Black Water (14 page)

Jack’d made two phone calls earlier. One to the bank tellin ’em what’d happened and linin’ up the warehouse for the night, then another that Randy assumed was to Minnie, Jack’s old lady, tellin’ her what’d happened. Randy’d met her one time. She was bossy. She was fat. Had more rolls than a German bakery.

Jack chuckled to hisself rememb’rin’ when the guy with the tow showed up, he’d asked if they had any idee what might be wrong. He said maybe he could fix it right there and get ’em back on the road. Randy jumped up real quick, more than a little anxious to show he knew more than a little about truck motors, hiked his thumb over his shoulder t’ward the hood and informed the fella, “It’s probly th’damn Heckle Shaft. Can ya believe that?”

The tow truck fella goosed up his face and, behind Randy’s back, Jack gave him the “Don’t pursue it, he’s a fool, just tow us in” look. The fella nodded and winked knowingly, hooked up, and hauled ’em off.

Thinkin’ about it now and tryin’ not to laugh out loud, Jack stood up, laced his fingers behind his head, and stretched out the kinks. “Ohhhh, boy, I’m gonna get some air ‘n try t’wake up. Why don’tchu see if you’cn shake us up a pot o’ coffee,” he said, and headed for the office door to the warehouse proper.

Lookin’ through the office cupboards when they first got there, they’d found half a can o’ ground Arbuckle and an electric hot plate in a cupboard. No tellin’ how old it was, but when you’re up to your ass in alligators….

“I need sumpthin’,” Randy groaned, standin’ up. He stretched so hard somethin’ popped in his low back. “Oh, Hell, what was ‘at?” he gasped, twistin’ carefully to see if anything was busted.

“Shit, Randy, I heard that clear out here,” Jack said from just inside the warehouse. “Maybe ya busted yer Heckle Shaft.”

Continuing to flex his back, Randy farted and did a little jig. “Woops! Maybe that was it.” He lifted a leg and fired off another one. “Bark, bark. Nice Froggy.”

Just before Jack got to the warehouse’s outside door, he looked over his shoulder, checkin’ on Randy. Contented he’d probly stay in the office, Jack unlocked the door, pushed it open, and the cold, damp night air hit him. He hunched up in his coat, stepped outside, closed the door, and pulled out a cigarette he’d rolled earlier from his shirt pocket. He looked through the fog to the lonely shortbed parked half a block up the street and strikin’ a wooden match, lit the cigarette.

George caught the flare and back-slapped Matthew’s leg. Matthew popped straight up, gawked goggle-eyed out the front window, workin’ the thingamabob for all it was worth. George purposely took two long drags off his weed to fire up a good glow, stuck his arm out the window and flicked the weed in the air. It arced through the puffy fog and landed with o’ shower o’ twinkly sparks, then hissed out in the wet street.

Jack saw the little meteor, took two healthy drags on his own, and launched it in the same manner. He owled around like there might be an insomniac walkin’ his bulldog, then pulled a small wedge o’ wood from his coat pocket and placed it under the door to keep it from closing completely. One more last look up the street to the truck and he re-entered the warehouse.

George stuck his tooth-rubbin’ stick in his shirt pocket. “Let’s go.” They climbed out o’ the truck, George with a heavy, double-handled leather satchel and Matthew with his gun drawn and cocked, battle-bound. George halted and nodded to the gun. “Why don’tcha wait’ll we get inside?”

Feeling stupid, Matthew stuck the gun in his belt.

George nodded to it again. “Y’might wanna uncock it.”

Feeling even stupider, Matthew pulled it out, notched the hammer back, and stuck it back in his pants.

“There ya go,” George said, and they headed across the street for the warehouse, lookin’ ‘round for the same dog-walkin’ insomniac.

Anxious after settin’ things up, Jack entered the office, eased into his chair, and took a big breath to calm his nerves.

“That was quick,” Randy said. He had the coffee pot in one hand and was slappin’ the base of a hot plate settin’ on a side counter with the other.

“It’s too cold fer a smoke,” Jack replied.

“That ain’t th’only thing cold,” Randy bitched, referring to the uncooperative hotplate. “This thing ain’t worth a shit. Plugged it in ‘n a little red light come on, but the plate only gets warm. I don’t wanna go through th’whole fuckin’ night sippin’ luke-cold coffee.”

The lights bein’ on in the office made it difficult to see in the darkened warehouse unless you knew what to look for. George and Matthew were creepin’ stealthily through the machinery, inchin’ their way to the office while Randy’s voice filtered through the office wall.

“Didja?”

“Did I what?” Jack asked. Concerned with what was about to take place, he hadn’t been listenin’ to Randy’s droning.

“Know that frogs’cd talk?”

“Frogs?”

“Yeah. Ask one how much water there is in th’pond ‘n whadaya think he says?”

“I dunno. What?”

“Kneedeep. Kneedeep. You know what a horny frog says?” but before Jack could answer, Randy added, “Rubit. Rubit.” He howled with laughter. Then he repeated the punch lines again.

“Ha ha ha,” Jack faked. “Yeah, ‘at’s pretty good, didn’t see ‘at comin’,” when in truth, he’d heard both of ’em all his life. Stupid Snotgrass wasn’t capable o’ tellin’ a stupid joke without repeating the stupid punch line. Jack thought that if everthing went right tonight, though, he’d never have to put up with another one. Lookin’ out the corner of his eye, he saw George and Matthew crouched at the other side o’ the office door, ready to pounce. He glanced back at Randy foolin’ with the hot plate and then to George and nodded the “go for it.”

George rared back on one leg and put everthing he had into kickin’ in the office door, nearly blowin’ it off the hinges. He coulda just opened it, it wasn’t locked, but kickin’ it open would show Randy how dangerous he was.

It worked. Randy’s spinchter just about gave up the ghost, dropped the coffee pot and fumbled for his .38. Jack jumped up in a play-pretend, half-assed attempt to pull his.

“Do it,” George growled, his revolver cocked and aimed squarely between Randy’s eyes, “’n I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off!”

“Yeah! Do it,” Matthew repeated, denied from birth the cranial micro-inchage to come up with his own threat. Worked up as a ferret in love, he feverishly chomped on the thingamabob, wavin’ his gun back and forth between Jack and Randy. Heatin’ up like a runaway boiler he pushed, “Come on! Do it! Do it!” He didn’t know exactly what the
it
was he was waitin’ for one of ’em to do, but figured he’d recognize it when it happened. It didn’t make much difference to Matthew though, he thoroughly enjoyed bein’ worked up over anything.

“Calm down,” George said, recognizing the signs.

“I’m calm,” Matthew said, wound up tighter’n an eight-day clock, “I’m calm.”

He wasn’t, but at least George had put a gov’nor on it. “Get’ th’r guns,” he ordered.

Matthew stuck his gun in his belt and started for Jack.

“Hey,” George said, pointin’ the end of his gun barrel at Matthew’s belt. “Un…Cock…It.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, turned his back to Jack and Randy, pulled out the revolver, uncocked it, and stuck it back in his pants. Then he collected their guns and handed ’em to George, who placed ’em in the satchel.

“How th’Hell’dju get in here?” Randy snapped.

“What dif’ernce does it make?” George barked, wagglin’ his gun at a chair.

“Yeah,” Matthew repeated, slammin’ the heel of his hand hard into the back o’ Randy’s head, “What dif’ernth doth it make, you thimpledon?” Then he grabbed Randy by the back of his shirt collar and shoved him onto the chair. He was about to clobber Randy again but George cut it off.

“No, not now,” he said and produced pre-cut lengths of thin cord from the satchel and tossed ’em to Matthew.

Matthew wrenched Randy’s arms to the back o’ the chair and started tyin’ him down. “You’ll lemme know, wont’cha, if it’th too tight,” he said and looked at George, gigglin’.

“Where’s th’money?” George asked Jack.

“Money?” Jack came back. “There ain’t no money in here! I don’t know what th’Hell yer talkin’ about!”

George pressed the end o’ the gun barrel to his temple.

“You can’t get away with it,” Jack growled.

“Is it worth dyin’ for?”

They were puttin’ on the show they’d discussed days earlier so that Randy would unknowingly cover Jack’s ass and brag to the authorities later how incredibly brave he’d been during the holdup.

Juttin’ his jaw out, Jack delivered one of his best lines. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit!”

George cocked the hammer and Randy nearly peed his pants. “Fer Christ’s sake, Jack, are you nuts? It ain’tchur money, give it to ’em!”

Jack seemed to be mullin’ it over, milkin’ the moment.

“JACK!”

Jack finally nodded to the desk. “It’s in th’closet. Key’s in th’desk. Bottom left. In the back.” He looked to the floor, so ashamed. He hoped Randy noticed.

George stepped to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a key ring and a near-full bottle of Jack Daniels.

Matthew noticed the bottle and smacked his lips. “Mmmmm, Uncle Jackth Cure-All.”

George sat the bottle on the desktop and tossed the keyring to Jack. “Open it.”

Feigning reluctance, Jack walked to the closet door, unlocked it, and swung it open, revealing the non-descript metal box shoved in the back corner on the floor.

“Git it out,” George ordered, kickin’ Jack in the leg.

Jack thought the kick was a realistic addition to the act, but he didn’t think George had to kick quite so hard. He pulled the box out o’ the closet and stood up.

George’d had it with all the stupid playacting. “I ain’t got time fer no more o’ these monkey-shines! Open it!”

Jack set the box on the table and opened it, revealing mucho bundles o’ money.

“Oh, Lordy,” Matthew exclaimed.

George waggled his gun at Jack and told Matthew, “His turn.”

Matthew yanked Jack to a chair and commenced to tyin’ him down.

With Randy tied and Jack gettin’ that way, George took the satchel to the cash box and started transferring the precious bundles.

Suddenly, Matthew grabbed his throat. “Aw, Thit!” he croaked. “I thwallered it!” He bent over makin’ an awful racket, tryin’ desperately to cough the thingamabob back up.

George couldn’t stifle a laugh.

“Well, God Dammit,” Matthew snarled, “you wanna laugh? You think it’th funny? It ain’t funny!”

“I wasn’t laughin’ atcha,” George tried to cover, “I’s laughin’ with ya.”

“Bullthit! I ain’t laughin’! You thee me laughin’? I ain’t laughin’! It ain’t funny! They’th hard t’come by. I thoulda got both of ’em while I had th’chanth, but noooo, you’th in thuch a big dang hurry, I had t’leave it! Thit!”

George brought the satchel to Matthew, grabbed him hard by the back o’ the neck, and forced him to look inside. “Tell me if ‘at don’t ease th’pain some.”

Immediately forgetting the recently consumed, hard-to-come-by thingamabob, Matthew stuck his hand in the satchel and ran it through the bundles. “Boy, ‘at’th a lot o’ money, ain’t it? How muth ith there?”

“S’posed t’be fifty thousand ‘n I reckon that’s about what it is.”

“Fifty thouthand? Boy, oh boy! How muth ith that in money?”

“I ain’t got th’time t’explain it right now,” George said, used to such questions. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay,” Matthew said.

“You know,” George said, steppin’ over to Jack, “if we’s t’do in this fella,” he tapped the end of his gun barrel on top o’ Jack’s head, “we wudn hafta split the money with ‘im.”

“I don’t know what th’Hell he’s talkin’ about,” Jack said when Randy snapped a look at him. Then, back to George, “I ain’t got no idee what th’Hell yer talkin’ ‘bout!”

“Sure ya do,” George said, and then to Randy, “He’s in on it with us. That’s how we got in. He jammed a stick in th’door so it wouldn’t close.”

Randy glared at Jack. Didn’t look like he’d be standin’ up for him at the big inquisition. George took the one step to Randy, raised his gun, and without flinching, shot him in the forehead, blowin’ him back’ards. Runny, bloody brain stuff splattered and glopped down the wall.

“Hoooooo, Yeah!” Matthew yelled, excitedly. That was the spontaneous shit he lived for.

“What th’Hell’re you doin’?” Jack blurted. “That wasn’t part o’ th’deal!”

“Yer right.” And one half second later, Jack’s brain and blood created more wall-bound artwork.

“Fooled him,” Matthew said, grinnin’ like a maniac.

“Yeah, well, he’s figgered it out now,” George said, watchin’ Jack’s body give one last involuntary twitch.

Matthew pulled a large pocketknife from his pants, peenched it open, and stabbed it in the tabletop. Then he got down on one knee and started to undo Jack’s belt.

“What’re you doin’?” George asked.

“Gettin’ their weenerth.”

“No, we ain’t got time f’that.”

“Aw, George,” Matthew whined, “I hate t’watht’m. Freth oneth’th hard t’come by.”

“Whada you get outa that?” George asked, pinch-eyed.

“I dunno,” Matthew replied, shrugging childlike. “I juth like playin’ with ’em.” Then, not totally believable, he added, “It ain’t thex thtuff. I don’t kith ’em ‘r nothin’.” He didn’t want George to think he was a sissy or a queer or a queer sissy.

George wasn’t so sure. If Matthew could deny it, it meant he’d imagined it, or…oh, well, what the Hell, he could do worse. Brotherly love kicked in and he relented. “Awright, but hurry up. I’ll get th’truck ‘n meetcha outside.” He put the whiskey bottle in the satchel.

He was halfway to the office door when Matthew called out. “George?” George turned back, and with a face full o’ brotherly admiration, Matthew said, “I thure had a lotta fun t’day.”

“I know,” George said and headed for the office door.

The full moon, now well up in the sky, shined on the darkened shack set back off a rutted road, nestled in moss-bearded trees. The only sounds were the crickets, night birds, and croakers broadcasting reproductive invitations. It was the same shanty that years earlier had housed Roach and Pearl Komes and their scar-faced little girl, Lootie. The shack where Pearl died. The shack where Lootie had reluctantly forked over her virginity. The one where Roach had eventually died alone, of malnutrition. Committed suicide from eatin’ his own cookin’.