and occasional outlaws.
General Jo and Uncle Bill took the loss of the Redmond land, land that would have eventually been theirs, about the same way those other rebels took the loss of the Confederacy. General Jo and Uncle Bill had dreams of buying back their vast acres, and they applied for an unsecured loan of sorts on payroll day at The Sunnyside Dairy near Lebanon. They made their applications with shotguns in hand and stockings over their faces. They managed a clean getaway, and all was well for about two weeks, until Uncle Bill’s wife caught him having at it with a car hop from the Dog’N Suds. In her instant miff, she went overboard, ratted them both out to the law. General Jo and Uncle Bill were in the Missouri pen from just before I was born, and I didn’t really know General Jo until he came home when I was seven, and I have still never called him “Dad” to his face. General Jo has never done serious time again, just a few overnights in the drunk tank. Uncle Bill, a recidivist fuckup, stayed free less than two years before catching life for a straight-razor fandango he instigated at The Inca Club with his ex-wife’s new husband.
I ofttimes feel that my genes have me cornered.
Because, hand to heart, ever since that round of golf at which I’d triumphed by virtue of a single, perfectly lucky stroke that smacked the cow-pattie stack, I’d smelled that smell. That smell of the not too savory but awfully attractive that seemed always to perfume the times Smoke and me spent together. The stink of self-expressive and unapologetic wrongness, a stink I’d whiffed young, been weaned on in fact, found intoxicating, and had come to miss.
My answer reflected my needs.
8
SKID MARKS
CUPID WAS A silent partner in this criminal conspiracy, or maybe it was that gnat-ball destiny, as Niagra got tagged to break me in, show me the layout of the money garden. Big Annie kept a little Toyota pickup in the barn, and Niagra brought it up to the house, around the side where the hose hooked up. An old water-bed husk lay in the bed of the truck, and she brought the hose out and made the connection.
“This takes a while,” Niagra said. “We never go water ’til way after full dark. You don’t ever know who might see the water bed in the truck and leap to the right conclusion.”
Her champagne blond hair seemed like a lightbulb in the moonlight. “Incandescent” would fit. I just enjoyed it so to watch her move in any manner: tiny head shakes, hand brushing her hair, the stances she took. My loins, a region I’d been neglectful of for a spell, gave those tiny tingles, that loose feeling of want. I hadn’t been in a sexual scene that didn’t feature my right hand as ingenue since California.
“So, Niagra,” I said, trying to dredge forth some sort of swain charm, “uh, what’s your major?”
“Boy howdy,” she said, and a slow smile showed her whiteteeth in the moonglow, “you’re wantin’ at my booty so bad you can’t hardly speak.”
“I can speak, shit.”
“No, look,” she said, “it’s charming. I know I’m hot.” She looked to the water mattress, only slowly filling. “And my major is theater arts, but I’m never goin’ to graduate.”
“Sure you will.”
“No. You don’t get it. I’m takin’ my share of all this and goin’ out to actin’ school in Hollywood.”
“You might just make it,” I said.
“Really?” she said, and for that instant she fairly bloomed with wild hope. “I’m ecstatic with that. That’s mighty good to hear, comin’ from an artist like you, Doyle.” She did a sort of curtsy that made her chest-puppies frisky behind that T-shirt. “Molto grazie.”
“Prego,” I said.
“Parle italiano?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “Me neither. I can only say one sentence, and it’s not one that’ll take me far.”
“What is it?”
“Il gatto è grande.”
I lit a Lucky, then laughed.
“I see the problem with that,” I said. “It might
General Jo and Uncle Bill took the loss of the Redmond land, land that would have eventually been theirs, about the same way those other rebels took the loss of the Confederacy. General Jo and Uncle Bill had dreams of buying back their vast acres, and they applied for an unsecured loan of sorts on payroll day at The Sunnyside Dairy near Lebanon. They made their applications with shotguns in hand and stockings over their faces. They managed a clean getaway, and all was well for about two weeks, until Uncle Bill’s wife caught him having at it with a car hop from the Dog’N Suds. In her instant miff, she went overboard, ratted them both out to the law. General Jo and Uncle Bill were in the Missouri pen from just before I was born, and I didn’t really know General Jo until he came home when I was seven, and I have still never called him “Dad” to his face. General Jo has never done serious time again, just a few overnights in the drunk tank. Uncle Bill, a recidivist fuckup, stayed free less than two years before catching life for a straight-razor fandango he instigated at The Inca Club with his ex-wife’s new husband.
I ofttimes feel that my genes have me cornered.
Because, hand to heart, ever since that round of golf at which I’d triumphed by virtue of a single, perfectly lucky stroke that smacked the cow-pattie stack, I’d smelled that smell. That smell of the not too savory but awfully attractive that seemed always to perfume the times Smoke and me spent together. The stink of self-expressive and unapologetic wrongness, a stink I’d whiffed young, been weaned on in fact, found intoxicating, and had come to miss.
My answer reflected my needs.
8
SKID MARKS
CUPID WAS A silent partner in this criminal conspiracy, or maybe it was that gnat-ball destiny, as Niagra got tagged to break me in, show me the layout of the money garden. Big Annie kept a little Toyota pickup in the barn, and Niagra brought it up to the house, around the side where the hose hooked up. An old water-bed husk lay in the bed of the truck, and she brought the hose out and made the connection.
“This takes a while,” Niagra said. “We never go water ’til way after full dark. You don’t ever know who might see the water bed in the truck and leap to the right conclusion.”
Her champagne blond hair seemed like a lightbulb in the moonlight. “Incandescent” would fit. I just enjoyed it so to watch her move in any manner: tiny head shakes, hand brushing her hair, the stances she took. My loins, a region I’d been neglectful of for a spell, gave those tiny tingles, that loose feeling of want. I hadn’t been in a sexual scene that didn’t feature my right hand as ingenue since California.
“So, Niagra,” I said, trying to dredge forth some sort of swain charm, “uh, what’s your major?”
“Boy howdy,” she said, and a slow smile showed her whiteteeth in the moonglow, “you’re wantin’ at my booty so bad you can’t hardly speak.”
“I can speak, shit.”
“No, look,” she said, “it’s charming. I know I’m hot.” She looked to the water mattress, only slowly filling. “And my major is theater arts, but I’m never goin’ to graduate.”
“Sure you will.”
“No. You don’t get it. I’m takin’ my share of all this and goin’ out to actin’ school in Hollywood.”
“You might just make it,” I said.
“Really?” she said, and for that instant she fairly bloomed with wild hope. “I’m ecstatic with that. That’s mighty good to hear, comin’ from an artist like you, Doyle.” She did a sort of curtsy that made her chest-puppies frisky behind that T-shirt. “Molto grazie.”
“Prego,” I said.
“Parle italiano?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “Me neither. I can only say one sentence, and it’s not one that’ll take me far.”
“What is it?”
“Il gatto è grande.”
I lit a Lucky, then laughed.
“I see the problem with that,” I said. “It might
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