A Portion for Foxes

by Daniel Mitchell

  “Sorry?” he said. “Sorry? I don’t want your sorry, asshole. I want you to leave. Just go and don’t come back. If you don’t, they’ll make me kill you. And if I don’t, they’ll do me. Maybe not Jesse, but Richard would. He ain’t right, man. Don’t give a rat’s ragged ass about nothing. Even Jesse is scared of him. He was always bad, but lately, he’s been snorting dope all the time. Barely sleeps. Last week, he shot the TV ’cause he didn’t win the Powerball.”

  "What happened to the girl? The one you all raped."

  "Her? She works for them, man. I didn't know till they dropped her off the next day. They run a place down in Denton called Honey's Oriental Massage. That girl is twenty-seven years old. Pretending to be a young girl is her specialty. Fat white guys pay thousands for that sick shit. Richard just wanted to see if I'd do it. That was his idea of a joke. A ‘test of brotherhood,’ he called it."

  That had all been a lie, and Mike had died for it. Eades, the cave, Joseph, everything since and everything to come was a direct result of that lie. I tried to process that but failed. I wasn't ready to accept that so much horror had come from Richard's idea of a joke. I briefly wondered what Randy's life must have been under Richard's loving hand if that was a typical Saturday night.

  “Tell me about Lauren,” I said at last.

  He got all still when I said her name and looked mean. “She don’t know nothing, and she ain’t going to.”

  “What do you tell her about your brothers?”

  “She ain’t stupid,” he said. “She’s heard stories, but I ain’t my brothers. They’ll get busted sooner or later, and then I’m a ghost. If they ever get out, I’ll be on a beach or in the mountains someplace, living off their stash. Ain’t never coming back.”

  “And what? You’ll take Lauren with you, have some little Stanglers, and live happily ever after?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I just know if I don’t find a way out, I’ll end up like them. I don’t want to go to prison, and I sure as hell don’t want to kill nobody. Not even an asshole like you.”

  “What happens to my family?”

  “They don’t care about your family. They didn’t see nothing. If they get hurt, it’s on you. Maybe if you’d just left... but you had to go and pull that shit with the propane tank. The feds were sniffing around for months. If Jesse hadn't used the backhoe to bury that cop and his car under the old hog pens out back, we'd all be on death row. Richard finds out for sure that was you, he'll never let it go.”

  “I ain’t going no place, Randy. I spent six months living in a hole on account of your brothers. Almost died. It's time to end this.” I leaned the shotgun against the wall beside me.

  We both stared at nothing for a long time.

  “So are you going to kill me?” I asked.

  “If you won’t leave, I got no choice, Sam.”

  “There’s always a choice," I said, "but that don't mean you're going to like it."

  #########

  Another afternoon storm was pounding the roof when I walked into Joseph’s shop. He didn’t even look at me. He just pointed toward a pile of fresh sawdust under the lathe. He must have seen my truck through the window.

  I dumped the shavings into the oversized plastic can by the back wall, taking in their sweet, slightly friction-burnt smell, and asked, “What needs doing?”

  “There’s an inlay design for another dinner table on the board. I’m all out of new ideas, though. See what you can make of it.” His voice was casual, like I’d never left, but he was smiling.

  I looked at his inlay design, just a rough sketch, really. It was basically the same thing we’d done on the last table before I went home. I decided to try something new, turned the paper over, and started doodling a starburst of cherry and yellow pine for the center with a thin line of mahogany framing the edge.

  I got so into it that I didn’t notice him looking over my shoulder until I was nearly finished scribbling the measurements. Sometimes, he was so quiet I felt I was sharing the shop with a ghost.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Ask me again when you’re done. All those tiny pieces aren’t going to cut themselves.”

  Two hours later, I glued the final piece in place for the inlay and took a step back. I squinted a bit, trying to see how it would look sanded with a layer of clear varnish and the edging.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch,” Joseph said. “That’s enough for today. It’s beer thirty.”

  I gave the shop a quick sweep then found Joseph on the porch, firmly settled in his favorite rocking chair with his rusty green Coleman ice chest beside it.

  We sat there until near dark, watching lightning flicker through the hills. I was happy to be back in his quiet world with a faint beer buzz building. That far out in the mountains, we couldn’t even hear a car. Other than a mockingbird hidden in the oaks and the cicadas buzzing all around us, we were the only life in the world.

  “Surely you got better things to do on a Friday night than hang out with me. Why are you here?”

  “Randy came to see me. His brothers want him to prove himself.”

  “By taking your head, I’m guessing.”

  “Son of a bitch stole my girlfriend too.”

  He looked hard at me.

  “Sorry. Forgot about the cussing.”

  “Guess I’d cuss him some too,” Joseph replied. “Don’t really sound like you mean it, though.”

  “Seems like I got a new one if I want her. She does things Lauren... She does things."

  Joseph snorted, a little beer spraying from his lips. “Got to love the ones that do things.”

  “I guess. She kind of freaks me out.”

  “You'll take to it like a bass to a worm soon enough. Congratulations.”

  I blushed a bit. Even Will didn’t know about that night with Jenny.

  “Still don’t explain why you’re here.”

  “Maybe I missed your pretty mug.”

  “I am sexy as all get-out.” He paused to toss his empty bottle into the ice chest and grabbed another. “So what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was hoping you might want to help with that.”

  Joseph stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. “How far are you willing to go to solve this little problem of yours, and how much do you trust your old pal Randy?”

  “About as much as a copperhead.”

  “Smart answer. This will get ugly," he said.

  I sat thinking about that. Knowing I had already killed Eades didn’t make it sound much easier. Sometimes when I turned off the light, I still saw him flying over the hood of his cruiser in far more detail than I’d really seen through the lens on my scope. I wasn’t sure I could do that again, even to a Stangler.

  “Have to find a way to get them alone or at least get them away from that fortress they got out on Gant Road.”

  “Fortress?”

  “Paid them a little visit one night,” he said. “Didn’t go so good.” He rubbed absently at some fresh stitches on his forearm.

  "What happened?"

  "They had searchlights and dogs. One of them was mean as hell."

  "And?"

  "Now they got one less." He took another beer from the ice chest and took a long drink.

  "You know what always happens to the guy who kills the hero's dog in movies?"

  "If Richard Stangler is the hero of this particular movie, I'd rather not be in the sequel anyway," he said.

  I laughed at that. Joseph didn't. I got a weird feeling he felt bad about that dog. Guess I would have too. Any dog living with the Stanglers deserved better.

  I walked to the edge of the porch and stared across the river.

  “Richard will come running if I’m the bait.” My heart thumped in my chest at the thought. "If we could get them out here, it's not like there would be any witnesses. We could do whatever we want."

  “So could they,” Joseph said and let that visual sink in for a bit. "Even if
we're the heroes, killing a man ain’t no little thing, but I figure you already know about that.”

  “I’d guess you do too.”

  He turned to look at me again. His eyes had that same look his snakes did when he brought out the mice. “I like you, boy, but some things ain't your business."

  I was pretty sure he had stories I didn’t want to know, secrets I didn’t want to share. I was weighed down enough by my own.

  After several seconds, he sighed and looked away. “That girl waiting, or you got time to go fishing?”

  “Always got time for fishing,” I said. “Besides, I haven’t called her back, and I think she wants to kill me.”

  “Yeah,” Joseph said with a chuckle. “They do that when you don’t fall in love.”

  #########

  We were sprawled in the sand, watching our poles and the fire. The smell of burning driftwood brought back too many memories of the cave and my months across the river. Time usually had a way of making you forget the bad stuff and paint the good in bright colors, but I was having trouble remembering much of anything good about those months. I was proud of making it on my own right up until I tried to crap myself to death.

  “How’s the grave?” I asked.

  “Quiet and cold, or so they say.” Joseph glanced over at me with a cheesy grin at his little joke.

  “Hilarious. You know what I mean.”

  “It’s fine, kid. I’ve been looking in on it time to time.”

  I wondered how often he’d really been there. Something in his voice was off. But he never liked questions about her, so I let it lie.

  Staring up at the familiar shapes of the stars, I thought of all the lonely nights I’d spent across the river, trying to remember their names, talking to them and the night wind like a wack job. I spotted the Big Dipper peeking over the cliffs to the east. Following the line of its handle, I spotted the Little Dipper and the North Star. Somehow, that night, it seemed to be looking back. I caught a flash of color out of the corner of my eye and glanced down.

  “The hell is that?” I asked, sitting up suddenly.

  Near the middle of the river, two eyes were glowing from behind a boulder exposed by the dropping currents of summer—red eyes. I was sure they hadn’t been there before.

  “It’s just Old Nick, kid, hoping for a snack.”

  “The gator? You named an alligator Nick.”

  “Not just Nick. Old Nick. Heard it in a story once about a guy making deals with the devil out in the woods. Made sense. Old Nick there got no interest in your soul, but he ain’t opposed to a little meat now and then. Don’t much care where it comes from.”

  “You are one messed up old man, you know that?” I said.

  He laughed and said, “Oh, kid, you got no idea how right you are.”

  I looked back across the water. The eyes were gone, and the July night felt chilly.

  “Don’t worry. Old Nick rarely comes close unless I call him. Might keep an eye out next time you check your pole, though.” Joseph smiled and nodded, as if answering some question I hadn’t heard.

  “I’d like to introduce him to the Stanglers sometime.”

  Joseph turned that same smile toward me and said, “Now, that’s one introduction I’d surely like to make.”

  Chapter 11

  “Mind my asking what you need all this ammo for?”

  “Target practice, mostly,” I said, “but Dad likes to buy some extra once in a while and stash it back. He thinks the government is coming for our guns and wants to be stocked up when they do. He’s got a whole closet full.”

  That wasn't true, of course, but I figured the old man behind the counter would buy that story. Even if he didn't, I was pretty sure he would love that I was paying in cash.

  He laughed, belly straining the fabric of his snap-button western shirt. “Yeah, I get lots of those in here. Give me a sec.” He wandered off, Joseph’s list in hand, peering at the boxes under the back counter. He picked up a couple of boxes here and there, loading them in one arm as he worked his way down the list.

  I walked slowly down the only two aisles in Jerry’s Guns and Ammo. The store reeked of leather and gun oil, black powder, and bean farts. It wasn’t someplace anyone would bring a date. The walls and racks were lined with rifles ranging from old black powder muzzleloaders to shiny new Bushmasters. Scopes, straps, and a wide variety of holsters hung from the ceiling and crowded the shelves.

  A side room had been added on since I’d been there last. It was stacked floor to ceiling with every kind of target imaginable from life-size fake deer to clay pigeons and the more traditional paper targets. Some were standard silhouettes. Others had pictures of scumbags with guns pointed back and even a few turban-wearing terrorists. I grabbed five of those as a present for Will.

  Pretty much anything someone might need for shooting something or someone was there. Even a small archery section sat in the back corner, but most of the store was devoted to new and used rifles.

  I worked my way back to the counter and looked at the pistols behind the glass. The store had the usual selection of revolvers and automatics and a few special pieces like the big .44s and .50-caliber Desert Eagles. Someone could buy almost any of the rifles without even showing an ID if they looked old enough, but the handguns required a driver’s license and a ten-minute wait while they ran a background check. Walmart required paperwork even for a single-shot .22. Jerry wasn’t so picky, especially when somebody was paying in cash.

  “I got everything on your list but those Teflon-coated .223s, kid,” he said. “Damn senators made those things illegal last year. Have to order them special or find them at a gun show. You looking to buy a pistol? You’ll have to bring your daddy in for that.”

  “Nah. Just wishing.”

  “Damn things ain’t no good for nothing but getting yourself killed anyway. Get idiots in here all the time, buying them for home protection, they say. Ain’t half of them ever shot one before. Ought to know better. A good shotgun will do you a lot better, and it’s near impossible to accidentally blow your head off with it.”

  “Jackasses,” I agreed. “Let me see that black twelve gauge behind you there.” I knew I only had to be eighteen to buy a shotgun, even a sawed-off beauty with pistol grips and an extended magazine.

  “Nice taste, kid. That there’s a Benelli M4 Tactical. Guaranteed to keep the neighbors in their own yard.”

  “I’ll take it. In fact,” I said, pulling out the wad of cash Joseph had given me, “let me see that Mini-14 you got back there too. Is that a night sight?”

  “You know your stuff. That there’s a beauty. Stainless with a composite stock. Already has a threaded barrel. Can’t sell you the suppressor, though. You’ll need your daddy and some government paperwork for that. Even got some thirty-round mags for it. Can’t use those for hunting of course, but for um... target practice, they’re a pretty good time.” His smile got bigger when he said target practice, and his gold eyetooth flashed in the fluorescent light.

  #########

  A week passed after I left the guns and ammo in my old room at Joseph’s cabin. He told me to be patient and wait for his call, but I barely slept a wink. I found myself jumping every time a car passed the house. I kept up with Dad’s daily list of chores and filled my spare time with any extra ones I could find. I cleaned the barn and garage top to bottom, gave the hay truck a tune-up, and drove the side-by-side around the fence lines every day, looking for wires to tighten, posts to reseat, and brush to clean up. I kept trying to exhaust myself enough to sleep, but the dreams just got worse. I took my shotgun with me everywhere.

  By Friday, my fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and I was eating Rolaids like candy. Mom kept asking if I felt all right, and I caught Dad watching me over supper more than once. I threw up a lot, outside where Mom wouldn’t see—breakfast mostly, but some days, nothing stayed down. At seven that night, Will showed up in freshly starched Wranglers and boots with a snap-button monstrosity of a wester
n shirt tucked in behind an oversized silver belt buckle.

  “You been cooped up too long, little brother," he said. "Get dressed. We’re going to the bull riding at Hardy Murphy.”

  I looked a question at Dad.

  "Straight there and straight home," he said.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I glanced at Will. “Give me twenty minutes."

  “You got ten!” Will yelled as I ran up the stairs.

  I came back down to find him already outside, waiting in the passenger seat of my Dodge.

  “You’re driving. I just got the Chevy detailed for my date tomorrow, and I ain’t getting her all dusted up at the arena. Besides, I need a designated driver.” He pulled a pint bottle of Jack Daniels out of his boot and took a healthy chug.

  I spent at least two seconds trying to think of a good argument then decided To hell with it and jumped in.

  We left my truck far back in the field by the arena, surrounded by several hundred other pickups and trailers. Before locking up, he passed me the last of the whiskey and a cold can of Busch Light from the ice chest he’d strapped in the back.

  “That’s all you get tonight, and if you tell Mom or Dad, I’ll be beating your ass five seconds after Dad beats mine.”

  “If you think you’re man enough,” I said and winged the now-empty bottle at him. Then I demonstrated my beer-chugging prowess with several quick swallows and tossed the can at him too. He chased me most of the way to the coliseum.

  Laughing and panting just outside the door, we paused to wipe the dust off our boots on the back of our pant legs. Will checked the angle of his black Stetson, and I pulled my OSU cap down a little lower above my eyes before following him up the ramp, imitating his bowlegged swagger.

  The dirt-floored indoor arena was used for everything from country-and-western concerts to the county livestock show, but its biggest draw by far was the twice-a-year rodeo and the annual Professional Bull Riding, or PBR, championship tour.

  Of the roughly five thousand seats, half were full of big hats and bigger belt buckles. Everybody was in their western best, sporting a dazzling variety of Ariat, Nocona, or Twisted X boots tucked into mandatory Cowboy Cut Wranglers shiny with starch and creased sharp enough to shave. More big hairdos and spit cups were in that one building than the entire rest of the state combined.