Black Water (34 page)

“In all yer life, you ain’t neither one even seen a hunerd-dollar bill.” Theatrically, she slid her hand in the satchel, shook it around, smiled big, and pulled out a wrapped pack of hundreds. The corners o’ the boys’ mouths rose and their eyes opened wide. She helt it up and showed ’em only the top bill. “Well, ‘at’s what one looks like.” Then she fanned the pack, one bill at a time, slippin’ under her thumb. “And that,” she said as she continued to fan, “is what a hunerd of ’em looks like.”

“That’s a hunerd hunerds,” Superman said.

“Ohhhh, yeah,” Raeleen sighed, “but it gets better. A lot better.” She closed her eyes, brought the pack to her nose, and took a big whiff, moaned, and let her breath out with a sigh. It still smelled like a sack o’ cat shit, but she was puttin’ on a show. She helt it out to the boys, fanned it slowly under their noses, and they took a long lungful of the imaginary scent and smacked their lips.

“Don’t ‘at smell good?” she asked.

Harvey and Raeleen laughed when Superman fell over like it was all too much for him. Harvey waved his hand in front o’ Superman’s face, and he pretended to come to and got back up.

“It stinks, but it’s a good stink,” Superman said.

Hub closed his eyes and hung his head in frustration.

“Well,” Raeleen said, shaking the satchel’s contents, “stink ‘r not, they’s five o’ these”—indicating the pack, then the satchel—“in here.” She looked at her precious little lambiekins and cooed, “We’re rich.”

Harvey nodded and looked from Raeleen to Superman. “Very rich.”

“Super very rich,” Superman threw in.

“What ‘bout me?”

They turned to see Hub’s expectant expression.

“You ain’t,” Raeleen said, coldly.

“Bulllllshit,” Hub said, forgettin’ where he was, who he was with, and under what conditions. Quicker than Hub woulda thought possible, and a bunch more than he’d expected, Superman jumped up and kicked his boot toe hard into Hub’s sternum, emptying his lungs and knockin’ him over. It felt as if his ribcage’d crumpled like a rotten pumpkin. He rolled on the ground, begging for oxygen.

Superman stood over him, red-faced and fists clenched, ready to give him another’n. “How’dju like a chunk o’ Kryptonite jammed up yer hairy ass!”

Hub saw another kick comin’ at his gut and used his left hand in an attempt to soften the blow. It didn’t work, and he might now have a broken hand.

“That’s enough,” Raeleen said, hoping Superman hadn’t busted a rib. Or two. Or three—and savin’ Hub from another kick, one already cocked and ready to fire.

Breathing hard through gritted teeth, Superman reluctantly pulled back. “You don’t talk ‘at way t’my Earth Mama, you crumb bum,” he growled and plopped on his abundant backside beside Raeleen.

“Hub’s sorry, ain’tcha Hub,” she said when Hub rolled back to his butt, wheezin’ and glaring at Superman.

He wanted to rub the pain out of his hand but he’d be damned if he’d let Superfuck see it. He helt his right hand over the left and gingerly wiggled his fingers. He was surprised to find they still worked. They hurt, but they worked.

Raeleen got a headlock on Superman, rocked back and forth givin’ him a noogie, and kissed his forehead. “He does love ‘is Mama. Even if she don’t come from Krypton.” She let Superman go and nodded toward the log. “Okay, Christmas’s over. Go over there ‘n see if Mr. Hoover’s flunky’s bled outchet.”

They headed for the log, brushing the dirt off their pants. Superman looked over his shoulder at Hub and gave him a look that said “I’m gonna keep my eye on you.”

“FBI,” Raeleen said disgustedly. “Fuckin’ Blowhard Idyit. I think Idyit starts with I. Harvey! Idyit start with I?”

“Yes,” Harvey answered.

Raeleen tipped her head toward Harvey. “He reads a lot. Mostly comic books ‘n th’Holy Bible but words’re words, right?”

Harvey pulled a buck knife from the sheath on his belt, stepped over the log, and poked Ball in the eye a couple o’ times like he was testin’ a baked p’tata to see if it was done. “He’s finished, Mama.”

“Okay,” Raeleen said and wrangled her poor fat old self off the ground. Hub watched her. She looked old. Soft. Used. Wasted. Then he thought,
but so does an old rattler
. An old spider. An old scorpion. An old gator.

She wiped the grit off her hands on her dress and waved to the darkened netherworld beyond the campfire light. “Take all three of ’em outchonder som’ers. I don’t wanna hafta keep lookin’ at ’em.” She picked up the satchel, carried it over by the log and set it down. “Either o’ you find th’chain key?”

“I got it,” Superman said. He pulled the small key out of his pocket and tossed it the length o’ the log to Raeleen.

She caught it deftly, and Hub helt his manacled wrists up toward her. She pocketed the key. “You’s changed owners’s all.”

“You gonna keep these on me?”

Lookin’ at him like he was stupid and she wasn’t was the only answer he was gonna get.

Hub watched as Harvey and Superman each took an arm and drug Ball’s body into the dark beyond the camp. Earlier, he’d imagined blowin’ Ball’s brains out hisself, but now, watchin’ his head loll and joggle and bump the ground, his ruined throat all stretched out, just about made him sick. In the last few hours, his life’d made a left-hand turn, but not just about as left as Ball’s and the trackers’.

Raeleen dug her underwear out of her butt crack on her way to the bean pot suspended on a hook over the campfire. She picked up the spoon hangin’ off to the side, stuck it in the pot, stirred the contents, and sang off-key. “Beans, beans, th’mus’cal fruit, th’more ya eat, th’more ya poot.” She waggled her big ass like a hula dancer, looked at Hub, and chirped, “Pootie poot poot.”

She thought she looked cute. Hub thought she looked stupid. A fat old woman, flat old tits rollin’ around her belly, wearin’ work boots and a long, ugly old dress, with a gunbelt and buck-knife sheath hitched around her wallowy acreage. He looked toward the boys, then back at her, and was reminded o’ the wild tales he’d heard about Ma Barker and her murderous brood. This bunch could give the Barkers a run for their money. Yes, Virginia, there really are some nastyass sons o’ bitches.

Raeleen scooped up a spoonful, brought it to her mouth, and scratched a few beans in with her teeth, took two chaws, and then waved her hand over her mouth. “Boy-howdy, they are a mite spicy.” She stirred the beans and took a closer look. “I don’t think they got’ny meat in there.” She looked at Hub. “You knew Sem’noles was cannibals didncha” Then she called out, “Harvey! When ya get done there, gather s’more firewood. ‘N Superman? You see if you’cn scare up somethin’ t’go wi’these beans, they’re a little lonesome on body! Then one o’ you go back ‘n get our stuff ‘n bring it in.”

She knocked the rest o’ the beans off the spoon back into the pot and hung the spoon on the hook. She looked at Hub and nodded into the woods. “We’s settin’ out there in th’dark, I got a whiff o’ this ‘n my stomach commenced t’growlin so I thought fer sure th’trackers’s gonna hear. We’s so close th’last couple o’ days we couldn’ cook nothin’ ‘cause them Injuns got a nose like a tick.”

“This’s real homey ‘n all ‘n I just can’t hardly wait t’hear th’rest of it,” Hub said, smart-alecky, “but what’s yer plans for me? You just gonna shoot me ‘r what?”

Friendliness escaped Raeleen’s face like someone slappin’ a light switch. “I wish I could. I got s’many good reasons!”

“What’s stoppin’ ya?”

She stomped to Hub and yanked his shirtsleeve up so hard she popped the button off the cuff, exposing the scarred arm. “’Cause yer tainted soul, you good-fer-nothin’ asshole, b’longs t’Lootie Komes!”

He jerked his arm back and looked at her like she was a fool. “You still b’lieve ‘at shit?”

“I don’t b’lieve in Heaven ‘r Hell ‘r God ‘r Satan ‘r none o’ that crap, but I b’lieve in Lootie Komes! I b’lieve they ain’t a minute I don’t close my eyes, take a shit, get a drink o’ water ‘r go for a walk ‘at she don’t know it. ‘Cause o’ you, Asshole!” She clenched her fist and pounded him on the back of the head. “BASTARD!” She was as mad as a fire eater with hiccups. She hit him again. “She hauntchur dreams?” The look on his face was answer enough. “Yeah, I thought so. We’s all cursed”—she hit him again—“‘n’ donchu tell me”—hit him again—“you don’t b’lieve it. We’s raised th’same, ‘n I know she scares th’Hell out o’ you!”

He put his hand out in anticipation of another whack, but instead, she brushed the wild hairs off her reddened, sweaty face. She was almost out a breath from sluggin’ him. She fished up and jerked out a small leather pouch with witchy-lookin’ markings inked on it, that hung on a thongy cord ‘round her neck. “Only way t’fight a witch is with a worser witch. Unforchnately, you nit, they don’t come no worser’n th’one you made mad! If witches had a fuckin’ pres’dent ‘r a God Damn Queen, her butt’d be on the throne! I paid a lot o’ money fer three o’ these things. Gris-gris. They’s th’best I’cd do with what little I had, ‘n we ain’t tooken ’em off f’thirty God Damn years!”

“And you think ‘at stupid little bag keeps you alive?”

“I don’t know, but I ain’t takin’ no chances. Last thing she said was th’day one of us’s t’die, we’d allll die, ‘n right now, I think I’m tired o’ talkin t’you.” She smacked him one last time and huffed away. Five steps later, she changed her mind, stomped back, grit her teeth, and slapped him in back of the head once more. “Bastard!”

Harvey and Superman had lugged their packs and bedrolls up from their last campsite and were pushed up agin the log ‘longside the satchel. Hub was sittin’ in the dirt, opposite his captors, reminded o’ the last time—not so very long ago—three other smartasses’d been perched on that same log, eatin’ them same beans, and he wondered if another three-ringer might come rollin’ out o’ the dark to wipe them out. Maybe Pickering. Why not? The Warden’d been in on it, so Pickering’s poppin’ up wouldn’t be any big surprise. As weird as things’d been so far, the next one could be Toad! Wouldn’t that be a kick? It wouldn’t be any stranger than a compassionate, tender-hearted doctor turned heartless FBI agent, or a wife and chilluns he’d written off for thirty years. Maybe Luther Knox wantin’ to get even for losin’ his first murder trial.

He looked hatefully at Porkyman. He wasn’t the Caped One anymore. Now he was Clark Kent. Clark was fat, too. Hub wanted to say somethin’ about his goin’ to seed since his comic book days. Maybe later. The cape—the dishtowel—all bunched up, crammed down his neck, made him look like the Hunchback of Oledeux. Now he wore his overshirt and a pair o’ lenseless glasses stuck to his face. They weren’t even the kind he wore in the comics, but the cat-eye kind Hollywood movie stars wore. Did he honestly think people believed he and Superman was two different people? Hidin’ behind a pair o’ stupid lenseless glasses? Dumb fuck. Hub was thinkin’ about askin’ him where he, Clark Kent, had been all day, but that throbbing reminder in his sternum told him maybe another time. Another
maybe
later
. His whole life’d been one later after another, and he was gettin’ tired of it.

He and the boys were munchin’ on beans and biscuits tender and flaky enough to crack a tooth. Raeleen’s big butt was perched on the end o’ the log, her left leg drawn up, left heel braced up on the log’s end, the other on the ground. She had her dress hiked up, damn near her belly, whittlin’ on her thick, yellowy, old-woman toenails with a jackknife. Ever time she moved her arm, the bag of fat hanging underneath it waggled.

Ever once in a while, Hub snuck a glance at her crotch, torn in two directions by that which lurked in her underwear. On the one hand, he figured that more than likely, because of her advanced age, and as bad as she’d let herself go ever other way, it was pretty ugly, and no doubt stunk ever bit as bad as it looked. But on the other hand, pussy was pussy, and havin’ an ugly, smelly pussy to think about was better than no pussy to think about. He wished now he’d taken that last poke offered by the café woman. He spit a chunk o’ rubbery gristle sizzlin’ in the fire and looked at the mild-mannered reporter. “Possum th’best you could do? Greasiest God-damn animal ever was.”

“Don’t eat it,” Raeleen barked, yankin’ her dress down, folding up the jackknife, and tossin’ it in her pack.

“I didn’t catch it. Superman did,” Clark Kent threatened, “so you better keep yer mouth shut ‘r he’ll jump back here ’n beat th’Hell out o’ you.”

“That reminds me,” Hub said. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Clark Kent asked, grumpy.

“Superman.”

Raeleen and Harvey shot a look at Hub, at each other, then to Clark Kent.

Clark Kent never batted an eye. “There was a comet gonna hit Argentina ‘n he went t’knock it out o’ th’way. He told me he’d probly be back in th’mornin’. Maybe smash th’snot outa you.”

Possibly brought on by what Clark had just said, Harvey helt his plate off to the side, plugged up one nostril with his thumb, leaned over, and blew a stringy glob o’ snot hissin’ into the fire to keep Hub’s nicely browning slug o’ gristle company. He wiped what was left stringin’ from his lip with his shirtsleeve. “You been spoiled b’th’fine eats at th’Angola Prison Cafay.”

“It was f’damn sure better’n this shit!” Hub griped. “They ain’t nothin’ in here but gristle ‘n grease.”

“Gristle ‘n grease,” Clark Kent chortled.

Raeleen looked at him like he was the most precious thing on Earth or even Krypton, her younger, adopted son’s home planet, and cooed in baby talk, “You think ‘at’s funny, huh?”

Clark Kent nodded, picked up the bottle o’ Panther Piss from between his boots, and took a pull.

“You gonna drink all ‘at yerself?” Hub asked, annoyed at the bad manners.

“Uh uh, sorry,” Clark Kent replied and helt the bottle out to Raeleen. “Mama?”

“Uh uh, no thanks, Sugar.”

He offered it to Harvey, who rubbed off the bottle lip on the front of his shirt, took a swig, and then wiped his mouth on the shirtsleeve he’d just wiped his snotty lip with, and handed it back. Wipin’ his mouth across a snot-slicked sleeve was all right, but God forbid he’d stick his lips on a germ-laden bottle top. Clark Kent set it back on the ground without lookin’ at the glaring poor excuse of a father figure.

“I wish you’da brought that waitress with ya,” Harvey said, shovelin’ a spoonful of beans in his mouth. Hub looked up, surprised. “I’da like t’had a little o’ that myself. I like a moaner-groaner.”