Dead Bait

by Romana Baotic (ed. )

  Shaggy grinned and slipped under the lip of a sunken tree stump. Taiter watched for signs of life on the surface of the water. He pictured Shaggy groping around the sunken stump, wiggling his fingers and waiting for a bite. Shaggy came up empty handed.

  “Try that’n over there,” Bobby Dale shouted, pointing to a cluster of sycamore roots and dead limbs jutting out of the water.

  Shaggy disappeared under the murky water in a trail of bubbles. The root clumps twitched as muddy silt churned its way to the surface.

  “Sumbitch!”

  “What?”

  “I think he got one!”

  The surface of the water exploded in a chocolaty froth. Shaggy broke the surface—a forty pound flathead catfish latched to his arm up to the elbow.

  Taiter scrambled down the bank and pried the fish off Shaggy’s arm with a screwdriver. “Take care a this one Bobby, while we fetch more!”

  In an hour they had eight hulking flatheads, a rusty refrigerator door and a Sears radial snow tire someone had chucked in the creek. Bobby and Taiter were ready to pack it in.

  “Just wanna’ check out this hollow log up ahead,” Shaggy shouted. “If it’s dry, we’ll haul ass.”

  Taiter shrugged and drained the last beer. “Don’t make a shit to me.”

  Shaggy slipped under the water slow and quiet. Taiter and Bobby watched and waited. Two minutes passed—then three. Bubbles churned the water around the log, then stopped.

  “He o.k. ya’ reckon?”

  Taiter’s eyes stayed glued to the stump. “Can’t tell for sure. Whatchu thinkin’?”

  “I’m thinkin’ he’s drownin’.”

  “Ah. Shaggy can hold his breath a pretty long spell. One ‘ol gal use ta’ swear he was a dolphin—could breathe out the top of his head!”

  “Point of fact there Taiter, we can’t see the top of his head.”

  “You may have somethin’ there. We’ll give him another minute.”

  The bubbles petered out and the water became smooth as a plate glass window. Still no Shaggy.

  “That’s it. I’m gonna’ have ta’ haul his sorry ass outa’ there.”

  “Yep. Reckon ya’ better.”

  Taiter dove in just as Shaggy broke the surface, squalling like a tomcat caught in a combine. He gulped in air and pushed back from the log. The first two fingers of his left hand were clamped inside the mouth of a hard shell snapping turtle. Blood rolled down his arm, turning the water scarlet red.

  “Good Gawd Gerty!” Bobby shouted. “That there is the biggest damned snapper I ever saw. Don’t let that bastard get away!”

  Taiter chucked a creek rock in Bobby’s general direction and swam towards Shaggy. “Hang on hoss! I’m comin’!”

  Shaggy slipped under the log, then popped back up. “Get this bastard off me!”

  Taiter pried at the turtles jaws, working the blade of the screwdriver deep inside its mouth. The snapper’s beak-like mouth cut Shaggy’s finger meat down to the bone.

  Shaggy beat at the turtle’s shell with his free hand and cursed a blue streak. “Try somethin’ else. This ain’t workin’!”

  “This here screwdriver’s all I got!”

  Shaggy flopped the turtle up on the log, straining to support its bulk with his free hand. “Bobby! Fetch that hand axe from behind the truck seat right quick like.”

  “You got it!” Bobby ran to get the axe, but found a half pint of Jack Daniels stuffed under the seat next to it. He lit a smoke and sat on the tailgate nursing the bottle of Jack. “Sure is nice out here today. Shoulda’ brought along some bologna meat sandwiches or a couple pigs feet. I’m gettin’ powerful hungry.”

  Taiter shouted up the creek bank. “Hurry it up dip shit! Fuck’s takin’ you so long?”

  Bobby Dale took another blast of Jack and snatched up the hand axe. “Hold yer’ horses! I’m a comin’!” He slid down the creek bank and tossed the axe to Taiter.

  “You idgit! What if that damned thing woulda’ hit me?”

  Bobby Dale let out a sour belch and pulled up his beltless pants. “Shit Taiter. After playin’ shirt-rock with you for over twenty years, I knowed you’d catch it, else I wouldna’ chucked it.”

  Taiter shook his head and mumbled into the bloody water. “Whatcha’ got in mind Shag?”

  “Chop that sucker up good an’ proper. Anything to loosen him up. Just don’t hit my fingers.”

  “Try not to mess up the stew meat neither,” Bobby yelled from the bank.

  Taiter chucked another creek rock, bouncing it off Bobby’s kneecap. He turned back to the turtle and smashed the axe into its shell three good whacks. The snapper tightened its grip around Shaggy’s fingers with a sickening crunch.

  “Shit Shag, this here axe is dull as a Lutheran Church Social in a dry county! I aint gettin’ nowhere!”

  Bobby Dale waded in with a tire tool and a propane torch. “Let me at that fucker!” He worked the tire tool into the shell under one of the leg holes and began to wiggle. The snapper made a violent jerk, trying to pull its head inside the shell.

  “Woah! He’s gonna yank my fingers clean off!”

  “Taint neither!” Bobby Dale fired up the torch with his Zippo and went to work on the turtle’s eyeballs. The smell of charred turtle meat filled Shaggy’s nostrils. He barfed on Taiter’s back and kicked his legs up out of the water. Muddy blood rolled down his arm and pooled in his armpit.

  Taiter drove the screwdriver in behind the turtle’s neck and gave a hard shove. The snapper’s shell broke loose, leaving a hacked, burned and bloody turtle head clamped to Shaggy’s gnawed, bloody, burned fingers. He slammed them into the muddy water with a loud sizzle. The eyeless head held on tight.

  Bobby groped around the log trying to find the rest of the turtle. “Damn shame. That ‘ol boy woulda’ sure made some fine stew.”

  “Fuck that turtle Bobby! We gotta’ get this damn thing off Shaggy’s fingers ‘fore he bleeds out.”

  “Alright. Ain’t all that much meat on a turtles head though. That’s all I’m sayin’”

  “Bobby, you sure enough are one dumb asshole, you know that?”

  “I been told that a time or two, yessir. Never did pay it no mind though!”

  “No shit!”

  They piled back in the Silverado with Taiter at the wheel. Bobby rode the hump, while Shaggy held his turtle-headed hand out the window to keep blood off the seats and floorboard. By the time the truck rolled up to Reemus Powell’s Bait and Tackle, Shaggy’s face was ash white. Blood wept down his forearm and crusted on his elbow.

  Bobby rubbed his chin and stared down at the mangled turtle head. “Dip that sumbitch in kerosene. He don’t turn loose then, I’ll kiss your ass.”

  “Naw. What cha’ gotta’ do is break that grip. Reemus has got a bench vice out back. We’ll put that sucker’s head in there sidewise and crack it open like a walnut.”

  Shaggy perked up and grinned. “Taiter, you might just be the smartest sumbitch I know. Let’s do it!”

  Bobby Dale leaned on a broken down picnic table and kicked up dust with the toe of his boot. “Shit. I still think that kerosene was a damn good idea. Coulda’ torched that sucker too!”

  Taiter stopped cranking the jaws on the vice. “Shit Bobby! Your mama scare you with a snake or somethin’ when you was little? You always wanna’ burn shit up! Besides, playin’ with fire’ll make ya’ shit the bed.”

  “That’s piss the bed, dumbass.”

  “Everwhat!”

  “I’m just sayin’...”

  “Yer just sayin’ what?”

  Shaggy slammed his fist down on the bench. “Y’all wanna’ put that shit on hold long enough ta’ get this fuckin’ thing offa’ my hand?!”

  “Sure thing there buddy.”

  Taiter cranked the jaws of the bench vise shut while Bobby steadied Shaggy’s twitching hand. Taiter cranked. The turtle head cracked. Shaggy screamed.

  Taiter fetched a fish hook and some fishing line from his tackle box, and turpenti
ne from Reemus’s shed. “Twenty pound test is all I got. Just relax. I’ll fix you up good as new.” He soaked the mangled fingers in turpentine and watched the flesh bubble. Thirty ragged stitches and a quart of moonshine later, and Shaggy was feeling no pain.

  *

  Shaggy stumbled up the porch steps and pinched the rusty spring on the screen door. Thelma Meekes had hearing like a cave bat. If he was lucky, she was asleep—or dead. He slipped inside oily smooth and eased the door shut. Before he could shuck off his boots, the lights came on.

  “I declare. Don’t you look like dog shit on a snow shovel. Where ya’ been? Workin’ another double shift? Oh, that’s right, you don’t got no job do ya’?”

  “I was just...”

  “You was just. You was just. I’ll tell you what you was just. Been out drinkin’ again ain’t ‘cha?”

  “Naw. It ain’t like that. Me an’ Taiter was out fishin’.”

  “You an’ that peckersnot Taiter Phelps. Y’all is always off somewheres gettin’ in trouble and spendin’ up my grocery money. Go out noodlin’ an can’t even bring back any decent flatheads.” She eyeballed his bandaged fingers.

  “To be right truthful, Bobby’s got the fish we caught. He...”

  “Holy jumpin’ owl shit! That nimrod Bobby Dale Blevins was with ya’? No damned wonder ya’ come home bloodied up an’ empty handed.”

  “Aww, Bobby ain’t all that bad. He don’t do nobody no harm.”

  “Dead beat. That’s what he is. And dumb as a box a’ river rocks too!”

  Shaggy stared at his boots, cradling his throbbing fingers in his good hand. “Bobby helped me train Lockjaw. Treated that dog like it were his own.”

  “That’s only cause he was plannin’ on gettin’ somethin’ outa’ the deal. Hell, he hunted with that damn flea bit mut more’n you did.”

  “That’s cause he’s a friend.”

  “Friend. Useless is what he is. Only one that might be more useless than Bobby Dale is you! I’ll tell you for a fact, I wouldn’t piss in Bobby Dale’s mouth if his guts was on fire!”

  Shaggy dodged the bent spring sticking out of the couch and flopped down. His head was spinning like a Sparks County carnival ride. Blood seeped from the ratty bandage and glistened at his fingertips.

  “Just look at ‘cha. I’ve scraped stuff off my shoe soles that was worth more’n you. You ain’t never gonna’ amount ta’ spit!”

  Shaggy closed his eyes and thought about Lockjaw. He wished he was still alive. He’d wait till that bitch went to sleep and rub her throat down with venison meat and sick his ass on her. Good ‘Ol Lockjaw. Romping in the back yard - barkin’ up a storm - dartin’ in an’ out of the blackberry bushes - an’ playin’ fetch with Thelma’s bloody voice box.

  Thelma bit off a plug of tobacco and packed it tight in her cheek. “I swear! I shoulda’ stayed with Estil Conners up at the mines in Waverly. Least wise he had a steady paycheck. That coal minin’ payed good money too!”

  Shaggy rested his hand on the coffee table, waiting for the pain to ease up. “Estil Conners. Estil Conners. I didn’t know better, I’d swear the sun shined square outa’ his asshole!”

  Thelma snatched her Bible off the end table and slammed it down on Shaggy’s fingers. Blood shot out the tips and spattered on the wall. Shaggy rolled to the floor, clutching his fingers to his chest.

  “You hush yer’ mouth up! I oughta’ have the finest cabin in the valley, but I gotta’ live in this. All on accounta’ you can’t hold down no steady job!” She pointed to Shaggy’s blood trickling down the wall. “Best clean that shit up too! I’m through pickin’ up after ya’!” She planted a foot square in his jaw, flicked off the light, and stomped out of the room.

  Shaggy spent the night in his truck, parked outside the Piketon Mello Stop. He dreamed of Lockjaw—running at top speed through a soybean field—shredded bits of Thelma’s larynx stringing from the corners of his slobbering mouth. He woke with a king sized hangover and Taiter Phelp’s shit-eating grin staring through the truck window.

  “Damn son! That ‘ol snapper didn’t do all that damage to ya’. You get yourself into a tustle at the Mello Stop?”

  Shaggy brushed the beer cans off the seat and sat up. His bruised jaw mocked him from the truck’s rearview. “Ah, me an’ Thelma had a difference of opinion. One thing led to another an’ she toll me I weren’t no damn good an’ never would be. So ta’ teach her a lesson I slammed my face square into her foot a good lick.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah boy. She won’t fuck with me again any time soon, I can tell ya’ that for sure!”

  Taiter pulled a pint of Old Crow from his hip pocket, took a gulp and handed it to Shaggy. “Breakfast of champions!”

  Shaggy took a pull on the bottle and shook it off.

  “Shit Shag. It just ain’t right the way she does you. Always thumpin’ on you and gnawin’ at yer ear about some damn thing or ‘nother. Why’n hell ya’ put up with it?”

  “Well hell Taiter. Ain’t you heard? We’s in love!”

  “If that’s love, I don’t want no part of it!” He stared at Shaggy’s jaw, swollen and black like he’d been smacked with a coal shovel. “That there’s damned near as bad as last July when she flung that pot a’ hot grits all over ya’.”

  Shaggy rubbed the burn scars on the back of his neck.

  “An’ how ‘bout when she sold your shot gun so she could have that satellite T.V. hooked up. Two-hundred and a dozen channels an’ they come right back out an’ unhooked it first time the bill came due.”

  Shaggy shook his head and searched through the empty beer cans for a swallow of beer.

  “Even Bobby Dale remembers the time ya’ came home late an’ Thelma waited for ya’ to fall asleep so she could sew ya’ up in that bed sheet. Whipped up on your head with that mop handle till both your eyes swelled shut an’ blood creeped out your ears.”

  Shaggy found a can that sloshed and tipped it to his lips, gulping the stale warm suds.

  “An don’t even get me started about her glasses.”

  Shaggy rubbed his swollen jaw and pictured Thelma standing over him, her cobbled up eye glasses held together with tape and paper clips. The left side from a pair he’d broken a year ago—the right side from a box of kitchen junk and fishing reel parts he’d bought for two dollars at a flea market. “So one lens was bigger than the other. Who’d notice? Weren’t like I’d meant ta’ bust up her damned spectacles.”

  “She whopped you so hard with that cast iron fry pan it dislocated your shoulder. Took me an’ Bobby damned near two hours an’ a quart of our best corn liquor ta’ pop that sucker back

  in place.”

  Shaggy winced and tugged at his shoulder with his good hand. “Yep. That woman’s got a heart the size of a shuck bean.”

  “An’ cold as the Powder River at Christmas time.” Taiter took another gulp of whiskey and turned dead serious. “No shit man. You ever thinka’ puttin’ an end to her sorry ass?”

  “Only every damned day!”

  “What’s stoppin’ ya’? Ain’t one damned soul in all of Hacker Valley would blame ya’.”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Let me think on it a spell. Oh yeah, now I remember. That feller over in Waverly County, wearin’ that 9mm an’ a badge. That might just have some bearin’ on it. What with him frownin’ on murder an’ such.”

  Taiter clapped Shaggy on the back and leaned in close. “That’s the thing of it. If it’s done right, don’t have to look like murder. Don’t have ta’ look like nothin’ at all.”

  “How ya’ figger?”

  “Easy. No body—no murder.”

  “That’s all well and fine, ‘cept they ain’t gonna’ cotton ta’ her just up an’ disappearin’. Somebody’ll come lookin’.”

  “Not exactly. You said yourownself, she’s been flappin’ her jaws for years about Estil Conners. Threatened ta’ run off with him awhile back, if I recall.”

  Shaggy rubbed his swollen fingers and stared
off into space. “Sure did. Still don’t help us get rid of her unless she follows through. Don’t think she’s up ta’ doin that.”

  “She don’t have ta’ be. Just has ta’ look like she is.”

  “How we gonna manage that?”

  Taiter took another long pull on the whiskey and let out a belch. “You let me worry about that. I’ll do some thinkin’ on it and see what rises up. Meantime, what say we do some more noodlin’?”

  Shaggy stared at his ripped up fingers and shook his head. “Might as well. Beats steppin’ on a rake!”

  They rolled up the gravel lane to Bobby Dale’s cabin just in time to see him mounting a beat up ten speed bicycle. His face was beet red and he wore a wide brimmed green and orange ten gallon hat with the back crushed in.

  “Where ya’ goin’ there Tex?”

  “Can’t talk. My milkin’ goat got loose. I’m suppose ta’ be watchin’ it for Wanda. I don’t find it, she’ll kill me sure as hell.”

  Taiter covered the grin on his face with the palm of his hand. “Whereabout’s ya’ think it is?”

  “Damned thing usually runs off ta’ Powder River. Seems ta’ be right partial to it.”

  Taiter slapped the dashboard. “Shit Bobby! This here’s your lucky day. We’re headin’ there right now. Get your sorry ass in here!”

  Bobby chucked the ten speed into the weeds and piled in.

  Taiter nudged Shaggy and winked. “I declare Bobby. Y’all need two a’ them hats. One ta’ shit in, and the other ta’ cover it up with!”

  “Fuck you very much. Now can we just haul ass down ta’ the river ‘fore that goat walks half way ta’ Pearce County?”

  “Be there in a flash, right Shag?”

  “Damned straight!”

  They took the short cut through Farley Jedden’s tobacco field and pulled into their favorite parking spot under a stand of oak trees. Taiter slammed the truck door and listened.

  Four, maybe five-hundred yards down-stream, a goat bleated.

  “Hot damn!” Bobby shouted. “That’s her!”

  Shaggy snatched a long coil of nylon rope from the truck bed. “Let’s round her up quick so we can get some noodlin’ done.”