Doom Fox (24 page)

She pecks, like a gluttonous bird, at the preacher's long worm, risen through his open fly. His eyes are shuttered in bliss. His diamond glittered right hand convulsively squeezes Reba's writhing buttocks. His silky locks jounce on his head moving in sync with Reba's bobbing head.

Joe opens and rips off the Lincoln's door. He hurls it away like a Frisbee. They jerk rigid on the seat with chalky faces at the terrible wrenching sound of the severed door. Their eyes are gargantuan, electric with shock staring up at him. He sees the preacher's hand snake a nickel plated pistol from beneath the seat. Joe grabs Felix's gun hand and hears the wrist splinter as he slams it down on the steering wheel. Joe catches the flying gun, and flings it away over an ox shoulder to the concrete.

The stench of the preacher's B.M. churns Joe's stomach. His gout of vomit fouls the preacher's gold silk suit. Felix chops a left hand Karate blow at Joe's throat that cracks against Joe's dipped chin. Woozy, Joe slugs his temple. The preacher's teeth gouge a hunk of flesh from his hand. Joe punches a geyser of scarlet from the dainty nose.

Joe screams, 'You freakish devil! I'll kill you for God!'

Reba hollers, 'Police! Please, somebody help us!'

Joe jabs her mouth bloody. Reba leaps to the sidewalk clutching the bottle of champagne. Joe's face is hideous with joyful killer vengeance as he seizes the preacher's bloody head and jerks him from the car. The preacher's head makes a smashed melon sound striking the concrete. The grey, lover boy eyes glaze and close. Joe straddles him, grunts as his hands rip the corners of the cute mouth deeply into the cheeks. He jackhammers his knee into the preacher's scrotum. Reba's screams are deafening in Joe's ears as he tries to twist off the preacher's girlish head.

Lights in nearby houses flash on. People gape from their windows at the carnage.

Joe feels Reba straddle his back, bucks violently as she claws rills of fire on his neck and naked skull. He falls away, stunned for an instant, as Reba clubs his head with the giant bottle. He feels his blood ooze hot and wet down his face. In a red mist, he hears the bottle glass shower to the street. He turns to see Reba's wildcat face as she poises the dagger neck of the bottle to strike at his throat. He hurls his fist and sees her jaw pop askew like a gate wobbly on its hinges.

She drops lifelessly on her back, thighs gaped open. For a mini instant, he stares into her crimson lined sex snare that for years she has stingily rationed out, starved him mad for it. She loves to suck off the preacher but gives me cold kisses on my cheek, he tells himself.

Refueled rage galvanizes him out of all control. He whirls back to murder Felix. He hears a chorus of horrified cries from shadowy spectators. He seizes the preacher's throat, chokes him as he bangs his head against the concrete. Felix's head seems afloat in a pool of claret.

The racket of sirens, the screech of police car brakes shudder the night air. Then, even cop fists, their batons, their hoarse commands cannot loose his death grip. Only the dark curtain of oblivion releases him from his psycho frenzy of rage.

15

For his mindless twenty-odd minutes of vengeance, Joe got eight days in the jail ward of County Hospital and three years' probation. For three months, under its terms, he has lived out of the Allen home with Panther in his apartment above his fish market and has had no contact with Reba.

Joe lies in bed, reads by coffin gray morning light, for the dozenth time, a letter from Reba's lawyer which notified him, the day before, of her action to divorce him. He lights a cigarette. He torches a corner of the letter with the lighter flame, drops the flaming paper into an ashtray. His cop scarred face is satanic in the glow of fire as he stares into it, has murderous thoughts of Felix until the letter shrivels into ashes.

He violently slaps his thigh in frustration that the private investigator's report of Felix is lagging. His only chance to sour Felix's continuing affair with Reba. Joe makes a mental note to demand action from the sleuth or a refund of the fifteen hundred dollar fee borrowed from his boss.

He rises to go to the bathroom, hears Panther snoring as he steps inside to bathe and shave. Afterwards he gulps grits and eggs. Then, with lunch pail in hand, he goes into the chilly February morning wearing his plumbing coveralls over a Zenobia knitted sweater. He pauses on the sidewalk to engorge his lungs with crisp air. A sudden foul drift of exhaust fumes from the cars humming by on the nearby freeway stings his nostrils, knifes him with the memory of Elder Joe's fatal fracas with phantoms on it long ago.

He goes to secure the wind mauled tarpaulin covering the recently overhauled and painted La Salle. He gets into the plumbing truck parked on the street in front of it. He spends a sweaty twenty minutes getting the ailing truck to start. He drives jerkily away. He is thankful that as a bonused twenty-four-hour trouble shooter, he'd received no phone calls dispatching him to work using the crippled truck.

A half-hour later he chugs the truck into the plumbing firm's lot bustling with a dozen trucks and drivers preparing for the work day. He greets and slaps palms of most of his interracial co-workers as he moves across the parking lot into the one story sprawling red brick building housing offices and truck maintenance space. Joe steps through the open door of old man Hoffmeister's office and nearly collides with him and his son leaving the room. After warm greetings, Joe explains his truck problem.

The lanky towheaded son, crisply neat in fresh blue coveralls, says 'Joe, I'll check with the mechanic to see if number nine is ready for service' as he strides away down the corridor.

A silver crested leprechaun with laughing blue eyes, the elder Hoffmeister, impeccable in a blue serge suit, pauses. 'You look drawn, son ... no new personal problems I hope?' he says as he and Joe stroll down the corridor.

'Naw Otto, ain't no recent grief, and I ain't stewing but a little these days even with the news yesterday that Reeb's gonna divorce me' he lies.

The old man clucks sympathy, pats Joe's shoulder as they step into the parking lot. 'You're still young enough to make yourself happy with someone new. Like your papa was before arthritis laid him low. You're the best I've got ... come and talk to me if you feel yourself about to get into more trouble. Will you do that, son?'

As they shake hands Joe says, 'Yeah, sure will and I wanta thank you Otto. I 'preciate you but I'm gonna be all right.'

He goes to the replacement truck, gets an assignment sheet from the younger Hoffmeister before he drives away. At noon Joe excitedly leaves the Vernon Avenue office of the private investigator with the report on Felix he's agonized a month for.

A week later, during Joe's lunch break, the sun bolts rough an acrid wall of smog to illuminate an early bird young hooker working Western Avenue. Joe sits and gnaws at a meatloaf sandwich as he gazes through his plumbing truck windshield at the hot gaited vision switching mini-skirted hips down the sidewalk toward him.

Joe's stress sunken eyes sparkle as he cocks his naked head and scans the neat curves and svelte planes of the bantam sex kitten wiggling closer, smiling at him. What a fine young fox, he thinks, she's got Reba's green eyes, the whole lil cute Bambi smear. His scrotum tingles when she stops and sticks her head inside the truck. He gazes into the slumberous eyes of the infant mudkicker.

'Hi Big Un. I'm Jill, and you?'

'Joe' he mutters.

'How about a light lift?' she asks in a smokey sweet voice.

He nods. She gets in beside him with a pulse leaping flash of satiny thighs and braless to the navel cleavage. His testicles ache with long term pressure as he keys the truck to life. He drops his mutilated sandwich into his lunch pail on the seat between them.

'Where can I take you Jill?' he hears himself ask raggedly. She lifts his lunch pail to the floorboard. She scoots her curves against him and finger-strokes his earlobe, pinches his rod on the rise.

She says, 'To that motel around the corner from McDonald's. That is, if you want to sin with me for ten ...' Then she whispers a standard hook. '... just did sixty days. I wanta "come", Joe!'

He pulls the truck away to the corner, turns into the motel lot. As Jill slides across the seat to get out she says 'All right Daddy Darling, give me ten and four for the room.'

Something in the 'daddy' salutation, the way her young voice quavers for an instant, chills and turns him off, reminds him of Belle and Sadie. He bites his lip, stares stupidly at her child's palm extended. He digs into his wallet, passes a ten dollar bill into her palm.

As he starts the engine he says, 'Baby girl, I'm sorry I took up your time. I've changed my mind. I gotta cut you loose.'

She gets out of the car, confused, and watches as he drives from the lot. He glances at his wristwatch through a blur of tears forced by a sudden jolt of Reba loss. He drives furiously to his twins' grade school. He parks across the street from the school. He switches on the radio to Lou Rawls' 'Natural Man' lyrics. His elephantine foot unconsciously sledges the floorboard in time to the tune. He lights a cigarette that dangles, after a puff, from his fat lips. He blots his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He uncaps a pint of vodka, sucks half down his gullet.

He hears the bedlam of kids flooding the schoolyard across the street for recess. He sticks his head out through the truck window. He stares through the fence into the moil of kids, searching for a glimpse of Belle and Sadie.

He spots them. Their gleaming auburn tresses lash their shoulders as they skip into the schoolyard behind the last of the other kids. He thinks he sees them dart glances toward the familiar truck. They're laying the cold shoulder on me, he thinks. Reeb's poisoned them against me.

He honks furiously to force their attention. His heart sprints as they mope poker faced to the fence. They stand, shifting feet, staring at him. He waves, throws extravagant, frantic kisses. They are statues for a long heartbreaking moment. They exchange looks before they wave hesitantly, half-heartedly blow back kisses. Then abruptly they scamper away to play. He is sure they despise him. 'I've lost them!' he thinks.

His eyes harden. His hands quiver madly as he glances at his work sheet. He drives away, feeling like his own grandpa, to unclog a toilet on Vermont Avenue near Sunset. He finishes the job at noon. He thinks of Junior. His need to see him overrides his shame and fear of rejection.

He drives toward an open air lunch stand near Manual Arts High School. The school building looms like a red brick repository of his youthful memories. He remembers his long ago heartaches, the misery of comely and affluent Melvin's conquest of Reba. He scowls as a mulatto jock cruises by in a gaudy Chevy crammed with girls. He is reminded of how he suffered to see Melvin and Reba cruising by in his low riding purple chippie catcher.

He parks down the street from Junior's taco stand hangout. He is surprised to see the stand deserted. Further down the street he sees an excited mob of students at the mouth of an alley cheering wildly. He leaves the truck and goes down the sidewalk to the alley. He peers above the head of the mob into the alley.

Junior is nose to nose with a sneering dandy who taunts, 'Dottie is our broad. Chump!'

Junior shoves him and starts to exchange blows with the powerfully muscled young adult. The grunts of the combatants resonate the alley.

Joe watches quietly, with rising irritation, as Junior's counter punching opponent beats Junior to the punch again and again with sucker overhand rights to the head. He winces as Junior falls to the alley floor glassy-eyed.

Dottie, a dazzler with a child's face and a woman's full blown curves, wails and throws her arms around Junior. Junior shakes his head like a pole-axed steer as he tries feebly to regain his feet. His opponent kicks at him.

Joe bulls through the silent crowd into the arena. He seizes the kicker and hurls him against the side of a building.

The kicker bounces off the wall and falls to the alley floor, gasping for air. Joe stoops to help Junior to his feet. Junior glares at his unfaithful fox. She paws, throws herself at Junior. Junior slaps her away.

As Joe leads Junior away toward the sidewalk she pleads, 'Please Jo Jo, don't be salty. I ain't never gave that funny time nigger no action. Honest, I ain't lying!'

Junior brushes past, turns to blow a gob of bloody spit at her feet. He says, 'We're through, scumbag!'

She screams, 'Fuck you, ugly ass!' Then she whirls, with a pouting mouth, back into the alley to comfort and coo over Junior's comely rival.

Joe says, 'Son, I'm glad you woke up to Dottie. You'll forget her.'

Junior glances back. Stops. Joe's fist grinds into Junior's back as he forces him down the student-clogged sidewalk into the truck. Joe roughly uses mouthwash and tissues to cleanse Junior's wounded face. Junior lights a cigarette.

They sit silently for a long moment before Junior mutters, 'Papa, I coulda beat the pee outta that turkey if I wasn't just up from the flu.'

Joe smells the cheap wine on his breath. He says harshly, 'Don't jive me Junie. You got the crap knocked out of you 'cause you been messing 'round with lowlife chippies, cigarettes and wine, and you still twitching that left shoulder before you throw the left hook. I've told you and told you about that. Why shit, when I was your age I'da run that sucker back up his mammy's belly with my first combination.

'Know why? ... 'cause when I was in my teens I had my nose wide open to win. I stayed away from cigarettes and hooch. I trained and listened to my papa's boxing teaching. I stayed hungry for Pops' advice. It's why I didn't take a drink or smoke a coffin nail or lay a broad until I was nineteen. Believe me baby, I could've made heavyweight champion of the world if I had been hip enough to stay on the boxing track. But Pops got arthritis and I got double trapped. First doing his plumbing gig, and then by my nose wide open for your mama. Get yourself together son. Make me proud. Gimme a boost so I can have hope for you, so some of my misery looking back will make some kinda sense.'