Henry Roberts took a moment to consider this statement. He looked positively puzzled by this turn of events. He put the gun down and tucked it away.
“Get outta here, kid.”
“I’m not leavin’ without my friends. Jack and Daniels.”
The barkeep started to grin at this old joke, but then he hacked up a lung. He choked his cigarette in an ashtray pregnant with the things, licked his lips, and then lit another.
“A real joker, eh? Well, joker boy. Let’s say I did have somethin’ for ya. You think I’d be so butt-stupid to sell it to some smartass kid?”
Suddenly, Ryan found his resolve slipping away … but couldn’t believe it when his legs took another small step forward. Maybe he could do this.
“But you like kids,” he said, and said it loud enough that he hoped everyone heard. Even the stoned rube.
Old Henry Roberts seemed to choke on a chunk of that roadkill. The barkeep’s face went numb as the color drained from him. If you had a needle you could have pricked him; the man wouldn’t have felt a thing. Ryan feared that Plan B—the plan that had come to him when he had lifted the money from the till, the plan he had hoped this wouldn’t come to—had given the man a mild stroke.
“You … get the hell outta my bar. Now.”
Time for the Three-Two pitch, Ryan thought.
“I know about you and Billy Kingston,” he said, keeping his voice to a hair above a whisper.
“Shut your trap, boy.” Now the barkeep was whispering.
“And Billy’s little brother. Billy told me all about what you did to them last summer.”
“You little … you don’t know shit, kid.”
Fastball, Ryan thought. Blow it right by him.
“It was a Saturday,” he went on, as if he were telling the old man a ghost story. The thing was, it was a horror story, one of those Dark Closet tales you never wanted to hear. Or tell.
“I guess you don’t remember,” he said, reluctant to go on but having to now. “I mean, if I butt-fucked my little cousin, I guess I’d try to forget, too.”
It was true, every word. Billy Kingston was the man’s cousin, and Henry did butt-fuck him—and his little brother. Thing was, Billy Kingston was also one of Ryan’s friends, and Billy had drowned himself in the river last September. Took his father’s canoe and let himself over the side, two cement blocks tied to his ankles. They found the canoe miles from his body, and it took the cops three weeks to find him. He was pretty messed up from what Ryan had heard, fish got to him in a bad way. Billy had the sense to leave a note in Ryan’s math book, and when Ryan had thought about it, it was probably the best place to leave it. It was the one book he rarely opened, so it was safest there. Billy had scribbled BUTTFUCK, over and over and over, scribbled it as one never-ending word as if it were the only word he knew anymore, until there was no room left on the page. But on the back where there was room, Billy had told him the sickest part, a part that had made Ryan nearly throw up. Billy had begged Ryan to tell the cops, in letters formed so poorly that Billy must have been full crazy when he wrote them—because Billy couldn’t bring himself to. But Ryan never had. And he wouldn’t. Ever. He only prayed the Stick Man didn’t call his bluff.
“Did you hear what I said, old man?”
One of the men playing pool, the guy who had been laughing his ass off at the guy who blew the break, spoke up. “Somethin’ wrong, Henry?”
“Mind your own, Jacko.”
Jack Mitchell. Ryan recognized him now. The same Jack Mitchell who had burned out his ex’s trailer two years ago. Jacko gave the barkeep a Hmph, and did as he was told.
“So,” Ryan said. “What about it?”
Before he knew what was happening, Henry Roberts reached across the bar and snared him by the arm, drawing him sideways to the end of the bar and into the corridor. They stood next to the door marked QUEENS. Ryan backed up a step and kept his distance. He didn’t want to think what the old bastard might do if the guy whisked him behind that door.
“I don’t know what your game is, boy,” the Stick Man whispered. “But you don’t know shit.”
“He left a note.”
“Eh?”
“A note.”
The man’s eyes sharpened again.
“Note,” Henry Roberts echoed. He said it like a man might repeat cancer after having heard the diagnosis. “What the Sam Hill you on about?”
“A suicide note,” Ryan said, raising his voice.
“Keep your trap down.”
“Oh, I’ll keep it down,” Ryan said. “But if you want me to keep it shut … that’s the game.”
“What you gonna do, kid? Call the Sheriff? Go ahead.”
“I wouldn’t waste a breath on that dip-shit brother of yours,” Ryan told him. “But what do you think Billy’s old man’s gonna do when he finds out?”
Henry Roberts brooded. For a moment, Ryan feared the shotgun might make another appearance. A final one.
“Ain’t no note,” Henry Roberts said, his cigarette teetering now. “Bullshit.”
Fastball. Definitely fastball.
“I thought you might see it that way,” Ryan said, regarding the men before turning his attention back to Henry Roberts. “To you, Billy was just a butt-fuck. But he wasn’t a dumb-fuck. That’s why he told me about the tattoo on your ass. That’s right, old man. The one with the big long dick. The one you made him and his brother lick, you sick fuck.”
All of a sudden, the Stick Man was practically shitting himself where he stood. Maybe it was a good thing they were right outside the Imperial Crapper.
“The note’s in a safe place,” Ryan went on. “It’s up to you if it stays safe.”
Strike three.
“You little fuck,” the Stick Man snapped, saying it too loud, too vicious, like those slits of his eyes. Even the rube at the bar raised his head for a second or two, before slipping back to his troubles.
Henry Roberts had to steady himself. He didn’t appear very stable, trembling the way he was, but if he were going to have a heart attack, Ryan thought, he probably would have had it by now. He’d seen his grandfather have one two years ago, and his grandfather had been shaking a whole lot more than this man was. Still, he couldn’t push the old bastard. You just never knew.
“Around back,” the barkeep croaked. “You—” He coughed hoarsely, sounding as if he had snagged a chicken bone in his throat. “You get … you get what you come for and get the hell outta here. You get me?”
“No tricks,” Ryan whispered. “I got a friend outside. He doesn’t know a thing. But he does know where a certain strongbox is buried. If you so much as touch me—”
“Around back, kid.”
Ryan nodded just enough to agree, and before he could swallow that growing lump in his throat, the Stick Man turned down that dark corridor and slammed a door marked JOKERS ONLY behind him.
~ 16
“Well?” Benny was all wound up, like a leashed dog that’s been taunted and teased. “Where is it? He kicked you out, didn’t he? He’s callin’ the cops. He is, isn’t—”
“Would you shut up?”
“Where’s the whiskey? I don’t see no whiskey.”
“Around back. Drive around back.”
The Stick Man was waiting for them outside, at a black door marked DELIVRIES (despite his own poor spelling, it was Ben who noticed the error, and Ryan had to tell him again to shut up). A plain brown bag was slung under the barkeep’s arm, and Ben, ever the skeptic, started on about how that better be steak and not sizzle. They were a good ten yards distant, and that was probably a good thing, Ryan thought. In his antsy state, Ben was liable to blurt out something stupid and blow the whole deal.
“He looks pretty pissed, Rye. What’dja say to him?”
“Shut up, wouldja? When I get out, I’m gonna turn to you and nod.”
“What?”
“Just nod back like you know what I mean, okay?”
“What for?”
“Just do it, all right?
”
Ryan got out. He stepped to the front of the pickup, turned and paused, then nodded almost imperceptibly. Ben didn’t return one at first, but when Ryan cast him a stern look, he did. In fact, Ben nodded two more times. Ryan rolled his eyes.
Henry Roberts met him halfway. The Stick Man grumbled something that came like a laborious fart, and then he uttered a single word.
“Money.”
“Show me,” Ryan said.
The proprietor looked about with eyes peeled, as if he’d looked about with eyes peeled from this side of the Wild a thousand times before. The coast seemed as clear as it could get given the miles of flatland in every direction, and it made Ryan wonder where exactly someone could be hiding—not to mention how absurd it was for someone to actually be out here watching for something like this. This was Clay County, not New York City, and summer afternoons here were about as eventful as corn. Still, when he thought it through, the man’s vigilance seemed warranted. It was one thing for Henry Roberts to deal illicit liquor over the counter, but to sell it to a kid would likely shut down the Wild for good, Brother Sheriff or not. As it was, the barkeep seemed satisfied with what he saw, or rather, what he didn’t. He spread the bag so Ryan could peek in, and Ryan felt a slight chill as he leaned forward, still fearful of being grabbed—touched—by those creepy stick-fingers. But there it was, the Old Number Seven, perfect and promising—and its seal unbroken. Good enough. He didn’t think the old bastard was going to screw them over with a bottle of tap water (or worse, a bottle of piss), not with the man thinking he was butt-fucked. But then again, you never knew.
He drew a ten from his pocket and handed it over.
The barkeep chuckled. “I wasn’t born yesterday, kid.”
Ryan considered telling the man that was all there was, but decided not to push his luck. He was amazed he’d gotten this far. He produced the second bill, knowing full well there’d be no change for Ben, while in the truck, his partner in crime watched helplessly, muttering, Shit, not all of it, Rye, shit, Shit, awwwww SHIT.
Henry Roberts took the bill with that hideous grin, plucking it from Ryan’s fingers like a petal from a flower. Impossible as it seemed, he appeared even more aged in the burning sun. His skin was baked and tough, like chicken that had been barbecued a tad too long.
“Fair enough,” the man said, coughing deeply. He offered the merchandise, and Ryan snatched the bag before the old bugger changed his mind and butt-fucked him for the twenty. Right there in front of Ben.
“Fair enough,” Ryan echoed, and he turned about. He started walking, slowly at first, a little faster now. He cursed his bum legs. Suddenly he wanted to be as far away from those stick-fingers as he could. But the real reason he wanted to bolt was his fear; his fear of losing control, of taking the bottle and bludgeoning the bastard to death.
“You’re Bishop’s kid, ain’tcha?”
The words seemed to stab Ryan in the back. He had heard them, or ones just like them, spoken exactly in that same biting tone, more times than he cared to remember. He was Ray Bishop’s kid, all right, and didn’t everyone in Clay County know that. He ebbed in his stride, maybe enough to be noticed, but he carried on toward the pickup.
“I know that Bishop look,” Henry Roberts went on. “I know your old man. Talks too much when he drinks.”
Ryan stopped in his tracks. Something taut and dangerous threatened to snap in his head. He imagined slipping the bottle out of the bag, saw himself bashing the old man’s skull with it … and then he raised his head slowly, locking eyes with Ben. He looked anxious; what was his problem? The guy didn’t know how hard it was. Didn’t know shit if he had a mouthful.
“I know what he did, kid.”
Ben Caldwell shook his head firmly. Don’t.
Ryan’s eyes widened—he was ready to pop—and again, Ben Caldwell shook his head.
“Bishop drunk,” the Stick Man said. “Another goddamn drunk.” He started to cackle.
Ben mouthed the warning this time. Don’t.
“BUTTFUCK,” Ryan said, and all at once, the Stick Man’s face fell flat and cold. Henry Roberts nearly choked in a coughing fit.
Ryan climbed into the cab, barking at Ben to get them the hell out of there. They sped round the front of the place, passing Ray Bishop’s pickup as it pulled in from the road. The driver didn’t give them so much as a glance, did, in fact, simply park and go inside, but suddenly, barely a quarter mile from The Joker’s Wild, that sickness in Ryan’s stomach began to churn once again.
~ 17
They picked up a large box of night crawlers at McNall’s Bait & Tackle, but before that, Benny had gone off the deep end. About Henry Roberts blabbing to Ryan’s old man, Ryan’s old man blabbing to Ben’s old man, how they were screwed, jewed, and tattooed, over a fucking bottle of J.D. for crying out loud, he wasn’t going to lose his wheels for a few weeks, he was going to lose them for good, and Ryan had to scream at him to shut up, Bullshit, just shut up, stop whining like a damn schoolgirl. The old crank wasn’t going to say shit, Ryan told him, and even if the barkeep did squeal, it was a safe bet his jackass father wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. Ben took to this with some minor grumbling, only to get into another huff over not getting change. To top it off, they made two more unscheduled stops after getting the bait, and as Benny zipped up behind his pickup, Ryan told him in no uncertain terms to hurry it up.
“C’mon, all the fish’ll be gone. Move your ass, Ben.”
“I can’t move any faster,” Ben said, settling in behind the wheel. “My legs are still achin’ like a bugger.”
“Was she worth it?”
“What do you think?”
They carried on up 71 through Milford, drove around West Okoboji Lake, and reached Spirit a short time later. It took another piss-stop before they found Angler’s Bay, their favorite fishing hole, and before the early afternoon had gotten too far, they were dangling two lines off a rock. The sun was hot and bright and invigorating, and Ben had his shirt off, revealing a deep farmer’s tan. Beaks emerged from a quick dip, then showered both of them when he shook the water from his coat. The dog let out a silent but deadly fart, and it was hard to tell which was worse: the stench of wet-dog or the rancid flatus itself.
“Aw, God, he smells like rat shit,” Ben said, plugging his nose with the back of his hand.
“Runny rat shit.”
“I think he’s been eatin’ rat shit. Jeeze.”
They drank from the bottle that stood between them, finishing a third of it before an hour had passed. They caught two largemouth each, tossing them in an icebox in the back of the pickup. They were working their way to a half-empty when Ben asked again how Ryan had pulled it off with the Stick Man.
“I told you,” Ryan said. “I just walked straight in and asked for it.”
“Yeah, I know what you told me. But what was all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? I mean, why the head nod?”
Ryan did his best to shit the shitter. “I told him if he tried anything funny, you were gonna run him down.”
“What? And he bought that? Come on.”
“You got whiskey on your breath, don’tcha?”
This seemed to satisfy Bullshit Benny, and Ryan was relieved. Ben didn’t need to know about Billy Kingston. There was a suicide note, tucked safely inside a small strongbox buried in the barn. But no one had to know that. No one had to know anything. Especially Billy’s dad. Why he hadn’t destroyed it had always mystified him; perhaps he kept it as a reminder of his friend. All he really knew was that some secrets were sacred. Some so black you would carry them to the grave. Didn’t he know.
He was thankful Ben didn’t ask about his father. About what Henry Roberts had said. Maybe Ben already knew.
“So what’s with the Ghost?” Ben said some time later, a slight slur in his speech. Whiskey dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it off on the back of his arm.
Ryan had taken a break, lying down with an arm over closed eyes. Most of that monster headache ha
d passed. Oddly enough, the stiffness in his body had, like Ben’s, eased to the point where neither of them could explain why. Despite what Ben believed was the cause of his discomfort, the condition had been temporary, in both of them, serving only to make Ryan’s suspicions grow deeper. The irritation in his eyes had diminished likewise—why Ben had not the same affliction baffled him—and his friend had reassured him that disgusting yellow film had almost cleared up (You still look like something out of a swamp, was the way Ben had put it). And Beaks? His eyes were a healthier hue as well, only slightly bloodshot. The shepherd lay beside him, tongue dangling, looking out over the shimmering bay thinking doggy thoughts.
“Rye? You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up with that guy?”
“I dunno. Who cares.”
“How’d he end up at your place?”
“I dunno. But now he’s stayin’ in the guesthouse.”
“Shit. Guess he messed up your pitchin’ practice.”
“Would you shut up? I’m tryin’ to relax here.”
“Just askin’. Jeeze.”
Ben’s line dipped. He waited … waited … then tried to snag whatever it was that took the bait. He missed it.
“Shit.”
“That’ll teach ya. Just fishie. No talkie.”
“I got one more question. Then I’ll shut up.”
Ryan sighed. “What.”
Ben Caldwell almost said something. But what came was a dead silence that lingered. Ryan opened one eye, although Ben couldn’t see that he had. Ben looked completely messed up suddenly; it was clear he was trying to sort through a jumble of thoughts. It was almost as if the bullshitter had been bullshitted, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out how. Ryan knew exactly what he was feeling.
Come on, Ben … say it.
But Ben Caldwell didn’t say it; Ryan knew he wouldn’t. After all, he hadn’t said anything, either. He had wanted to, but he hadn’t wanted to look any more like an idiot than Ben did.
He sat up, squinting. “What is it, man?”
Ben bobbed his line.
“Ben?”
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