Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Ferret got out of the car, and before he had shut the door again, Gene Handy was back in his face.

  “You went behind my back? You went to Pancrazy even though I told you not to? You piece of shit! You’re either a goddamned traitor or too stupid to be a goddamned traitor. Which is it? Pick one. Pick one.”

  Spittle. Ferret blinked and held his breath. Gene Handy smelled like lemon-lime and sweat and blood.

  “I didn’t do jack shit! They came to me. They took care of my Baptist problem and then told me I was in.”

  “Is that right? Is that what happened?”

  “Get off me!” Ferret turned and bumped his shoulder on Handy’s chest, had to do it again to push the man back before he stomped around to the rear of the car. He wiped the spittle off his face with his shirt. He took a few deep breaths. It never even occurred to him that Handy hadn’t played a part in getting Ferret on board. How would Pancrazy even know? Who had been listening in?

  Ferret looked at Gene Handy, who had his arms crossed and was staring at Ferret like he was fucking prey. He was already dead and didn’t know it.

  “I’m sorry, okay? Goddamn, man, I’m sorry. I thought you told them. How the hell else would they have known?”

  “I told you not to say that shit so loud. Pancrazy’s got a lot of ears on the site.” Handy shook his head. “I told you, I swear, I told you.”

  “What’s the big deal? I’m driving a car. I do that for him once or twice a month, and I get my family out of this mudhole and get them some place where the tap water doesn’t catch on fire.”

  “It’s not that easy to get out once you’re in. You know too much.”

  “I’m not important. Once I’m gone, some new guy takes my place, looks even more legit. Just some guys out driving.”

  “You never know who’s watching.”

  “Jesus.” Ferret looked out past the darkness where he saw an airplane’s lights, a cell tower light, and a hint of moon through the clouds. For once, he actually felt cold up here. It was like being on the moon. “Why are you treating me like some kid?”

  “What are you, anyway, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Gene Handy shrugged. “Young enough.”

  “Why can you can do this, make easy money, but I’m too pure a soul? Is this some sort of Wonderful Life shit? You save me from myself?”

  Gene Handy leaned against the car again and hung his head, sucking in air like he’d just run a marathon. He got a deep enough breathe to say, “Guys like me, we’re going to do what we have to do. If I had a family? If I had a place to live? I wouldn’t go anywhere near guys like that. But some of us ain’t lucky like you, so guys like that find guys like me and that’s how it works. Guys like you...You’ve got to trust me. Let me take the car the rest of the way. I’ll talk to Pancrazy.”

  “I’ve got to get paid for this. It’s mine.”

  “It’s just money.”

  “It’s rent.”

  The first headlights they’d seen in a while, distant. Coming from the south.

  Gene Handy said, “I’ll make Pancrazy pay me, and I’ll give it to you. How’s that? Just keep out of it like I already told you and maybe they’ll let this slide.”

  “Thought you said it wasn’t that easy.”

  “I’m saying I’ll try, alright?”

  Ferret wasn’t going to let him drive the car. He’d already seen what could happen if the Russells wanted a tight hold on your nads. He wanted to stay on their good side. He needed someone like those two if another asshat like Ramsey came along.

  The car was closing in. Ferret’s paranoia was lighting up. If Handy found him on the road so quickly, who else was out there watching? Maybe Pancrazy already knew about this. So Ferret stepped back over to the car, put his hand on Gene Handy’s shoulder and eased him out of the way, then opened the door and plopped down in the seat, one foot on the gas and the other on the ground outside. Just as he did, the car passed them. A blur at first, but then the image made it to Ferret’s brain and started to make sense. It was some sort of cop car, not one he recognized—MHA Nation? Reservation cops? By the time Ferret made the connection, it was a hundred feet past them, brakelights suddenly blaring, and the squad car spun around, tires squealing, just as the flashers went on. The siren stabbed them a couple times in the ear. It pulled onto the shoulder ahead of them, backwards, headlights drowning out everything.

  The cop left his motor running, called out over the speaker, “Driver, step out of the car, both hands above your head. Both of you, hands over your heads. Step in front of the car.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Fuck,” Ferret said. “Now look.”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  “This is your fault. Goddamn it.”

  Bye-bye trailer. Bye-bye savings account. Bye-bye Dee Dee. Bye-bye freedom. Bye-bye life.

  “If you’d had let me keep going—”

  “I said keep your mouth shut.”

  Fuck.

  “Driver, take three steps to your right. Turn around. Now, follow the sound of my voice until I tell you to stop...”

  Ferret did as he was told. He couldn’t stop shaking. He had never really been fucked around with by cops before, yet alone fucking Indian cops. Like, he was a Southern boy who liked to drink and drive his truck, but they all did that in Alabama, even the cops on their off time, and sometimes there were fights after gigs, and sometimes he sped. But, Jesus. This. This fucking car full of. Full of. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The cop led him to his knees and searched him. He was clean, obviously. Like he would carry a gun or a knife or dope or anything. Like really. “Sir, listen, sir, were we doing anything wrong?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t say anything yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You understand ‘shut the fuck up’? You know what that means?”

  Clink. Ratcheting until the metal bit the skin on his wrist. The cop brought Ferret’s arm down. Felt like he was trying to pop it out of socket. Then the other hand. Then another clink and ratcheting and another nip at his skin.

  The cop said, “Stay put. Don’t move. I’m telling you. If you fall face first, I’ll shoot you in the back. Got it?”

  Ferret nodded.

  “I said, do you got it?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes sir.”

  “I said shut the fuck up.”

  He stepped past Ferret into the headlights. He was about the same age as Ferret, and trim and fit and thought he could take on all comers. Hadn’t even called for back-up, not even when dealing with a guy like Gene Handy. Dark hair, longer than what you see on most cops.

  The cop went through the same routine with Gene Handy, who complied as nice as he could. A swell guy. “Yessir” this and “Nosir” that. Even when it would’ve taken one quick grab to render the cop limp like a chew-toy, Gene Handy let himself be handcuffed. But while the trooper was clinking on the second bracelet, Handy turned and mumbled something into his ear. Ferret didn’t catch it. The cop said, “What?”

  Gene Handy mumbled a little louder, but still not loud enough for Ferret. This time, the trooper said, “Bullshit.”

  Handy said, “I done told you, motherfucker.”

  A hiss. “No, you said tonight.”

  “Jesus, man.”

  Ferret closed his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They were going to jail. They were both going to jail and they were going to get tazed and beat the fuck up and all sorts of bad shit.

  The cop said, “Getting tired of this shit.” He stood, both hands on his belt. His pistol was right there. His Taser was right there. His pepper spray. God knew what else they carried. Some Batman-type tricks. He took a few steps back from Gene Handy. “Wait your turn.”

  The cop walked backwards around his car. Ferret turned his head, lifted it up so he could see Handy over the front of the squad. “The fuck was that?”

  Handy gave him a quick glance and a head-shake.r />
  Ferret’s muscles, straining, rebelling. His skin, sweating, itching. His balance was shaky, and he kept teetering. His teeth started chattering. He was thinking about Dee Dee and the kids and how this shit hadn’t just fucked his own but all their lives. Divorce, obviously. He would never see Violet again. Not even Bean, that fucking little dog.

  Was there anything they could do to get out of this? Could he, like, kill the cop if he had to? God, no, why did he even think that? No, that wasn’t him. Handy, maybe, but from the looks of things, Handy wasn’t planning on it either.

  What did he tell that cop? Did he have a “Get Out of Jail Free” card? Ferret guessed he didn’t have one for both of them. How long did he have to kneel here like this? It was pitch black, nearly full-grown fields he couldn’t see right now, only a few feet to the side of him. Was it worth making a break for it? Seriously. Just one tribal cop, probably didn’t even have jurisdiction here. Just this once—

  The cop was right behind him again. Ferret tried to look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t without nearly falling over. The cop leaned down, his aftershave whooshing past Ferret’s face, some serious menthol, and made him cough. The cop grabbed the chain holding the cuffs, jerked Ferret’s arms. He unlocked the first cuff, then the second. Ferret was free and he lurched forward, getting his hands in front of him in time to keep from smashing his nose into the dust.

  “Get up,” the trooper said. “Come on.”

  Then he released Gene Handy, who was much better balanced. After the cuffs came off he lifted one knee, pushed himself up, and turned to the Indian. They didn’t say a word to each other, but there was some sort of understanding between them. The cop shrugged.

  Handy said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Just get back on the road. Don’t fuck around.”

  “I said don’t worry about it.”

  The cop got back into his squad car while Ferret climbed upright and brushed the dust off. He leaned against the front bumper of the Saturn. The cop reversed fast and loud and sent the dust everywhere. He did a J-turn back onto the highway and took off, gaining speed all the time until his taillights were gone in the dark.

  Ferret could barely look at Gene Handy, who had stepped back over to his bike, picked it up and straddled it.

  “What did you tell that cop?”

  “That I was a werewolf.”

  “Seriously. I thought we were...goddamn.”

  Handy walked his bike back a few paces. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “How the hell am I supposed—”

  “He was on the payroll, alright? Pancrazy’s not stupid. He’s got it taken care of.”

  “All of them? All the cops in the whole state?”

  Sigh. “No, not all the cops in the whole state, idiot. Just the ones any of us might run into. We got lucky.”

  Ferret was going to ask more but Gene Handy revved up the dirtbike, that piece of shit, and shouted back at Ferret, “Hey, it’s your load, right? Take it the rest of the way. Do what you’ve got to do.”

  And like that he was as gone as the cop.

  Ferret made his way back to the driver’s seat. He slammed the door, hit the auto-locks. He turned off the headlights. No lights except for the dash and the stereo. Fine with Ferret. He sat there like that a good half-hour. Didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t cuss. He waited until the hot lava in his gut settled down, then he cranked the car again, lights on the yellow lines, and drove himself to Williston.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pancrazio was having a bad day at work. A bad, bad, day. Losing three guys to two different accidents—hospital, not the morgue—meant fucking paperwork. It also meant losing whatever progress they had made that day. It also meant word getting around that there were three spots open on the derrick and all the desperate guys living in cars would start showing up, begging, spinning sad stories about hungry babies and wives left behind and on and on and, and—

  Telling them: Hey, if you’re so desperate, where’d you get the money for the crank I sold you last night? That meant you can’t pass a drug test. That meant no...unless.

  An understanding: Off the books? Okay. Substitute piss? Okay. Pancrazio gets a cut of your pay? You don’t like it, but okay.

  Desperation. That was some powerful shit.

  Three car loads so far. Ferret had taken two, Good Russell one, but the prick got pulled over in Bismarck. Eighty in a fifty-five. Lucky it was the cash car, not the dope car. Jesus. Pancrazio had been leery of Ferret at first, but he turned out to be exactly right—ordinary guy, no ambitions besides giving his family a solid middle-class life. That was who he needed in the driver’s seat, not a goddamned daredevil. This wasn’t a movie.

  Three worms down. That wasn’t a movie, either.

  Hot wind helped tip an already off balance truck. Driver was busy checking a couple of connections. Pipes rolled off, crushed his leg. A wire gouged his eye.

  Two other guys, dicking around while on a fishing trip—having to trip pipe to find out what sort of tools the idiots dropped down there without telling anyone—ended up cracking the pipe and getting badly cut. The other guy fell and broke some ribs, fucked up an ankle. So goddamned unprofessional. Pancrazio had barely known jack shit about all this when he signed on, and now he was the driller. Most of these worms didn’t have one lick of sense in three of their heads combined. Stupid mistakes, over and over again. They just never learned.

  It was time to move Ferret and Gene Handy up the ladder a step. Make Handy the Derrickman, his number two. That was what Good Russell had been, but Pancrazio was sick of the accidents, sick of the slacking, and he needed Good Russell for the new business anyway. Ferret, he’d bump him to Motorman, since he’d quickly become a half-decent mechanic. The men would listen to Ferret with Gene Handy backing him up. And the best part—it would keep the kid out of danger so he could make more drives.

  Pancrazio put it all together in his mind while listening to the injured truck driver scream as some other guys in the crew carried him on a board barely strong enough to hold him. It was sagging in the middle, constant up and down, jostling the driver’s leg, until they got to the bed of a filthy Ford pick-up and slid him in. Off to the hospital. Once it was gone and the screaming faded, Pancrazio went back into his office and washed his hands, dried them, then sat down and called Slow Bear.

  The cop answered, “I’m busy.”

  “So I woke you up, then.”

  “Man—”

  “Are they still watching us?” The Sons of Silence had left some soldiers behind to keep an eye out. Slow Bear had them all in his sights.

  “A couple still here, but four left last night. I think they’re starting to trust you.”

  “And they still don’t know about you?”

  “Why you got to insult me like that?”

  “Does everything have to be a fight?”

  “Of course they don’t fucking know about me. Why do you think both of us are still walking around on two legs?”

  Pancrazio closed his eyes and palmed his forehead. Squeezed his clean fingertips across the sweat and grease. “Just...you know.”

  “So why are you even checking? I told you, when they’re all gone.”

  “Shit. You could’ve told me four left.”

  “That wasn’t all of them. You said—”

  “I know what I said.”

  “Good. I said I’m busy.”

  Slow Bear hung up.

  Pancrazio didn’t move right away. Kept his eyes closed and the phone up to his ear. Fucking...fucking...

  It wasn’t even worth calling the redskin motherfucker all sorts of names. Soon as he was in the clear with the Sons, he needed to get the Russells on Slow Bear, get rid of his ass and good.

  Why was he worried anyway? He had found his way back in the game. After Bosnia, after Jersey, this was it. Back on top. But he couldn’t scratch his itch. It buzzed on his skin the whole time. This would never be the same as Bosnia. Somebody somewhere was wat
ching him. Waiting for him to fuck up again. Waiting for him to fail.

  It was never about drugs. It was never about money. It was never about power. It was about freedom. He would have thought Americans more than anyone else would understand, but they were idiots. They never looked up to see the wires that connected them to the master puppeteers, the ones that told them how free they were while jerking them about. No, they were content to let themselves believe they were free because, hey, look, the Internet.

  If they only knew. It had been so long now...

  Pancrazio needed pussy that night. He’d been in a dry spell, too much other shit on his mind. He needed pussy. He needed to find it somewhere other than his usual hunting grounds, his usual prey. He threw the phone across the room and bit his lip until it bled. Then he sucked the blood until his whole mouth felt like it was full of pennies.

  *

  He woke up the next morning with an axe wound between his eyes, it felt like, with the smell of burnt bacon thick in the air. He was on the verge of spewing last night’s intake onto the floor. He was alone, but he rolled onto his stomach and saw the bitch’s clothes still there, what few there were—skimpy shorts, skimpy tank-top, flip-flops. That was all.

  Loud noise coming from the other room. Was it rap? Hip hop bullshit?

  He burped but it hurt and he felt the surge and scrambled off the bed, onto the floor, and crawled to the bathroom. Face first over the toilet. He let it go. Burning, boiling, sour. It splashed back onto his eyes, his cheeks, his chin. Coming out his nose, too. He sucked in air, sounded like a moose dying. And in between the hot streams and ragged breaths, he heard laughing. Fucking laughing. Turned his head. She was leaning in from the side, her hair pulled back tight. Fresh-faced, no make-up, kind of plain jane, but her tits. There they were, small and tight and right there. And, wow, this one was young. How the hell did that happen?

  She looked at the mess while still laughing, but twisted her lips. “I know, I know, I’m so sorry. You just take your time.”