Black Water (13 page)

Snap!

…she jerked to a stop! Like she’d run into a brick wall. All her senses come to life while she scanned the dark woods at her left, listenin’. While the moon lit the road in front of her well enough, it couldn’t penetrate a dozen feet into the woods. Maybe it was just a possum or some other woodsmate, so why had she reacted that way? She’d heard critters in the dark before. Keepin’ a wary eye to the woods, she continued on her way, tryin’ to shake it off, but she couldn’t shake the nigglin’ feelin’ that somethin’ was wrong.

Suddenly, she squeaked a squirrel-like yip. Somethin’ had ricocheted off her chest and bounced to the ground. She rubbed her hand over where it’d struck. It hadn’t hurt her. It wasn’t big enough, but where had it come from? She bent over and picked it up. A peanut! Where the Hell….

A silly giggle in the woods to the left brought her straight back up. “Who’s there?” she chirped, and then realized her voice sounded choked, and that made her feel she’d betrayed concern to somethin’ she shouldn’ta. She was owlin’ her head back and forth, lookin’ in the woods, when she was struck with another peanut. “Come on now, this ain’t funny. Who’s out there? Nud? If that’s you, I’m gonna skin you alive, then I’ll get Hub t’beatchu t’juice!”

Again, the muted giggle. She jerked her head to the sound of another stick snappin’. This time, though, it wasn’t from the giggler’s position. She cocked up, set for fight or flight. Her head jerked to another snap, and this time she saw somethin’ movin’, comin’ out o’ the trees to the road, just up ahead and to her left. When it stepped into the road, the light o’ the full moon blinded her from the front so that she couldn’t make out the face, but she did recognize it for its size and the way it carried itself.

Her lip curled back and her stomach seized up like she was gonna vomit! Boy, oh boy, how quickly things could go south. Twenty yards to her front, George Komes sauntered, slowly, to the middle o’ the road. She’d noticed him and his stupid brother leerin’ at her at the dance, but with dozens of people around, she’d passed it off. But now she didn’t have the crowd to protect her. Or her brother. Her ever instinct screamed at her to run. Everbody’d heard rumors o’ George and Matthew doin’ nasty things to girls, sex things, but nobody ever admitted to it ‘cause gettin’ sexed up by George wasn’t anywhere near as bad as tellin’ on him and gettin’ nearly beat to death. Then, too, there was the witch.

There was always the God Damn witch.

She glanced around, lookin’ for the stupid one, knowing full well that where you saw the one, the other was close by. George without Matthew was like a body without a shadow. She didn’t see him, and that made her more nervous than if she had. She turned her attention back to George and started backin’ away. He didn’t make a move to follow her, so now she felt stupid. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong after all, he was just bein’ scary ol’ George. He liked bein’ scary as much as she liked bein’ cute. “What’re you doin’, George?” He didn’t say anything. That didn’t help her nerves. She chewed her bottom lip, glanced around. “Where’s ‘at brother o’ yorn?”

He still didn’t say anything. She was up to there with whatever the joke was, and she wanted out. She spun around to go back the way she’d come, and stuttered to a stop. Matthew, with that stupid goofy smile plastered on his ugly face, was standin’ in the middle o’ the road, the moon full on him, poppin’ peanuts in his mouth.

“Boy, you’re a quiet one, ain’tcha?” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed, friendly, and gigglin’ like a snake if a snake could giggle. “Wanna peanut?” and he flipped another one. It bounced off her chest, and to the ground. “Hold still,” he said. Then, miming what he wanted, “push yr’tittieth t’gether ‘n I’ll thee if I’cn pitch one ‘tween ‘em,” and pinched another in his fingertips like he was about to toss it at her.

“I’d rather ya didn’t,” she said. If she ever knew anything in her life, she knew this—she was in trouble. Real. Bad. Trouble. This was what people felt just before they died. She quickly surveyed her situation. George in front, Matthew in back, and the dark woods to the side. The choice was obvious.

George had read her mind, brought his hand up to his mouth to remove his tooth-rubbin’ stick, and asked, “What’cha gonna do, Lowwwretta Lusaw? Gonna run?”

Then, behind her, she heard Matthew’s insane chortlin’, “Runnnnnnn, Ret! Run ‘r I’m gonna gitcha in th’tittie with a peanut!”

Ret dropped her shoes and was in the woods before they hit the road.

George had his eyes scrunched down, concentrating hard on something up the street, rubbin’ a twig over his teeth with one hand, a lit hand-rolled in the other. Ever few seconds he’d take a pull and then blow the smoke out his nose. He and Matthew were sittin’ in a beat-up Ford shortbed parked at the curb in the middle of the industrial section of Lecerne, Louisiana, which was pretty much all Lecerne was. They’d been there about half an hour and it was miserable cold and wet. George was nervous ‘cause he couldn’t see for shit through the fog. They had to keep the windows rolled down to keep their breath from foggin ’em up. Ever little bit George would stick his arm out the driverside window to wipe the front glass on his side off with a rag, and then pass it to Matthew to catch the other side.

“Thit, it’th cold,” Matthew bitched for about the millionth time. He was slunk down in the seat with his coat collar turned up, arms crossed over his chest and his fingers tucked in his armpits. He didn’t notice George give him the stink eye, tired of his complaints.

Matthew was worryin’ a rubbery thingamabob in his mouth about the size of a cashew. It wasn’t a cashew, though. Far from it. He’d pass it back and forth between the gap in his teeth with his tongue for a little bit, pull it out, mash it in his fingertips to flatten it out and then, when he let go, watch it reshape itself. Then he’d smell it and stick it back in his mouth. He noticed George was watchin’ and helt it out to him. “Wanna chaw?”

George laughed and shook his head. “No, thanks, that’s an acquired taste.”

Matthew didn’t know what a
kwired
was and didn’t really give a shit, so he let it go. “Firtht one I had’n a long time,” he said. He pinched it out again, brought it to his nose, flared his nostrils, and took a slow whiff. “Don’t tatht no more, but it didn’t have much t’thtart with. You’d think it’d have more, wudncha, ‘cause o’ where it come from.” He put it back in his mouth, took a deep breath, blew it out, and the vapor gave him an idea. He clenched his fists and pistoned his arms back and forth. “Chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka.” Then he tilted his head back and out the window, blowin’ vapor. “Wooooooo, wooooooo, woo-woo, wooooooo. Chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka, chka-chka. Wooooooo, wooooooo.” He looked over at George and grinned. “Thounth like a train, don’t it?”

“Right,” George said. “How ‘bout pullin’ it in th’station ‘fore somebody hears ya.”

Matthew looked around the deserted street. “They ain’t nobody around.”

“Let’s not take th’chance, okay?”

Matthew smiled, clenched his fists, pistoned his arms, and chka-chkaed slower and slower until he sshhhhhhhhhed to a stop. “Everbody out!” The ride over, he wrapped his arms over his chest and stuck his fingers back in his pits. “Fuck, it’th cold!” He turned to George, looked over his face and grinned. “You done motht o’ th’payin’, I feel awful guilty gettin’ all th’joyment.”

George adjusted the rearview mirror with a knuckle-skinned right hand, leaned for’ard and, as best he could in the truck’s dark confines, examined his fresh, deeply-scratched face.

“Theyth gonna latht,” Matthew teased.

George looked over his face in the mirror. “Yeah, well,” he picked up the .45 resting in his lap, flipped open the chamber, checking the load, “I got my share.” He flipped the chamber back and, imagining something dark, said more to hisself than to Matthew, “’n I got a lot more t’come.”

“We got a lot done t’day,” Matthew said.

“Yep, I think we did.” He put the gun back in his lap, pulled a watch out of his pants pocket and flipped it open. 12:15 a.m.

“‘Bout time?” Matthew asked.

“Should be,” George replied. He put the watch back and felt somethin’ hang up on his knuckle. He rubbed his finger over it. A flap a skin. He brought it to his mouth and gnawed it off with his front teeth. Then he pinched it off the end of his tongue and helt it out to Matthew. “You want this, too?”

Matthew squinted at it. “What ith it?”

“Flap o’ skin.”

Matthew shook his head and parted his lips to show he was still occupied with the current prize. George flicked the flap out the window.

Nestled in the warm, cozy office of one of the warehouses half a block up and on the other side o’ the street, Jack Hoff, mid-fortyish, a fearless security guard with a Southern States Security patch sewn on his sleeve, checked his watch. 12:16 a.m. He snapped it shut and stuck it back in his pocket. He and thirty-five-year-old Randolph (Snotty) Snodgrass, another highly-trained example of securial guardatory ferocity, relaxed after a grueling day of waitin’, sittin’, and readin’. Randy had a three-week-old newspaper spread out on the small table in the middle o’ the room, but it hadn’t kept him from nodding off.

The purpose of this deadly duo on duty at a non-descript warehouse in the middle o’ nowhere was because somehow, earlier that afternoon, their armored truck ran into engine trouble on the road and they didn’t get into town until long after the bank’d closed. They’d picked up the strong box on time from the train whose tracks didn’t yet swing anywhere near Lecerne. It was their job to bring it into town and to the bank. It was a run they’d done ever month or so for a couple o’ years, so just another day at the office.

A few miles outside o’ town, Randy’d been droning on and on ‘bout somethin’ that was goin’ in one o’ Jack’s ears and out the other, when Jack skorked up his face, cocked his good ear to the front o’ the truck, and told Randy to, “Hush up!” Randy didn’t know pucky about motors and Jack knew it. If he told Randy the rackety-soundin’ motor had Rocky Mountain Chicken Pox he’da believed it. Randy listened real hard, said he didn’t hear nothin’, but Jack said he was gonna pull over anyway and take a gander under the hood. He pulled off the road, turned off the motor, climbed out all huffy-like, propped up the hood, and stuck his head in. He twisted and wiggled and waggled first one thing and then another. Then he kicked the bumper hard, pulled off his official Southern States Security cap, scratched his head, and spat out, “Shit! I’s afraid o’ that! God Dammit all t’Hell!”

While Randy scanned the motor, lookin’ to see what the that was that Jack was so concerned about, Jack told him, “Jump back in ‘n when I say, give it a crank ‘n keep yr’fingers crossed.” While Randy was gettin’ in, Jack unhookled a couple o’ spark-plug wires and yelled, “Make sure it’s in neutral ‘n let ‘er rip!”

Randy pushed in the clutch, took it out o’ gear, and punched the starter, kickin’ it over. It sounded like it was grindin’ rocks. Jack jumped back like he’d been snake bit and yelled at Randy to, “Shut it off, quick, quick! Jesus H!” He jumped around, slingin’ his hand. “Damn thing nearly took m’hand off!” D.W. Griffith woulda been poundin’ his pud, Jack’s performance was that good. Randy started to jump out o’ the truck. “No,” Jack said, “stay there, I might wantcha t’try it again.”

“Are you nuts?” Randy asked, shocked beyond belief at Jack’s bravery.

“Listen,” Jack snapped, full of manly responsibility, determination, and company pride, “We gotta get t’th’fuckin’ bank ‘fore it closes. Just gimme a second.” Jack cautiously approached the hand-gobblin’ machine and after makin’ sure Randy couldn’t see, rehookled the spark-plug cables and backed out.

“Ready?” Randy asked, stickin’ his head out the window.

“Naw, changed m’mind, we jes better leave it.”

Randy climbed out o’ the truck and came to stand beside Jack. “That sounded like Hell,” he said, ping-pongin’ back and forth between Jack, Jack’s hand, and whatever the Hell it was that made the hand-grabbin’ racket in the engine.

“Yeah, well, I’s right. It’s th’God Damned Heckle Shaft. Burned clean up! I never woulda thought it’cd happen twice in th’same lifetime.” He was so into the moment, immersed in the part, he was havin’ trouble backin’ out.

“You had it happen b’fore, huh?”

“Once, but that was twice too much.” Randy was such a great audience, it was hard to pull the curtain down. “Tryin’ t’get it lit probly just fucked it up that much more.” He kicked the tire. “Shit!”

Randy took a quick look through the engine compartment, like he’d know the difference between a burnt Heckle Shaft and a cracked Speckle Joint. Then, he looked at Jack and asked, hopeful, “We got a spare?”

Jack looked at him like that might possibly be the dumbest thing he’d ever heard another human bean ask. “Are you kiddin’ me? Not on this fuckin’ planet! Them damn things’s scarce’s hen’s teeth. And expensive? Whoooooooee are they ever! They almost never blow, but when they do, well, shit, you heard it yr’self. They ain’t somethin’ ya keep layin’ ‘round in th’glove box, waitin’ fr’one t’crap out on ya.” He scratched his head and looked up and down the road. “Shit, we ain’t gonna get there in time, God Dammit! There goes a perfect God Damn record!” He pulled out his pocket watch, took a disgusted look, snapped it shut, and put it back in his pocket. “That jes beat’s all! Fuckin’ bank’s gonna close. Come three o’clock them double-breasted sons o’ bitches snap th’front door shut faster ‘n tighter’n my sister-in-law’s hairy pink snapper.” Then a funny popped in his head and, laughin’ out loud, he said, “But, unlike th’bank, if th’sister-in-law had any idee I had fifty G’s hunkered in m’front pocket warmin’ th’Trouser Mauser, she’d swing th’gates open,” he snapped his fingers, “jes like ‘at.”

It was about three hours before they got a tow, and now, there they were, sittin’ it out with fifty thousand sheckles in a locked box in a little coat closet in a warehouse the bank’d had to take back from a company that’d went belly up, waitin’ for the sun to come up and the bank to reopen. They weren’t too worried, though. They were armed and knew how to use ’em. How many people knew they were there? Industrial area, quiet, no problem.