The Deader the Better

by G. M. Ford

  The bartender told me the Steelhead Tavern was the last building inside the town limits. Took me the better part of fifteen minutes to walk it from downtown. What they didn’t tell me was that the next-to-last building in town was a small white church with a round steeple that looked a whole lot more like a grain silo than a finger pointing to heaven. The sign out front read, CLOSED.

  I trudged along the shoulder, traffic whizzing by, my sneakers crunching around in the gravel, contemplating whether or not a church could rightly be closed. The more I thought about it, the more sacrilegious it seemed. Even if it was true, they should have thought of a better way to phrase it. Maybe something like MOVED ON TO A BETTERPLACE or something like that, but not CLOSED. Right away, I knew the Steelhead Tavern was the joint I’d been looking for. Set down below the road, it was a squat rectangle made of a little river rock and a lot of mortar, with a rusted corrugated metal roof thrown over the top. Beer signs blinking in every window. Three acres of muddy parking lot, half full at one-twenty-five in the afternoon. The National Beater Pickup Finals. Seldom, if ever, have I seen such an assemblage of dusty, dented, tailpipe-draggin’, chickenwing-box-for-a-window pickup trucks collected in one place. None of that Jap crap neither. No. These old boys bought strictly American. About every third generation, whether they needed a new rig or not.

  I stood to the right of the doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust. On the jukebox, Travis Tritt was offering somebody a quarter, suggesting they use it to call somebody who cared. I heard the crack of pool balls and then the sound of a ball hitting the floor. Whoops and laughter, pinball machine bells and the drone of conversation.

  I was at the short end of a big L-shaped bar. All the way at the back, the kitchen and a five-door cooler. The wall behind the bar was dedicated to pull tabs…the 1K plan of the terminally unemployed. Taped up high, bright iridescent scorecards with winning stickers pasted here and there. Down below, fifteen bright plastic bins overflowed with tabs. Thirtysix-inch TVs in every corner. A Pepsi can clock. A low wall divided the bar area from the rest of the place. On this side, six two-person tables were squeezed against the wall. Then two stairs down into the big part of the place. A ten-by-twenty stage occupied the center of the far wall. Restrooms on either side. Ladies and Gents. Four pool tables, three pinball machines, an old-fashioned shuffleboard setup and about a dozen tables filled the remaining space. One waitress with big hair was moving from table to table at light speed.

  The jukebox changed its tune. None of that nouveau country shit here, no sir…’round here they played the real deal. Merle Haggard tellin’ the big city to cut him loose and set him free…somewhere in the middle of Montana. As I started down the bar, Merle was tellin’ ’em just what they could do with their welfare and their so-called Social Security. A third of the way down I found an empty stool and squeezed myself in between an old woman in a bad wig and a skinny kid who was talking to his buddy and had his back to me.

  “He’s right, you know,” the woman said. She was somewhere between sixty and eighty, with a face like a satchel and an auburn wig she wore on the top of her head like a hat.

  “Who’s right?” I asked.

  “Why, Merle Haggard…that’s who.” She waved her cigarette at the bartender. “Ain’t gonna be no damn Social Security.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  This seemed to satisfy her. She went back to chewing her gums and smoking.

  The bartender poured her a fresh shot of Canadian Club with a water back.

  “What can I get ya?” he asked me.

  He was my vision of the perfect WWII sergeant. Square face, thick neck, flattop haircut and an expression that said nothing you ran by him was going to be new.

  “What have you got on tap?”

  “Bud, Bud Lite, Rainier, Rainier Light.” He expected me to demand some sissy microbrew. I fooled him. I ordered a Bud and a cheeseburger.

  “Up for the season?” he asked. Around here, that meant“deer” season.

  “No,” I said. “I came up to see a friend of mine. Turned out he was dead.” Nothing like a little death and mayhem to spice up a conversation. Like I figured, it wasn’t possible to walk away from a lead-in like that.

  “Somebody local?”

  “Fella named J.D. Springer.”

  His eyes checked the immediate area. He leaned over, his face in mine.

  “I’ll tell you, mister,” he said in a low growl. “I don’t have much of a stake in it one way or the other. I don’t fish, and I never met this Springer guy.” A bell rang down by the food service window. He straightened up, checked the shelf and then leaned back over. “But I’m tellin’ you, lotta people around here got strong feelings regarding this Springer guy. Real strong.”

  “So it seems.”

  “If I were you, I’d keep his name under my hat.”

  He straightened up. “Thanks for the advice,” I said as he walked off.

  I turned my stool around and nursed a beer while I waited for the burger. About a dozen state highway workers in their orange overalls had pushed three tables together over by the ladies’ room. They were beginning to clean up after themselves, so lunch break must be just about over. A pair of heavyset women wearing black stretch pants and voluminous flowered blouses played pool at the center table. After each missed a shot, they heckled each other in shrill voices. The older woman drew back a large loose arm and sent the cue ball rocketing the length of the table. Missed.

  “Too hard,” the younger one squeaked.

  “Ain’t no such thing, honey,” trilled the other. Their laughter could only be heard by dogs. The action was over in the far corner, where a game of partners for pitchers had drawn a crowd. Maybe a dozen. Twice as many men as women. Half as many tattoos as teeth. A skinny guy in a Megadeth T-shirt stalked the table looking for a shot. He’d just called and made a long rail shot but had left himself stymied behind a trio of stripes. His partner was trying to get him to play safe, but Megaman just kept chalking his cue and circling the table. They were paired against a pair of brothers. Twins. Every Anglo-Saxon mother’s bullet-headed sons. They were under six feet, but thick all over, with mean little eyes and the kind of Popeye forearms you get from repetitive manual labor. If the mill were still open, I’d have bet they pulled green chain—and it doesn’t get worse than that.

  “You gonna shoot or what, man?” the nearest twin demanded. Megaman curled his lip and said, “When I’m ready, man. When I’m ready.”

  “I come over there, you’ll be ready.”

  A couple of uneasy giggles rose from the spectators.

  “Take it easy, Dexter,” his brother said. The counter over by Megaman’s partner held four pitchers of beer, three of them full. The brothers were nursing foam. Megaman called a bank shot. “Six ball in the corner, cue ball off the rail.” He sighted down the cue and rolled the ball slowly toward the other end of the table, where it eased behind the twelve ball, which seemed to be blocking the pocket, bounced softly off the cushion and deposited the six ball in the corner pocket, leaving the cue ball positioned so that the eight was child’s play. The crowd stomped and whistled. “Bad hit,” Dexter said.

  “What?” yelled Megaman’s partner.

  “You heard me. It hit the twelve. I seen it.”

  “Bullshit,” said Megaman, lining up the eight ball. Dexter stepped over and jerked the cue from his hands.

  “It’s Mickey’s shot.”

  “Cut it out, Dex,” his brother said.

  Megaman must have seen the act before, because he got his hands out of the way before Dexter slammed the cue back down on the table, shattering it, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. The crowd covered their beers and ducked their heads.

  From behind the bar, a shout. “Goddammit, Dexter, quit it.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” he persisted. “I seen it.”

  When the crowd hooted him down, Dexter moved several paces from the table and stood there tapping the bottom of his cue
on the floor, talking to himself under his breath. Megaman picked the splinters from the table, got another cue from the wall and made the eight ball in the corner. The applause was spotty.

  “Make these two Rainier,” crowed the partner. Mickey bumped himself off the wall and walked over to Dexter. Dexter’s cheeks were cherry red. They huddled and swapped money. Dexter leaned his stick against the wall and headed to the bar for beer. The brother fished in his pockets for quarters and then went over to rack the balls. When Mickey stepped out of the way, for the first time I saw the counter against the back wall. Standing there, with a burger in one hand and a paper cup in the other, was the weasel from the gas station. Linc, as I recalled. I looked down the bar to the serving window. My burger was nowhere in sight, so I grabbed my beer and walked across the room.

  “Hey, Linc,” I said. “Remember me?”

  He stopped midchew. “Can’t say as I do,” he said.

  “Remember, I stopped in a couple of months ago and asked you how to get over the river so I could visit the Springers. You told me there wasn’t anything over there.”

  “I might recall,” he hedged.

  I heard the slide go in and then the unmistakable sound of pool balls dropping and then rolling and finally being racked.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  He waved the burger. “I got to get back to the—”

  “Mr. Springer buy that gas from you?”

  “Wha—”

  “You remember Mr. Springer, don’t you? Guy that bought the Bendixon place. Died in that car accident on West River a couple of weeks ago.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “What gas would that be?”

  “The gas he was carrying in the car with him.”

  “Why’d you think a thing like that? Like I sold it to ’im.”

  “As far as I can tell, you’re the only gas station in town. Kinda figures if he bought gas, he must have bought it from you.” I took a chance. “Could be I misunderstood Sheriff Hand.”

  You could practically see the gears turning in his narrow head.

  “Sheriff Hand says I sold it to ’im, then I musta,” he said.

  “So then—” I started.

  From behind me: “What about that Springer asshole?”

  Dexter.

  I ignored him. “He get the cans from you, too?” I asked. A hand dug into my shoulder. I grabbed it by the wrist, took it off and turned to face him. He had his nose stuck in my throat. “I asked you a question,” he said.

  “This is a private conversation.”

  His brother: “Dex…cut it out.”

  I looked back over my left shoulder. Linc was missing. The bar was about half as noisy as it was a minute ago.

  “Dexter, goddammit,” yelled the bartender.

  “You a friend of that Springer asshole?” He wasn’t talking to me anymore; he was talking to the bar. We were having an E. F. Hutton moment.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said with a smile. It wasn’t the answer he expected. I was supposed to wheedle. Not be standing there looking down at him grinning.

  “Well…you the only one,” he said. He thought it was a great punch line and looked around the bar for a laugh. Silence. I raised my voice. “He had another friend in town.”

  Dexter played to the crowd. “Yeah, who’s that?” he demanded.

  “Probably shouldn’t count her, though,” I went on, “’cause, you know”—I gave him a filthy wink—“she’s everybody’s friend, if you know what I mean.”

  I had him going now. “Yeah, who’s that?”

  “Your mother,” I said.

  His brother stopped fiddling with the rack and stood up straight. Deep-space silence, then somebody coughed. In my peripheral vision, I was aware of people clearing the area. He grinned and made like he was going to turn away and say something to his brother. “Hey, Mickey,” he yelled. “Did you hear—”

  I kept my eyes on his hands. When he shifted his grip on the cue stick, I started to move. He brought the cue straight over the top like I was a nail and he was going to drive me into the floor. I ducked down, took two strides forward and brought my head up between his descending arms, using the power of my legs to drive the top of my head into his chin. I heard his jaw snap shut, heard the cue shatter somewhere behind me and then felt the sharp pain at the top of my head. I kept my head wedged under his chin and my legs driving until he went over backward onto the floor, with me on top of him.

  After that, it was standard barroom brawl. Within five seconds, ten people were piled on top of Dexter and me. On the way down, I’d gotten my right hand up under his chin and was still pushing for all I was worth. Other than that, neither of us could move a muscle. Dexter was whimpering and making gargling noises. The air was filled with shouts and screams and curses. I kept trying to bench-press Dexter’s lower jaw.

  After a while, the pile began to lighten and then suddenly strong hands had me by the ankles, dragging me from the writhing mass of humanity. I came out rolling, shielding my head, ready to fight, but it was the bartender. I showed him my palms, got to my feet and backed over against the wall. He stood there facing me, making sure I wasn’t going to start again. “What did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I just tell you?”

  “That cheeseburger ready yet?” I asked.

  He couldn’t help it; he smiled.

  Dexter was still down. Several people knelt at his sides. I couldn’t see the top half of him, but his legs moved on the floor like he was marching in place. He seemed to be mumbling something. The waitress trotted down from the kitchen with a white towel. Mickey was yelling at one of the spectators, a heavyset girl with braces on her teeth.

  “Well, get a dish or something, goddammit,” he yelled. She scrunched up her face. “I’m not touchin’ that thing.”

  He tried to backhand her, but she saw it coming and rolled out of range.

  “Get it,” he bellowed.

  The waitress accompanied the girl up toward the kitchen. Mickey got to his feet. He had blood on his hands. “You son of a bitch,” he growled at me.

  The bartender moved his way, keeping his bulk between us.

  “You best be getting Dexter to the clinic,” he said. Mickey leaned out around him. “I’m gonna find you,” he said. “Soon as I take care a my brother. Don’t think I won’t.”

  A rough voice said, “You’re dead, motherfucker.”

  The girl came trotting back, carrying a small white dish. Mickey jerked the dish from her hands and knelt by his brother. Megaman pulled several napkins from a dispenser and handed them down. The bartender wandered back my way.

  “Bit off the end of his tongue,” he said. When they helped him to his feet, Dexter made a noise like he was gargling oatmeal. His eyes were squeezed shut. He held the towel to his mouth with both hands and seemed to be humming something through his nose as half a dozen men got him moving toward the door. His legs were bent. His toes dragged on the floor.

  Mickey pulled their jackets from the pegs by the pool table and started after them. As he mounted the pair of stairs, he pointed back my way. “We’re comin’ for you,” he shouted. Halfway to the door, he stopped and turned back toward the girl, who stood stupefied, her back to the wall, holding the dish out at arm’s length like she had a weasel in a bag.

  “Come on, Melody,” he screamed. “Hustle it up.”

  Melody took two steps in his direction and turned back my way with a malevolent gleam in her eyes. She dropped the dish to waist level and tilted it toward me. The little plate was bloody around the rim. At the bottom rested what looked like a piece of raw beef liver about the size of my thumbnail. She grinned a dull metal grin and started for the stairs, holding the dish high, like a waiter with a tray. When the door banged shut behind her, people started moving. The air was filled with excited conversation and the sound of scraping chairs. The road crew paid up and filed out. The women went back to playing pool. The jukebox started again. Jim Croce. “Time in a Bottle.�
�� I headed for the bar.

  Amazing what spilling a little blood will do. Ten minutes ago, when I’d ordered the cheeseburger, I’d barely had room to sit on the stool. All of a sudden, I had the whole center of the bar to myself. Except for the woman in the wig. She’d waited for me.

  “They say you’re a friend of that Springer fella.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She chewed a couple of times. “He’s no damn good,” she said.

  “He’s dead.”

  She grabbed a package of Kents and a Zippo lighter from the bar.

  “Any man cheat an old man like Ben…” She stopped and chewed some more. “No damn good,” she repeated before she waddled off.

  The burger wasn’t bad. A bit on the cold side, but I was hardly in a position to complain. About halfway through, the bartender slapped a fresh Bud down in front of me. “Slick move,” he said.

  “I was lucky,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Luck had nothing to do with that.”

  When the door opened, every head in the place swiveled. Who could blame them? These days you can’t pick a fight with a twelve-year-old altar boy for fear he’s got an AK- in his backpack. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief when it turned out to be a woman of about forty. Stunning. Short curly hair worn close to her head. Tall as Rebecca but not as willowy. Put together more like one of those old- time pinup girls from the fifties and sixties. Lush would be the word. A Vargas girl.

  “Hiya, Glen,” she said to the bartender. Glen sucked in his gut and walked her way. “Hi, Ramona, how’s it going?”

  he said in a voice two octaves lower than the one he’d been using on me.