by Cole Alpaugh
He took a few steps back to allow for a running start, clutched his legal pad so as to not flap and create drag, and twisted from side to side to limber up his back and legs. Billy Wayne eyed the landing, bent his knees and said, “On your mark, get set, go!”
The last step before take-off was more slippery than expected. Instead of taking a graceful leap out and over the narrow canal, Billy Wayne’s feet were suddenly headed skyward. It was like slipping on a banana peel the way people did in cartoons or in old slapstick movies. Billy Wayne entered the warm, salty water head first and was practically pile-driven through the three feet or so of water, deep into the brown muck. Letting go of his prized legal pad, he sank both hands into the slime all the way to his elbows before gaining enough leverage to extricate his head. Despite ears filled with years of decaying flora and fauna, Billy Wayne heard the loud sucking pop as his head was freed from the bottom of the canal. He splashed and flailed to his knees. On all fours, Billy Wayne arched his back to get his chin above the water line and gulped a mouthful of air, gasping for breath.
“You okay, buddy?” a man’s voice called down from somewhere behind him.
“Help,” was all Billy Wayne could manage. He froze, trying not to shift his knees or hands for fear of sinking deeper into the mud and back under the stinking, horrible tasting water.
“Hang on.” Billy Wayne heard the man step into the water, sending a series of miniature waves to break against his raised ass. The man straddled Bill Wayne from behind, reaching under his chest to pull him to a more stable sitting position, and Billy Wayne was grateful to have his face clear of the churning brown water, where he imagined there must be a thousand poisonous snakes.
“Gimme your hand, boss.” Billy Wayne blinked away mud and looked up to see a wrinkled and splattered tan uniform. Not a cop, but some sort of ranger reached out to lock hands with him. The ranger guy had a scruffy, unshaven face, and Billy Wayne was immediately envious of the big gun strapped inside a holster and hanging from his hip. Leaning away, the man pulled Billy Wayne to his feet, then steadied him for the three sloshing steps to dry land. First one then the other shoe was sucked off, claimed by the muck at the bottom of the canal.
Released from the man’s iron-like grip, Billy Wayne struggled with his muddy suit jacket and stood in floppy socks that had been pulled half off.
“Warden Flint.” He reached his muddy hand back out for Billy Wayne to shake. “What were you doin’?”
“I, uh, came down for a walk.” Billy Wayne tried to come up with a reason other than his divine vision, which seemed completely ridiculous at the moment. “I was trying to pick up some trash floating there in the water and I lost my balance.”
The icy suspicion in the warden’s eyes softened a bit.
“Billy Wayne Hooduk.” He took the warden’s hand in a muddy clasp, his composure coming back in uneven little pieces. “I hate to see such a beautiful place all trashed, you know?”
* * *
Flint had an uncanny ability to put a face to a name, and a slightly blurry catalog of faces ran across his vision as if he were flipping through a deck of baseball cards. Despite the thousand liters of cheap Russian vodka he’d consumed over the last couple of decades—and how much a face changed from boyhood to manhood—Clayton Flint knew he’d had some dealing with this pasty, fat little man from the moment he opened his round mouth. The eyes were set too close, the nose was too small in contrast to the chubbiness of the cheeks, and the chin was barely discernable.
Finally, it was the mouth that gave the face a name, or at least told him where he knew it from. The prissy, goldfish-like round mouth was the same as the boy’s mother’s. The little bastard had sulked outside the locked bedroom door, whining for cereal or something, while Flint was pinning his kooky mom to the mattress for one of their half-dozen afternoon romps, back when he ran his commercial pest control business. Sure as shit, standing there before him was that same little turd blossom.
For a moment Flint stood lost in memories of the days when there had been real purpose to his pest control efforts. Those neighborhoods were chock full of lonely and misunderstood housewives, and he provided a little shot of real Flint, yes, sir.
But then Flint’s brow furrowed at a memory just outside the reach of his vodka-soaked capacity. Something bad was attached to the memory of Mrs. Hooduk … What the hell was her name? Flint worked his brain, searching through letters of the alphabet. Her name, he decided, began with an L or an A. Somethin’ like Lisa?
“I got some fairly clean rags up in my truck,” Flint offered. “That shit’ll stink up your car somethin’ bad.”
“I’d sure appreciate it, Warden.” Billy Wayne’s suit was plastered to his fat body, his white shirt ruined for sure, probably his suit as well. He blew his nose on his sleeves, and mud came out in slimy little clumps. Billy Wayne fell in line behind the ambling Flint, the toe portions of his stretched out socks flopping as they trailed behind his heels.
“Allison!” Clayton Flint nearly shouted and coughed real quick to cover up his revelation.
“Pardon?” Billy Wayne said absently, padding across all the God-forsaken pointy things hidden under the mat of sea grass.
“Watch your step here,” Flint said. “Some broken glass up ’round this spot.”
The little man cringed behind him.
Allison Hooduk had been a first-class basket case, for sure. She was from one of those Eatontown termite jobs. Jesus, those neighborhoods were a gold mine. Chase the bugs out of one house and right into the next. Couple weeks later, you got a frantic call to come spray the same damn swarm under a different roof. Any good pest control expert, Flint could tell you, knew how to make even the most roach infested crack house absolutely insect free by herding them right on over to the neighbors. Ka-ching!
The Hooduk job, Flint now recalled, had involved a nest of termites that hadn’t really gotten going into the wood, although he’d explained the dire need for a full treatment. The lady of this house had the sweetest round mouth, and real meat in all the right places. This pest control expert liked some flesh to hang onto when the lights went down, yes, sir. And the Hooduk woman was quick to let Flint know the coast was clear as far as the husband was concerned. That was how Flint knew he was gettin’ the nod: when the wife made it perfectly clear what time mister so-and-so was due home, and that mister so-and-so was not inclined to come home unexpectedly.
But that fat little pain in the ass of hers was another story. “Mommy, I’m hungry. Mommy, I’m thirsty. Mommy, how come the door’s locked?”
“We’re killin’ bugs in here, hon.”
“But I’m hungry now!”
“You go right ahead and fix yourself a peanut butter on bread,” Allison Hooduk huffed, as Clayton Flint humped away doggy-style, which was his favorite way to do a woman with such a nice wide behind. He loved the waves he caused in the fat, as he slapped his groin against her large raised buttocks. Sometimes he’d reach forward and grab hold of a handful of hair and yank it back a little. Had he done that to her hair?
“What’s that bumping noise, Mommy? Who’s jumping on your bed? I’m hungry!”
He’d gotten paid for the job and was perfectly in the clear until a month or two later. That’s when he started getting those crazy-ass calls on his answering machine.
“Please, you gotta call me back,” was the gist of her first message, and had Clayton Flint not just come from a very successful and satisfying afternoon job at another lonely broad’s roach-infested home, he just might have. It wasn’t beyond him to go back and lay some more pipe, but the pipe was good and done for the day. Instead, he erased the message and forgot about it, until another flood of whiney calls came in a week later. Allison Hooduk had some nutty idea she was knocked up, or some such bullshit, and was trying to pin the blame on his sorry ass. Flint became very wary of answering his telephone, as well as any knocks at his door. Best let those things work themselves out on their own.
But no
w, Flint wondered with dread what had become of the woman and the alleged baby.
“You got any younger brothers or sisters?” Billy Wayne seemed to flinch at the question, the jumpy little bastard.
The two had reached Flint’s pickup with the mist blower mounted in the bed. Billy Wayne took a grease stained towel from Flint, wiped his hands, and then used it to scrape away some of the muck that had begun to coagulate.
“I’m an only child. My mother and father divorced when I was little, and my mom never really moved on. It hit her pretty hard.”
Oh, shit, Flint thought. He prided himself with not having a single guilty bone in his body and hadn’t anticipated growing any new bones at sixty years of age. So where was this guilt coming from? Too much time alone in the marsh, he figured. Too much poison had made its way into his fragile system.
Billy Wayne looked to be faring a little better now that he had his socks off; he was examining a couple of tiny scratches on the soles of his feet. He’d dumped what appeared to be a wad of soggy cash from each sock, squeezed out some brown water, and shoved it into his pants pockets. He accepted a second towel from the warden, eyeing his gun like he was jealous. Flint surely enjoyed men feeling jealous of his big gun.
“Never had no children of my own,” Flint said. “What line of business you in?”
“I’m a preacher of sorts. I came down here to enjoy some quiet time just between me and Him.” Billy Wayne didn’t want to admit that the boys had tricked him into following the road down here.
“Is that so?” Flint stuck Billy Wayne right into the nutcase category. He’d never had much use for any kind of religious folk.
“And I couldn’t help feelin’ terrible about all the trash people leave behind.”
Flint pulled him back out of the nutcase category for the time being.
“Hey, you mind me asking what type of gun you have there?”
A medium-sized grin cracked Flint’s thorny, sun- weathered face. Warden Flint paused for just a second, then clicked open the passenger side door of his official-use truck, grabbing a shiny new bottle of Russia’s not-so-finest from a toolbox on the floor.
“You like guns, boy?” He twisted open the screw cap, offering the bottle to the chubby little man. There was some good in most everyone, Clayton Flint decided. And with the sun now halfway up in the sky, a man didn’t need an excuse to tip back a few to soften his fall.
Chapter 5
Billy Wayne and Warden Clayton Flint each sat on their own grease-stained towel spread over black mud and passed the bottle of cheap Russian vodka back and forth, gulls swooping in from time to time to check for French fries or whatnot.
With the end of the bottle near, even a dedicated drinker like Flint was drunk off his uniformed ass. And as drunk as he was, he was getting a kick out of the muddy little guy drinking from the bottle just like a high school kid sneaking a smoke out in back of the gymnasium. He’d check behind them real quick, eyes dartin’ all around before tippin’ the bottle, and then hand it back fast like it was a hot potato. Sure seemed like he had some sorta hell looking over his shoulder. Flint had half a notion it might be that loon mother of his.
“You are not.” Flint gagged on his pull from the bottle, coughing and laughing. “God?” Vodka sprayed from his nose, burning, causing his eyes to tear up.
“Yes, I surely am.” Billy Wayne shook his head with drunken sincerity.
“So, lemme get this straight.” Flint was amused just the same as he’d been from the fifty other drunk men in bars over the years who’d suddenly decided they, too, had become God, Jesus Christ, or even Satan himself. Hell, he’d probably told people he was God a few times but had been too far gone to remember. “You just woke up one day and shazzam, you’re God Almighty?”
“Well, there was a process,” Billy Wayne said.
Flint really didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings. It seemed he’d already screwed up the poor bastard’s life by knockin’ up his goony mom. Ah, but there was some fine junk in that crazy broad’s wide trunk, Flint thought.
“You ain’t got a church?”
“No,” said Billy Wayne. “Not yet.”
“And you ain’t got a congregation?”
“No, but I’m workin’ on it.”
“What are you gonna preach about?”
Billy Wayne just sat there looking at Flint, a drunken glaze over his eyes.
“Guess that’s the tough part,” Flint said.
Clayton Flint had only been inside a church four times in his life and all were for professional reasons. The Methodist church in Wanamassa had carpenter ants from the basement up to the damn steeple. Getting up into the steeple was a bitch on his sore back, and there was no way in Hell he was going to part the legs of the broad with the keys. The woman did have a little shape on her, but she wore a mustache on her upper lip even a shot of DDT couldn’t scare off.
“I never been to church.” Flint held the nearly empty bottle out in front of him as if to inspect the contents. “Never saw no need.”
The bright overhead spring sun cast harsh shadows around the two inebriated men. The marsh and ocean beyond lost some of their color this time of day.
“I just got beat up by a kid,” Billy Wayne blurted out, taking a small sip from the bottle. “And he robbed me.”
“Fucking kids,” Flint said sympathetically. “No real good ever comes from kids.”
“And then he pissed on my head.” Tears began to well up in his eyes. “Nobody ever pissed on me before.”
“That’s rough.” Flint felt more like a heel than ever about nailing his mother and not answering his phone. She did have a fine set of knockers, though, with them jumbo nipples that looked like friggin’ plates. “I pissed myself more times than I can count but never had nobody else piss on me. I seen it done in skin flicks. Made me wanna barf.” He burped long and hard and threw up a little in his mouth, spitting it out next to his towel. He was casual, as if it happened all the time.
“I need a gun like yours.”
Flint was now lying on his side, propped up on his left elbow, his long legs extended in the sand, crossed at the ankles. He reached down with his right hand to pat the .44 Magnum on his thigh. He hadn’t discharged his sidearm in at least five years, since a raccoon had come charging up out of the marsh while he was on his back under the truck. He’d been using coat-hanger wire to reattach the tail pipe when the son-of-a-bitch came hissing and stomping out of the grass like it was a pissed-off wolverine. He’d seen a television show about those crazy fuckers; you didn’t wanna be cornered by them for the life of you.
Flint’s first reaction was to wonk his forehead on the undercarriage, while his second was to unbutton his holster and pull out his loaded forty-four. He had a clear and easy shot right down between his legs—a little low and he’d shoot off his pecker from that angle—as the rabid actin’ coon made its final insane charge. After blowing the animal to smithereens, Flint wriggled out from under the truck and poked its body with the toe of his boot. There probably wasn’t enough left of its head to consider shipping off to be confirmed for rabies, even if Flint had been inclined to do so. Why bring any unnecessary attention on his quiet sanctuary? And then there would be all the friggin’ paperwork.
Instead, Flint picked the coon up by the tail, walked back to the edge of the swampy marsh, and swung the dead animal in two big arcs before flinging it as far as he could. Little bits of blood and gore parted from the spinning raccoon as it sailed out and splashed down. Flint knew there weren’t any insects to eat or cart off the corpse, what with all the poison he released into the immediate environment on a weekly basis, but the marsh had a way of consuming, of slowly rotting away, anything it got its hands on. And Flint had looked down at his own hands out here at the edge of the swamp. He’d put them all over this poor bastard’s momma, and now look what they’d done. Fucking guy thought he was the Lord above.
Flint struggled to his feet, stumbled sideways into the rear quar
ter-panel, and then slid along his truck for balance to retrieve a fresh bottle.
“Boy, you’d be better off with something that has a little less kick than this girl.” Flint rubbed the side of his big holster as if it were a beloved pet. “Somethin’ tucked away for emergencies.”
“Bringing the word can be dangerous,” Billy Wayne said earnestly, digging at the sand in front of him with his white feet.
“Okay, so you need a small gun and a good place to find people who need to be closer to God, am I right?”
“That about sums up my life right now.”
“Well,” Warden Clayton Flint began, “you just happen to be about half an hour from Valhalla. Ever hear of Valhalla?”
“Something to do with Vikings?”
“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout fucking Vikings.” Flint dropped back down on his stained towel next to Billy Wayne, too exhausted to crack open the new bottle just yet. “I’m talkin’ about a magic place adorned with gold, where people go to find treasures, anything they could ever possibly want. Right down the Parkway a couple of exits; it’s a place called Atlantic City.”
Chapter 6
A plump housefly landed on Graceful Gracie’s tongue, preened its wings, walked in two tight circles, and then seemed to fall asleep standing. Gracie did not expend the energy to pull her tongue back into her toothless mouth. For a bee, yes, but she let the fly have its peace.
The line of traveling circus trucks rumbled forward, as they always had and always would, in Gracie’s world. It was hot and the old dancing bear’s belly ached from the meaty things she’d discovered in the trash earlier that morning, just before being told to climb into her cage. Gracie had known the meat was spoiled, but self-control was not a bear-like trait. The absence of this trait had left her nose with tiny scars from the dozens of times she’d tried stealing from the disagreeable tiger’s food dish. The roll of fat around her middle, despite all the hours dancing, was from pilfering the guard dog’s dinners. He’d be off barking and threatening, while Gracie would be slinking away with a stolen plastic bowl of beef kibble.