Short Money (30 page)

Ricky attached his unblinking gaze on Getter’s forehead.

“Where’s my son?” George rumbled.

The phone behind the bar rang.

“That’s probably them now,” Getter said. He leaned over the bar and raised his eyebrows at the bartender, who was answering the phone. “My name’s Getter,” he said. “Is that call for me?”

The bartender brought him the phone.

“Hello?”

“Are they there?” Bellweather’s voice seemed strained.

“They’re here. George and Ricky.”

He could hear Bellweather’s long exhalation. “Good. That’s good. Anybody else?”

“Just the bartender.”

“Good. Ask George if he brought the money.”

Getter held the handset away from his mouth. “He wants to know if you brought the money.”

“Sure I did,” George said.

“He says he brought it.”

“Does he have anything with him? A bag or a suitcase or anything?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Okay. Here’s what you do. Tell them I’m on my way. I’m bringing the boy with me. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. You stay with them, make sure they stay calm and reasonable.”

“What? That’s not what we talked about. I’ve done my part. I’m leaving.”

“Fine. Leave, then, if they’ll let you.”

“If they
let
me? I—” The line went dead. Getter shook his head disgustedly.

“Where’s my son?” George repeated.

“He’s coming. Dr. Bellweather is bringing him. They’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes. That’s a long time,” George said.

Getter said, “It’s not that long—”

A hand clamped on the back of his neck, he saw the top of the bar rushing toward him, he felt his nose explode on contact with the dark oak surface, heard George’s deep voice say, “You’re wrong, Dave. Forty-five minutes can be a very long time.”

Six miles away, in the tiny office of Clint’s Big River Amoco, Bellweather hung up the pay phone.

“Thanks,” he said to Clint.

“Your quarter,” Clint said, his cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips. “You gonna leave now?”

Bellweather had been waiting there for four hours, sitting in the smoky, oil-scented confines of the gas station office with Clint, the owner, checking his watch every five minutes. Clint had been friendly at first, glad to have company on this dead, snowbound morning, but for the past couple of hours he had become decidedly cool. Bellweather’s hunting stories no longer held his attention.

“I’m leaving,” Bellweather said. “Thanks for letting me wait inside.”

Clint grunted and waved a hand laconically.

Bellweather ran out to the Isuzu, jumped in, took off. A mile up the highway, he turned into the road leading to Talking Lake Ranch, bounced and slid down the icy tracks. The dogs started barking as soon as he pulled up in front of the lodge. They could bark their little doggy heads off, so long as they stayed in their kennel. The door of the lodge was unlocked. As he stepped inside, he heard a clink of chain links. The tiger, reclined on her belly, had lifted her huge head and was staring at him. Keeping well beyond the perimeter defined by the chain, Bellweather crossed the room and entered the hallway leading to George’s office. The door was open, the room dimly lit by the single window. He searched for the light switch, turned it on.

“There you are,” he breathed. The mounted boar, which had never seemed particularly lovely before, now glowed with promise. Bellweather stroked the boar’s bristly coat, probing with his fingers for the promised doorway.

A harsh voice sent his heart into a spasm.

“I smelled you.”

Amanda Murphy was standing in the doorway, claws on her hips.

Bellweather clapped a hand to his chest. “Mrs. Murphy! You scared me half to death.”

“I’m going to be doing worse than that.”

Bellweather took a step toward the old woman, drawing his best bedside smile across his face. “George asked me to pick something up for him.”

“Bull crap. I know what you are. Where’s the boy?”

“He’s with George and Ricky. I dropped him off with them at Birdy’s. It was all a misunderstanding.” He was only a few feet away now. Close enough to grab her and—“Whuff!”

Bellweather staggered back, clutching his crotch. The old bitch had planted a shoe right in his nuts, faster than he would have thought possible. He strained to overcome the pain, to go after her before she got to a phone, but she wasn’t running. She was coming after him, claws held high. Bellweather lashed out with his foot, missed, and caught a cheek full of nails. He screeched and scrambled away from her, getting George’s desk between them. She lunged at him, but her arms were too short. They circled the desk, Bellweather limping painfully, waves of nausea climbing from his testicles to his esophagus. He hadn’t been hit in the balls like that since he was a kid—he couldn’t believe how much it hurt. The old woman’s face was contorted with fury. He didn’t want to get anywhere near her. “I’m gonna rip your eyes out,” she hissed. “I’m gonna cut your thing off and feed it to the animals.”

In a burst of panic-induced strength, he picked up George’s chair and hurled it across the desk. She was quick, but one of the chair legs caught her shoulder, knocking her off her feet. Bellweather ran around the desk, tried to get past her, but a wizened arm shot out and grabbed his leg, nails digging right through the fabric of his pants. Swinging wildly, he landed a series of punches on her head and arms, kept swinging until blood spouted from her mouth and nose and her grip loosened enough for him to shake her off. The old woman sank to the floor, moaning blood bubbles. Bellweather backed away through the doorway, horrified, his breath coming in loud, ragged gasps. All his instincts told him to get out of there, to run and never look back, but then his eyes once again caught sight of the boar. He hesitated, looked down at the old woman. She lay curled on her side, coughing weakly, a strand of bloody mucus connecting her mouth to the hardwood floor. She seemed to be out of it. He could still get what he’d come for. He started back into the room, giving her a wide berth, just in case. Sure enough, as soon as he got within a few feet of her she scrabbled after him, using all her limbs, like a tarantula after her prey. This time he was ready. The toe of his cowboy boot caught her on her temple; she went down as if she’d been sledgehammered.

Gasping, Bellweather watched her still body suspiciously. After thirty seconds had passed, he reached down and pushed up an eyelid. Her eyes were rolled up, a good sign that she wouldn’t be coming around anytime soon. Her pulse was steady but faint.

“Okay, then,” he said aloud. He returned his attention to the pig, feeling with his hands, seeking access. The boar’s legs were permanently affixed to a heavy wooden base. Bellweather tried to slide the mount away from the wall. It weighed as much as a large sofa, but he was able to drag it out far enough to discover a flap on the wall side, revealing a metal door with a combination lock. It had been close to half an hour since his call to Birdy’s. He wouldn’t have time to remove the safe from the hog, let alone get it open. He looked over his shoulder at the unconscious Amanda Murphy, then at George’s gun cabinet.

The cabinet was locked.

He used a chair to smash the glass front of the cabinet. Using his hands, he pulled away shattered bits of glass, then reached in and grabbed the metal box containing his old friend the MAC-10. He looked over his shoulder. Amanda hadn’t moved. He opened the case, loaded the MAC, aimed it at the mounted hog, and let fly.

It took two clips to blow off all four legs. Bellweather’s ears were howling from the repeated explosions. He loaded a fresh clip into the MAC, grabbed the quadruple amputee by its ears, and dragged it out of the office, through the lodge past an extremely alarmed tiger, and out to the waiting Isuzu.

As I give thought to the matter, I find four causes for the apparent misery of old age; first, it withdraws us from active accomplishments; second, it renders the body less powerful; third, it deprives us of almost all forms of enjoyment; fourth, it stands not far from death.

—CICERO

S
OMETHING REEKS, CROW THOUGHT
.

He was on his back, something lumpy pressed against his spine. He could hear breathing. His head hurt. A foul wind abraded his face.

Very close to his ear, a familiar cracked and ragged voice said, “He’s coming round there, Puss. I told you he’d be okay. Look here, he’s got his nose all squinched up.”

A lighter, more distant voice replied, “That’s on account of you blowin’ your stink at ’im, H.”

“My breath ain’t that bad.”

“Like my farts don’t stink.”

“Sheeit.”

Crow hoped it was a dream. The last thing he remembered was driving down the highway, with Shawn Murphy sitting beside him. Or had that been a dream too? He opened his eyes a slit. As he suspected, the booze-and-time-ravaged visage of Harley Pike hovered a few inches above his nose.

“His eyes are open!” bellowed Harley, hitting Crow full force with the aroma of his diseased gums. Crow gasped and twisted away, grabbed the edge of the mattress beneath him, pulled himself into a seated position. Something banged around inside his head, showing him a few colorful flashes before subsiding to mere subvisual agony. He opened his eyes and took in his environment. He was sitting on a narrow bed at one end of a long, low, cluttered, dimly lit room. The air was warm, humid, and thick with cigarette smoke. Harley Pike, wearing nothing but a greasy, tattered black leather motorcycle jacket and stained gray briefs, stood over him, grinning.

At the other end of the room, Shawn Murphy sat at a narrow fold-out table, drinking an Old Milwaukee. Across from him, her long gray-blond hair hanging past her chin, sat one Gloria Schwep, better known as Puss. They were watching a small television.
Family Feud
.

Crow closed his eyes, counted to three, opened them. Nothing changed. He was still in Harley and Puss’s dilapidated mobile home. Last time he remembered, it had been parked just off the highway on a piece of county land not far from the Murphys’ ranch.

“You want a beer?” Harley bellowed.

Crow flinched at the renewed gas attack. “No, thanks,” he croaked, reaching up to explore his forehead. The lump was tender, but smaller than he remembered.

“Best damn cure for a hangover.”

He was right, of course, and Harley would know. His love of alcohol was local legend. Crow remembered his last encounter with Harley—was it only four days ago? Maybe longer. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

“You musta really been shit-faced, Crow. You won’t believe where your car is.”

“Where is it?” Crow asked.

Harley pointed out a smoke-yellowed window. Crow leaned forward and scanned the snow-covered panorama. His Rabbit was standing on its nose a few yards off the highway, its front end buried deep in a drift, the roof resting against a utility pole. He looked at Shawn.

“You okay?” It had always amazed him the way people could walk away from the worst-looking wrecks.

Shawn nodded. “I just got a little cut is all.” He had a small piece of tape on his chin. Crow noticed that he no longer had the handcuffs hanging from his wrist.

“How’d you get those cuffs off?”

“H. got ’em off him,” Puss said, firing a cloud of smoke through her nostrils. “I seen better locks on cheap luggage.” Folks in Big River never quite understood how Gloria Schwep, a good local girl, had wound up with Harley Pike. To Crow, the answer was clear. Harley was the one who needed her, the one who made her feel sane. Puss had devoted her life to cleaning up Harley’s messes, finding him odd jobs to keep him out of trouble for a few days at a time, bailing him out of jail when necessary. Her flat, grim expression never changed. She had a mission in life, which was more than most of them could say.

“I rolled a few cars myself,” Harley said. “Never set one on its nose like that, though. I always knew you was no better’n me, Crow.”

Crow moved his head, arms, and legs, testing them. Everything seemed to work. His head didn’t feel so good, but it was better than it had been last night. At least he could think clearly.

“What happened?” he asked Shawn.

“I dunno. You passed out or something, and we ran off the road.”

“Middle a the goddamn night, this kid comes banging on the door. Lucky I didn’t shoot his ass.” Harley squatted beside the small refrigerator and came out with a can of beer. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“No, thank you.” He looked at Shawn. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking beer for breakfast?”

“He was thirsty,” Puss said with a defensive note. “We didn’t have nothing else.”

“Didn’t know we was having company.” Harley popped the top on his beer, took a long drink, belched. “Hadn’t been for us, you’d a froze to death out there. Me and Puss, we had to drag you all the way back here. You was out cold.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. I appreciate it.”

Harley saluted Puss with his bottle. “Hear that, Puss? He fuckin’ appreciates it. Sheeit. All the times he hauled my ass into jail, he’s lucky I didn’t leave his goddamn ass in the fuckin’ snow.”

Harley was starting to warm up.

Puss said, “Hey, H., you want to go knock the snow off the antenna? This reception is for shit.”

Harley glared at her, breathing loudly through his nose. “Goddamn snow,” he said. He grabbed a pair of filthy jeans from a pile next to the bed, pulled them over his hairy white legs, forced his bare feet into a pair of twisted, salt-rimed engineer boots. A minute later, they heard him thumping around on the aluminum roof, his muted curses raining down.

Crow turned to Puss. “How many beers has he had this morning?” He frowned. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

“He’s had a few,” Puss replied. “He’ll be okay for a while. He’s mostly mouth these days.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten or eleven, something like that.” She looked at the television. “Whatever time
Family Feud
is on, that’s what it is.”

“I take it Harley doesn’t have a job right now.”

“He don’t have no work today, that’s for damn sure.”