Foodchain (30 page)

“Yeah.”

“It’s nothing personal, son. I’m just trying to look out for you, is all. You look like you could use somebody to look out for you. You’ll thank me later, down the line, once you find a nice girl and settle down. Trust me. Later on, you’ll thank me.”

DAY TWENTY-SIX

They collected thirty of the dead sheep, butchered five, and put the rest in the freezer. Chuck offered to help, but Frank waved him off. He preferred to feed the cats on his own, so he could take his time, talking to them in a soft, almost crooning voice.

Most of the new cats had grown up in captivity, and knew nothing beyond life in a cage. People had always been sources of food and water and pain and fear, but something about Frank, his slow easy movements, his smell, his low, soothing voice, something made them trust him immediately. They allowed Frank to scratch their ears, closing their eyes and milking the bottom of their cage in pleasure, stroking the floor, extending and retracting their vicious claws as they alternated paws. Some even licked the palm of his hand.

The hyenas snarled and bristled and snapped at each other when Frank tossed bloody bones into their cage. The wolves were quiet and still as death. They made no move to eat anything until Frank had retreated, taking his clanging bucket with him. The mountain lion paced and ignored the meat.

He found an old boom box in the office upstairs and tuned in a scratchy radio station of slow, sad Mexican songs. The music drifted through the cavernous auction yard and Frank whistled along.

Frank had to resist the urge to step into the Kodiak’s room and scratch the bear’s head, just behind the ears. He tried to just look at the four-inch claws, imagining what they could do to flesh, how they could shatter bone and split muscle, but his gaze kept sliding back up to the shaggy face with its loose jowls, wet nose, and soft brown eyes. Bo-Bo thrust his massive head at the bars in the tiny window and snuffled, craving attention. Frank’s resolve crumbled, and he lightly stroked the broad, flat nose through the bars.

* * * * *

More hunters showed up. So many that Frank gave up trying to keep track. He got used to seeing unfamiliar pickups and SUVs rolling through town. A trailer park had sprouted in Sturm’s back field, and bonfires sent black smoke into the sky. Gunfire crackled day and night.

They shot eight cats that first day. Ten the next.

Chuck and Jack would string a live sheep upside down from one of the lone oak trees out near the edge of the fields, where the foothills began, and stick it a few times with a pocketknife, just enough to get the animal to bleat and kick and bleed. Then Frank or Pine would swing the gate of the horse trailer wide, turning loose whatever big cat was next. The lioness always locked on the struggling ewe and went for the helpless sheep. Sometimes the hunter would shoot it before it reached the sheep. Sometimes the cat would leap and tear the sheep from the tree, and the hunter would shoot the cat as it tore through the wool. Sturm was always ready with his rifle, just in case. But usually, it only took the hunter three or four shots to finish off the lioness. Sometimes more, depending on how drunk the hunter was.

If the ewe had been torn off the tree, Frank would drag it back to the trailer and use the meat to feed the rest of the cats. If it was still hanging there, they’d leave it for the next cat. They’d take a few pictures of the hunter and his dead cat, careful to frame the landscape so that if the hunter wanted, he could claim he shot the cat in Africa. The taxidermist would twist a thin wire around the neck of the animal and have the hunter sign the affixed tag. Then, they’d load it into the taxidermist’s pickup and he’d take it back to his shop.

Chuck would drive back and they’d pick up the next cat and it would start all over again.

* * * * *

The Gloucks set up a thriving business selling sandwiches, burgers, sausages, deep fried burritos stuffed with eggs and meat, all remnants of the hunts, from a little stand in their front yard. The family got any leftovers from the dinners and such that Sturm served his hunters. He provided the dinner, and sometimes breakfast for the clients, but for the rest of the day, the hunters were left to fend for themselves. Girdler took to cooking lion steaks on a campfire beside his Winnebago. Sometimes, Frank saw hunters barbequing meat on their own little portable gas grills.

Four new men shot eight more lions, several hyenas, and a wolf.

Trash and animal bones littered the highway and the streets of Whitewood. Sturm sent Chuck around to all of the barns in the valley to collect any three and four wheelers left behind. Chuck found fifteen. Sturm gave all of them to the Glouck boys, and had them drive around carting two or three trashcans and keep the town clean. After that, every once in a while, Frank would see a flock of young boys tearing through the fields or the town, like a juvenile gang of Hell’s Angels Garbage Men.

And through it all, Frank saw cash slapped down onto hoods and tailgates. They gambled over everything. Mostly shooting accuracy. And they’d shoot at anything. That was a big part of the fun, shooting at whatever they felt like in town. Ever since Sturm had unloaded on the bank sign, everyone wanted to shoot up the place. They’d shoot at business signs, windows, telephone poles, street signs, mailboxes, bones in the road, anything. Sturm even arranged a ride through town in the school bus. The hunters stuck their rifles out of windows, shooting at anything and everything that caught their attention. The abandoned vehicles drew the most fire. Everybody was trying to hit the gas tank, but nobody could make a car actually explode.

They shot more cats. Another wolf. The mountain lion.

Most of the cash went to whatever hunter won, and sometimes, Sturm just flat-out couldn’t take losing and would have to step forward and shoot and win the bet fair and square. But most of the time, he stepped aside to let the hunters to gamble among themselves, but even then, ten percent always, always went into leather saddlebags that Theo hung over his shoulder.

* * * * *

Each night, when the hunts were over, Sturm would collect Frank from either the auction yard or the fields, and take him back to the vet office to get cleaned up for dinner. Theo sat in the middle, saddlebags between him and his dad. Frank would give his report on the remaining animals, and Sturm would toss him a bottle. Then, after a shower, Frank would drive himself out to the ranch for dinner.

Once, they stopped at the house for a fast change of clothes; a lioness had sprayed urine all over Sturm’s thighs. “Get that cash settled before anybody shows up for dinner,” Sturm told Theo in the driveway. “Frank’ll help you.”

Theo looked like he didn’t want Frank’s help, but he didn’t say anything. Frank followed him to the barn. They passed stall after stall of ammo, camping supplies, and beer kegs. A dusty tarp covered what appeared to be a pile of junk in the last stall. Theo jerked the tarp back, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the still air, and revealed an upturned dining room table, a jumble of rusted garden tools, some kind of primitive bicycle exercise machine, and a massive, horizontal freezer. An ancient air conditioner rested on top of the freezer.

It pained Theo to speak. “Grab that end,” he said, indicating with his chin the air conditioner. Frank helped him lift it off the freezer. They set it down next to the exercise machine. Theo opened the freezer’s lid, and inside, nestled tight, was a gunsafe. It was color of wet concrete, almost three feet wide, and nearly five feet long. You could only spin the combination wheel if you unlocked it with a key, which Theo produced from the saddlebags. “Turn around,” he said. “This ain’t none of your goddamn business.”

Frank turned and almost flinched as he found Sturm standing silently behind him. Sturm didn’t say anything, just put a finger to his lips. The meaning was clear as the sky outside. This is a privilege. You don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Frank nodded, and let his eyes drift up to the lioness hide still tacked to the roof.

Behind him, Theo dumped the cash into the gun safe and slammed it shut. He spun the combination, twisted the key, and closed the freezer lid. Frank took his end of the air conditioner and they put it back on the freezer. Then it was just a matter of dragging the tarp back over all the rest of the junk. As a final touch, Theo took a coffee can, scooped up some of the dirt in the aisle, and sifted it carefully over the tarp. When he was finished, Frank honestly couldn’t tell that the tarp had been moved at all.

“Let’s go get some dinner,” Sturm said.

DAY THIRTY

The Gloucks found two new long tables at the fairgrounds to accommodate all the new hunters. Frank, Theo, and Chuck still sat at the rickety card table at the end of the head table. Tonight, dinner was fairly basic, nothing fancy. Frank wondered if Edie and Alice were running out of recipes. The waiters brought out chilled goblets of shrimp cocktail, followed by lioness steaks, sautéed zucchini and garlic, baked potatoes stuffed with sweet onions, butter, and sour cream. Frank found out later that Sturm had forbade any kind of rice, especially wild rice, to be included in the meals.

The original hunters, Girdler and the Assholes mostly, seemed to have adopted Wally Glouck as their personal mascot ever since he had served as a referee for the sheep hunt. They’d call him over, joke with him, give him sips of their highballs, and slip him bills when they thought the mothers weren’t looking. He’d usually be quite drunk by the end of the night. Edie and Alice never said anything, but they went through his pockets before they sent him home.

One hunter, Asshole #1, in particular, was awful fond of pulling Wally close and slipping a twenty-dollar bill into the front pocket of Wally’s black jeans. He’d give Wally his glass, letting the fourteen year old take a sip. Sometimes, Asshole #1 would even tip the glass further, forcing more of the amber liquid into Wally’s mouth. The hunters would laugh, Asshole #1 laughing the hardest, as Wally coughed and grinned at the attention. Asshole #1 would pat Wally’s lower back and send him on his way to refill his drink.

Sturm watched all this but never paused, never hesitated in telling a story or a joke.

But this night, something was off. Whether Sturm was irritated at missing hitting the front left tire of a Toyota at four hundred yards in early morning fog or he’d finally had enough of Asshole #1’s behavior, no one knew. He watched Asshole #1 pour his drink down Wally’s throat, watched as Asshole #1 whispered something in Wally’s ear as he slipped a bill into the boy’s front pocket, maybe letting his hand linger a bit too long.

Sturm finished his joke, nodding at the laughter, and stood quickly, letting his hands fall to the handles of his new cowboy revolvers. He never went anywhere without them anymore. He strode the length of the table as the laughter died and jerked one of the revolvers out and shoved the barrel into Asshole #1’s right eye. He pushed hard enough that Asshole #1’s head cranked back until the entire chair toppled over. Sturm rode him all the way down, keeping that barrel sunk deep into the guy’s eye socket.

All conversation and laughter died.

Asshole #1’s head slammed into the ground and didn’t bounce. Sturm clicked the hammer back. Still standing, but bent nearly double at the waist, forcing Asshole #1’s head into the bone dry soil, he said quietly, “I been watching you. Been watching how you touch that little boy. I think you’re a sick goddamn fuck. You’re lower than a fucking worm. The only thing stopping me from putting a bullet through that fucking twisted mind of yours is the sliver of chance that I might be wrong, that you’re just drunk, that you’re just a big, dumb, friendly sonofabitch. I don’t think I’m wrong, but here’s what’s gonna happen. You are gonna get up and get your shit and drive like hell and hope to hell I don’t come looking for you. You got that?”

Asshole #1 was too afraid to nod, too afraid to blink.

Sturm drove the gun barrel deeper. An involuntary grunt escaped Assholes #1’s lips. “I said, do you understand what I’m sayin’?” Sturm asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes. Yes,” Asshole #1 said thickly.

Sturm abruptly pulled his revolver back and stepped off Asshole #1.

Asshole #1 scooted towards the house and stood up, stumbling backwards towards his tent. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as he blinked rapidly and tried to wipe the dust off the back of his head. Thick tears seeped out of his right eye. “…completely wrong…” was the only thing he said before ducking around the side of the house.

Sturm’s voice cut into the still air. “I am truly sorry, gentlemen, that something like that…I can’t call that twisted little evil shit a person, let alone a human being.”

“I ain’t never seen him do anything like that before,” Asshole #3 shouted, a little too shrill. “Hell, just met that fucker, really. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him myself.”

Asshole #2 was too busy looking at his plate and shaking his head to say anything one way or the other.

Sturm nodded slowly, as if making up his mind. “So here’s the deal. Let us put our trust in God, that he alone in his wisdom and eternal grace will iron everything out. Amen. Everyone here,” Sturm saluted them with his glass, “has landed themselves a genuine lethal killing machine.” Everyone took a drink. “Sometimes two or three. At the moment, we have how many cats left, Frank?”

“You counting Lady and Princess?”

“No.”

“Seven.”

“Seven.” Sturm looked at the twenty or so hunters before him. “Guess how many sheep we got?”

“Plenty?” Someone asked hopefully near the kitchen tent.

“Plenty,” Sturm said, laughing. “You’re goddamn right. Any time you fellas want to see what your bullet will do on living flesh and blood, you let me know. It ain’t exactly like shooting a lethal killing machine, but it ain’t bad for shits and grins. I’m saying we got seven cats left. It’s goddamn time we give these lethal killing machines a chance to do what they do best. Tomorrow, gentlemen. Tomorrow. Until then, good night.” Sturm tipped his cowboy hat at the hunters and pulled on a long-sleeved shirt as the sky grew darker. “Frank, Theo, Jack. Like a word, inside.”

Frank felt the last bite of lion steak catch in the back of his throat. Theo, on his right, stood immediately, holding his plate as he rose, shoveling food into his mouth. Zucchini fell on the table, Frank’s plate, and the ground. Theo kicked his chair over, dropped the plate upside down on the table, and followed his dad.

* * * * *

Jack was already waiting up at the back door, holding it open when Frank got there. Frank stepped into the air-conditioned bliss and knew without asking that they were meeting in Sturm’s office. Frank and Theo sat, while Jack found a book, leaned against the bookshelf, and started reading.

“Fuck me,” Sturm said, sinking into his chair. He took off his cowboy hat and threw it on the vast desk. “Never thought I’d come across something like that pervert in my time. No goddamn chance. Jesus Christ.” Sturm looked like he wanted to spit on the floor for a second, swallowed, and coughed. “Still, it’s done.” He thumped his thumb against his Copenhagen can, put a healthy pinch into his bottom lip, and leaned back. “Jesus. Frank. We got seven left. What shape are they in? I mean, they ain’t half dead, are they?”

“Not too bad, no. Six are solid. They’re eating, pacing, stool looks good. They’re sharp. The other one, well, she’s fighting something. She’s on antibiotics, but hell, I don’t know.”

“Six. Okay. Good.” He leaned forward, large hands flat on the desk. “What I have to say next stays in this room. Understood?” Frank got the feeling that even though Sturm glanced at Jack and Theo as well, Sturm was really only talking to him. Frank nodded and Jack said, “’Course.” Theo just looked bored.

“We’re gonna see if we can’t wring a little more cash out of these boys. I know for a fact that a couple of ’em are ready to head home tomorrow. Hell, they shot their cat, why shouldn’t they? Well, Theo here had an idea, and a damned good one at that.” Sturm’s icy eyes found Frank. “You oughta see their faces when Lady and Princess go after a sheep. Like a bunch of little boys on Christmas morning. I’m telling you, they can’t get enough of it.”

“You want to have the rest of the cats go after more sheep?” Frank asked.

“Hell, we’re gonna do that anyway, with Lady and Princess. No, Theo thought of something better. Something a little more entertaining. How’re those dogs doing?”

“What dogs?” Frank asked, knowing goddamn well what Sturm meant.

“The pound. Those strays at the hospital.”

“What about ’em?”

“How’s their health? How much fight they got left?”

“Plenty. Enough to get loose.”

Sturm knocked on the desk once. “They got loose?” He leaned to the side, and spit into an old fashioned brass spittoon.

Frank nodded and spread his hands, willing his face to sag just a hair more, letting the left corner of his mouth get in the way of a couple of the words, just a bit, just enough to remind Sturm that Frank had problems. “Part of the wire was coming loose in the corner, and I guess I didn’t notice. Guess they forced it even more, got loose.”

“All of ’em got through some little hole,” Theo demanded.

“Yeah.”

“How’d they get through the door?” Sturm asked. “They get out of their cage, that’s one thing. But they should still be inside that room. How’d they get out of the second door? Or did they get into the hospital itself?”

“No, they got out through the back door there, out to the employee parking lot. It was open when I got back there.”

“When was this?”

“Two nights ago, I think.” Frank didn’t have to say that he wasn’t the only one with access to the vet hospital. Everyone, Sturm and Theo, Jack and Joe, even Chuck, had keys to the vet hospital. Frank had come back to find the front door unlocked, even wide open, a couple of times.

“Did you leave the door open, Frank?”

Frank shrugged. “I really don’t remember leaving it open. Hell, I never hardly use the back door there. I use the other one, off the front office.”

Sturm knocked on the desk again, like he was waiting for someone to knock back. “Well. They scatter?”

“Not yet. I been feeding ’em.”

“Fuck son. Why didn’t you just say so?” Sturm spread his arms and raised the muscles above his eyes, not really eyebrows anymore, more like a couple of fat nightcrawlers under a thin stretch of skin. “So when were you gonna tell me about this?” He waited.

Frank’s words came out halting and stiff. “Things have been kind of busy. I wasn’t prepared for that business with the monkey. Give me enough time and we can prepare something properly. I need a bit to think some of these things through. What would you like to do with the dogs?”

The nightcrawlers relaxed and Sturm’s arms came to rest on his desk once again. “I want to pit three dogs against the most vicious lioness you can get. On the auction yard floor, tomorrow night.”

“Is there gambling?”

“You bet your ass.”

“Who’s gonna win?”

“We are. Here’s how it’s going to happen—that girl, she’s gonna take on one dog for round one. Two dogs for round two. Three for round three. And so on. Until that round when there’s just two many damn dogs and that’s it. You’re gonna make it look like she can go strong ‘til round five, but it’s gonna end in round four. You ain’t still here ’cause of your good looks, son. So you tell me. What do you need?”

Frank was quiet for a while. “I don’t know if they’ll fight. The dogs and the cat.”             

“Son, I can make any of these animals do any damn thing I want. You watch. They’ll fight. We got mace and pepper spray and cattleprods and pitchforks. We got all kinds of persuaders. You add all them together and you got yourself a real humdinger of a fight all right. No, that I ain’t worried too much about that. These dogs we got, these dogs from the pound, they ain’t much for fighting. I figure that cat, if provoked enough, it’ll tear ’em apart. No, they’re just practice. We’re gonna see how fast that cat can take care of ’em tonight. Say, ten?”

Frank said, “Yeah.”

* * * * *

They caught six of the pound dogs. Five were the biggest dogs left, but the sixth, the tiny mutt that darted forward to snap and bark, Sturm wanted that one special. They locked the dogs in the horse trailer and took them up to the auction yard.

The last time Frank had been in the main room of the auction yard was back on the night Sturm had fought the lioness. Now it was encircled with long sheets of chain-link fence; the top was covered as well, again with stretches of chain-link fence, held up by four poles, providing about five and half feet of clearance inside. Sturm could walk around in the center ring standing up straight, but Frank had to hunch over.

They turned the cat loose in the auction yard floor, and kicked the dogs into the cage, one at a time. At first, the cat ignored the dogs, pacing constantly and hissing once in a while. The dogs were smart enough to avoid the cat. But when all six dogs were finally in the pit with the lioness, Sturm got impatient and had Chuck hose the lioness with pepper spray while Jack jabbed at the dogs with a pitchfork.

It didn’t take long. Sturm had been right. The lioness went through all six dogs like a swather through a wheat field, leaving the floor stained with blood. The little dog was smart enough to stay well behind the bigger dogs, but the lioness snaked through air like some kind terrible eel, snapping and lunging, tearing the guts out of clumsy flounders, until only the little dog was left. It circled the floor, looking for any kind of break in the fence. The lioness didn’t hesitate and crushed the dog’s skull like Petunia had done to Mr. Noe’s dog.

* * * * *

Sturm sat down on the lowest bench and asked, “Think we can it make it happen in four? I want these fuckers betting, understand? I don’t want it to be obvious.”

Frank scratched his head. “Depends on the dogs. What’s she fighting?”