A Swollen Red Sun (14 page)

They’d been on the road a long while, and the promise of a big country breakfast blew from the air vents and aroused a potent hunger in both men.

“You feel like eatin’?”

Bazooka said he did.

Inside, they found themselves surrounded by a generation of grandmas and grandpas. All of them appeared to be living well. Eating well. Driving nice cars.

Wade asked, “You see how many Cadillacs in this lot?”

That got them to thinking, and Bazooka came up with something.

They finished their meal and paid the bill and left the waitress a generous tip.

“Don’t worry,” Bazooka assured him. “We’ll get it right back.”

An hour later, they returned with a handgun and a gallon bag lined with crank residue. Each wore a gunnysack. Bazooka gathered money while Wade pointed hard with the gun. Everything went right. They made three thousand dollars for five minutes’ work and got away clean. Things went so well, they tried it again.

“The good thing about Cracker Barrels,” Bazooka’d said, “is they’s all along the interstate.”

That meant good escape routes and the money was easy. They always robbed Cracker Barrels, and always on Sundays. Until the day their luck ran out.

It was Easter morning, and there was bound to be a hungry crowd. They’d scratched out lines of some crank that had a pink look to it on the case of an Elvis CD before they left the truck. Wade went first and snorted and threw his head back and handed the mirror to Bazooka, who did his rail, fat as a pencil, and said, “Long live the king.” Then they charged toward the store with a shotgun and a trash bag.

They had problems at the very first table. An elderly man refused. When he shook his bony knuckles in defiance, Bazooka hit him in the head with a fresh bowl of gravy.

Wade saw a man break free and make a run for the lot. Thought about shooting but got distracted. Bazooka had created a fiasco. Everyone made phone calls.

He told Bazooka to hurry, but he was yelling at the old man. Face red and burned. There was food on the floor, on the old man’s clothes. Bazooka stuck a finger in the mess of white hair and plucked out a lump of sausage.

“Dammit, Kincaid,” Wade yelled. “Hurry up.”

Bazooka stomped toward Wade and kicked him in the ass.

“Shut the fuck up, you dumb bastard. You used my name.”

Bazooka walked out, said he was done. But when he stepped out the door, that man who’d made a run for the parking lot had returned with a handgun.

“Get down!” he ordered. But his voice was weak and Bazooka didn’t buy it.

“Get down on the ground right now,” he said. “I’ll shootchya, I swear.”

Bazooka threw the man the trash bag and distracted him long enough to grab the hand with the gun and lock it in a vise, throw him off balance.

With his right, Bazooka drove a bone-crushing hook to the side of his jaw and the man went down. Hit the concrete and his teeth spread across the sidewalk like a handful of Tic Tacs. He went out cold, swallowing blood, the gun still in his hand.

Bazooka picked up a tooth and put it in his pocket and walked toward the truck.

Wade chased after Bazooka and cursed him for abandoning the heist, but before they reached the truck, a man who’d seen too many cop shows removed the gun from the first man’s hand and began to pursue them.

Wade saw him first and raised the Remington and fired. But his shot was off, and it broke the window of the store. Everybody screamed, and the Good Samaritan opened fire. Windshields broke and vehicles took rounds.

The cops showed up in less than a minute. Both tweakers were arrested.

Wade’s record was longer so his sentence was harder. Bazooka got lucky. The man he assaulted refused to press charges. Said all he wanted was his tooth back. Told the cops a good smile was more important.

“Give the man his tooth, Kincaid,” the state police said.

Bazooka shrugged. Told the cops he was sorry but he’d swallowed that tooth when he seen them boys coming.

“You what?”

“I ate it. Last thing I wanted was for y’all to find that tooth.” Bazooka shrugged again. Said he was sorry.

The next day, the state police took him to the hospital and dressed him in a gown that didn’t fit. They wheeled him to a table so a man with cold hands could take an X-ray. When he held it to the light, he frowned. Then nodded and shrugged. The tooth was there, as Bazooka had assured them, a small chip of ivory wedged inside a breakfast turd.

“So here’s the deal,” Jerry Dean said. He nudged Bazooka with his foot and brought him back to reality. Away from thoughts of prison and his days with Wade Brandt. “He’s the one’s got the tanks.”

“Huh?” Bazooka was lost. “Who’s got what, now?”

“The Reverend,” Jerry Dean said. “He’s the sumbitch that’s got all the equipment. Hell, he’s got damn near everthing a man would need to live up there.”

Jerry Dean saw the girl. But she was not chained up in the Reverend’s basement; she was back at
his
place. His mobile home at Helmig Ferry. Though in his mind it was cleaned up. There was a nice deck and a patio. He had a front door that worked.

“What is it you’re sayin’ exactly?” Bazooka said.

Jerry Dean thought about it. He scratched his neck and shrugged. “Guess I’m sayin’ we need ta get rid of that crazy old goat fucker. I dunno, take over his place maybe. Do our own cookin’.”

“Say
what
? You’d hafta take out the whole family. My God, how many of ’em live up there?”

“Just him ’n’ his old lady. And a big dumb baby of a kid. He’s creepy, but he could do shit for us. Be like our butler.”

Jerry Dean didn’t mention the Reverend’s new wife. He planned on keeping her for himself.

Bazooka shook his head. He stood and walked from the table. Farted and drew his pecker from his overalls and peed on the side of his trailer.
“Am I hearin’ you right?”

Jerry Dean assured him he was. “We got all we need right there. And believe me, I
do
know how ta cook. Trust me, I been helpin’ that old bastard long enough I can do that shit in my sleep.” He looked at Bazooka. “No more livin’ hard. No more killin’ turkeys ’n’ splittin’ wood.”

Bazooka said it was a bold idea, but he wanted no part of it.

“Why not? We can grab this tiger by the tail ’n’ run with it. Ain’t nobody ever gonna know. Nobody. We’d be kings up there, Red.”

“What about the cops?’ he asked.

“It don’t matter none, Red. Cops ain’t an issue. Even they won’t climb the hill.”

“Well,” Bazooka said, “you might have one pork under your thumb, but what about them other two? Which one of ’em took it?”

“Red, I do not rightly know. First I thought it was the kid. Now I think it might be the fat one.”

Neither man spoke, but it was plain to see Bazooka had rejected the idea.

“It’s a good idea, Red. ’Sides, I’m hearin’ Wade’s gettin’ out anytime. Hell, he might be out now.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds about right. But your cop buddy ain’t gonna like that none. Cuz who’s gonna sell that shit with Wade gone?”

“Red, hell if I know. But my cop buddy, he’s gettin’ real nervous at the thought o’ Wade bein’ turned loose.”

“Why’s that?”

“Fuck if I know, Red. Fuck if I know. It’s almost like—”

“Brandt’s got somethin’ on him, don’t he? You know that’s it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jerry Dean said.

“Maybe my asshole,” said Bazooka. “When he gets out, he’s gonna be a threat ta anybody who knows about his dealin’.”

There were a few minutes of silence between them, awkward silence. Jerry Dean cursed himself for mentioning his plans.

“So now what?” Bazooka said. “Tell me what the next move is. You wantin’ ta kill a cop?”

“Not if we ain’t gotta.”

Bazooka hated cops but he knew when to be smart. He relit the roach and puffed it a few times but never offered it to share. “We need to scare these cops,” he said. “Try that first. Tell ’em they don’t cough it up, we kill their families. We do it right, that’ll be the end of it.”

Jerry Dean said that was good. “Whatchya got in mind?”

“I got a few ideas,” Bazooka said. Then he smoked the roach down to nothing and tossed what was left in his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of water from his gas can.

Life on the farm was not the same without Sandy. Olen sat on his sun porch, his face covered with scraggy gray whiskers grown in thin patches, and looked out the window. He watched the fields and the woods beyond. The tree line was many dots of orange and yellow and violet hues mixed with the dying green of Indian summer.

There was a Bible and a shotgun beside him. He would shoot himself on the sun porch. He’d thought about this for a very long time. Many years. Wait until evening. Make a strong drink and watch his last sunset. It was a secret plan he made long ago, secret in the way a man tries to hide his true thoughts from himself.

But in the end, he wasn’t strong enough to make it end that way. Or he found something small worth living for. At first, it was the fear of God that kept him from it. Then it was Sandy. Who’d look after her if he pulled the trigger? There was a great-nephew down the line—but he’d learned long ago Jackson Brandt could not be trusted. Now it did not matter. Nothing mattered but that last sunset. And the family who waited on the other side.

He watched the chickens peck bugs out in the yard. Olen hadn’t seen Beauregard in a long while, but today he would hunt him down. He was to be the first one shot. It had to start with him. He’d kill the others with the shotgun. He left a note on the front door that said:
Dale, don’t come around back. I love you like a son
.

He watched for his stud rooster and looked at the sky as his bladder gave and spread warmth across his lap and he began to cry.

Banks woke up in bed as the news of the suicide at the bank came across his scanner and the first thing he did was call Herb Feeler. Told him he knew it was his day off, but he was on his way.

“Nah, don’t do that,” Herb said. “Plenty of us headin’ out there. Rather you stay home.”

Banks was surprised. “I’m right down the road.”

The sheriff said he had to go. It was hectic. “Have a good day off,” he said, and hung up.

Banks shrugged and saw that it was almost nine thirty. It felt good to sleep in. This was his first real day off in two weeks. He sat up and spun his legs around and grabbed his chew off the nightstand.

The house smelled like syrup when he stepped down into the kitchen. Jude met him with a fresh cup of coffee, and Grace met him with a kiss.

He told his girls good morning and walked outside to pee.

When he came back in, Grace was standing on a kitchen chair, chewing on the head of her doll.

“No, pumpkin,” Banks said. “Get down from that chair, young lady.”

Grace smiled and shook her head. Banks grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed wildly as Banks swung her around and carried her to the living room and dropped her on the couch.

Then he took the doll from her mouth. “Honey, don’t be chewin’ on this dang thing. It’s dirty.”

Grace yelled, “Bay-bee!”

“Yeah, honey, but baby’s head’s dirty. Yucky. You’re a big girl now. Big girls don’t put things in their mouths.”

Grace blew him a kiss and seemed to agree.

Banks returned the doll.

Jude said, “Breakfast.”

After breakfast, Jude said she was going yard-saling. Maybe pick up some groceries. She looked at Grace. Then she looked at her husband. Smiled. “You have any plans?”

Banks looked at his wife. He looked down at Grace. “Oh, I see. Mama wants a little
me
time.” He winked at Grace.

“Damn right I do,” Jude said.

Banks laughed. Told her she deserved it. Enjoy her afternoon. He looked back down at Grace. “Wanna stay with Daddy today, sweets?”

Her little arms shot up in the air. “Dah-dee!”

Mom and Dad laughed. Grace laughed. Banks told Jude to take her time. The two of them had plenty of work to do.

“Ain’t that right, little darlin’?”

Grace walked off with her doll.

After Jude left, Banks popped open a beer while Grace stood in the flowerbed and watered everything but the flowers. She watered the sidewalk and the house. She watered Buster as he napped in the shade.

Buster jumped up and woofed. Grace giggled.

“You’re doin’ just fine,” Banks said. He asked her if she wanted to cut grass.

Grace dropped the hose and squealed. She ran to the shed at the end of the yard where a single strand of electric wire separated grass from weeds.

Banks walked over to the well pump and turned off the water. When he got to the shed, Grace was on the riding mower, standing on the seat.

“Now, babe, get down off there, darlin’, I’m tellin’ you. You can’t be standin’ on everything. You’re gonna fall.”

Grace was excited. She screamed and clapped. Banks shook his head and set his beer on the hood. He swept her off the seat in his arms and sat down. He put her on his leg and grabbed his beer from the hood and started the engine and left the shed.

The second time around the yard, he let her drive. As they passed the fire pit, a man stepped out from behind the shed with a rifle and pointed it at Grace.

Banks squeezed his daughter tight and stomped the brake. His beer tumbled from the cup holder onto the grass.

“God no,” Banks said, and tried to turn around. Shove his daughter behind him.

The man with the rifle was a huge bulk of a man. Short and thick and powerful. He wore an old potato sack over his head with two eyes cut out and a mouth hole.

“You know why I’m here?”

Banks froze. His baby girl had a rifle pointed at her.

“Do you know?”

Banks didn’t say anything but he nodded.

“Y’all best return that money where ya found it. You don’t, I’ll come back and kill that retard. I’ll kill everybody. I don’t care if you’s a cop.”

He took a step forward. Told Banks this was a warning. There would not be another.

Banks saw white skin and freckles and red arm hair.

“You got till midnight on Saturday.”

“Where?”

The man backed up and Grace cried for Mama. Banks fought back unadulterated wrath.