Wildlife- Reckoning

by Jeff Menapace

  Wayne entered wearing a Miami Dolphins baseball cap, his long greasy hair tucked behind both ears and hanging out in back. “Darla’s about to wet herself,” he said. “Is it true? We having a Roy Night tonight?”

  Cooper gestured to Travis. “Travis here is feeling a bit unfulfilled after last night. Says we ended the fun a bit too quick for his liking.”

  Wayne cast a judgmental but harmless look Travis’s way. “That right?”

  Travis said nothing.

  “His just arriving here is as good an excuse as any to have one,” Cooper said. “Kind of a celebration like.”

  “Short notice, don’t you think?” Wayne said.

  Cooper made a face. “Since when did short notice ever bother you?”

  “It don’t. But unless you got some folks tied up somewhere you haven’t told me about, we don’t have much to work with, do we?”

  Cooper waved a hand at him. “Oh, you worry too much, Wayne. We’ll get it sorted in time.”

  “You say so.”

  “Wheel Harlon in here for a minute,” Cooper said.

  Wayne left and returned with Harlon, wheeling his chair to a stop in front of everyone.

  Harlon, head lolled back against his chair, the rest of him useless, had to rely solely on his eyes to track everything and everyone on the porch.

  “What the hell y’all want?” he asked. To say Harlon had become a bitter mess since Travis had had his way with him the other night would have been akin to saying it was humid in August.

  “We’re fixing to have a Roy Night tonight,” Cooper replied. “I reckon since you’re not fit for much anymore, you can keep score. How’s that sound, Harlon?”

  “What the hell am I supposed to write with, my teeth?”

  Wayne and Cooper snickered.

  “He do got a point,” Wayne said. “Plus we know he’s too stupid to keep score in his head.”

  “Fuck you, Wayne.”

  Wayne turned his head towards the kitchen. “Darla? Honey, can you go and fetch Tara for me? Your cousin Travis wants to see her.”

  Harlon’s eyes went wide. “What the hell you up to, Wayne? Why you telling Darla to go fetch Tara?”

  Wayne sucked his teeth. “Didn’t much care for the way you spoke to me just now, Harlon.”

  “Well, then I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry.”

  Darla appeared in the doorway, grinning and holding a small glass tank. Travis could make out a few inches of soil, a few rocks and plants, and that was all.

  When she approached Travis and happily stuck the tank in his face, Travis spotted the spider.

  “Is that a tarantula?” Travis asked.

  Darla nodded proudly.

  Travis looked at Wayne. “How’d you manage to find a tarantula in Florida?”

  “Pet store,” Wayne said. “We don’t venture into that part of town much, but seeing as how it was Darla’s birthday and all. Picked her out herself, didn’t you, baby girl?”

  Again Darla nodded proudly, tank still up and in Travis’s face for him to admire.

  “It’s very nice,” Travis said to her.

  “Darla, honey?” Wayne said. “You mind if I hold Tara for a minute?”

  Darla turned and brandished the tank before her father.

  Harlon’s eyes stretched even wider. “Come on now, Wayne, just what the hell are you up to? I said I was sorry, didn’t I?!”

  Wayne carefully removed the top of the spider’s tank and handed it over to Cooper. He then reached in and plucked the big spider up with one hand. Slowly, spider held out in front, he inched towards Harlon.

  “Goddammit, you know I hate that fucking thing! Keep it the hell away!”

  Darla, cottoning on to what her father was up to, started giggling wildly, hopping in place, pressing both hands to her groin to stem her eager bladder.

  Wayne placed the spider on Harlon’s face. Harlon screamed, resorting to feebly blowing great puffs of air towards the spider as his only means of defense. The spider continued to explore across his face. Harlon went to scream again, but the spider inched its way towards his mouth, forcing him to immediately snap it shut, lips disappearing. He began to sob, tears running down both cheeks, one of those streams reaching the spider. And the spider was not startled by the stream of tears but was instead made curious, crawling towards their origin, towards Harlon’s eyes, perhaps interested in something to drink.

  Travis looked on with great interest. Was this what he was after? The dread? Stretching out the torment to unbearable lengths? Perhaps. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was the scene itself or the fact that Harlon was starring in that scene. Perhaps if Travis was the one holding the spider, directing the play. He was certainly fulfilled when severing Harlon’s spine. But wasn’t that because he’d been director for that particular scene? Director for the scene at Clarke Correctional with his father? In the swamp with the three men from Hattenworth?

  Harlon, face scrunched into a ball, eyes and mouth sealed tight, began hyperventilating through his nose.

  And then everything went lax. His rapid breathing stopped. His mouth fell open. Eyes still closed, yet no longer tight slits pinched shut. A growing circle of urine was evident on the crotch of his overalls.

  “Boy went and passed out,” Cooper said with a snort. “Pissed himself too. Betcha he shit his drawers as well. Twenty bucks to the one who gets up close for a smell.”

  Even Darla wasn’t taking that bet.

  Wayne plucked the spider off Harlon’s face and placed it back in its tank. Cooper handed over the lid, and Wayne secured the top of Tara’s home.

  “Thank you, baby girl,” Wayne said. “Off you go now.”

  Darla hurried off.

  Cooper and Wayne looked over at Travis, faces even, gauging his reaction.

  Travis, unsure what to say, settled on: “I think you might have finally shut his big mouth for good.”

  It did the trick. Cooper and Wayne shared a laugh, Cooper then placing a hand on Travis’s shoulder and saying: “What do you say the three of us head into town and get ourselves a drink? See if we can’t spot some folks who might be willing to help us with our short-notice problem?” He looked at Wayne. “We’ll take both boats. Start stocking them with the usual.”

  Wayne nodded.

  “Thought you didn’t go into town much,” Travis said.

  “We do from time to time,” Cooper said. “We just don’t tell nobody we’re Roys, is all.” He winked and added: “We prefer ’em to find out the hard way.”

  Chapter 22

  Both cars slowed to a stop on the unpaved road, gravel popping beneath their tires. Bryan exited the car and walked back towards Morgan and Mick. Mick rolled down his window.

  “Is this it?” Mick asked, making no attempt to hide the uncertainty in his voice.

  Bryan looked back towards the isolated locale. It might have been a battered storage facility with the odd window here and there for all its flair. And as Stacey had mentioned, advertising was nonexistent; even a sign out front announcing itself was absent. Very few cars and trucks were parked in the gravel lot, yet this had little to do with the fact that it was early in the day, but more to do with the fact that the bar was so close to the river. Many came by boat—precisely what Stacey had been counting on when she’d decided seeking a boat at Sam’s would be in bad taste.

  Bryan turned back to Mick. “That’s what Stacey says.”

  Morgan leaned over into Mick’s lap for a better look out his window. “Charming place,” she said.

  Bryan shrugged. “Stacey thinks it could be a gold mine.” Then, though he wasn’t quite sure how to address such a thing, he asked Mick: “Morgan said you had a gun?”

  Mick considered Bryan for a moment. “That’s right.”

  “Did you, uh…did you bring it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you gonna wear it in the bar?”

  “Don’t you think that would draw just a little bit of unwanted attention our way?” Morgan as
ked, still leaning across Mick’s lap.

  “He could wear a jacket over it or something.”

  “It’s a hundred degrees out, dude,” Mick said. “The air’s like soup. And I’m gonna take a wild guess that the place isn’t air-conditioned. I’m not wearing a jacket.”

  “What if we find someone with a boat who’s willing to take us where we want to go? Are you just gonna leave the gun in your car?”

  “If we go on a boat, I’ll come back to the car and get it. That cool?”

  “I guess.”

  “If Stacey was here, she’d say you were too deep in your head again,” Morgan said. “That you’re worrying too much.”

  “Very true,” Bryan said. “Don’t tell her.”

  Both Morgan and Mick smiled.

  “Long as we stick together, we’ll be fine, brother,” Mick said.

  Bryan nodded and smiled back.

  “All right then,” Mick said. “Wanna go and park so we can head on in?”

  “Sure. Leigh challenged me to a round of shots.”

  Morgan sat back in her seat and cheered. “Wooh! Shots!”

  “Ahhh…shit,” Mick muttered.

  ***

  A part of Stacey was imagining a scene in a film to play out when they first entered Jumbo’s. The stereotypical scene where the outsiders entered the local bar, the record scratching to a stop, the place going pin-drop quiet, all eyes falling hard on them.

  None of that happened. In fact, no one even seemed to notice or care that they were there. Even Tommy’s camera received only brief glances from weathered faces far more interested in resuming their imbibing in the middle of the afternoon.

  The interior of Jumbo’s was not any great surprise. Saying it, like its exterior, had only modest allure was an understatement. The yeasty smell of stale beer, swamp, and cooked fish—Who the hell would eat in such a place? Stacey wondered—made for a good day of remembering to breathe through your mouth. Couple that with the fact that it held the heat of a Native American sweat lodge, and you practically had no choice but to be a mouth breather for the day.

  Leigh elbowed Bryan and motioned towards the bar. “Let’s go, sissy boy. Shots.”

  “We’re going to get a table,” Stacey said.

  “What do you want, honey?” Bryan asked.

  “Whatever,” she said. “Beer.”

  “What about you guys?” Bryan asked the rest.

  All but Morgan mumbled “beer.” “Why can’t we do shots too?” she asked.

  “Oh, you’re doing shots,” Leigh said. “Everyone is. We’ll be back.”

  Chapter 23

  What was initially a collection of groans when the first round of shots arrived at their table was now a buzzed and eager collection of smiles when round four (accompanied by beer) appeared. Hair of the dog was in full effect, quelling both hangovers and any previous anxiety.

  Yet alcohol could not take all the credit for suppressing any previous anxiety; the place, despite its appearance and despite that of the patrons (all of them rough, hardened-looking men and women), was proving itself to be a good lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Stacey had even managed to chat up a few of those hardened locals, a few even willing to be filmed as they gave their take on the Roys and the massacre. Those who did not want to talk were polite, simply wishing to be left alone. And they were. Stacey even bought them a drink for their trouble.

  Those who did agree to talk got several drinks for their trouble. A clever ploy on Stacey’s part that held dual motives: Oil up their incentive in case doubt crept in before Tommy could yell action, and better still, oil up their tongues; the more uninhibited they became, the more they would divulge. Local places like this had invisible lines that only locals themselves could see. Even the gossipiest of them would often hesitate to cross them. Booze was the industrial cleaner that was capable of erasing those lines, and Stacey and Tommy had captured a damn good couple of interviews as a result.

  With the exception of the humidity—all of them soaked head to toe—it was turning out to be a damn good time. Even the humidity became a non-issue after a while, despite (or because of?) the constant wiping of sweat off foreheads; the constant pulls on shirt collars to let in air; the proclamation by Mick that it was eerily fitting such an environment was giving him “swamp ass.” Morgan then warning him that there would be no sex later unless he showered first. Mick countering, stating he’d bet her the next round of shots that she was no bouquet of roses herself, not in this heat. Morgan respectfully agreeing among the riotous laughter of the others before venturing to the bar to make good on the bet, to keep the party going lest the buzzes fade and the hangovers return tenfold.

  ***

  Stacey followed Morgan to the bar to help carry back the next round of drinks.

  “We still need to find a boat,” she said. “Can’t forget why we’re here.”

  Morgan gripped Stacey by the face and smooched her. “Nobody’s forgetting, sweetie. We’ll get a boat.”

  The bartender appeared. Much different than before. Their previous bartender had been a tan, rail-thin man with a good head of sun-bleached hair. Balder than Mr. Clean himself, the bartender standing before them now was a monster of a man, and not of the muscular kind. With his belly like a keg of beer, thick arms hanging out to the sides like tattooed hams, beard gray and full and down to his chest, Morgan could not help but lean into Stacey’s ear and whisper: “Holy shit, it’s fucking redneck Santa.”

  Unfortunately, Morgan was drunk, and her whisper was anything but.

  “Say that again, ma’am?” the bartender said.

  Morgan’s Irish skin went beet red. “Oh shit, I’m sorry—I was just making a joke.”

  “Did I hear you right? Did you say ‘redneck Santa?’”

  Morgan winced and gave an apologetic nod. “Kinda…”

  The big man threw his head back and screamed: “I LOVE IT!!!”

  Both Morgan and Stacey flinched as though a bomb had gone off.

  The big man slapped his meaty palm on the countertop, rattling bottles and glasses, and declared: “I’ve heard just about all of them, but I’ll be damned if that isn’t a new one on me!” He took a formal bow for them and said: “Jumbo the Redneck Santa—owner and proprietor.”

  Stacey’s eyes lit up. “You’re Jumbo?”

  “I am indeed, young lady.”

  “Oh my God, that’s so awesome.” She spun towards Morgan. “This is awesome.” Back to Jumbo. “This is awesome. Would you be willing to let me interview you?”

  “You know, I do have to say I’m curious as to what you folks have been up to with that camera of yours. Not exactly the kind of clientele I expect in my place.”

  Stacey explained everything.

  “Hell, I got Netflix,” Jumbo said. “You saying my ugly mug might be on there one day?”

  “If this deal goes through, I guarantee your interview will stay off the cutting room floor. But you gotta give me something juicy, though.” She grinned at him.

  Jumbo chuckled. “Ain’t you just the charmer? I tell you what; I got some stuff I got to finish in back. You folks stick around a bit, and I’ll come back and give you an interview juicier than a ripe mango. How’s that sound?”

  “That sounds amazing. Thank you so much.”

  Jumbo smiled, took another formal bow, and left.

  ***

  Stacey turned to Morgan. “How fucking cool is this? I didn’t even know whether Jumbo was a real person. Guy like that, running a place like this, he’s gotta be a vault of awesome stuff.”

  “You gonna ask him about renting a boat?”

  “Definitely. Gotta be sly about it, though—can’t just blurt out that we want to go to the real Roy home, no bullshit tourist trap.”

  “Agreed.”

  The skinny bartender with the good head of sun-bleached hair returned and placed two shots and two beers before Stacey and Morgan.

  “What’s this?” Stacey asked. “We haven’t ordered yet
.”

  The bartender motioned towards the end of the bar. “From those guys,” was all he said.

  Stacey and Morgan simultaneously peered down the length of the bar. Two particularly unattractive men grinned back, beers raised in salutation.

  “Creatures from the Black Lagoon, party of two,” Morgan whispered.

  “What do we do?” Stacey whispered back.

  “Don’t drink the drinks,” Morgan said. “If we do, they’ll come over.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Morgan waved off the drinks, smiling politely at the two men and mouthing, “No thank you.”

  Their grins dropped like stones. One leaned in and whispered something to the other. The other nodded and whispered something in return, both of them now glaring in Stacey and Morgan’s direction as they spoke.

  “Dammit, I knew this day was too good to be true,” Stacey said.

  Leigh appeared at the bar. “Are you welching on your bet, girl?” she said to Morgan. “We’re sobering up back there.”

  Stacey explained the two guys at the end of the bar.

  Leigh took a good hard look their way. “Fuck ’em,” she said.

  “They look angry,” Stacey said.

  “So what?” Leigh said. “If you’d accepted their drinks, they’d have come over.”

  “That’s what I said,” Morgan replied.

  Stacey’s face suddenly changed for the worse. “They’re coming over anyway.”

  Leigh and Morgan turned. Both men arrived and stood before them with blatant contempt.

  “Don’t know where you ladies are from, but ’round here it’s polite to accept a drink when gentlemen are offering.” The man was heavy with a salt-and-pepper goatee.

  “Well, when they get here, let us know,” Leigh said.

  Morgan stifled a laugh.

  Stacey reprimanded her. “Leigh.”

  “You city girls are too good for us, is that it?” the second man said. Thin with a shaved head to mitigate his balding, he was also missing his front teeth, Stacey noticed; when he spoke, he lisped most of his words.

  “Not at all,” Stacey said. “It’s just that we have boyfriends.”