by Rex Miller
How easy it would be for him to take them out. He was so experienced at it, he knew all the tricks of the trade, the techniques to put people at his mercy to lead them by the nose into the dark places where they could cry for help at the top of their lungs to no avail, where no prying eyes could see the horrors they would be subjected to in their closing minutes—or hours, if he was lucky.
His experience at this was unparalleled. He knew just in that second, all the dangers, all the possible permutations, the accidentals, serendipitous happenstances, fortuitous lucky breaks that might save them. He knew by instinct and lust and long, long experience how to make that quick, instant assessment of their level of threat to him.
And in that fleeting second, as he looked at the screaming monkees and the weary Ma and Pa with their brood in the old car, even a lawn-mower handle or something protruding from the filthy trunk lid which was tied down and flopping back and forth as the old car bounced along, in a big hurry to what? Go mow their lawn? They fascinated him. What could they be thinking, these monkees.
How easy it would be for him to tap their bumper, and the twine would break and the lawn mower would do whatever it would do and the trunk lid would pop up and the man would panic and brake and pull over and Chain would be on top of them in a heartbeat. And instinctively his mind planned a scheme whereby he could insert himself into their peaceful, nothing, alien lives. Saw their monkee reveries apart with a nasty, serrated steel edge. Hammer into their plans and boring lives of predictability with a fury that would leave them bloodied and screaming from pain and terror. Rip apart their lawn-mower lives of weed-eating, water-sliding, tractor-pulling ignorance and blissful stupor. Make them beg for merciful death to take them under. And the heat of the fantasy kindled an old familiar hunger.
BUCKHEAD SPRINGS
Party animals uncaged.
“There are eight million naked stories in the city and—"
“Eight million STORIES, ya fuck,” Lee corrected his partner.
“That's what I said, eight million stories in the whore. There are"—he took a deep, boozy breath—"eight million naked bimbos in the city and I'll poke every one of ‘em."
“You guys flyin’ pretty good already?” Eichord said, sipping his nonalcoholic cooler.
“What ya drinkin?” Dana Tuny peered at the glass.
“He's drinking Seven-Up same as I am,” Donna said loudly from the next room.
“Canada Dry,” Jack said.
“He's drinkin’ Canada Dry,” Lee said.
“Shit, Eichord already done drunk Canada Dry a long fucking time ago,” Tuny mumbled.
“Tuny, if brains was worth a dollar and it cost a quarter to go around the world you couldn't get outta sight, ya’ fuckin’ imbecile,” Lee whispered.
“If dick was worth a dollar and it cost a quarter to get laid, you couldn't fuck a cheerio, ya’ slant-eyed little squid-eater."
“My dick is bigger than that little hernia you carry around."
“Come on, girls, let's not fight,” Eichord admonished as they walked out into the yard.
“Listen, picklepecker, remember we done SOLVED this question long ago when we measured them whores—mine was six inches longer than yours an’ I only pulled enough outta my pants to beat ya."
“The only thing ya ever pulled is your pud, and you hadda do THAT with a fuckin’ tweezer, numb-nuts."
“Poor Peggy.” Fat Dana shook his head in mock sorrow at the thought of her suffering. Unaware of the singer, Lee's wife had changed her named to Peggy when he'd brought her over. “Just imagine—she's never known nothin’ but a li'l ole two-incher.” He held his fingers out in measurement. “Li'l fucking firecracker of a hard-on about the size of a dink cherry bomb."
“At least Peg GETS a hard dick once inna while,” his partner said. “Not like poor ole Bev. God, I feel so sorry for Bev. Married to d’ blimp here.” Lee discussed the weighty aspects of the problem with Eichord.
Jack knew that when they joked like this, these old-time partners of a hundred and fifty years or whatever it had been, they were TALKING about dicks but they were talking ABOUT something altogether different.
They'd been together so long they could probably communicate by sign language, and Jack often wished they would, when the banter wore thin. But there were odd moments of oblique and surprising subtlety when they'd be exchanging their goofy rap back and forth and Jack would suddenly realize they were having some kind of a discussion during the nonsense. They managed a between-the-lines dialogue of sorts, something about work, or whatever, hidden, subliminal, sandwiched in between all the crap. In this way their chauvinistic, vulgar, silly demeanor served as a kind of vocal camouflage. A code or word smoke screen. He wondered what it was all about tonight.
“That ain't no bullshit about the hard-ons,” Dana ruminated, his tone sobering slightly as he thought about it. “Shit, I love that woman and we don't even hardly kiss anymore. ‘Course we don't kiss any LESS either."
“Peggy says if she ever got hurt in a traffic accident I wouldn't be able to identify the body,” Lee said.
“Umm.” Dana smiled. They were still walking, out of Eichord's yard and down the darkened street, three old coppers who loved one another. “I can't enjoy it anymore. I don't mean Bev. Shit, I love Bev. I can't hardly get it up. Christ, I don't even play with it.” His voice was serious.
“Bullshit,” Eichord said.
“I ain't had a blue veiner in weeks. It's pitiful, man. I don't even wake up with a piss-hard anymore."
“Who does? That's kids get piss-hards."
“I gotta piss hard now."
“Ya fuckin’ pissant."
They laughed.
“It's terrible never to even get a soft-on."
“Remember that time we busted that old guy in the whorehouse over on Canal and Mary?"
“Yeah.” Dana chuckled.
“That's when I knew you couldn't get it up."
“Huh?"
“Yeah. You remember that big blond one?” Eichord asked him.
“Yeah."
“One day I hadda go back there when I was doing the follow-up on the dude that got dusted.” They'd been together while Lee was out for some reason, working on a murder in a low-rent brothel. “One day I hadda go back there when I was doing the follow-up on the dude that got iced, and she said ‘Where's that no-dick partner of yours?’ She was trying to give me some shit about what a fizzle you'd been in the sack."
“What's all this shit?” Lee had never heard this one.
“God's truth,” Eichord said to James Lee, “Dana and me were taking the stories and what-not and he says, You cover me—I gotta go back and boff Blondie. And he goes back in the back with this one,” Eichord was whispering.
“It's true,” Dana told his partner, smirking in the darkness.
“She says, Where's that no-dick? The fat one? That worthless no-dick partner of yours couldn't even get it up."
“That's true."
They laughed.
“Pathetic,” Lee said to his partner.
“Well, shit. She had hair."
“What the fuck?"
“Shit, she had more hair on her fuckin’ legs than you do.” They all laughed. “That's no shit."
“Lying fucks."
“Hey. Really, man. I still remember that bitch. Big ole’ watermelons like this onner.” Dana gestured in the shadows. “Looked pretty good. Long blond hair. Shit, I didn't know how long. I took her back there and Christ almighty, she's whippin’ those clothes off and here's all this fuckin’ hair under her arms, looked like little black forests growin’ under there. And she had this garter-belt deal, and I can still remember those legs. Nice legs, man, but there's all these old black hairs mashed down under them hose. I go—” He makes a little descending whistle noise that they both recognized and know he is also holding his little finger in front of his fly and letting it droop with the sound effect—Dana's drooping dick schtick.
“Well,” Lee said, �
�hair or not, I'da fucked her."
“BullSHIT!” Dana laughed. “Be like tryin’ to fuck Lyle Alzado.” They laughed. “Really, man. Fuckin’ big shoulders and legs onner. Big old hairy thing. Be like tryin’ to put the pork to Dutch Hornung."
“Who the fuck is Dutch Hornung?” Lee asked seriously.
“JESUS, you simple midget, don't you fuckin’ know anything, Paul Hornung, f'r Chrissakes. Don't you—"
“Lower your voices.” Eichord was laughing. “Come on—shit, these people around here don't know I associate with riffraff like you guys. Come on, let's go back."
“Who the fuck is Paul Horney?"
'That guy used to be on the radio.” Dana gave his voice a distinctive inflection, “and that's the way it is, the whole fucking story—"
“That was Walter Cronkite, goddammit, not that other guy—whatjasay—Dutch Hardon or whoever."
“Don't you know any fuckin’ thing about sports?"
“Just submarine racing."
“Muff diving."
“The fifty-meter broadchase and leaping humperjump."
“The three-minute free-hand jerkoff."
“I took some money.” Lee said, in a cold whisper.
“Huh."
They stopped.
“Yeah."
“Whatya talkin’ about?” Dana laughed.
“I took some money. A lot of it."
“Bullshit.” Not meaning bullshit at all, Dana recognizing the chilly tone.
Lee was suddenly very sober and serious. “I don't want to talk about it."
“Uh huh.” Eichord said nothing. They stood there, the three old friends, with their empty glasses in their hands and their withered old-cop dicks in their pants, standing in the darkness of Buckhead Springs.
“Fuck it."
“Whatya fuckin’ mean ya took some money, a lot of it?"
“You know what I mean. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. I took money."
“Don't tell me this shit,” Eichord said, and turned and started back toward the house.
“It wasn't on the arm—"
“I don't care. I don't want to hear that crap."
“I had to, man. It was a LOT of money."
“How come ya didn't gimme any?” Tuny said to him, half-joking but seriousness in his voice.
“Want some? I'll give ya some. Then when those butt-sniffers bust me and they make me tell what I did with it, I can bring YOU down too, izzat whatcha want, ya dumb zeppelin?” Butt-sniffers was his name for Internal Affairs cops.
“You serious.” It wasn't a question.
“Yeah. Believe it."
“Who the fuck be dopey enough to give YOU a lotta money?"
“Nobody GIVE it to me, jackoff. I took it."
“Where? When?” He sounded like Peggy. Where? When? Who? Hah?
“At Buckhead Mercantile."
’”I'm not hearing this shit,” Eichord said, and he walked back toward the house.
BAYLORVILLE
Even without his frightening and lethal abilities, a physical precognate—that rarest of the presentient humans—who planned and prepared with the degree of dedicated concentration that marked Chaingang's best efforts, was all but unstoppable as an adversary. As a manipulator he had few peers. The afternoon before, still in the stolen wheels, he'd begun to lay the groundwork for the next move.
“I definitely think so,” he told the girl.
“God. You really think I could be an ACTRESS?"
“Absolutely,” he told her, shaking his head no, but sending the vibes of a totally convincing yes. The bandaged face was held carefully to minimize his frightening countenance: the dimpled, radiant, ear-to-ear grinning and beaming smile was in place and doing its thing, hampered only slightly by the wounded cheek. “I see it as you talk. The way you hold your head. The way you move.” The way you sip your tea. He couldn't believe how easy she was.
“I mean, I've never thought about acting. Well, I thought about it but I mean, every girl thinks about it. Aunt Pearl said I oughta be an actress or a model. And I thought about goin’ down to the TV station and trying out and that. And then, you know, Toby, this one boy, he said I oughta try to get on TV, you know, like national, and Aunt Pearl said I should write a letter and, you know, send my picture to Johnny Carson, and then this other guy he said, No, Johnny Carson probably gets a lot of mail and the picture might get lost. And then I decided that..."
He tuned out and sighed as he nodded along. This was going to take a lot of his patience.
Finally he could stand it no more. He wanted to get his point in and interrupted her, as he usually had to do, saying, “Yes—I can see. I understand. I do think you might work toward becoming an actress in addition to your high fashion and bikini work. Maybe posters, too. But I think we should start tomorrow with lessons."
“Lessons,” she said with a catch in her voice. It was a word or phrase like screen test or starring role. A word out of a tabloid in the supermarket. A word out of an article about Morgan Spacek/Sissy Fairchild having taken ACTING LESSONS SINGING LESSONS MODELING LESSONS LESSON LESSONS, a buzzword from the beckoning, impossible world of a thousand million Sissy-girls since the beginning of show biz.
“This is the Stanislavsky Dihedral Method,” he said, enjoying himself as he toyed with this nitwit, “and it comes from the reliance on believing your character. I want you to pretend that you are my niece."
“Niece?” It was such an odd word. It meant nothing to her. He sensed that. She was used to having some guy want her to pretend she was his slave and get on her knees and do whatever he said. No, he'd approach more directly.
“We're going to play like you are going away to college—no, to Hollywood to be a model. And your uncle, who is rich—me,” he beamed, “is buying you a car. You go into the dealer and you say this—” And he began to coach her on what he would have her enact the following day. She tried it and it was easy. This acting thing was a breeze. She had no idea that the next day he would hand her thousands of dollars in actual real money and she would have to go in and buy a car. They spent the night in a motel. Uneventfully.
The following morning they drove to a place he had spotted and he gave her some “notes” to rehearse, carefully printed in large, block letters neatly made with a black marker by a hand that mashed the pen point down with each firm and precise stroke. She studied the words like they were her opening lines in a new hit on Broadway. Showtime. To this moment she'd not been told it was for real.
He'd spotted a gleaming black Caprice parked between a Celebrity and a used Nissan something-or-other. He saw the words on the windshield in white “$5,245 ... 50,000 miles! Loaded!"
“Wait here and be rehearsing,” he told her, extricating his near-quarter-ton load from the car. He waddled toward a pay phone. The model year wasn't readable on the windshield but he knew it couldn't be over four years old. It looked about right to him. Chaingang checked the directory, dropped some change, and heard a busy woman's voice.
“Mannschrecker's."
“Sales manager, please,” he said. A long pause.
“Hello."
“Sales manager?"
“Parts."
“I was waiting for the sales manager. Can you reconnect me, please?"
“Sure.” The line clicked. Then obviously disconnected. He dropped more money and dialed again with his usual total concentration and unswerving perseverance.
“Mannschrecker's.” The same busy voice.
“I was holding for the sales manager and was cut off,” putting a bit of fake edge in his tone.
“Sorry you had trouble, sir, just a moment.” Click. A tune by the Beatles performed by some butt-kissing, nothing band played in the bowels of a far and unnecessary hell, then—"Here you are, sir,” again unnecessarily.
“Tim Brinkman, can I help you?"
“Tim, I was in last week looking at that black Caprice?"
“Yeah.” Friendly tone. Meant it had been on the lot for at least a wee
k. Good.
“I just drove by and see you still got it. I just was wondering here, uh, tell ya what, Tim, I just don't wanna go five thousand for it like I talked to somebody there. But, uh, let me say this: you let me have it forty-five hundred and I'll come in right this minute and write you a check."
“Who's zis?"
“Oh, Tim, you don't know me. I'm wantin’ a car for me but I'm gonna let my niece take it when she goes away to college,” he started the story he'd concocted for Sissy. Using the name the way he'd want it on the registration.
“Bud, ah can't do it. I mean, that Caprice's a honey. Hell, it's LOADED. I might knock a couple hundred down if you came in right NOW with the check, but, no, I just can't—"
Chaingang cut him off, “I understand that. But that's for comin’ in there right now an’ writing a CHECK. I got us a better idea."
“How's that?” Suspicious tone.
“Suppose a feller like you wanted some immediate cash flow. And a feller like me wanted a nice little ole’ Caprice for forty-five hundred dollars. Looks like there's some way we could strike a deal?” A pause and Bunkowski knew instantly he had him and he closed it. “So I say I send the girl on over with the cash money, an’ you write it all up real nice any old way you like. You understand what I'm telling you. We're not talking financing. We're not talking checks. We're talking those nice dollars. CASH money, Tim. Forty-five hundred and we'll drive it off the lot now."
“When you think you could get here?"
“Oh, I'd say about five minutes.” He was looking at the lot.
“You got five minutes,” the sales manager said in his best sucker-con voice and hung up. Chaingang walked back to the stolen wheels and over to the girl's side.