Fistful of Feet (15 page)

   He was surprised he was sharing a cell with such an unassuming man, the proprietor of the General Store. That made Bluford feel a little better. At least the sheriff was open to the possibility that someone other than Bluford did it.

   Tom Duma said, “So you drink that Ass Juice yet?”

   “Yeah.”

   Tom laughed. “How’d you like it?”

   “I don’t know.”

   Tom laughed again, a low chuckle that echoed through the small cell.

   Bluford didn’t find the situation at all funny so he just faked a soft laugh and sat down. They both were silent and lethargic for a while, knowing that all they could do was wait until the sheriff finished his investigation.

   But then Tom started pacing back and forth, biting his nails and mumbling. “There’s got to be something else. Something. I know there has to be.”

   Bluford said, “Hey. You okay?”

   “What? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

   “Okay then.” Bluford said.

   Tom stopped pacing and said, “You ever been with a whore?”

   “Uh, yes, I have,” Bluford said. “Why?”

   “See, I never could see the draw to it. You go in there and fuck one of those whores and you pull your pecker out and think that she has a nice wet pussy but you may just be dipping your pecker in some other man’s seed. Doesn’t seem right to me.”

   “I guess that’s something to think about.”

   Tom stood up. “Doesn’t that seem disgusting to you? The way I see it, a man should just find himself a good virgin and if he can’t find a virgin, get a woman who isn’t so worn out. Then he could clean her up and make sure she doesn’t screw around on him.”

   Bluford said, “Yeah, I suppose that’s so.”

   “See, I have a wife and she treats me pretty good when she’s not raising hell, hollering at me and all that. But when we go to bed, well, that’s when the fun starts.”

   “Sir, I hardly think your wife would appreciate this conversation.”

   “She’s not here, now,” Tom said. “Is she?”

   Bluford shook his head. “No, she isn’t.”

   “You know what I like doing? I like lying on the floor and having my wife piss on my face. That’s not so strange in this town. I know what goes on there at Betty’s place and I know the girls do worse than that.”

   “I didn’t say it was strange. I didn’t say anything.”

   “Well, I could see by the look on your face that you’re getting uncomfortable. But I do have a point. I’m not just jawing your ear off for no reason. I’m just saying that even though my wife can be a rough bitch on occasion, I still enjoy choking on her piss. Get it?”

   Bluford said, “I guess so.”

   “It’s good for the skin, too. The piss, I mean. Look.” Tom put his hands on his face and walked close to Bluford. “Look at my skin. See how nice and smooth it is? That’s from my wife’s piss. That’s something, huh?”

   “Yeah, that’s something.” Bluford wasn’t sure what sort of reaction Tom was expecting. Why was he talking about the disgustingly intimate details of sex acts with his wife? Was the man looking for Bluford to be sickened or excited by it? Perhaps the man wanted to find someone who shared the same desires. Still, it was a strange thing to talk about. It seemed so out of place.

   “So, you been up to Betty’s place yet?” Tom said.

   “Yeah.”

   “Get yourself a girl?”

   “Yeah.”

   Tom said, “Which one?”

   Bluford’s stomach churned when he thought of the eviscerated corpse. “Lily.”

   “Well, I’ll be damned.” Tom went back to the wall and leaned on it. He stared at the floor and fell silent for several minutes. Then he said, “So was she good?”

   Bluford hesitated. “Who?”

   “Lily,” Tom said. “Was she a good fuck?”

   “Jesus Christ.” Bluford walked to the other side of the cell and sat down. He didn’t want to talk anymore unless it could help prove his innocence. As he sat there in silence, Bluford found himself staring at Tom Duma’s face and in particular, his skin. Did his wife’s urine really work wonders like the man had claimed? He didn’t know but thought that if he did get out of the town alive, maybe he’d try it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

   Lady Troy was busy dancing in front of the mirror as was her morning routine, caressing her breasts while her penis swung back and forth, back and forth. She didn’t hear the noise coming from the other rooms in the brothel. She didn’t know that Lily had been found murdered. Instead, she danced and read a little bit out of a book that a young Frenchman brought her. It was written by a man named De Sade and it aroused Lady Troy greatly. Reading was much more fun than hanging around with the other whores. They were so needy and weak. She didn’t need them. After all, she had her book.

   She was so engrossed in that book that she did not see the door open or see the razor shine in the sunlight as the black-gloved killer rushed forward. She did not see death as it came up from behind.

   The killer slashed her across the neck and grabbed her hair, shoving her face down deep into her chamber pot, the blood from her wound leaking into it. She coughed on a mouthful of her own piss. The killer pulled Lady Troy’s head up, giving her a moment to take a breath right before her head was shoved back in. Her mouth was open as it went down into the slop and chunks of flaky shit sloshed down her throat. Finally, she succumbed to a filthy death.

   The killer left the room, giggling.

* * *

   After she heard about the murder, Rebecca Bywater was afraid for her life. It hadn’t been just a drunk harassing her the night before. It must’ve been the killer.

   She drank a half bottle of whiskey and sat on her bed. In her drunken haze, she took out the medicine that the man from the General Store had given her. He had said it was for her woman parts. It was probably pretty common for whores to get problems down in that region and come to think of it, Rebecca did feel itchy down there.

   She took out the small sack of black paper and started to unwrap it. Inside was bright blue goo. It wasn’t like any medicine she’d ever seen but if that Tom Duma fellow was a trusted member of the town, it must be fine.

   So Rebecca rubbed the goo all over her vagina and leaned back on her bed. In minutes she felt the itching go away while her pubic area pulsed with each heartbeat. Then she felt feverish. Something was wrong. She sat up and looked down at her crotch.

   Tiny blue crabs were running out of her vagina.

   She jumped off her bed, screaming and swatting at the crabs. In her confusion and horror, she didn’t see when the window opened. She didn’t see the razor glistening in black-gloved hands as the killer crept closer to her.

   Rebecca’s legs were now bright blue from the tiny creatures crawling all over her. The killer grabbed her by the hair and sliced her throat. Blood splashed down onto Rebecca’s legs, drowning the crabs. The razor slashed again but this time from her chest down to her pubic hair causing her insides to spill out onto the dull brown rug.

   The killer looked at the mess and inhaled the stench.

   Death smelled good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

   Betty Black heard one of her girls say that William Lyons and his boys knocked Calamaro out and took him out into the desert.

   It couldn’t be true, she thought. Calamaro didn’t seem the kind of man to be caught off-guard. He seemed to be a strong man with good instincts. Maybe the girl got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Calamaro.

   Stacklee said, “I checked with Angie. She described him and it’s Calamaro alright.” He had his head down, not wanting to look her in the eyes when he told her the bad news.

   “Maybe Angie got it wrong.”

   “No, I don’t think she did.”

   Betty was still surprised that she cared so much about the stranger. Normally she didn’t give a shit about the men who passed through. For some reason Calamaro touched her heart in a way that she hadn’t been familiar with for a long time.

   Stacklee said, “You want me to go find him?”

   “And then what? You think Lyons is just going to hand him over? Him and his boys would kill you, you know that. And don’t you want to find out who killed Lily?”

   “The sheriff is taking care of that. Already locked up Tom Duma and that card cheat Bluford.”

   “You think he did it? The card cheat, I mean.”

   “No, I don’t think so,” Stacklee said. “But right now the least I could do is try to save Calamaro before he’s killed, too.” He knew it would be a stupid decision but he was prepared to make it. It wasn’t often that a white man stuck up for him and he had appreciated that. “I’ll be careful. Sneak around some, maybe do some long distance shooting.”

   Betty said, “You don’t even know how many there are. Do you?”

   “Angie wasn’t clear on that. Maybe four or five including William himself.”

   “Well, if that’s what you think you should do, I’m not going to stop you.”

   Stacklee walked to the closet and pulled out a shotgun and a rifle. “I can make due with these. If I think I can’t handle it, I’ll come back, Betty, I promise.”

   “You best do that. I don’t need to go to two funerals.”

   “Well, if Lyons gets a hold of me, there’ll probably be nothing left to bury,” Stacklee said. He regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. “Sorry, Betty.”

   “Just do what you have to do,” she said and then walked away.

* * *

   When the sun appeared, Calamaro’s eyes burned.

   Through the burning, he saw a woman on the horizon, her dress blowing in the early desert wind. At first he thought he was witnessing the return of the tiny woman. He thought she was coming to destroy him just like she destroyed all those scorpions. But then he saw that the woman on the horizon was not carrying an umbrella. She was carrying a shovel.

   Calamaro felt like his eyes and mind were the only parts of his body that still functioned. He couldn’t even tell if he still had any arms and legs. Perhaps there were underground insects that fed on human flesh and bone. They might chew on his neck, severing his head from his body. Then maybe a hawk would swoop down, grab him by the hair, and take his head up into the sky.

   The woman on the horizon got closer, her dress swaying in the wind even more. Was she going to come and bury the dead scorpions? But he looked around and realized that all the insects were gone.

   Dust settled in his ears.

   Through the dust he heard the muffled footsteps as the woman walked nearer. Then a voice said, “You will be out soon.”

   Calamaro was surprised. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was a man. An Indian man.

   “Be calm,” the voice said again. When the man reached him, he stuck his shovel in the ground inches away from Calamaro’s face. The Indian bent down and gently took the shoe from his mouth. Then he pulled a buffalo bladder full of water that hung from his shoulder and put it to Calamaro’s lips. “Drink,” he said.

   The water was warm but refreshing. Once his mouth and throat were satisfied, Calamaro paid more attention to the Indian who was using his shovel to dig him out.

   He wore a purple dress and make-up just like the whores in town. Calamaro had heard about men who dressed like women but had never seen one himself.

   “Getting you out soon, friend,” the Indian said. With great effort, he continued to dig until he finally put the shovel down and pulled Calamaro out of the hole. For a tall, lanky Indian man wearing a dress, he was quite strong.

   Once he was out of the hole completely, Calamaro tried standing up but found that his legs simply wouldn’t hold his weight. He collapsed into the arms of the Indian and passed out with the smell of white sage creeping up his nose.

* * *

   In the distance, Stacklee saw a woman digging. Next to her was a familiar head on the ground and Stacklee grunted in disgust. Did those bastards cut off Calamaro’s head?

   But then he saw the head move.

   Stacklee slowly walked forward, keeping the rifle poised and ready just in case. As he got nearer, he saw that the woman with the shovel wasn’t a woman and that the head in the ground was Calamaro’s.

    When he was a hundred yards away, Stacklee aimed his gun at the man in the dress. He’d be damned if he let someone bury Calamaro alive. But then he saw the man in the dress pull Calamaro up out of the hole. He wasn’t burying him, he was digging him up.

   Stacklee slowly approached them and when he did, he saw Calamaro collapse into the man’s arms. He kept his gun ready. Then he said, “Hey.”

   The Indian looked at him but said nothing. When he saw the gun, he nodded slowly.

   Stacklee took a step closer. “I said hey.”

   Again there was no response so he pointed the gun at the Indian who finally said, “I heard you.”

   “What’re you doing with him?”

   “I dug him out. Some men put him into the ground,” the Indian said. His voice was soft and feminine.

   Stacklee said, “What business is it of yours? Who are you?”

   “Kimama.”

   “You know him?” He gestured towards Calamaro who was unconscious.

   “No, I do not,” Kimama said. “You do?”

   “Yes.” Stacklee walked closer and kept his gun pointed at the Indian.

   “I mean no harm.” Kimama said.

   Calamaro moaned. His legs straightened as he tried to stand on his own. He looked up and saw the Indian holding him. Then he looked in Stacklee’s direction. With a gravelly voice he said, “Stacklee?”

   “Yeah, it’s me.” He pointed the gun to the ground and walked over. “Those bastards really did you in, huh?”

   Calamaro tried smiling but groaned in pain instead. His cheeks were raw and bloody. “Not as bad as it looks.” He straightened his legs again and found that he was able to stand up on his own. Kimama gently let go of him.

   Calamaro coughed, clearing the dust from his throat. The dust blew out of his mouth and out the wounds in his face. He looked at Kimama and said, “Thank you.”

   “You do not have to thank me,” the Indian said.