Ahead of me she veered left on Stonewall and picked up her pace. About eight houses down the street she angled suddenly and trotted up a short pathway to an old bungalow-style place with a huge screened porch. She took the porch steps two at a time and went inside.
I stopped about three houses down. I guess I wasn’t expecting to really be able to follow her to her lair. The house loomed before me, and I came to the conclusion that there wasn’t anything else I could do. No one I could turn to for help. Chances were the girl’s people would be in there, but there was also a slim chance I could get my meager funds back.
What the hell. If I was going to get anything done . . .
From the sidewalk in front I could hear the heavy bass strains of some jazzy rap-slash-alternative music. Someone inside, a male, laughed at something, and I caught a glimpse of a figure moving by the window.
I went up the pathway, struggling to keep tunnel vision from setting in. I felt calm, completely in charge, and only thought peripherally that being calm was an odd thing to be.
I went through the open doorway and into the front room. I saw two of them right away. One on a sofa, facing away from me, his dreadlocked hair hanging over a small coffee table. The other, a white guy with long red hair, opposite him. The redhead looked up at me vacantly.
His mouth opened to say something. One hand came up, pointing at me like the aliens in Invasion Of The Body Snatchers, and I half-expected him to let out with a horrid screech.
He didn’t. What came out was, “Hey.”
I took one step into the room, saw that the other guy was bent over a mound of cocaine. Snorting through a clear glass straw, not paying attention to his friend. A huge gold ring on his pinky finger—the one that had left a nice imprint on my face the night before last.
I came up next to him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and shoved his face down hard. The glass straw broke in his nose. He screamed. Blood splattered all over the coke.
The white guy finally realized what was going on and jumped up from his chair. A gun rested on the coffee table, next to a stack of green bills, and he went for it.
But I was already maneuvering around the sofa, still gripping the dreadlocked hair. I lugged the flopping bulk over the table and into his friend. The table collapsed, spilling coke, scattering money, sending both of them sprawling out against the chair. A lamp tipped over, crashed into the stereo, and the music ceased.
The redhead was already scrambling to get disentangled and up, but the other one was out of the fight. He lay where he’d been thrown, sobbing and clutching at his face with both hands. Blood flowed between his fingers.
Before the white guy could get to his feet I trampled through the debris and kicked him in the throat with the toe of my steel-tipped boot. He gurgled, fell back.
The gun was only inches from the redhead’s hand, but he didn’t notice it. He was too busy trying to breathe. I picked it up. A Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. Grasping it by the barrel, I leaned over, took a fistful of Red’s shirtfront, and slammed the edge of the grip to his temple. He went limp and I dropped him to the floor.
From the corner of my eye I saw movement. I snapped my head up, raised the .38. The girl and another guy were in the doorway leading to the kitchen, their expressions stunned and dead. I pointed the gun in their general direction. Amber light burned in my fingers, and the gun scalded my hand. If either of them noticed the glow, they gave no sign, and I thought for the first time that maybe the golden light was only in my imagination.
I rasped, “Don’t you fucking move.”
The guy was very dark-skinned and looked Jamaican. I knew instinctively he was the one who stabbed me. But I didn’t feel any particular animosity toward him. He took a lunging step forward, and, luckily, the girl stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Stoker,” she said. “I think he means it.”
“Damn straight I do. Both of you come into the room, slowly, and sit your asses down on the floor.”
They did as I said. The one called Stoker glared at me fiercely, as if imagining what it would feel like to squeeze my brains between his fingers. The girl just looked mildly interested in the proceedings. They started to sit down next to each other. I said, “No. Against the wall, either side of the doorway. And keep your hands on the floor, where I can see them.”
With a shared glance, they complied. Behind me, the one with the gold ring stopped moaning. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him inching toward me on the floor, blood still pouring from his nose. Keeping the gun trained on Stoker and the girl, I gritted my teeth and kicked him as close to the center of his face as I could. He grunted one small sharp grunt then buried his face in the carpet and didn’t move.
I said, “Both of you stay exactly as you are and this will turn out just beautifully. No one has to be hurt.”
The girl said, “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Stoker said, “You ain’t gonna get away with this.”
I grinned at him. “You don’t think so?”
Not looking away from them, I crouched down and began scooping up some of the money that had been scattered all over the floor and shoving it into my pockets. I couldn’t look to see how big the bills were, but I figured they had to be at least twenties. I would walk out of this place flush as hell.
The girl said, “How did you do it? How did you track me down?”
Still collecting money, I laughed. “What, a pretty little thing like you? You’re one in a million. Sort of stand out in a crowd, you know?”
She smirked, but didn’t say anything else.
When my pockets were full, I stood up and said, “Well, folks, I’m outta here. Thanks for everything. Next time I’m in Memphis . . .”
Stoker said, “Next time you’re in Memphis it’ll be for your fucking funeral.”
For some reason that amused the hell out of me and I started laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” Stoker said.
I shook my head. “No. No, but this is.”
Taking one step forward, I took the girl by the collar of her blouse, pulled her up with one hand, and kissed her forcefully.
She didn’t exactly throw her arms around me, but she didn’t struggle, and, for a split second, I thought I felt the cool pressure of her tongue against my teeth.
Stoker watched, absolutely silent.
I let her go, and she looked up at me with that same bemused interest that seemed permanently engraved in her features.
She said, “You taste like blood.”
I laughed again and started backing away.
They stared at me until I was at the front door. Waiting for me to say something, I guess. I couldn’t think of anything suitably clever so I waved. Stoker gave me the finger.
I edged my way out the door slowly, still pointing the gun at them, until I was on the porch. Gently, I let the screen door close.
Then I hauled my ass out of there, taking the steps in one leap and running like hell up Stonewall.
Turned out the bills weren’t all twenties—in fact most of them were fives and tens, and all totaled it came out to five hundred and forty dollars. Not that I was complaining, though—it was a hell of a lot more than they’d taken from me. If I were extremely conservative, I could make that much money last for a pretty long time, even after giving the Reverend a hundred bucks out of it.
Of course, I had no intention of being conservative about it—on my way to Cuba Landing to almost certain employment, riding shotgun with a madman preacher who didn’t know the meaning of the word moderation, and still sailing on the adrenalin rush of having pulled off the most daring stunt of my life . . . it all meant party time until the money ran out.
Before we got on the freeway the Reverend pulled a fifth of Canadian whiskey out of the trunk and we started passing the bottle back and forth before we’d crossed the Tennessee-Mississippi state line. He listened, enthralled, while I told him about my lovely revenge, and he laughed at all the right pla
ces and glanced at me with wide eyes and said, “No shit!” and “I’ll be doggoned!” and “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty!”
A good audience, old Reverend Childe.
The miles on I-55 flashed by, taking us away from Memphis. For a long stretch the road seemed to drop steadily as we came off the Bluff. The signs of city life stopped almost all at once and the scenery went rural. We passed over the hills, through green and clay-colored patches of deep forest, past sagging willow trees. Kudzu grew in ditches and up the stout trunks of every tree, thick and dense.
A few miles west, the land flattened abruptly into the fertile expanse of the Delta, and at the high points on the road we could look in that direction and see cotton fields stretching away from us. We passed the time laughing, drinking, singing songs, like a couple of teenage boys on their first road trip.
Just north of Holly Springs the Reverend decided to get off the freeway and find someplace to eat. He steered the car off the next exit we came to, and we found ourselves on a long lonely stretch of two-lane road heading west.
The land flattened out and the road curved through the heart of the woods, great giant trees looming on either side. Not a diner or a gas station or any sign of humankind anywhere.
The woods around us began thinning out, until we came to a straight stretch on the road and the cotton fields we’d seen from a distance were all around us. Still no sign of humans—no one working in the fields, no houses in the distance, nothing.
We fell into our first long silence about then and kept driving for a long time. I was getting restless and anxious to get out of the car and stretch my legs. Once or twice, I glanced over at the Reverend and saw a strange look on his face—worried, maybe, or concerned at least.
We’re lost, I thought. He has no idea where we are. But then, no we can’t be lost. This is Reverend Childe’s old stomping ground, right? He knows it like the back of his hand.
And then, no. We’re lost.
I decided to let that one brew in my head for a little while and said nothing.
We made Holly Springs fifteen minutes later and found a little diner across the road from a ramshackle garage. Reverend Childe ordered a cheeseburger and fries and heavily sweetened iced tea. My mouth still hurt, so I ate a soft open turkey sandwich, chewing on the right side. The place was clean, only slightly busy, and the jukebox in the corner played country music from the sixties.
The Reverend ate his cheeseburger with quiet intensity, enjoying it, only looking up once in a while to grin at me with his mouth full. I gummed my sandwich, humming “It’s Only Make Believe” with Conway Twitty on the jukebox.
Sipping my Coke, I eyed the Reverend and worked at making my face look impassive and casual. I said, “Say, Rev . . . have you been here before?”
“What do you mean? This restaurant?”
“Yeah. Have you eaten here before?
He cocked his head at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered.”
He shoved three fries into his mouth and said, “No, can’t say as I have. Nice place though, ain’t it?”
I nodded, cleared my throat. “Has . . . has the town changed much since the last time you were here?”
He looked at me sharply. His eyes bored right into my skull.
“Well,” he said, “I reckon it has. I mean, it’s been years, you know. Decades. I hardly recognize the ol’ place.” The thought seemed to sober him, and he continued eating in silence.
I said, “Is it bigger than it was?”
“Yeah.” He looked away from me. “Bigger. You see that shopping center we passed? Wasn’t there last time I was around. That was a big ol’ field there.”
“I just wondered, you know. Seeing as how we got lost and everything.”
He jumped in with, “Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing. It’s just odd how you grew up here and we got lost. Place must’ve really changed a lot.”
“Yeah,” he said. He put down his burger, took a sip of tea. “Like I say . . .”
We were silent for a moment, eating with less zest now, avoiding looking directly at one another. I knew that he was lying. He wasn’t from Holly Springs.
“Charlie. You got something on your mind, I sure would appreciate it if you’d spit it out. You’re hem-hawing around something and I don’t think it’s right.”
He grinned when he said that, and I felt ridiculous, like I was making a big deal out of nothing. I found myself grinning back at him, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Rev. It’s been a long day, y’know. I’m not thinking straight.”
“No, really, Charlie. If you’re thinking something odd, I’d really like to know. I mean, maybe I can set your mind to ease.”
“Well . . . I was just kinda thinking about the other day, when we met in the laundromat.”
“What about it?”
“When you left, you didn’t have any clothes with you. It sort of made me wonder what you were doing there in the first place.”
He stopped chewing. He set his burger down on the plate, looked at me intently. “Why, I was looking for you, Charlie. I knew you were there, and I came to find you.”
He stared at me for a minute, letting the silence between us build. Then, so suddenly he made me jump, he busted out laughing and half-chewed food spurted out of his mouth. He started choking, reached for his tea, washed the food down until his choking subsided.
I sat there dumb for a few seconds, then smiled and shook my head. I laughed shortly, said, “You’re a real sonofabitch, you know that?”
Wiping tears from his eyes, he nodded. “I know, I know. Couldn’t resist that one, since you walked right into it. You shoulda seen the look on your face.”
The waitress chose that moment to approach our table. “Can I get you boys anything else?”
The Reverend said, “Yes, darling, I think you can. Would you be kind enough to tell me about the soup du jour of the day?”
“Split pea today.”
He grimaced. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide by, it’s split pea soup. What about you, Charlie?”
I shrugged. He turned his attention back to the waitress. “I reckon I’ll just have a slice of that apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top of it. No, make that two scoops. Charlie?”
“No thanks.”
The waitress smiled at him and then went off to fetch his dessert. He said to me, “It ain’t no wonder you have a depleted sex drive, ol’ son. You don’t eat yourself enough of the finer things.” He said it loud enough for the people at the next table to hear him.
“Just because I don’t screw like a rabbit every chance I get doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive.”
“It does in my book. Look at it this way—is there anything in this material life more divine than screwing? I mean, I know good chow comes close, and I always enjoy a fine whiskey, but when it comes right down to it . . . no matter what you’re doing, wouldn’t you rather be screwing?”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t blaspheme. Really, Charlie. Can you think of one thing better?”
I shrugged again. The people at the table behind me had grown quiet, obviously listening to our conversation.
“Well, can you?”
“No, I guess not.”
The waitress came back with his pie. He said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and dug in.
I finished my sandwich while Marty Robbins sang “Don’t Worry ’Bout Me” on the jukebox. The group at the next table snickered.
In a low voice, I said, “Still . . . that doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive. It just means you’re hyper-horny.”
The Reverend chuckled, stabbed up a forkful of pie. “That’s a good one. Hyper-horny. Where’d you come up with that one? My point is, Charlie, all of us should be hyper-horny. Sex brings us closer to God. There should be fucking in the streets! Could you imagine that world? Say you’re working your job, presenting the ol’ boss with a proposal, and you get a good stiffie going out of nowhere.
You could just say, ‘Pardon me, boss, but I’d like to go and put it to your secretary, if she don’t have no objections.’ And the boss would say, ‘Well, all right, but be quick about it, we got work to get to today. And while you’re doing that, I‘ll just sit in here and grease the axle.’ ”
He laughed out loud, and the silence from the table behind me had taken on a sort of nervous edge. I decided to let that particular line of conversation alone.
“Okay,” I said. “Right. I’m a sexual loser. A dickless wonder. That’s me.”
He finished up his pie, wiped his mouth. “Don’t let it worry ya, Charlie. Stick with me, I’ll make sure you’re cured of that particular ailment. Now what say we get on down to Cuba Landing?”
“Right,” I said.
I left the money on the table, and we started out. At the door I stopped, said, “Whoops. Forgot the tip. Go on, I‘ll meet you in the car.”
He went outside and I went back to our table, digging in my pockets for change. The folks at the next table—two young men and a pretty teenage girl—watched me with open curiosity. The girl said, “Excuse me. Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“That man you’re with . . . is he a priest? We saw the collar and just kinda wondered.”
I said, “He’s a preacher. A reverend, like.”
“Wow,” the girl said. “What do I have to do to join his church?” They all laughed.
“Just stay put,” I said. “If he needs you, he’ll find you.”
The sign read “Welcome to Cuba Landing! Stay a Spell!” in big cheerful orange letters. Beyond the sign, the endless cotton fields gave way once again to woods—sparse, but lush and green. The Reverend said, “I’d say we’re in Cuba Landing. ’Bout time, huh?”
I nodded. The trip shouldn’t have taken more than two hours, but about twice that time had gone by since we’d left Memphis. Late afternoon now, and the sun hung dark orange in the west. To the east I could see the vague outline of the moon over the trees. The bottle of whiskey had run out only minutes after we left the diner, and my head was fuzzy. What I wanted more than anything was an icy shower and a cool bed.
As we drove through the woods, I caught a whiff of something soft and flowery and wet. Trees cast dappled shadows on the road, permitting only the occasional shaft of light. We kept driving, though, and within a minute small houses, half-hidden by trees, began appearing. We passed a bait shop, took a smooth curve to the right, and were cruising down the towns Main Street.
The Bastard Hand Page 5