Bad Chili (25 page)

“What for?”

“I called him earlier, see if he’d had any luck.”

“Well?” I said.

“He said he had some things comin’ together, he’d know better tomorrow, so we’re gonna meet in the morning. Nine o’clock, my place.”

“Good enough,” I said.

“You fellas think this wrestler really means to hurt me?” Brett asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m just being cautious. For a while.”

“How long?” Brett said.

“I don’t know.”

“And you really haven’t any idea if he means to hurt me or not, do you?”

“No.”

“You can count on one thing, though,” Leonard said. “It ain’t gonna happen. He ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

Brett smiled at him. “Thanks.”

Leonard nodded.

Brett looked at me. “You got that interview.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m about to leave. . . . Didn’t you tell me to remind you to call Ella?”

“That’s right,” Brett said. “I thought I’d check on her. She called yesterday. She’s made up her mind to leave that thug Kevin.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“Me too,” Brett said. “I’m going to call, try and give her the moral support. ’Course, if he’s there, that won’t be easy. He sleeps a lot, though.”

“He work?”

“Some kind of shift where he’s on a few days, off a few days. He’s off right now.”

I gave Brett a kiss, told everyone so long, drove to the chicken-processing plant to check on the night watchman’s job.

“This is a costly operation,” Waggoner said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand.”

“There’s all manner of expensive equipment here. We even have the occasional business spies. People trying to sneak in here and get our secrets. That’s going to get worse, Collins.”

“You’ve actually had spies?” I asked.

“Couple of niggers hired by our competition, and I won’t even show the company the respect of saying their name.”

“What did these spies do?”

“They took photographs of our equipment.”

“No shit.”

“And of our chickens.”

“Doesn’t one chicken look like another?”

“Not when they’re raised the way we raise them. We slap the juice to them, Collins. We got the biggest, fattest chickens you ever seen. Big fat juicy drumsticks. That’s ’cause they don’t walk on ’em. Can’t. Our chickens can’t walk. We’ve bred them that way.”

“Hope you haven’t just given me one of your secrets.”

“No. That one’s out. Darn animal-rights people been all over our rear ends about that one. Let me tell you, Collins, we’re the envy of every chicken-processing plant in East Texas. Possibly Oklahoma and Louisiana as well. You can even throw in Arkansas if you want.”

“Why not,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I said why not throw in Arkansas.”

“Is that some kind of remark, Mr. Collins?”

“You said we could throw in Arkansas. I’m saying it’s okay with me.”

Shit, I thought, don’t do it to yourself, Hap. Waggoner is an officious, fat, rednecked prick in an expensive suit with a tie that doesn’t match, but hold back, baby. You need the work.

Waggoner studied me to see if I was being humorous. I could tell this was a guy didn’t like humorous. He saw humorous, he’d shoot it and fuck it in the ass and bury it in the chicken shit at the plant. That’s how he felt about humorous.

“We need a man who is willin’ to put his life on the line, if need be,” Waggoner said.

“For chickens?” I said.

“For the business, Mr. Collins. And yes, chickens. We take this business very serious, and I need a man who is serious.”

“I think I can be serious about chickens,” I said.

“No thinking to it, you are or you aren’t.”

“I can do the job, Mr. Waggoner. I can keep people out. I can patrol the area. And I don’t think there’s really that big a threat to the chickens or your industry from industrial spies, but I see one of those sonofabitches, I’ll be on him like stink on shit.”

“I’d prefer you not use that language, Mr. Collins.”

“All right,” I said.

“I’m a churchgoing man myself.”

“Which church?”

“Methodist.”

“Dancing Baptist.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s what they call Methodist. Dancing Baptist. You know, they’re allowed to dance. Baptist aren’t supposed to. Sometimes, they call Methodist Baptist that can read.”

“I’m not sure I care for that sort of thing, Mr. Collins.”

“It’s a joke, Mr. Waggoner. I’m a little nervous. I’m tryin’ to warm us up.”

“Well, you’re not. I don’t care for humor in job interviews.”

“Sure you’re not a Baptist?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You know, we got some other jobs here might be better for you. Chicken reproduction, for one.”

“Come again.”

“Chicken reproduction. We need people to help us stud chickens.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. How would I stud a chicken?”

“I think you’re tryin’ to be humorous again, Mr. Collins.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Obviously, you would be required to stimulate the roosters and preserve their sperm.”

“You’re kiddin’?”

“I am not.”

“You’re sayin’ you’d want me to jack a rooster off into a test tube?”

“Something like that.”

“You really do that?”

“Have you heard of such a thing for bulls? Horses?”

“Well, yeah. That’s bad enough, but you want to offer me a job jacking off chickens? You got to be out of your mind, man.”

“People do it.”

“Not me. I came to see about a night watchman job.”

Waggoner took my application, opened a drawer, and slipped it inside. “I believe that’ll be all the questions I need to ask, Mr. Collins. Something comes up, you fit the qualifications, I’ll give you a call.”

“You’re not going to call me, are you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. That being the case, let me tell you something. I think your fuckin’ chickens are second-rate. I wouldn’t wipe my ass on your chickens, let alone jack one of the sonofabitches off.”

“Good night, Mr. Collins.”

I drove home, sat around in my kitchen with a glass of milk and a Moon Pie, nibbled at it, felt blue. I couldn’t even get a job at the goddamn chicken plant being a night watchman. All they had for me was a position jerking a rooster’s dick. It didn’t get much worse than that.

I looked through my old record albums, my audiotapes, and the handful of CDs I owned. ’Course, I didn’t own a CD player, so I just sort of pretended I could play those if I wanted to.

Finally I found a tape Leonard had given me. It was Junior Brown. Junior Brown played an instrument of his own devising, a cross between a guitar and steel. He sounded like Ernest Tubb singing to music played by Chet Atkins, Jimi Hendrix, and a honkie-tonk drunk.

I listened to that a while. Took a shower. Went to bed. Looked at the ceiling. Squirmed in the covers. Listened to the rain outside. I kept checking my .38 on the nightstand.

I tried to figure if Jim Bob was right, and this King Arthur was the mastermind. He seemed the most logical, but Big Man hadn’t said he was behind it. He hadn’t asked for videos. He had asked for
a
video and the book.

I churned all of this around for a while, got up, turned on the box fan, put a chair under the back doorknob to reinforce the lock. I put a chair under the front doorknob. I checked all the windows to make sure they were locked. I wanted them open to let in the cool, wet wind, but I was afraid. I kept visualizing Big Man Mountain slipping through one of the windows, that goddamn battery and crank generator under his arm.

I wished I had a vicious dog. I wished I was at Brett’s place, in bed with her, holding her close. I wished I’d win the lottery. I sort of wished I’d gotten the job at the chicken plant, even if I had to jack off roosters. I wished I was a thousand miles away.

I felt as if I had just closed my eyes, then morning light was in my face and I got up.

It was early yet. Brett was not off work. I decided to dress and drive over to the hospital, catch her as she came out, see if she wanted to go somewhere for breakfast.

The day had cleared, the air was almost sparkly, and the birds were out in force, singing various operas. The streets were shiny-slick with water and there were few cars moving about.

As I drove off the highway and into the parking lot, I saw a cop car. There were medical personnel rushing about. My stomach sank. I parked and leaped out. I started walking very fast toward the sirens, the lights, the commotion. Another cop car whipped into the lot and whirled over there. People were coming out of the hospital, across the way, from houses nearby.

I walked even faster, but now a crowd had sprung up, most of them from the hospital staff. I grabbed a guy by the elbow.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Another man standing next to him said, “Some guy shotgunned some people in a car. Big guy. He shotgunned them. I talked to a guy saw it happen. The cops got the guy saw it over there, talking to him.”

I pushed through the crowd, got cussed, kept pushing. I made my way to the forefront. I could see Brett’s car. The windshield was blown away. There was glass all over the place. They were lifting a man onto a stretcher. Even from a distance, I could see it was Leon. Big bad Leon. Minus the top of his head.

Oh, Jesus.

They covered him quickly.

On the driver’s side of the car they were lifting someone else out. A woman in a nurse’s uniform. Suddenly I was right there. Looking down on a woman’s body. Her entire face was gone. Hell, her head was practically vaporized.

Shotgunned.

Both of them shotgunned.

I put my hand against a car and held myself up. A cop grabbed my elbow. “Hap,” he said.

I turned. It was Jake, a cop I knew a little. “Did you get the guy did it?” I asked.

Jake shook his head. “No, we got a pretty good description, but we didn’t get him. We will. You all right, man?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, Hap. You know these people?”

“Yeah. I got to go.”

“You’re all right?”

I ignored him.

“I might need to talk to you,” he yelled after me.

I shoved through the crowd and back to my car. I started it up. I drove away from there, nearly ran a half dozen people off the road. I drove over to Leonard’s. He wasn’t there. He’d be at Brett’s, waiting for her to come home. Waiting for me to stop by.

I used my key and got the door open. I went to Leonard’s closet, pulled his twelve-gauge out of there. I got the box of shells off the top shelf. My hands trembled as I pushed them into the loading chamber and put a handful in my front pants pocket.

I had been sleeping while Brett was murdered in the hospital parking lot. Sweet, beautiful, foul-mouthed Brett.

Brett and Leon.

I had been sleeping.

I had been stupid.

How could I think having a watch on her would matter? Not even Leon could handle Big Man Mountain. I could see it now. Mountain had merely waited until Brett got off work; then, as a punishment to me, he had shot her to death. Leon would have tried to stop him, but it didn’t matter. Big Man had shot them both, fast as he could pump a shotgun.

Leonard and Jim Bob had been right. I should have gone savage. I should have gone wild. Had I done that in the first place, gotten rid of Big Man Mountain’s employers, Brett and Leon would still be alive.

I was climbing in my truck with the shotgun when Jim Bob pulled into the drive. That’s right. Nine o’clock, me and him and Leonard were supposed to meet. I’d have to take a rain check.

“Hey, Hap, where you goin’?” Jim Bob yelled.

I didn’t answer. I backed out, drove very fast along the street toward the main highway, and when I reached it I drove even faster, toward King Arthur’s place.

The world grew smaller as I drove, the exterior of the truck becoming nonexistent. I didn’t remember the road at all. Just the world growing smaller, smaller, until it was nothing more than the cab of that truck, then my space on the seat, then the inside of my head. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on the shotgun stock, touching it as tenderly as a lonely man might touch his privates in the dark.

Thinking and wondering, how come the horrors happen to me and those I care about? What the hell have I done? Who’s throwing the dice?

Well, this one time, I was going to throw the dice. I was going to throw them right down King Arthur’s throat.

The driveway to King Arthur’s trailers was blocked by a metal gate. I got out of the truck with the shotgun, climbed over the gate, and started walking briskly toward the trailers.

As I neared the trailers, a huge rottweiler appeared. It barked at me once, started to run toward me in that menacing manner dogs have. I lifted the shotgun, shot it in the head. It did a flip, splattered and slid on the red clay and lay there, one back leg flexing.

“Sorry,” I said. “Nothing personal.”

I walked faster, and now I was at the front of the closest trailer’s door. One of the goons who had been in King’s car that day jerked open the door, a nine in his hand. I was close, real close. I swung the shotgun stock up and connected with his chin. He straightened up and went backwards and lay on the floor, showing all the enthusiasm of a bearskin rug. I climbed over him, picked up the nine, tossed it backwards out the open door behind me.

I came along the hall, striding fast, and another one of the guards presented himself. I lifted the shotgun. He leaped aside as I fired and the blast took out a chunk of the trailer’s back wall. I heard him making a rustling, scuttling noise somewhere out of sight, then I heard the back door open and slam, and I knew that big bad motherfucker wasn’t so bad after all, that he was running fast now, and if nothing got in his way, he ought to make the edge of the goddamn Atlantic Ocean by midnight.

“King!” I yelled. “King!”

I picked a door to my left, blasted it with the shotgun. It flew open, and I was inside, and there was King, lying in bed, Bissinggame beside him. They sat up quickly. Both were nude. Bissinggame had a peach-colored leisure suit draped over a chair. On the chair were jockey shorts, peach socks, and white shoes.