by Frank Bill
Eldon felt a hard, cold poke through the T-shirt and into his temple. Liz panted, “You … gonna—”
Eldon panted back, “Alllmost—”
“You gonna—”
“Just about—”
“You gonna—”
“Yeah, I’m gonna—”
Eldon felt Liz lean back, intensifying the feeling. Her bare feet smacked the floor. Her weight disappeared. The poke in Eldon’s temple moved to his forehead. Liz needed to know if she could do this.
Eldon whined. His legs tensed and jerked. Her finger squeezed the trigger. The jerking stopped. A mess erupted beneath her shirt.
She could do it, Liz told herself. She would do it.
4
Red and blue lights lit up the rear window of the primered Ford Galaxy. Next to Jarhead sat the Walmart sack of cash. Socks. Underwear. Cutoff jeans and a T-shirt rolled up inside also. Across the passenger’s seat lay the map a fighter who went by the name Combine Elder had detailed for Jarhead. Directions to the Donnybrook in Orange County, Indiana, a five-hour drive from Hazard, Kentucky.
Jarhead’d learned about Donnybrook two nights ago, after he’d beaten Combine Elder into twelve unknown shades of purple. Afterward, Combine had smirked at the unblemished rawhide outline and wheat-tinted hair of Jarhead Earl, his razor-tight arms clawed by black and red amateur tattoos hanging by his sides. Combine told him, “Son, you oughta enter Donnybrook. You could be the next Ali Squires.”
Ali Squires: Bare. Knuckle. God.
Squires was beaten only once, by a man went by Chainsaw Angus.
Combine told Jarhead that Donnybrook was a three-day bare-knuckles tournament, held once a year every August. Run by the sadistic and rich-as-fuck Bellmont McGill on a thousand-acre plot out in the sticks. Twenty fighters entered a fence-wire ring. Fought till one man was left standing. Hordes of onlookers—men and women who used drugs and booze, wagered and grilled food—watched the fighting. Two fights Friday. Four Saturday. The six winners fought Sunday for one hundred grand.
The two jobs Jarhead worked, towing for a junkyard during the day, then flipping burgers and waffles two or three nights a week, hardly provided enough cash to feed and clothe his two smiling-eyed progeny. Boys created with the comeliest female in the Kentucky hills, Tammy Charles.
In between his jobs he jogged through the Kentucky mining hills that gave his stepfather black lung and his mother gun-powder suicide. He pounded the homemade heavy bag that hung from a tree in front of his trailer till his hands burned red. Training for his next bare-knuckle payday out in an abandoned barn or tavern parking lot. Farmers. Miners. Loggers. Drunks. Wagering on another man’s will.
Altogether, the money he was making came nowhere close to one hundred grand.
Donnybrook would be Jarhead’s escape from the poverty that had whittled his family down to names in the town obituaries. He just needed the thousand-dollar fighter’s fee to enter.
Jarhead pulled to a stop off the side of a back road somewhere outside of Frankfort, Kentucky, worry from the robbery tensing his hands damp on the steering wheel.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Don’t need this.”
The cruiser’s door opened. The outline of the county cop approached. Jarhead had his window rolled down. Watched the shadow trail toward his car in the rearview. The officer stopped at his window.
Should I open the door, punch him in his throat, his temple? Can’t get caught if I’m going to help my babies and my girl, thought Jarhead.
And the officer said, “Evening. Know you got a busted taillight?”
Shit! rang through Jarhead’s bones. All that worry for nothing.
Smiling, sweating, Jarhead said, “Why, no, sir. I sure didn’t. Which side might it be?”
Pointing, the officer said, “Right back on your passenger’s side.”
“Well, I’ll be having to get that fixed shortly.”
“Can I see your license and registration?”
“Sure, sure.”
Jarhead pulled his license from his wallet. Registration from his glove compartment. Handed them over.
Officer took them. Read over the name. Address. Said, “Long ways from home, ain’t you, Johnny. Taking a trip?”
“Yeah. Going to visit friends and family up in Indiana.”
“What part of Indiana?”
Nosy prick. “Down over in Orange County.”
“The southern part. I got kin down in that neck of the woods myself. Who’s your people? Might be some acquaintance.”
This is how they catch sons a bitches, Jarhead thought. Hare-brained coincidences. He told the only name he could think, one that Combine Elder told him. “McGill. Bellmont McGill.”
The officer parted a big rabbit-toothed smile, said, “Yeah, I remember old McGill. Owns damn near half of Orange County since his in-laws passed. Lots say he’s rougher than a cob. Never had no cross words with him. He’s tough. Not one you’d cross. Other than that, seems a fair shake. That your daddy’s side or your mamma’s?”
Son of a bitch must be writing an oratory on hill country families. “My daddy’s.”
Officer’s face went odd. “Daddy’s? I don’t recollect McGill having brothers, nor uncles. His parents was only children, like he. How you related to—” That’s when the radio on the officer’s side dragged static. Came across with an all-points bulletin. “All units be advised of a black-primered Ford Galaxy. Plate number—”
Jarhead slammed his door into the officer’s knees. Got out. Left-right-left-punched him to the ground while his radio spit, “Suspect Johnny Earl is considered armed and dangerous. Wanted for armed robbery in Hazard, Kentucky.”
Jarhead rolled the officer facedown. Thumbed the snap open on the officer’s leather cuff holder. Pulled the handcuffs out and cuffed his wrists behind his back.
Jarhead grabbed his license and registration. Stuffed them down into his pocket. Dragged the cop to his cruiser. Popped the trunk from inside the car and heaved him inside. Closed it. Drove the cruiser out into the woods away from the road. Killed the flashing lights. Tossed the keys into the front seat.
He’d made it back to his Ford Galaxy when a set of headlights came down the road. Blinded him. Stopped. A thick-bearded man sat inside an old International truck with the radio blaring—“It’s All Good” by Seasick Steve. The man looked at Jarhead through the rolled-down window, asked, “Everything all right, buddy?”
Jarhead reached into his car. Grabbed his map, the Walmart sack, and said, smiling, “No, it’s not. I’s having some car troubles. Believe she’s seen her last mile. Think I could get a lift?”
The man shook his head, said, “Why sure.”
Jarhead got in. Strong waft of fuel burned his eyes. The man shifted into gear. Then offered a hand. “Tig Stanley. Don’t mind the gas smell. Just doing a few nightly runs.”
Jarhead shook his hand, said, “Fine by me. Name’s Johnny Earl. But you can call me Jarhead.”
Tig ground the gears. Asked, “Where you headed, Jarhead?”
“Orange County, Indiana.”
Tig smiled. “It’s your lucky night, son. I can get you to Brandenburg, where my cousin runs our business. They’s a bridge’ll take you over the Ohio River on 135 into Mauckport, Indiana. From there it’s about forty-five minutes or better to Orange County. But I still got a few more stops to make. You give me a hand, I can pay you, get you to Orange County in a day or two.”
“Fine by me long as I make it by Friday. Type of work you do this time of night out here in the boonies?”
Tig pulled a plastic puck of Kodiak from his dash. Tapped it on the steering wheel. Opened it. Pinched a chew into his lip. His eyes lit up, and he said, “You’ll see.”
5
Monday morning, Annus Steeprow, with her floured makeup and waxy purple lips, bounced her fingers off the McClanahan Pharmacy counter. She watched for Eldon to walk through the pharmacy’s front door. Instead, a goddamned Chinaman walked in. Walked up to her.
His co
al-colored hair lay neatly parted and groomed over his head. He’d serpent-cut eyes. Dry pink lips. A squash complexion. Dressed in a black dinner jacket. Silky white button-up tucked into black dress pants. He smelled of expensive cologne, spoke with an accent. “Is Mr. Eldon here?”
A few years ago, when she hit fifty, Annus had started to color her hair a crayon brown, trying to keep up with the thirty- and forty-year-olds. She was lonely. Couldn’t find a man. She looked over the small man’s build. He wasn’t fat. Thin. Very clean. Held the hint of crisp bills. Fifties and hundreds. No ones, twenties, or fives. She’d lower a fuck on him. Be stupid not too. Told him, “Called Friday, said he’s taking the weekend. He’s closed on Sunday. Now it’s Monday, he ain’t showed up yet.”
The man nodded. Reached into his jacket. His manicured hand of gold nugget rings laid a small business card on the counter. “Tell him to contact me.”
Annus picked up the card. Watched the man turn around. His jacket hid his backside. Probably had no ass. She’d heard that Chinamen had flat asses. No matter, she’d still let him give her a poke or two. She wasn’t an ass woman no way. She liked eyes. Dipping her tongue into them. But she didn’t catch this man’s eye. Watching him walk away, she spoke. “Never know about his gambling ass. Probably shacked up drunk with some trailer queen. You wanna hang around, I can call him again?”
He walked out the door. The card said, “Golden Dragon Chinese Buffet, owned and operated by Mr. Zhong.” Got your number now, Mr. Shong, Annus thought as she placed the card on the cash register. Turned to the phone. Dialed Eldon, cursing him under her breath.
Eldon’s father and grandfather had opened the pharmacy. Built a good family reputation in Harrison County. Left it to Eldon. Who’d also built a reputation. Probably into the Jap for plenty, Annus thought.
Eldon didn’t answer. Annus slammed down the phone.
* * *
After calling with no answer all morning, Annus decided to pay Eldon a visit during her lunch. Drove down the paved drive. Pulled up next to Eldon’s only vehicle, a rusted gray ’88 Mercedes. The home was a brick ranch the shade of dead winter grass. Shingled a hunter green. Stretched to three thousand square feet. Outlined by forty-five private acres. Like the pharmacy, it had belonged to his father, was left to Eldon. Annus stepped from her Camry, fuming. “Spoiled bastard don’t deserve none of this. Probably hung-over again.”
Robins and black birds argued in ash and oak trees while red squirrels gathered acorns from the unraked yard. Annus stepped past the two-car garage, humidity following her clicking soles down the cemented walk to the front door. Rang the bell with no answer. She pulled the glass door open. Rattled the wood with her fist. Nothing. She tried the brass doorknob. It was unlocked. Told herself that if his drunk ass had puked all over the damn house again, she’d be damned if she’d clean it up. Even if he rode the wrinkles out of her ass again using the secret portal.
Opening the living room door, she smelt an odor reminiscent of spoiled cabbage combined with pork past its expiration. The wave of rot throughout made Annus’s powdery complexion wrinkle with sweat. She waved her hand back and forth in front of her face, shaking her head. Entered the kitchen. Then screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
* * *
Annus dialed 911 in between bouts of vomiting hysteria. Gave her statement to Officer Meadows when he arrived. Told of Eldon phoning Friday. Taking the weekend, not showing up this morning. Or answering his phone. Also, a Mr. Zhong had stopped in looking for Eldon. So she came to check on him during her lunch.
Deputy Sheriff Whalen pushed his hanky over his mouth, blocking the sour waft of Eldon’s details. Hands behind his back. Attached to an oak chair. No pants. A mess of piss and fecal had leaked from the chair to the tile floor. Forehead opened in its center with eyes holding a dead stare. Brain matter and skull flung about the rear of his head like pasta garnished with chunks of tomato. A few teeth knocked from his mouth, stickered to his pink shirt. A single .45 brass casing on the floor.
Meadows stood beside Whalen, asked, “What you make of this?”
“If State Police forensics match fingerprints and ballistics from that brass on the floor to the other two murders, I’d say Harrison County has got more than a meth problem, it’s got a world of shit.”
6
Ned believed in two relaxed hands forming fists, a bump of crank in each nostril, before he threw that first punch. When he learned from Deputy Sheriff Whalen that Flat and Beatle had been running crank without his knowing, he became far more interested in finding the source for personal joy rather than catching his friends’ killers. He’d burnt every bridge he had with crank cooks and dealers in every surrounding county for a hundred miles.
Daylight peeled the dark away when the Leavenworth Tavern’s door swung open, ringing the bell above the entrance. Letting everyone know another of them had arrived to burrow his head down into the foam-topped glasses of gold that made the realities of everyday life bearable.
Ned seated himself on a round vinyl stool, called for a Natural Light. Poe slid the silver cooler open, pulled out and popped the can, set it in front of Ned. “Sorry to hear about your buddies.”
Ned evil-eyed Poe, yearning for something more than the ice-cold can. “Old habits die hard.”
Poe nodded and asked Ned, “Guess you’ll be leaving soon, going down to the ’Brook this year?” Poe was a contact for the Donnybrook, someone who directed fighters and onlookers to its whereabouts, had a quota to keep McGill happy.
Ned sipped his beer, swallowed, and said, “Yeah, that’s why I come here. I need a little edge. I know you know who Flat and Beatle’s running with, know they’s pushing some crank for a cook.”
Poe wiped the bar with his towel, glanced down the booze-stained surface feeling as though he’d just ate a handful of molasses-coated thumbtacks. Poe didn’t want in the middle of this. “I don’t know nothing.”
Ned was already halfway up across the bar. “You can lie to Deputy Sheriff Whalen, but you lie to me, I beat your mouth into a permanent grin.”
Poe was no fighter. But he knew Ned’s nine lives of beating and robbing crank dealers for their money and product had about give out. Telling him wasn’t doing him no favors. Poe spread his old cordite-muscled arms across the bar, rested on his palms, said, “Look, they met a piece of tail in here months back. Started running with this gal and some other guy. Big bastard with ink all up and down both arms. Hair dark as charred wood. He’d an accident with a chainsaw. Got one eye all whited over with bite scars. Said he used to own a logging company till the economy went to shit. Started cooking crank to turn coin.”
Ned had stopped listening when he heard the word tail. When Ned wasn’t using his fists or inhaling crank, he was buried asshole deep in snatch. Sloppy-joe big or tweak-starved thin, he liked them all. His pupils expanded with excitement. He asked, “What the tail look like?”
Poe ran a hand over his peeled head, crinkled one eye small, leaving the other large, said, “She’d the shape of a death angel. Girl’d fuck you with her eyes not even meaning to. Just a whiff of her swagger make you feel like your balls was blued. She’d a fucked-up wad of hair like that Bob Marley. But her figure was pure poison. The guy never come in much. But she, Flat, and Beatle used to all the time. Sold crank to some of the regulars. But since the deaths, ain’t seen sight of either them.”
Ned asked, “They crank any worth?”
Poe’s teeth shone like lemon-colored ammonia. His eyes glittered bright too. “It’s prime.”
Ned asked, “Don’t know where else they’d hang, do you?”
Poe was short with, “Nope.”
Ned was running a thought through his dirty double-crossing mind, said, “I got a few days ’fore I leave for the ’Brook. Here’s how this is gonna work. I come in here open to close”—Ned pointed to the back corner by the jukebox—“and sit back yonder. You point them out to me if they come in.”
Poe exhaled, lowered his head, pretended
to think it over, telling himself Ned’s day of chastisement could be around the corner, he was just hastening him along. Raised his head, muttered, “Sure, Ned, sure.”
* * *
It took a week to replace what Angus had lost. He bought rolls of duct tape, cans of spray paint, and boxes of garbage bags to black out the house’s windows. Attached the garbage bags with the duct tape, spray-painted any crack of light to keep stray eyes from nosing. Placed a hotplate burner and a Coleman camping stove to the west of the house’s kitchen, next to a box-fanned window, where they’d litter night and day with combustible gases.
A generator sat outside with containers of unleaded. Extension cords delivered 500 watts to each aluminum clamp light in the house, 1300 watts to each of the tripod lights, creating a brightness to the dark work at hand.
The rest of Angus and Liz’s supplies came from untraceable sources. Boxes of mason jars. Gallon jugs of distilled water. Bottles and containers of Liquid Heat, Liquid Fire. Packages of batteries. Ammonia. Canisters of Coleman fuel. Coffee filters. Rubber bands. Empty pop two-liters. Rock salt, latex gloves, clear tubing, and a fire extinguisher.
Angus soaked a bottle and a half of Allegra-D in a Pyrex bowl of distilled water. Separated the junk to the bottom, rendered the ephedrine into a separate dish. Added a bottle of Liquid Heat. Placed the combination onto the Coleman stove, began cooking the mix into a toxic paste. Liz stood outside the kitchen window, her eyelids batting like moth wings around a white light. The low-level hum of the box fan pulled fumes from the kitchen, blew them into her face.
She tilted her head back. Nostrils flared on the inhale, she said, “Dammit, that shit’ll get you going.”
Latex gloves covered the pit-bull tattoos that gnawed through the tops of Angus’s hands. He scraped the cooked matrix from the bowl, emptied it into a large mason jar. Cut the tops off batteries. Pulled out the lithium strips, careful not to overdo it. Too much lithium in the product added cramps to the user’s joints. Once word got out about a cook’s crank giving the aches, they’d lose their gain. He measured and added the ammonia. Placed the jar onto the hot plate till it began to bubble like an underground eruption on the ocean’s floor. He controlled the heat. Kept the bubbles from subsiding but also from boiling over and exploding. Waited for the bubbles to stop, lowered the heat, let the jar sit, watched the good settle to the bottom.