HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I narrowed my gaze. “Little guy with two gunshot wounds?”

  He nodded his head. “I’m sorry. One of the wounds was pretty invasive. His intestines and both kidneys were in pretty bad shape. He’d lost a lot of blood. I’m sorry.”

  “Motherfuckers,” I grunted as I shook my head.

  “Pardon me?” he said.

  “Whoever shot that pup. I’d like to just…” I stared down at the floor and clenched my jaw.

  “Did you find either of the slugs?” I asked as I looked up.

  “Strange question. Actually he’d been shot at least three times, and yes. I recovered one of them,” he responded.

  “I want it. And I’ll pay you for whatever you’ve done, don’t worry about that,” I said.

  “I didn’t doubt that. Hold on, let me see if I still have it,” he said over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.

  I slowly walked to the display area and hung the collar up on the rack. After a few minutes, the man in the lab coat walked from the double doors and into the hallway. With an outstretched hand he offered a small zip-lock bag containing a lead bullet. Although distorted, I could tell the caliber.

  “Nine millimeter,” I nodded as I studied the bag.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s a nine millimeter slug. I know I never will, but I’d like to find the motherfucker who did this,” I growled as I stuffed it into the front pocket of my jeans.

  “Just between you and me, I hope you do. The punishment under the provision of the law is insufficient, in my opinion. And, for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “It was just some pup,” I sighed.

  As I looked down at the front of my blood soaked cut, I knew better.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  TOAD

  “No, it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. One more innocent life lost at the hand of evil. That, and the fact I couldn’t do anything to save the poor fucker. Hell, I did all I could, and it wasn’t enough. I’m just tired of it all,” I complained.

  “Seems strange.” Otis paused and peered over both shoulders. “You know, you cut that fucking child molester, and it didn’t seem to bother you one lick. Now, some puppy dies, and you’re shaken up pretty damned bad. Killing a human being is okay, but a dog dies and it rips you to shreds.”

  “The dog was innocent,” I growled.

  Otis nodded his head and stared blankly.

  “It was damned sure unnecessary for someone to shoot that pup. I said it then, and I’ll say it again now…” I paused and looked over my shoulder.

  It was mid-week in Wichita at eleven in the morning, and the bar was empty. I turned to face Otis, kicked my legs over the edge of the seat, and gripped the side of the table with my hands.

  “That child molester needed to die. There wasn’t anything evil about what we did to that son-of-a-bitch. Line up fifty motherfuckers like him, and I’ll kill each and every one of ‘em, and stand before God at the end of the day. Think about this; I know you don’t have kids, but some of the fellas do. Imagine if one of the Sinners Ol’ Ladies got a call from the cops, and they tell her that they have this child molestation case. They say they need her to come in and confirm or whatever. So she goes into the station house and they play a DVD for her. Has her son sucking fat boys cock and he shoots a load all over the kids face. Makes the kid jack him off…”

  “Just stop, God damn it,” Otis growled as he held his hands between us.

  “I let you finish earlier, you let me finish. You brought it up,” I grunted.

  He nodded his head and waved toward the waitress.

  “So, she watches and her kid jacks him off or whatever. They raid the house, arrest the guy, and the deal goes to trial; all the way to the jury. The jury finds him innocent, even though he’s on the film with the kid. Some clerical error or whatever. They say they’ve got to let the guy off. The fat prick goes home and that’s that.” I finished my beer and continued. “Now let’s say she sees this fat child molesting cock sucker behind the laundromat one night and she’s got a knife or a pistol, or whatever. You trying to tell me she wouldn’t do the same thing? Or better yet, what if the cops called her in and they showed her the film, and then said, there the motherfucker is, and they point him out in the interrogation room and hand her a knife. What’s she gonna do?”

  “She’d gut that fat bastard. Cut him from stem to stern,” Otis breathed.

  “You damned right she would. So comparing him to my puppy is a bad comparison,” I said flatly.

  “Point taken,” Otis said.

  “I’ll tell you like I told Slice. I only do what I can justify. Might be bad in your mind, but in mine it’s always justified. It may be contrary to law, society’s belief, or the Bible, but in my mind it’s the only answer. I’ll never do what I believe to be evil or contrary to what I think God wants. If God didn’t want me to kill that fat child molesting prick, he wouldn’t have put him in front of me. It’s no secret to God that I have the capacity to be one mean motherfucker. He knows it. I know it. I don’t keep secrets with God, I make peace every night before bed.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the pup,” Otis said.

  “Appreciate it. I got the slug that killed him from the vet, and I’m going to find this prick,” I said through my teeth.

  “In case you don’t know, Avery is working for a Federal attorney in Wichita as a legal secretary. He’s some big deal. I don’t remember his name, but he does Federal appeals, gun cases, and specializes in shit that includes firearms violations. Get this, one hundred percent of the cases he’s taken to trial, he’s won. One hundred fucking percent. So, if he agrees to take a case to trial, odds are you’ve got a pretty good case.” Otis paused and leaned onto the edge of the table.

  Half pissed off he offered this tidbit in the middle of the conversation, I responded in an irritated tone. “I’m not headed to federal court, but if I end up catching a case, I’ll let you know. In case you forgot, we were talking about that fucking prick who shot my puppy.”

  “Well, I was going to make a point, but I got off fucking course. Just settle the fuck down Toad, and let me finish. So anyway, this guy’s got connections in law enforcement, FBI, ATF, and so on and so forth. Well, Slice and Avery and I were talking about shell casings and bullets the other day, and this is really strange you mentioned this, but check this out.” He leaned away from the table and took a drink of his beer.

  “Everyone thinks they can trace a shell casing back to you, or trace a bullet. They can and they can’t. Even if the gun’s registered to you, they can’t trace a casing or a bullet to your gun, unless they have the gun in their possession. There’s no computer system in place to do it. They were trying to get a Federal database they could just plug the ballistic report into and bam, but the NRA threw a fit. So, they’re fucked. If they get your gun, they can match it to a casing or bullet, but only if they have it. But here’s the deal, or my point.” He hesitated and leaned against the table again as he rubbed his hands together.

  “When we were talking about it, Avery said the attorney turned down defending someone who was being tried on Federal charges of fighting dogs, primarily Pit Bulls. He said he didn’t give a fuck if the guy was innocent or guilty, just being charged was enough for him to not want to take the case. And, it sounds like the guy was a local.” He raised his hands in the air as if he’d completed an impossible task.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Since when do the Fed’s give a fuck about dogs?”

  Otis shook his head, pushed himself away from the table, and tipped up his beer. As he placed the empty bottle onto the table, he leaned forward. “If you cross state lines, or if they can prove the dog has crossed state lines, it’s a Federal case. But you’re missing my point.”

  “This attorney might have the name of a local guy who fights dogs. He could be your guy, or he might know him,” he said.

  “Well, see what Slice�
�s Ol’ Lady can find out,” I said.

  “Two more?” the waitress asked.

  “No thanks, but you can bring me the tab,” Otis responded.

  “Be right back,” she said as she turned to walk away.

  “Here,” I said as I tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table.

  Otis pressed his fingers onto the bill and slid it across the table. “Keep it. You just bought a truck, trailer, and lawn equipment for Junior. I’ll get this one, you can get the next.”

  “Here you are,” the waitress smiled as she handed Otis the tab.

  Otis looked down at the tab, looked up at me, and grinned. “I fucking told ya.”

  “What?” I asked.

  He turned the receipt around and shook it in the air. “Those two nasty assed beers. They were nine bucks a piece. When we go to Austin, you don’t get to order the beers, you’re too easily manipulated.”

  Maybe Otis was right and I was becoming easily manipulated and soft. For some reason, the puppy was definitely a turning point for me. The poor dog’s death came at a time in my life when I either really needed it, or I really didn’t.

  I had yet to decide which one it was.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  SYDNEY

  After living for a considerable amount of time with nothing, I now looked at all life offered me and truly appreciated everything, being careful not to take even small things for granted. I learned in my time of misfortune that a friendly voice or a smile can be as valuable as anything else life has ever had to offer me.

  “If you don’t get another piece, Miss Sydney, I be likely to eat all of it,” Junior said as he looked down at the remaining pizza.

  “You go right ahead Junior, I’m full,” I said as I pushed my chair away from the table slightly.

  “Ever see you a pizza sandwich, Miss Sydney?” Junior asked.

  I had an idea of what he planned, but I tilted my head slightly and narrowed my eyes. “No, I don’t guess so.”

  He picked up a slice of pizza and laid it flat on the palm of his hand. “You takes you one like this, but he’s got to be cheese up.”

  After removing another slice and holding it over the top of the first, he looked up and smiled. “And you lays you one down on top of it, but you got to go cheese down on the top slice.”

  “Now,” he said as he held the two pieces of pizza together, twisting the assembly back and forth. “You can eat it like a sandwich, and as long as you keep you a tight grip, nothin’ falls on the floor. It’s pizza, but it’s a sandwich.”

  “That’s a good idea,” is admitted.

  Junior’s hands were like everything else, huge. His fingers were as large as hotdogs, and his hands the size of small saucers. The size of a slice of pizza at the local pizza place was huge, but dwarfed by the size of Junior’s hand. As he lifted the pizza sandwich to his mouth, he closed his eyes and moaned. After a few bites, he opened his eyes and lowered what little was left to his plate.

  “You know the best thing about eatin’ pizza sandwiches, Miss Sydney?” he asked as he wiped pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth with his finger.

  “What’s that, Junior?”

  “You can eat a whole pie twice as fast. It gives you more time to do other things,” he explained.

  “You don’t like eating? Don’t you enjoy it?” I asked.

  He picked up the makeshift sandwich, took a few more bites, and as he finished chewing, responded. “When I was a young un, I used to eat and eat and eat. Momma says I wouldn’t stop ‘till my jaw got tired. I loved me some food when I was a boy. But now, I just eats to stay alive, Miss Sydney. If I still liked to eat like when I was a boy, I’d be a might bit bigger than I am now.”

  “I like to eat, I just don’t eat very much,” I said.

  “You ain’t much bigger’n a minute, Miss Sydney. But most white folk don’t be quite as big as us black folks,” he said with a laugh.

  I shook my head and laughed. Talking to Junior was always a joy, regardless of what the subject was. It seemed most of the time when we talked, we talked about food or work. Now that he had another job, I hoped we would expand our conversations a little and get to know each other better. After he finished his pizza sandwich, he wiped his hands and took a drink of tea.

  “I’ll have to invite you over for some of my momma’s cookin’. You’d eat like a little pig if you got a taste of some good southern food. My momma come up from Alabama. Her momma and grandmomma taught her how to cook just like the southern folk cooks. Ain’t nothin’ she can’t cook, so she just cooks it all. You like macaroni and cheese, Miss Sydney?”

  I grinned and nodded my head as I reached for my tea. “I suppose so. Yeah, I like macaroni and cheese.”

  He rubbed his palms together and grinned. “Well, my momma bakes it with crumbs on top. If you’re lucky enough to get a corner piece, you can get some of that baked hard cheese; and whoooeeeee, that baked hard cheese is some good eatin’.”

  “It sounds good,” I said.

  He widened his eyes and shook his head from side-to-side. “Talkin’ about it sure nuff ain’t the same as having a helpin’. You know what a man ought to do, Miss Sydney?”

  “What?” I responded.

  “Make him a cookin’ pan what has eight corners instead of four. And eight cornered pan. Then everyone could have ‘em a corner piece. Cause if you ain’t eatin’ a corner piece, you ain’t really eatin’,” he said as he rubbed his hand against his stomach.

  “Sure sounds like you enjoy your momma’s cooking,” I said.

  “Sure nuff do. So, what’s your mommas specialty? What’s your momma’s best food, Miss Sydney? The one you always have a hankerin’ for?” he asked.

  I knew at some point in time one of our conversations would have ended up heading in this direction. In time, they always do. The most difficult part for me was trying to be genuine while accepting all of the sympathy and sorrow when people expressed their condolences. I had learned in my short time on the earth that acting as if something was insignificant, in some respects, made it seem far less profound. Often I wished people would merely say I’m sorry instead of going on and on about my not having parents. After taking a shallow breath and exhaling I responded.

  “Both of my parents passed away when I was really young. I never got to know them,” I said as I studied my fingernails.

  “I don’t rightly know what to say Miss Sydney, other than I’m powerful sorry. What about your ‘stended family? You got you some ‘stended family, don’t ya?”

  I looked up from my fingernails. “It’s okay. And what? My what family?”

  He stretched his arms wide and smiled. “Your ‘stended family. You’re aunties and uncles and all of them.”

  “Oh, yeah. My extended family. I guess there’s a few out there, but I don’t know them. They didn’t want us when we were little, so my big brother and I grew up in foster homes. I think it’s crappy of them, so I haven’t tried to get to know them, even now,” I said.

  “Well, if’n you ain’t got you a family, you can just go on and act like my momma’s your momma. She likes her a big ‘stended family,” he said.

  “It’s okay, Junior,” I said.

  It’s always nice to know when someone is sincere. So many times, people say things and you never really know if they’re genuine or not in what they offer. Junior was sincere, and there was really no need to question him, his facial expressions confirmed it. As his eyes widened drastically, he reached for the last slice of pizza. Holding it in front of his mouth, he smiled and continued.

  “My little brothers and sisters ain’t even my momma’s babies. They’re my aunties. She went off to the big house for smokin’ that crack.” He paused and took a bite of pizza.

  “So is my brother. He’s in prison,” I said, chuckling lightly as I spoke.

  My brother being in prison wasn’t funny by any means, but the thought of all of it was, at least at this point. Junior’s aunt in prison for crack, and his mothe
r raising her children was admirable. Sometimes it seemed I couldn’t catch a break, but regardless, I kept my chin up and was grateful for what life offered me.

  “Prison makes me mad. For one man to lock another man up in a cage because he did something wrong. You know, when we was kids, my momma would slap our backside with a belt. That made us learn what to do and what not to do. She coulda locked us up in some cages, I suppose. But it shure nuff wasn’t necessary. I don’t think it’s necessary for a man to lock another man in one of em, less maybe he killed somebody. Your brother didn’t kill nobody, did he?”

  I shook my head. “No, but they say he wanted to. A government agent asked him if he’d kill a member of…”

  I hesitated and thought of how to word things. I wasn’t ashamed of my brother’s involvement in the motorcycle club, but I didn’t want Junior to associate Toad’s club with the actions or beliefs of my brother’s club. I decided to simply call it a gang.

  “…say, kind of like a rival gang. So, after discussing it for a few years, one night in the bar after several beers, he said he’d kill a member of the rival bunch if they were around. Or something like that.”

  He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “So the po-lice talked to him and fed him some beers till he said he would, then they put him in the big house just for saying it?”

  I nodded my head. “Pretty much.”

  “Well, they ain’t lookin’ to keep him for long, is they?” he asked.

  The thought of it made me want to cry. What he got and what he deserved were two totally different things. I wasn’t one to complain, so I simply accepted it as what it was. I took a deep breath and exhaled. After a drink of tea, I shifted my gaze toward Junior and responded.

  “They gave him life, Junior. He’s in a federal prison in Kentucky. He doesn’t ever get out.”

  Junior poked the remaining portion of pizza into his mouth. After chewing it and taking a drink of tea, he looked down at his shoes for a moment and closed his eyes. At the end of a lengthy awkward silence, he looked up.