop, where Toni worked during the week, when they weren’t out on the road with a band, which they hadn’t been for several months now. Gigantic Elvis Costello and Blondie and Devo and Oingo Boingo and Kate Bush faces stared from the walls. Blondie was old history, now, but Toni’s vague resemblance to Debbie Harry kept the defunct group hanging on, at least on the apartment walls.
Toni had been the lead singer of a group called Dagwood, several years ago, a mock-Blondie group formed out of the remnants of Smooch, a mock-Kiss group; like the various imitation Beatles bands—a number of which were still around—such groups could turn a steady buck on the Midwest club circuit. For six months Toni h
ad done nothing in life but imitate Debbie Harry; even now she still admired the singer, and her own style remained heavily influenced thereby.
Jon knew that Toni had the talent to go far. She had looks and brains and drive, too. She was twenty-three, a year younger than Jon, and was in her bedroom packing her suitcase. That was the other thing she needed, to go far: a suitcase.
She was packing stage clothes—sexy lacy gypsy-looking things she ordered from Betsey Johnson’s in New York City. Right now she was in jeans and a Bruce Springsteen sweatshirt, a small woman with zoftig curves and dark spiky Pat Benatar hair.
“I was going to complain about you leaving the door unlocked again,” Jon said, the words sounding empty to him.
“You still think your wicked past may catch up with you someday,” she said, not looking at him.
Jon sat on the bed. “It might. I made enemies.”
She looked up from her packing and gave him a condescending smile. “Don’t go all macho and mysterious on me, or I may just faint. Or puke.”
“What are you mad about?”
“Who said anything about being mad? Look out.” She was moving past him, toward the closet, where she was getting more of her stage clothing, Cyndi Lauper-type apparel, but sexier.
“You seem to be packing.”
“You are one observant little man, aren’t you?”
“Any special reason?”
“I’m leaving. Going.”
“Where?”
“Minneapolis.”
“And do what? Go down on Prince?”
She gave him a cold look. “I got a new gig lined up.”
“What about our new band?”
They’d been rehearsing for about a month with a drummer and a guitar player, both of them college kids from Drake. Toni sang, of course, Jon played keyboards, switching off between an old Vox Continental organ and a Roland synthesizer.
“The new band just isn’t happening, Jon. Those kids aren’t ready to do anything but play weekends. They’re in fucking college, for Godsake!”
“It’s sounding good.”
“Jon, we’re too old to be some top-forty band playing frat parties and bars. I got to get out there and make it, really make it, before my tits start to sag.”
Jon touched her arm. “I’d be glad to lift ’em for you.”
She removed his hand like a bug that had lit. “Don’t start. To you this is just a hobby. To me it’s a career.”
Jon stood, some anger bubbling up through his hurt feelings. “Hobby! I’ve given this thing three years of my life, working in bands with you, driving all over the goddamn country in that lumber wagon of a van, sleeping in roach motels, fencing with moronic club owners. Jesus! What do you want from me?”
She looked at him with something approaching regret. Sighed. Said, “Sit down.”
He frowned at her.
“Sit down,” she said, and she sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the suitcase back out of the way.
He sat, too.
“Jon, this isn’t your dream. Music. It’s always been second place to you. You’ve got your comic book, now. That’s your dream. You’ve realized it.”
“Toni . . .” He didn’t know what to say, exactly. He supposed she was right, in a way. Music wasn’t the passion of his life: cartooning was. Playing in rock bands was something he’d gotten into in junior high, for the hell of it. He’d only gotten back into music a few years ago, when his efforts to make it in the comics weren’t paying off.
But now he had Space Pirates—a monthly comic book of his own. He wrote it and drew it. Penciled, inked, lettered it. It was a small-press book, for the so-called direct-sales market—which meant his book didn’t get on newsstands, rather went only to the specialty shops catering to the hard-core comic-book fans—and what it was bringing in would, at first anyway, only amount to around eighteen grand a year. Which meant he needed another source of income, and playing in a band with Toni, weekends, could provide that.
“We made a deal, you and I,” Toni said. “We said we’d try to make it together. Really make it. But I don’t think you’re willing, anymore. I think you want to stay in one place and play weekends. You’re holding me back, Jon. You aren’t ready to go back on the road full-time. You can’t, and draw your comic book.”
“Damnit, I tried,” he said, meaning he’d tried to make it in rock with her. “What about the goddamn record?”
With their previous band, the Nodes—which had gone through several incarnations—they had put together an album of original material, thirteen songs written by Jon and/or Toni. This was about a year ago, before Space Pirates, before the Nodes broke up, when they were playing a circuit throughout the Midwest and South, driving a hundred thousand miles or so a year. Like a lot of bands, they had put the album out themselves, when none of the major record companies responded to their tape; and had sold the album at their various performances. Midnight Records in New York, a record store that specialized in offbeat small-label product, had even distributed it to other specialty record shops, and overseas. It had gotten some airplay, on college stations primarily, across the country.
But nothing substantial had come of it, and the frustration of that had led to the group disbanding. Toni and Jon had been putting the pieces back together, these last six months, during which time Jon had placed Space Pirates with a small publisher and was spending more and more time at his drawing board and less and less at his synthesizer keyboard.
“I financed that fucking album,” Jon said, pointing to himself, as if there were some confusion as to who he was talking about.
“I know you did,” she said.
The money he’d spent came from that last job with Nolan; money didn’t come harder earned than that.
“You got some major exposure because of me, Toni. You got some very nice reviews—that guy in The Village Voice said you were ‘distinctive and powerful.’”
She smiled at that; a sad smile. “The exact words of the review,” she said. “You remembered.”
“Yeah. I remember what he said about my songwriting, too, but let’s not get into that.”
Below them the record store’s stereo was booming; they were open Sundays. Springsteen.
“Springsteen,” Jon said.
“Springsteen,” Toni smiled.
“I hate Springsteen,” Jon said.
“What?”
“I never told you before. Kept it to myself.”
“You don’t like the Boss?”
“Never have. New Jersey and cars and off-pitch singing. Who needs it? I know it’s like hating motherhood and apple pie, but there it is.”
“Goddamn,” she said. “Even your musical taste is bad.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” he said. “You’re my favorite female singer.”
“Shut up, Jon,” she said. Sad.
The floor beneath their feet pulsed with Springsteen.
“Tell me about the gig,” he said.
She shrugged. “You weren’t so far wrong. It does have to do with Prince.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Another shrug. “It’s his management company. They heard our record. They like my singing. They came looking for me, tracked me down.”
“I didn’t see any short black guys in purple capes hanging around.”
“Jon, short jokes don’t become you.”
“Hey, Prince is all right with me. I like anybody I can look down to. So. It’s the big time.”
She smiled, nervously. “I don’t know about that. They’re putting me with a band. We’ll be doing some traveling. It’s kind of like playing the minors when they’re grooming you for the majors. Maybe something will come of it.”
He patted her knee. “I’m sure something will. Why were you mad at me, when I came in? Why didn’t you tell me, instead of just starting to pack?”
“You know how I’ve felt about the new band . . .”
“Sure. I’ve heard the ‘you’re holding me back, J
on’ speech a few hundred times. But I still don’t understand why you were mad at me. I’m the one who should be pissed; I’m the one getting walked out on.”
“But you’re the one who caused it! Jon, you betrayed me.”
“Betrayed . . .”
She shook her head; the spiky dark hair shimmered. “Ah, hell, that’s too strong a word, but we were supposed to be in this together. It’s your fault we got stalled in Des Moines. It’s your fault a comic book seduced you away from me and music, and your fault that I have to take off without you. Shit, if I thought you wanted it, I would’ve fought to take you with me . . .”
“They didn’t want me, did they?”
She swallowed. “Jon, I figured you wouldn’t want to come along, anyway. You couldn’t do it without giving up your comic book, and . . .”
“You’re right. I like doing what I’m doing. Besides, I know it’s you they want. Just you. And I don’t blame ’em. I read the reviews of the album. As a performer/songwriter, I make a great cartoonist.”
“I . . . I handled this all wrong.”
“There’s no easy way. This place won’t seem the same without you.”
“Jon, uh—you forget. This is my apartment.”
“Yeah?”
“And I rented it from Rick, downstairs, right?” Rick was who Toni worked for in the record store, the manager, the owner of the building.
“Right.”
“And you remember when you and Rick got in that argument?”
“You mean, when we got drunk that time and I told him he liked funk because of ‘liberal guilt’ and he belted me and I belted him back and chipped his tooth? Yeah. I remember that.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand when I tell you that when I told Rick I was leaving, he refused to turn the lease over to you.”
“What?”
“He really hates you.”
“You could’ve sublet to me!”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“Great. How long do I have to get out?”
“Monday.”
“What Monday?”
She winced. “Tomorrow.”
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