Foodchain (27 page)

Frank got a plate and eyed the meat. Before he got any food, he got a freezing cold can of Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer. Icewater and sweat ran down the cracks in sheep’s blood on his face. The beer tasted so good that he finished it and went for three more. These went into hip pockets. Then he got some French bread slices, took another beer, and drifted through the tables in the shade and made his way around to the north side of the park, and sat in the shade on the running board of the old fire truck, away from the festivities.

“Okay, like your attention please,” Sturm’s voice came floating out across the park. Except for the men, the park was unnaturally still, as if nothing lived in the limp tan grass and brittle leaves. “It’s time to hand out some guns.”

The men cheered. Frank opened another beer, slumped against the wheel well, and listened to Sturm unlock the toolbox. “Have to introduce our referee first. This here’s Wally Glouck and he did a damn fine job keeping score.”

Later, Chuck told Frank that Sturm had gotten all the men to pay for the chance to shoot and win guns, something like five grand apiece. The pistols were handed out according to cost, most of the guns, all of ’em handguns, came in around two to three grand at the most. Girdler took third place and won a German Luger. Asshole #2 beat Girdler, but just barely. He got a nine-millimeter Beretta.

Sturm took first, winning a pair of beautiful Old West Colt .45 bright silver revolvers, like a TV cowboy’s gun. Scrollwork was etched into the barrel and the intricately carved handle. Chuck said that Sturm knew he was going to win; he wanted the twin six-guns from that dealer, and went and bought the guy’s entire collection out, for a low, low price. With that amount of cash and no paperwork, the collector couldn’t refuse. He kept the cash and hired a few guys to burn his house down. The other guns weren’t worth near as much; basically, the clients had paid for Sturm’s guns.

* * * * *

“This very afternoon,” Sturm said, “you all are going to have a chance to hunt that goddamn monkey you all saw on those wanted signs. So don’t go wandering off just yet. Remember, there’s a goddamn twenty grand bounty on its head. I have it on very good authority that he’s gonna make his escape in this very park—and just to make things interesting, he’s gonna be bustin’ loose with all his monkey buddies. That’s right. I promised you some shooting, and it’s shooting you’re gonna be doing, by God.”

Frank cracked open another beer.

“But—but here’s the only rule. You can only hunt with the pistol you won here today. That’s the only rule.”

The guy who won the .22 groaned; so did Asshole #3. He’d won a snub-nosed .38, which was accurate all the way up to about three or four feet. Everybody else laughed.

* * * * *

Frank found himself in Sturm’s cab as they drove to the vet hospital. “First off,” Sturm said, “you have to realize a couple of facts. One. We don’t have enough cash to pay the winner of this particular operation. Two. We don’t pay these boys off, then this whole operation is bust. You add that up, son, and you’ll come to understand that if we don’t win here, you don’t get paid. You understand that?”

“Yeah.” Frank understood all right, but he wondered where the hell all of Sturm’s cash had gone. Sturm had gone down to Chico a few days earlier and cleaned out his bank account, bringing back at least five Army duffel bags full of bills. Frank got the feeling that it was bullshit, that all that was really going on was that Sturm simply didn’t like to lose.

“So here’s the deal.” Sturm laid out the facts.

When they got to the hospital Frank cracked open another beer and led everyone into the barn. Sturm pointed out the monkey. “There’s the little fucker. See his earrings? Okay then. You’re gonna watch us load all these monkeys, every last one ’em, into that truck. Then you’re gonna follow us to the park. There, you’ll have a chance to get your guns ready, and we’re gonna let these monkeys loose.”

Getting the monkeys into the horse trailer wasn’t tough. They backed the trailer up the side of the barn, pried off a plank, and Frank coaxed all them, including the wanted monkey with the earrings, into the trailer with a pile of dried apricots. Sturm made a big deal of locking the gate with a chain and a padlock, presumably to prove that there would be no cheating. He gave the key to Girdler to hold.

Chuck and Frank jumped into the cab. Then, with Sturm following directly behind Chuck’s truck, the Assholes next, and Girdler at the rear, the convoy pulled slowly out of the gravel parking lot. As they turned left onto the highway, Chuck said, “Go,” dropping the pickup’s speed to just a crawl. Sturm made the turn slightly tighter, angling his truck so he was partly blocking the view from Escalade and the Winnebago. Frank stepped out of the pickup and crouched, waiting until the running board of the horse trailer had reached him, hopped on, and crawled inside through the front window.

He had a pair of pliers and ten minutes.

He had kept some of the dried apricots in his pocket and pulled them out now. The movement of the trailer spooked the monkeys, but they quickly surrounded Frank, making grabs at his fistful of dried fruit. He located the big monkey with the earrings and held an apricot. Just before the monkey could snatch it away, Frank dropped the fruit, and in the split second the monkey’s attention was diverted, he grabbed the back of the monkey’s neck and went to work. The hard part was avoiding the nails at the ends of the fingers and long toes. Sturm had warned him about getting any cuts on his face; he didn’t want Frank showing up at the park with any fresh wounds to spark suspicion. The left earring was the easiest, because Frank could handle the pliers with his right hand. The right ear took a while, but Frank had just finished when he heard Chuck start honking the pickup’s horn, pounding out a rhythm.

This was Chuck’s signal that they were nearly to the park. Sturm started hitting his out horn as well, and pretty soon, both the Escalade and the Winnebago horns joined in, the mechanical bellowing echoing down the empty streets. The horns had a sort of formal effect, heralding the arrival of the hunters.

Chuck made another left, slowing down as much as possible, and Frank slithered out of the front window. He scurried up to the cab and hopped inside. Chuck pulled out of the turn and circled the park, turning into the alley in the center of the block on the park’s south side.

Sturm had all the hunters line up along the north sidewalk, facing the bank, while Chuck backed the horse trailer back across Sutter Street. This way, the hunters would be turning and shooting into the late afternoon son, just to make things more interesting.

Girdler returned the key and while Frank and Chuck drew back the bolts and got ready to drop the gate, the hunters loaded their handguns. Sturm said, “As winner of the last competition, I’m sitting this one out. It’s all yours, boys. Get your guns out.”

Everybody already had their pistols and revolvers ready.

Sturm raised one of his new pistols. “But before there’s any shooting, understand this. There’s rules here. We can’t have our own men under fire. You get five seconds. Understand me? You’ll watch as the monkeys get loose. There will be no shooting, none at all for a full five seconds. I’ll be going by my watch here. Anybody fires, anybody—and I’ll shoot them myself.”

Chuck and Frank propped the gate shut with 2-by-4s, and didn’t waste time hopping into the cab. They crouched low in the bench seat.

Sturm held up the other revolver as well, aiming both arms, arms straight, elbows locked, at the bank across the street. The pearl handles shimmered and flashed in the sun.

Sturm fired. Chuck floored it. The bullets punched the bank sign; the sign buckled inward slightly, but the damage was small, like someone getting playfully hit in the gut. A few pieces of glass the size of quarters hit the sidewalk. Everyone snapped their safeties off and jerked their guns up, itching to turn around and shoot, as the trailer door fell open and monkeys scampered through the cloud of dust and dead grass. The truck tires gripped first grass, then sidewalk and a quick jolt of grass again, finally bouncing down onto pavement.

“Three seconds,” Sturm hollered. Nobody knew if he meant that three seconds had passed, or if there was three seconds left.

Chuck’s truck made it to the alley and started gaining speed. The horse trailer bounced once as the hitch hit the center of the road. Most of the monkeys went for the trees immediately, but some stayed in the trailer, looking for the dried apricots that Frank had wedged between the loose slats in the floor.

“Set” Sturm shouted.

Hammers clicked back.

The monkeys shook dust into the air as they clambered into the dead trees.

Sturm turned his pistols to the bank sign again, yelled, “Shoot!” and kept squeezing the trigger until he was empty.

The hunters turned and fired, nearly as one, an explosion of gunfire that reverberated through the town and went rolling out through the pasture and fields until dying in the ravines and creeks and hills.

Girdler had thought ahead. Where the Assholes had laboriously spent half an hour carefully shoving shells into brand new bandoliers, he’d simply dumped all his shells into the hip pockets of his safari jacket. He’d fired and reloaded a thirteen round magazine four times before Asshole #3 could pinch six shells out of the bandolier to reload just once.

Dead and dying monkeys fell out of the trees like rotten fruit.

* * * * *

Chuck and Frank pulled around the block and parked alongside the lunch tables. The tubs of ice were just tepid bowls of water, now alive with wasps. Frank got low and tried to come in under the wasps and ended up getting stung twice as he groped for three warm beers. He danced away, crushing one wasp in the crook of his neck, and another against his chest with a beer can. A couple followed him for a while, but gave up when Frank dumped two beers in his pockets and shook up the third one, but instead of spraying it at the wasps, Frank cracked the beer open into his mouth and then spit beer at the insects. He was glad that that all of the hunters were too busy shooting monkeys to see him. Chuck didn’t see Frank either, because he was too busy going for his shotgun in the back window of his truck. Chuck pumped it quick and announced he was gonna join the hunt.

Frank retreated to shade of the fire truck. Behind him, the shooting gradually tapered off. Girdler and Asshole #1 ran out across Sutter Street, firing at the rest of the monkeys that had scattered down the alley, but the heat of the day made them walk back to the park, gasping and sweating. The rest of the men kicked through the monkey carcasses, arguing over who shot which monkey.

* * * * *

The low, purring sound of a luxury car rose slowly above bickering. Frank bolted upright, convinced, for just a second, that the quiet gentlemen in one of their long black cars had finally found him.

But the Mercedes that rolled up Main Street was pale blue, not black. It turned left on Third Street and parked next to the tables. The man that got out wasn’t as short as Sturm, but was quite small nevertheless. He wore a white linen suit with a matching white hat and some kind of red ascot and carried a tiny dog close to his chest, like a fragile egg. The dog had huge, bulging eyes and some kind of fluffed mane, like some hair stylist’s idea of a toy lion.

“I em lookeeng fah Meestah Hoooreece Stahmmmmm.” It sounded like the stranger’s voice was coming out of his nose, and every syllable ran together, as if enunciating the crisp notes of each word was simply too much trouble. He tilted his head so far back Frank was surprised that white hat didn’t toppled backwards into the street. It was an odd accent; definitely French, but he wasn’t from France. Maybe Quebec.

Sturm ambled up to the man, not quite eye-to-eye, more like eye-to-nostrils. Sturm now wore his new pistols strapped into a glittering silver-studded gunbelt and holsters. “That’s me. What can I do for you, Mr….?”

“Meester No-hweee.”

“No-weee?”

“Meester No-hweee, yes.”

Frank already hated the guy. Only an asshole would wear a fucking ascot in this heat. The little dog yipped and struggled within Noe’s arms. Frank couldn’t even call it a bark. He thought back to the little dogs he’d treated as a vet student and none of them were any damn good.

“Hush, Maxeemus, hush.”

“Well, Mr. Noe. What exactly can I do for you?”

Mr. Noe smiled. “I am here to hunt, yes?” he said simply, looking at the dead monkeys strewn across the brown grass.

* * * * *

Something cold nuzzled Franks’ palm. He looked down and found it was Petunia’s nose. She stared up at him, her thick stump of a tail wriggling frantically. “Well, I’ll be damned. How are you, you big girl you.” He crouched down and let Petunia lick his face, scratching her haunches, her chest, her ears with both hands in long, slow strokes. “What are you doing here, huh?”

“She missed you.” Annie smiled down at him, all aglow in a scandalously short baby-doll dress and cowboy boots. She’d come up behind Frank while he was watching Mr. Noe and his little rat, Maximus. “She thought she should come visit.”

“Did you now,” Frank said, massaging the loose folds of skin around Petunia’s neck. The dried blood on his head and neck itched.

Annie sat down next to him on the fire tuck’s running board, and he could smell something sweet, not perfume exactly, more like she’d washed her hair in honeysuckle. Her tan skin glowed in the shade. She patted his thigh and he was glad they were out of sight from the hunters.