Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Yeah, bring it on.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Pancrazy told him, “Halloween.”

  “Jesus,” Ferret said. “My girl, man.”

  “So?”

  “I want to take her trick or treat. Why not the day before?”

  Pancrazy looked at him as if he was a punk teenager in the principal’s office. “Are you fucking with me? You want a run, this is the run. This is the only one I’ve got right now.”

  Ferret stared at Pancrazio’s desk, a little space heater on top blowing at the driller full blast. Unnecessary. There was another heater on top of the file cabinet. Like a sauna. Ferret wasn’t a fan of the cold either, but fuck.

  It had been a few weeks since Ferret had been out to the RV, and he’d done one supply run as scheduled, but here was what he was asking for, on a silver platter and tied with a ribbon, except with a little piece of crap on top.

  “My wife is going to be pissed.”

  Pancrazy looked more tired than he had before, but he was still a son of a bitch. He huffed at Ferret and said, “You just said what to me?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your wife? She followed you from goddamned hicktown to goddamned shantytown for the money, and you think she’s going to be pissed?”

  “No, I mean. I’ll do it. I’m sorry. I’ll do it.”

  “Are you afraid if she takes your little girl on her own, dressed up like slutty teacher or whatever, like a cat or something, she’ll find someone else to fuck that night while you’re making bank?”

  “I never said. I never. I said I’m sorry I said it, alright? We’ll make do.”

  But he was on it now. “Set your kid down with their plastic masks, suffocating, on the living room floor with big bags of candy while she says, ‘Me and my friend will be in the bedroom a while.’ Right? Some other roughneck. Some Mexican hunk like on the soap operas.”

  Ferret pushed his chair back and stood, leaned over the desk. “Why are you doing this?” What did I do?”

  Pancrazy got up, too. Slapped Ferret’s cheek raw. “You come to me, like, ‘Oh, my wife, my wiiiife.’ Grow a dick, kid. You want the run or you don’t want the run. You want to keep doing this, you do it when I tell you to do it. That’s all there is. That’s the bottom line.”

  Ferret’s cheek stung. It pulsed along with his heart.

  “I want it.”

  Pancrazy let out a strong breath. Smelled like gravy. “Okay then.”

  Ferret went back to work.

  *

  They gave him an F-150 for the trip home to Williston, a big one, and Ferret felt weird up in it. He’d driven plenty of big trucks, but he was thinking this thing was three times as big as the cars he had been driving back, so maybe there was three times the dope packed into it, too. Did Pancrazy have any room left in his RV for the profits?

  Worse thought: was the business getting bigger, or did this mean there would be fewer runs? Was Pancrazy edging him out?

  He got it now. He knew why Pancrazy had been falling apart. All the pressure, all the paranoia, yeah, made perfect sense. Ferret kept flicking his eyes around the cab as he drove, trying to do the math in his head, but he was really just making up numbers. He didn’t know how much this shit cost. Maybe he should start counting in years, then, like years in jail.

  Why would anything different happen this run? He turned on the cruise control and drove like any normal person would—enough over the speed limit to get somewhere faster without a cop noticing.

  Good thing Dee Dee’s school had a Halloween carnival that most of the kids showed up to rather than trick-or-treating. Didn’t make her any less pissy about it.

  “Baby, the money.” He hadn’t told her how much he was really getting for each drive, but close enough. If she knew for real, she’d tell her parents and they’d be all up in his business.

  She shook her head. Violet was right there singing along to something on Nickelodeon. So he sighed and shrugged and walked past Dee Dee into the kitchen. She was right behind him.

  “Her first Halloween here? You can’t drive the night before?”

  “Sweetie, I asked. Don’t you think I asked?”

  “Why is it so important? Why can’t someone else do it? Can’t you make a new guy—”

  “But, listen, the money!” Almost a hiss. Bobbing his head trying to avoid her stare. “Think about it.”

  She dropped her face into her hand. “Oh, God, I’m so tired of thinking about money. As long as we’re together. I don’t care, I don’t care, I want us to be together. And now we are, and and and...it’s only money.”

  “Dee.”

  “No, really. Do it if you have to, but after that, stop thinking about money for a while. Tell them I need your help. Tell them it’s too hard.”

  Ferret nodded. “M’kay, m’kay.”

  Later they had all gone out to Walmart and found costumes. He could at least say he had a hand in that. Violet liked princesses and that was that. Especially Disney princesses. She liked the redhead from Brave this year, and they just so happened to have that one with the creepy molded mask. Dee Dee found some make-up and a fluffy hat. With a mop-head and some red hairspray, she could become Raggedy Ann for the night.

  He was smiling about that on the drive back. Couldn’t wait to hear how the carnival had gone, and how Violet would pout because after seeing the other girls’ costumes she would say she picked the wrong one and it was all Mommy’s fault. Mommy made her wear the Brave girl but she wanted to be the Frozen girl. Every year, same thing.

  When the headlights flashed behind him, he thought he might have accidentally clicked off the cruise and slowed down. No problem. But then the lights kept flashing and then there was a short stab of siren, once, twice. Jesus. He’d gotten careless. So tired. His neck was killing him, and now this?

  Maybe he had swerved, slowed down. Might have made him look drunk. So all he had to do was tell the cop he was fine, dead sober, but had fumbled with his CD player or something. No, wait, he was listening to AM. Didn’t have a CD in the truck. Shit, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even listened to a CD. Even held one in his hand.

  Not a CD then. So, what? Cell phone? Big no-no. Dr. Pepper? That could be it. He was trying to put his Dr. Pepper back into the cup holder, but it wouldn’t fit right.

  He hadn’t pulled over yet. Shit. They probably saw him looking around in the cab acting all suspicious like. It was the Interstate, it was getting past sundown, and there weren’t very many cars around. He thought this sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. The cops were on the payroll. So, what was this?

  He stopped and put the truck in park, dug his wallet out of his back pocket. In his sideview was the cop’s roving spotlight, trying to find the sweet spot on his sideview to blind him. Like the evil wizard eye in Lord of the Rings. It finally found the mark and Ferret had to squint and shield his eyes like it was high noon summer at the beach.

  Then the monotone instructions over the loudspeaker. Couldn’t bother to get out and walk up like the cops did back in the day. At least it wasn’t I-10 in Alabama, where at least thirty, forty people he knew might’ve passed by.

  “Out of the car. Hands where I can see them.”

  By the time the cops got to the part after they had walked him back and put him on his knees, Ferret was relieved. The tension released. He took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Exhaust fumes. One of the squad car’s doors opened, someone got out, walked up behind Ferret.

  “Are you going to tell me why you stopped me? I was putting my Dr. Pepper in the cup holder, that’s all. I slowed down a bit.”

  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. The cop had leaned over and said to him, “I know, Finn. I know.”

  That was no cop.

  That was Gene Handy.

  *

  The cop in the driver’s seat and Gene Handy followed Ferret into Bismarck, where they pulled off the interstate and stopped at Arby’s. That cop, he was familiar. Took him a moment.
Same rez cop who had stopped him and Gene Handy during his first run. Jesus. If he hadn’t already felt sick enough...

  They went inside and ordered. Gene Handy got a giant roast beef, but Ferret’s stomach was roiling. He was confused. None of it was making sense and Gene Handy wasn’t talking.

  The cop sat in the booth, crowded Ferret over. He offered his fries while he shoved nearly half the sandwich into his mouth. Ferret shook his head, sipped his coffee. Might as well have been whisky the way it burned going down, even filled with half-and-half and sugar. Ferret thought about Dee Dee, still at the carnival in her frumpy costume. The school had planned to do trick or treating from classroom to classroom. He had looked forward to sifting through Violet’s candy, eating some Sweet Tarts. But only if he got home before nine, her bedtime tonight. He had promised her they would watch Sean of the Dead together. It would be her first real horror movie. Dee Dee had said it was okay.

  “Is this a social visit? I mean, I’d like to get back to my wife and kids before—”

  “Won’t take long.” Gene Handy’s mouth was kinda full. Big swig of Sprite, big swallow. He pointed at the cop and Ferret. “You two haven’t officially met.”

  “Listen. If this is a sting, listen.” Ferret was panicking. He looked around. Not too many people in there, anyway. A family of five, infant in the mother’s lap, playing with ketchup packets. Three teenage boys laughing and shushing, too tame to start any real trouble. Nerds. One old guy already finished with his food, now staring at his tray. “I’ve been to his place. He’s keeping all the cash out in the open. Just sitting around his place, man. You don’t have to worry about me. Take my truck. It’s stuffed to the gills with dope. Seriously, you know, it, I know it. Leave me out of this and let me get back home. You take down Pancrazy and the Russells and give me a break. Friends, right?”

  “Calm down.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  The cop shoved his shoulder against Ferret, made him stop talking. “Listen, we get it. Now we’re telling you.”

  Gene Handy nodded at the Indian. “This is Slow Bear. He’s a cop from the Fort.”

  That made more sense. Ferret had heard a rumor about a rez cop who knew Pancrazy, exchanged favors every now and then. Lone wolf sort of guy. But this with Gene Handy, with that first traffic stop, getting let go, all that. Coincidence?

  Slow Bear nodded at Ferret. “Hey.”

  Ferret looked back and forth between the two and then said, “Did I do something wrong? I mean, is everything alright?”

  “Far as I know. Slow Bear, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “See? Slow Bear doesn’t even know.” Gene Handy grinned. He didn’t grin a lot.

  The whole thing was starting to squeeze Ferret’s heart a little. It hurt to breathe. All he had done was ask for an extra run. “Jesus.”

  “Leave him out of it. Sure you don’t want something to eat?” Slow Bear pointed at his fries again.

  “I’ve got to use the bathroom.”

  “No.”

  What could they do to him here? He thought about climbing over into the booth behind them to go take a piss. But the cop’s radio squawked. Yeah, this guy, the one with the gun and cuffs and pepper spray and tazer. There was plenty they could do to him here.

  Slow Bear took a fry. “He’s getting nervous, man. Thinks we’re going to make him disappear. Get on with it already.”

  Gene Handy sighed and reached into his back pocket. “Listen, Finn, here it is.” He pulled out his wallet, pulled a folded sheet of paper from it. It was nearly falling apart, a couple of places held together with clear tape. He unfolded it as he spoke. “Officer Slow Bear here can arrest you if he wanted to. You would say he was off the rez when he did so, but it’s your word against his, and that truck full of meth out there is his trump card. So you and I should talk this through with Officer Slow Bear.”

  Gene Handy finished unfolding the paper, a small poster. It was in another language full of pips and slashes and letters that didn’t look right together. He didn’t understand a word of it, but he knew exactly what it was. The same as you see in post offices all over the country. It was a wanted poster. And that was sure enough Pancrazio’s photo right in the middle of it.

  Ferret’s bone felt like jelly. He went limp against the wall and covered his face for a long time. His eyes were watering, but not like tears as much as...as something else. His hands slid onto the table.

  “Okay, Finn?”

  He didn’t want to open his eyes. And when he did, the lights were too bright and he had to blink a bunch until they eased up. He told Gene Handy, “I thought we were friends.”

  “More than you know.”

  “Shit, yeah, more than I know. My ass, man. I thought we were friends, and look at this shit.” He pushed the poster back at Gene Handy. “What the fuck does that even mean? I don’t even know if it’s real.”

  “I’ve got the English ones back in my truck, but this, it’s more shocking, isn’t it?”

  “What did he do?”

  “War crimes. This is from Croatia, bud. He’s a motherfucking war criminal.” Gene Handy ate the last nubs of his fries. “I told you not to get involved.”

  Ferret smacked his mouth. Acid. “You sure did.”

  “But you didn’t listen.”

  “Goddamn it. I want a lawyer.”

  Slow Bear laughed at that, said, “I want a jamocha shake. Get him on board before I get back.” He stood and walked around to the counter.

  Ferret said again, “I want a lawyer.”

  “Fine. Get you one later.”

  “Right now. I get a phone call.” He pulled out his phone.

  Gene Handy plucked it from his hand. “Not yet.”

  “You’re violating my rights.” A little bit louder. “He’s violating my rights!”

  It got a few looks from the others, but corner-of-the-eye things. Slow Bear stopped, doubled back, and said to Ferret, low and easy, “Is everything all right, sir? Would you like to be Mirandized? Then your rights will be clear to you.”

  Always so calm. Cops had that way when they wanted to be. Deliver bad news like they were reading it off a soup can.

  Ferret shook his head. “Sorry. I’m good.”

  Slow Bear winked at him, then walked to the register, ignoring more squawks from his radio. How did they do that? How’d they know when to pay attention and when not to?

  Gene Handy said, “Alright, let’s get to it. Pancrazio is not some Jersey mob guy on the skids. It’s a good accent, but he picked it up watching Sopranos. And when he was younger, he was able to attend college here. He went to Missoula, Montana, lived there for the whole four years. You can pick up a lot of English from college kids. That dead flat way of talking, you know what I mean. Anyway, dude is a fucking butcher who speaks perfect English.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Fuck right, Jesus. Worse. He’s a bad guy. A real bad guy.”

  “How bad?”

  Gene Handy looked side to side, caught Slow Bear’s eye and waved him back over. “He was a badass Serb in Bosnia. Remember Bosnia, anything about it?”

  “A little.”

  Slow Bear sat down again. He carried a shake and a little fry box full of cheesecake bites. “These are good.”

  Gene Handy said, “So, Bosnia. These guys, the Serbs, they hated the Muslims. Bosnia had a lot of Muslims. And Yugoslavia broke up. Everyone wanted a piece. So when the war started, the Serbs burned the shit out of everything. They went hardcore after the civilians, man. I mean, killed the men, the boys, or threw them into camps, tortured them. And, fuck, they raped the women, the girls, all Muslims, right. Just...it was bad.”

  “Gen-o-cide.” Slow Bear popped another cheesecake bite. “I can sympathize, man.”

  “Shut up. Let me tell it.”

  “Just saying.” To Ferret. “That’s not the good part yet. Here comes the good part.”

  Gene Handy kep
t on, “So the UN went in, Clinton got in there, and some ass got whooped. But still, the Serbs, what they did they called ‘ethnic cleansing’—”

  “Like the Germans with the Jews?”

  “Something like that. Killed as many as they could. Raped as many as they could.”

  “Man.”

  Slow Bear said, “Imagine this big ol’ Serb. Big ol’ Serb.” Slow Bear. “Like a colonel. I mean, not officially. This was paramilitary. Like, he just called himself a colonel.”

  Gene Handy nodded. He let the Indian keep on.

  “Guy’s name was Blagoje. He was one of those who saw the end was nigh and skipped town. Skipped the country. Pretended to be someone else and ended up making his way south, caught a plane, and—” Slow Bear skipped his hands together, slid them wide apart. “Gone.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Gene Handy said, “There was a lot of confusion, a lot we didn’t know. He used to own a restaurant, was supposedly really good. The man knew how to cook a goat. And then the war, and he got vocal about the state of things, and before you knew it, he had a following, and they’re out fucking with the Muslims. Harassment turns into rape. Rape turns into murder. By then he’s calling himself a colonel. And do you know when we found out about him?”

  Slow Bear said, “This is the good part.”

  “A year later. It took some of his victims all telling similar stories for the UN to finally piece it together. And by then he was a ghost.”

  Ferret was holding himself up by his elbow propped on the table, palm mushing his forehead. He didn’t look at Gene Handy or Slow Bear. He stared at his coffee cup and the big cowboy hat and the Arby’s logo.

  “It took a long time to find his trail. But, this guy, wow.”

  Slow Bear said, “This is the really good part.”

  “So he killed a shitload of Muslims. Men, women, children, they were just target practice. But he had kept souvenirs. Jewelry, panties, hearing aids, wallets. Lots of wallets. Looking through these wallets, he realized he looked a lot like some of the men he’d killed. Not exactly like them, but close enough. He kept one in his back pocket, an escape plan. And goddamn if it didn’t work. Blended in with the refugees, got on a plane.”