Stories (2011) (49 page)

"Nary a drop."

Vinnie went inside the building and said something to the
men there that could be heard but not understood, then he came back with some
crumpled newspapers. He went over to Scott and wrapped them around the bloody
head and let it drop back on the cement. "You try hosing down that shit
when it's dried, Pork, and you wouldn't worry none about that gravel. The
gravel ain't nothing."

Then Vinnie said to Farto, "Open the back door of that
car." Farto nearly twisted an ankle doing it. Vinnie picked Scott up by
the back of the neck and seat of his pants and threw him onto the floorboard of
the Impala.

Pork used the short barrel of his revolver to scratch his
nuts, then put the gun behind him, under his Hawaiian shirt. "You boys are
gonna go to the river bottoms with us and help us get shed of this
nigger."

"Yes sir," Farto said. "We'll toss his ass in
the Sabine for you."

"How about you?" Pork asked Leonard. "You
trying to go weak sister?"

"No," Leonard croaked. "I'm with you."

"That's good," Pork said. "Vinnie, you take
the truck and lead the way."

Vinnie took a key from his pocket and unlocked the building
door next to the one with the light, went inside, and backed out a
sharp-looking gold Dodge pickup. He backed it in front of the Impala and sat
there with the motor running.

"You boys keep your place," Pork said. He went
inside the lighted building for a moment. They heard him say to the men inside,
"Go on and watch the movies. And save some of them beers for us. We'll be
back." Then the light went out and Pork came out, shutting the door. He
looked at Leonard and Farto and said, "Drink up, boys."

Leonard and Farto tossed off their warm Coke and whiskey and
dropped the cups on the ground.

"Now," Pork said, "you get in the back with
the nigger, I'll ride with the driver."

Farto got in the back and put his feet on Scott's knees. He
tried not to look at the head wrapped in newspaper, but he couldn't help it.
When Pork opened the front door and the overhead light came on Farto saw there
was a split in the paper and Scott's eye was visible behind it. Across the
forehead the wrapping had turned dark. Down by the mouth and chin was an ad for
a fish sale.

Leonard got behind the wheel and started the car. Pork
reached over and honked the horn. Vinnie rolled the pickup forward and Leonard
followed him to the river bottoms. No one spoke. Leonard found himself wishing
with all his heart that he had gone to the outdoor picture show to see the
movie with the nigger starring in it.

The river bottoms were steamy and hot from the closeness of
the trees and the under- and overgrowth. As Leonard wound the Impala down the
narrow, red clay roads amidst the dense foliage, he felt as if his car was a
crab crawling about in a pubic thatch. He could feel from the way the steering
wheel handled that the dog and the chain were catching brush and limbs here and
there. He had forgotten all about the dog and now being reminded of it worried
him. What if the dog got tangled and he had to stop? He didn't think Pork would
take kindly to stopping, not with the dead burrhead on the floorboard and him
wanting to get rid of the body.

Finally they came to where the woods cleared out a spell and
they drove along the edge of the Sabine River. Leonard hated water and always
had. In the moonlight the river looked like poisoned coffee flowing there.
Leonard knew there were alligators and gars big as little alligators and water
moccasins by the thousands swimming underneath the water, and just the thought
of all those slick, darting bodies made him queasy.

They came to what was known as Broken Bridge. It was an old
worn-out bridge that had fallen apart in the middle and it was connected to the
land on this side only. People sometimes fished off of it. There was no one
fishing tonight.

Vinnie stopped the pickup and Leonard pulled up beside him,
the nose of the Chevy pointing at the mouth of the bridge. They all got out and
Pork made Farto pull Scott out by the feet. Some of the newspaper came loose
from Scott's head exposing an ear and part of the face. Farto patted the
newspaper back into place.

"Fuck that," Vinnie said. "It don't hurt if
he stains the fucking ground. You two idgits find some stuff to weight this
coon down so we can sink him."

Farto and Leonard started scurrying about like squirrels,
looking for rocks or big, heavy logs. Suddenly they heard Vinnie cry out.
"Godamighty, fucking A. Pork. Come look at this."

Leonard looked over and saw that Vinnie had discovered Rex.
He was standing looking down with his hands on his hips. Pork went over to
stand by him, then Pork turned around and looked at them. "Hey, you fucks,
come here."

Leonard and Farto joined them in looking at the dog. There
was mostly just a head now, with a little bit of meat and fur hanging off a
spine and some broken ribs.

"That's the sickest fucking thing I've ever fucking seen,"
Pork said.

"Godamighty," Vinnie said.

"Doing a dog like that. Shit, don't you got no heart? A
dog. Man's best fucking goddamn friend and you two killed him like this."

"We didn't kill him," Farto said.

"You trying to fucking tell me he done this to himself?
Had a bad fucking day and done this."

"Godamighty," Vinnie said.

"No sir," Leonard said. "We chained him on
there after he was dead."

"I believe that," Vinnie said. "That's some
rich shit. You guys murdered this dog. Godamighty."

"Just thinking about him trying to keep up and you
fucks driving faster and faster makes me mad as a wasp," Pork said.

"No," Farto said. "It wasn't like that. He
was dead and we were drunk and we didn't have anything to do, so we --"

"Shut the fuck up," Pork said, sticking a finger
hard against Farto's forehead. "You just shut the fuck up. We can see what
the fuck you fucks did. You drug this here dog around until all his goddamn
hide came off . . . what kind of mothers you boys got anyhow that they didn't
tell you better about animals?"

"Godamighty," Vinnie said.

Everyone grew silent, stood looking at the dog. Finally
Farto said, "You want us to go back to getting some stuff to hold the
nigger down?"

Pork looked at Farto as if he had just grown up whole from
the ground. "You fucks are worse than niggers, doing a dog like that. Get
on back over to the car."

Leonard and Farto went over to the Impala and stood looking
down at Scott's body in much the same way they had stared at the dog. There, in
the dim moonlight shadowed by trees, the paper wrapped around Scott's head made
him look like a giant papier-mâché doll. Pork came up and kicked Scott in the
face with a swift motion that sent newspaper flying and sent a thonking sound
across the water that made frogs jump.

"Forget the nigger," Pork said. "Give me your
car keys, ball sweat." Leonard took out his keys and gave them to Pork,
and Pork went around to the trunk and opened it. "Drag the nigger over
here."

Leonard took one of Scott's arms and Farto took the other
and they pulled him over to the back of the car.

"Put him in the trunk," Pork said.

"What for?" Leonard asked.

"Cause I fucking said so," Pork said.

Leonard and Farto heaved Scott into the trunk. He looked
pathetic lying there next to the spare tire, his face partially covered with
newspaper. Leonard thought, if only the nigger had stolen a car with a spare he
might not be here tonight. He could have gotten the flat changed and driven on
before the White Tree boys ever came along.

"All right, you get in there with him," Pork said,
gesturing to Farto.

"Me?" Farto said.

"Nah, not fucking you, the fucking elephant on your
fucking shoulder. Yeah, you, get in the trunk. I ain't got all night."

"Jesus, we didn't do anything to that dog, mister. We
told you that. I swear. Me and Leonard hooked him up after he was dead . . . it
was Leonard's idea."

Pork didn't say a word. He just stood there with one hand on
the trunk lid looking at Farto. Farto looked at Pork, then the trunk, then back
to Pork. Lastly he looked at Leonard, then climbed into the trunk, his back to
Scott.

"Like spoons," Pork said, and closed the lid.
"Now you, whatsit, Leonard? You come over here." But Pork didn't wait
for Leonard to move. He scooped the back of Leonard's neck with a chubby hand
and pushed him over to where Rex lay at the end of the chain with Vinnie still
looking down at him.

"What you think, Vinnie?" Pork asked. "You
got what I got in mind?"

Vinnie nodded. He bent down and took the collar off the dog.
He fastened it on Leonard. Leonard could smell the odor of the dead dog in his
nostrils. He bent his head and puked.

"There goes my shoeshine," Vinnie said, and he hit
Leonard a short one in the stomach. Leonard went to his knees and puked some
more of the hot Coke and whiskey.

"You fucks are the lowest pieces of shit on this earth,
doing a dog like that," Vinnie said. "A nigger ain't no lower."

Vinnie got some strong fishing line out of the back of the
truck and they tied Leonard's hands behind his back. Leonard began to cry.

"Oh shut up," Pork said. "It ain't that bad.
Ain't nothing that bad."

But Leonard couldn't shut up. He was caterwauling now and it
was echoing through the trees. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he had
gone to the show with the nigger starring in it and had fallen asleep in his
car and was having a bad dream, but he couldn't imagine that. He thought about
Harry the janitor's flying saucers with the peppermint rays, and he knew if
there were any saucers shooting rays down, they weren't boredom rays after all.
He wasn't a bit bored.

Pork pulled off Leonard's shoes and pushed him back flat on
the ground and pulled off the socks and stuck them in Leonard's mouth so tight
he couldn't spit them out. It wasn't that Pork thought anyone was going to hear
Leonard, he just didn't like the noise. It hurt his ears.

Leonard lay on the ground in the vomit next to the dog and
cried silently. Pork and Vinnie went over to the Impala and opened the doors
and stood so they could get a grip on the car to push. Vinnie reached in and
moved the gear from park to neutral and he and Pork began to shove the car
forward. It moved slowly at first, but as it made the slight incline that led
down to the old bridge, it picked up speed. From inside the trunk, Farto
hammered lightly at the lid as if he didn't really mean it. The chain took up
slack and Leonard felt it jerk and pop his neck. He began to slide along the
ground like a snake.

Vinnie and Pork jumped out of the way and watched the car
make the bridge and go over the edge and disappear into the water with amazing
quietness. Leonard, pulled by the weight of the car, rustled past them. When he
hit the bridge, splinters tugged at his clothes so hard they ripped his pants
and underwear down almost to his knees.

The chain swung out once toward the edge of the bridge and
the rotten railing, and Leonard tried to hook a leg around an upright board
there, but that proved wasted. The weight of the car just pulled his knee out
of joint and jerked the board out of place with a screech of nails and lumber.

Leonard picked up speed and the chain rattled over the edge
of the bridge, into the water and out of sight, pulling its connection after it
like a pull toy. The last sight of Leonard was the soles of his bare feet,
white as the bellies of fish.

"It's deep there," Vinnie said. "I caught an
old channel cat there once, remember? Big sucker. I bet it's over fifty feet
deep down there."

They got in the truck and Vinnie cranked it.

"I think we did them boys a favor," Pork said.
"Them running around with niggers and what they did to that dog and all.
They weren't worth a thing."

"I know it," Vinnie said. "We should have
filmed this, Pork, it would have been good. Where the car and that nigger-lover
went off in the water was choice."

"Nah, there wasn't any women."

"Point," Vinnie said, and he backed around and
drove onto the trail that wound its way out of the bottoms.

DIRT DEVILS

 The Ford came into town full of men and wrapped in a cloud
of dust and through the dust the late afternoon sun looked like a cheap lamp
shining through wraps of gauze. The cloud glided for a great distance, slowed
when the car stopped moving forward, spun and finally faded out and down on all
sides until the car could clearly be seen coated in a sheet of white powder. It
took a moment to realize that beneath the grime the car was as black as tar.
The wind that had been blowing stopped and shifted and the dust wound itself up
into a big dust devil that twirled and gritted its way down the rutted street
and tore out between two wind-squeaked abandoned buildings toward a gray tree
line in the distance.

Outside of the car there wasn’t much of the town to see, just
a few ramshackle buildings wiped clean by the sandstorms that chewed wood and
scraped paint and bleached the color out of clothes hung on wash lines. The
dust was everywhere, coating windows and porch steps and rooftops. Sometimes,
in just the right light, the dust looked like snow and one half expected polar
bears and bewildered Eskimos to appear. The infernal sand seeped under cracks
no matter how well blocked or rag stuffed, and it crept into closed cars and
through nailed-down windows. The world belonged to sand.

The street was slightly less sandy in spots since tire
wheels and footsteps kept it worn down, but you had to stay in the ruts if you
drove a car, and the Ford had done just that before parking in front of a
little store with a single gas pump with the gas visible in a big dust-covered
bulb on top.