The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6)

by Clayton Lindemuth

  Inside’s a wicked stink like bodies ain't been washed in a month, oil that's more grit than carbon juice and just plain old nasty ass men. Part of the stink is sweet, but the rest just piss me off. I live in the woods and got better hygiene. Now I got my mind in the right place for shootin’ work, I yank Smith and the grip is still real good on the fingers… but the left fingers is twitchy and I don't know if the right, what's attached a broken arm, exactly want a handful of Smith & Wesson 44 Magnum recoil. Bust the arm all over agin, where’d I be?

  Left it is.

  Keep Smith at the door openin’ but nobody come. Almost like this ain’t a place for regular customers.

  Almost like when anybody comes in the way I did, Frank Lloyd and his earring partner know he ain’t with the program.

  Step back outside. Buzzer go off agin.

  “Yeah?”

  Say nothin’.

  “Shit,” says Frankie Black Boots Lloyd. “Be with you in a minute.”

  I prop the door open with a coffee can of cigarette butts. Rap the outside garage door like I’m the IRS wantin’ ten pounds’ flesh. All I need is jump boots and a bayonet. Once the metal got fresh dents and the chains jingle jangle I scoot back to the buzzer door stuck open with the coffee can and swing into the bay with Smith in charge.

  If I was more limber I’d slap the heel and dosey doe. They ain’t got the garage door open but two feet and I don’t waste time. Right up close is Frank Lloyd and the bony tattoo man — him with a wrench the size of a nightstick — and since I already know I'm gonna kill Frank Lloyd they’s no sense leavin’ him in a condition to fight back.

  So I fire that Smith ’n Wesson 44 Magnum into his right leg and afore he stumble, his left too.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Fire one in his foot for my mother.

  “Fuck! Oh shit. Fuck. You shot me!”

  Other fella — Light Switch — I ain’t shot him yet. He hold the wrench like he played T-ball as a kid and started pitcher.

  “Drop it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Fire one at his ear — I was close. Keep ol’ Smith on him while he dances.

  He drops the wrench and I study Frank. On second thought, I wish I shot Frank Lloyd in the guts, as it’s painful and a man might live a few days. Whereas, if I bust the leg artery he be dead in two minute.

  And me shot him in each leg.

  Frank Lloyd’s on the ground and the blood pool grow quick. He flip from side to back and even while he got nothin’ but cuss words for me his legs got enough motivation he’ll be near any gun what’s handy in no time. So I fire a bullet in his back… and out the three, the legs, stomach and back, I discover I like the back most on account the principal. Like sayin’ to the bad folk, you got no idea when the Destroyer’s a-comin’. That's the message. And now I shot him in the back I wish I could flip him over and reshoot the other three bullets, as when word gets about, how the Destroyer does rotten men in the back, rotten men’ll know fear.

  "Shoulda killed me Frank, when you was robbin’ me with them dumb fuckin’ girls.”

  “Those dumb fuckin’ girls are ace mechanics.”

  “And you shoulda killed me in the laundry after you seen I'd bring the fight right back.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You shoulda seen me comin’."

  “Yeah, well you shoulda been in the car."

  ’Less they’s a bridge in the cosmic fabric and Frank know I thought ’bout rolling the Eldorado through the door, I don't know what to make of him sayin’ I shoulda been in the car. But a soul’ll say anything if he’s half bled out and face to face with the man gonna send him forward.

  Look about the garage then back at the glitterin’ eyebrow fella Smith been starin’ down.

  Kick Frank Lloyd’s foot.

  “Who’s this?”

  "Go to hell."

  Flick the pistol back to Light Switch.

  “Who you?”

  He glance away and I follow the look. Spot a white motorcycle. Half turn the head.

  A white motorcycle.

  Almost dumb tryin’ to assemble the pieces. That's the white motorcycle was in Chicago — I recognize the shape. The fairing and tank and bags. And that means this man's ass was like to be on the seat. And he got a ponytail like the shooter.

  And if the man who try to rob me at the Ryder truck and try to beat me in the laundry attack me a third time, then Mags wasn’t hit by someone aiming at Mags. Them bullets was meant for me.

  Mags is dead on account of me.

  I got this pressure in the head. Rush in the ears.

  Light Switch jumps for Smith and with both hands wrapped about mine and him a little taller he push the barrel back at me and with my stupid assed finger locked by his in the trigger box I’m a half second from blowing my head off.

  Poke out my head and kiss Light Switch on cheek. He turn his face with his brow knit for war and I clamp teeth on his nose and squeeze. His eyeballs piss tears and when he shakes and bucks and screams, I loose his nose and chew earrings off that bony brow like corn off a cob.

  Spit out six.

  This is the murderin’ evil piece of shit shot Mags?

  He give me the space for a good triple knee to the nuts and I oblige. As he slide down my arm and leg I ball the left fist to club his noggin, but he ain’t with it and a sucker punch now, I wouldn’t have the words to square it with the Almighty.

  “Who is he, Frank?”

  Light Switch curls on his side and though his face is hamburger he’s more concerned for his mushed-up nuts.

  “Who is he, Frank?

  “Fuck you.”

  “It was you two on that white bike over there in Chicago. You come for me. Who is he?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t matter, I guess. Boy,” I kick his stomach and he holds my foot. Yank my leg and bury that boot one more time. “Boy — you shot a woman meant somethin’ to me. If I had five years to peel your skin I would but since I don’t, roll over on your stomach.”

  He’s on his side, arms folded at the belly for protection. He’s quiverin’ now and somewhere inside his brain all he learned from school and society and whatever art he soaked up, all that shit’s out the window and the only signal sparkin’ his noggin is fear.

  Love to see him shake.

  “There you go.”

  He don’t roll so I ease him on his belly with my boot a few times.

  “There it is. Stretch out a little more.”

  I fire two forty-four slugs at an angle into Light Switch’s back thinkin’ the ricochet’ll come up through his head, like billiards. But his head settles with no bounce.

  Light Switch is off.

  Reload.

  “You fucking bastard. I’ll murder you.”

  Frank Lloyd’s bled out. His words is weak.

  “That was your boy, right? He got the same chin as you. Easy to see with enough blood.

  “I’ll kill you,” says Frank, “I’ll murder you.”

  “Listen. Your breath’s short on account all the blood spillin’ out your body. That makes words expensive. All I want to hear from you is what Abe Church’s got to do with this?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “He part of the cabal? He write the marchin’ orders?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  I stand over Frank Lloyd’s ass while he bleeds out and sucks in tiny breaths. Musta shot him better’n I thought. If I don’t do nothin’ more, from his sputterin’ and shakin’ I bet Frank’ll greet his maker in under ten minutes.

  “Tell you what, Frank. This is how things work. I know on account the woman you and your boy killed. She taught me the physics of heaven. Anyway, your dead boy’s already floatin’ around the happy land where it’s flowers and love all the time. Sunshine and Karen Carpenter songs. Grew up with a fucker like you, I bet he don’t know what to make of it.”

  Frank Lloyd stares. His shakes is weaker. The blood about his body covers a space two tim
es his size.

  “You’re bleedin’ out, Frank. You’ll join him soon and when you get there, I hope it’s in time to see the Almighty boot your boy’s ass over the side.”

  He’s weak. Almost gone.

  “That ain’t actually how it works. The hell you get it is the one you made. If we had more time, maybe.”

  “You shoulda been in the car.”

  “Well, good talkin’. Guess it’s time for me to push off. Did you know that’s a naval reference?”

  I put a slug in the back of his head.

  Chicago Mags

  “Now we’re getting to why you came to see me,” says Mags.

  “I got a confession.”

  She leans. I lower the voice. Look about. Her eyes sparkle too eager, but I trust her like no one ever afore.

  “I been kinda fucked in the head. Only way to say it. I can’t think. I give up the drink, but I still know I done wrong. All those men I put down; each deserve it better’n most people who die. I know they deserve it.”

  “What do you think is the problem? If they deserved it?”

  “Well like you say. What if they was on the path they was suppose to be on? What if they was someday gonna be better, and I cut that off? Maybe I wasn’t the one suppose to give ’em what was due.”

  She smile like I’m a little boy just peed his first time standing up.

  “I been kinda sidin’ with the dead men,” says I. “I see ’em in my dreams, like they was stapled to trees. They eyes glow and they legs and arms hang. I been seein’ ’em and thinkin’ I stole somethin’ from ’em, and become just like ’em, almost like fightin’ fire with fire just burns everything good too.”

  “Sounds like a breakthrough.”

  “Sound like bullshit and I know better. It’s just a feelin’ I ain’t been able to shake. I done what I done and I’m responsible for it. Nobody pull that trigger but me. And the day comes I’m afore the Almighty and got to explain myself, the words’ll be there. The men I killed needed dead and the whole world’s better off without ’em.”

  “You’re willing to speak for the whole world? For all of humanity?”

  “On that score I sure as hell am.”

  “There is a difference between being the physical cause of an effect and being responsible for the effect. Did you know that?”

  “No and I still don’t. You do it you done it.”

  “Baer, I’ve spoken about free will…. But you don’t have it yet. Not fully. Your decisions have followed a channel because you’ve never learned to reject yourself and all you think you know.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you don’t know where the information came from. Listen to me. If a politician tells you he’s going to spend some money on a program just for people like you, what do you think?”

  “He’s a lyin’ piece a shit oughta be strung up by his nuts and shot in the kneecap first. Maybe add some honey and ants to the equation. Maybe a cattle prod.”

  “Why?”

  “Some dynamite. Fishin’ hooks.”

  She smile.

  “And broken glass.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because he’ll say anything to anybody to get what he wants.”

  “He wants something.”

  “A vote. And he’ll lie to your face to get it, and all the other sonsabitches call him an esteemed colleague ’cause they’s a bunch a rat fuck liars too.”

  “He shapes what he says to get what he wants.”

  “A fuckin’ liar. Exactly.”

  “Would it be fair to say that you distrust everyone?”

  Tilt the head. I’d like to say I’d eat cow feed out her hand but somehow this don’t seem a flirtin’ moment.

  “I distrust everyone. That’s fair. But only ’cause most all I ever met was liars and I knew it.”

  “Okay. Who gave you your first thoughts? Where did they come from, when you were a tiny boy and didn’t even know you were you? Where did all of your ideas come from?”

  “Hell if I know. Ma?”

  “Certainly her, but also from your father, through your genes. And his father, and his father, and his father. They built up thought patterns based on what they wanted for themselves in the world presented before them, and you inherited all those thought patterns. Not the thoughts, but the patterns. The neural connections that function like roads and highways in the brain, for thoughts to travel on. Did you know that?”

  “Uh, nope.”

  “All of those thought patterns are good for one thing only: they are a starting point. Your brain has to have a starting point, but the art of being human is about discovering which of those thoughts you should reject because they aren’t true for you and replacing them with ones that are true for you. You won’t be your own person until you disavow everything about your thought life that has an uncertain provenance. It’s the only way to be certain that you can defend whatever is left.”

  “You’re saying all my thinking ain’t mine? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “I know who you are, Baer, and a little about what you’ve done. I can handle the truth about what you think.”

  “Okay. All my life I been thinkin’ every wakin’ fuckin’ minute. How’s all that not my thinkin’?”

  “Have you ever done anything you knew you shouldn’t do, but you did it anyway? And even while you did it you were thinking it was a bad idea?”

  “All the time.”

  “Those are prime areas to search for inherited beliefs. Something deep within you compelled action, even while your conscious mind was aware the action was… unenlightened.”

  Nod.

  “My question for you is, why are you living someone else’s thought life? You wouldn’t just slip into someone else’s clothes. They wouldn’t smell right. They wouldn’t fit right. They wouldn’t be worn thin in the right places. Stretched in the right places. So why would you wear someone else’s thoughts?”

  …stretched in the right places…

  I sneak a peek at her jugs and feel positively… enlightened.

  “I dunno. Stumped.”

  “You’ve lived in a narrow channel your whole life, with walls formed by beliefs that were appropriate for your ancestors, but not for you. These inherited beliefs do not apply to you, but you try to conform your life to them anyway. Is it any wonder you are confused? Or that we are all confused, sometimes?”

  Raise the hand. Want to reach and touch this woman but I also want to listen. “Expound on that, maybe,” says I.

  “Here’s an example. Throughout your life, there have been certain thoughts that you’ve never entertained about yourself. Have you ever applied the word astronaut to yourself?”

  “I never been one.”

  “But have you ever imagined you were, or could be if you chose? Or has the word always applied to other people?”

  “Other people.”

  “Right. See. Here’s another: Rap music fan.”

  “Nope. Never.”

  “Doctor, Lawyer, Police. All of these words can only in your mind apply to other people, not you. Am I right? You’ve lived deep within the known territory of what is possible because you’ve never conceived of yourself on the margins, cutting new territory. It’s a shame because you have gifts and could be any thing or person you choose.”

  Close the eyes. Been talking too long. Throat’s hoarse and I ain’t the one movin’ most the words.

  “Earlier you said you were surrounded by liars. How did you know?”

  Long breath. Almost wanna get outta here and skip chasin’ the lay. Talkin’ to this woman’s the strangest thing and if I’d a had a drink of likker in the last week I’d say the whole thing was made up, dream, illusion like she say. But this woman’s truth rings like mine, though the words ain’t the same. The feeling behind is dead on the money and if all this is true, I got some decidin’ to do.

  Yet her truth ain’t one hundred percent. It’s maybe ninety-nine, and the one percent she’s mi
ssin’ means the whole deal.

  “I was in a fight in high school. Fella called Ma a whore. Anyhow, I was suspended and walkin’ home with Larry my brother, he called Ma a whore too. I kicked his ass and he try to murder me later, by electrocution. Ever since, I know when people lie. I feel electric and sometimes the liar’s eyes glow red.”

  “Okay. Really? You’re being honest?”

  “Sure as shit.”

  “I’m hungry for potato salad.”

  Red eyes.

  “Lie.”

  She sits back. Studies me. “I drive a Toyota.”

  Red eyes.

  “Lie.”

  “I eat pistachios when I masturbate.”

  Wait.

  Wait.

  “I’d like to see that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lucy from the motel say Abraham Church ain’t really Abraham Church. He got another name, Chester DeChurch, and how he got tangled in all this I don’t know. Part of me almost want to forgive and forget. Or not so much forgive as put Glenwood Springs justice behind me. The girls from the bar with Frank Lloyd, maybe let them off the hook. Lloyd and his son killed Mags, not the girls. And Lloyd’s dead.

  I didn’t cut off his head neither. Another broke promise.

  But this Abraham Church fiasco aggravates the shit outta me.

  Lucy and Herman said he runs a body sellin’ business and was there when Frank Lloyd help me with my laundry. Abe Church was good to me and all, but he held somethin’ back at the hospital room and at the parkin’ lot. If we was lifelong chums maybe I’d owe him, but with Corazon dead and Mags dead I broke out with the fuckits. Like a rash all over I don’t give a fuck about the social lubrication, what the old folks call manners.

  Justice is the bigger principal.

  I’ll force the confrontation and whatever shakes out is what it’s worth.

  Funeral home is two streets back off the 82 in Glenwood, down low on the west side. Outta town a good half mile.

  Drive by with Stinky Joe ridin’ shotgun. He got the window down, grill out huntin’ bugs. Keep drivin’ past; get a sense of the lay lookin’ mostly left, on account I’ll see the right comin’ back. Ahead is a gravel spot aside the road and I swing ’round and like I thought, everythin’ out the window’s different. This time I spot ground broke open for a new building, some commercial job with a big sign out front on account the world demanded an announcement. They got a half acre scraped flat, workin’ two levels to boot.