yellow light bulbs above the door and windows of Tiny’s.
“Johnson found out who’s stealin’ his coal,” Estep said, letting the car slow up. “Old Man Cox.”
“How’s he know for sure?”
“Drikked a chunk an’ put in a four-ten shell. Sealed ’er over with dust an’ glue.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Aw, didn’t hurt ’im none. Just scared ’im,” Estep said, guiding the car between chugholes in the parking lot.
Buddy opened his door. “Man alive, that’s bad,” he mumbled.
Inside Tiny’s, Buddy nodded and waved to friends through the smoke and laughter, but he did not see Fuller. He asked Tiny, but the one-eared man only shrugged, setting up two beers as Buddy paid. He walked to the pool table, placed his quarter beside four others, and returned to lean against the bar with Estep.
“Slop,” Buddy yelled to one of Johnson’s shots.
“Slop you too,” Johnson smiled. “Them quarters go fast.”
Fuller came in, walked to the bar, and shook his head when Tiny came up.
“ ’Bout time ya got here,” Buddy said.
“Sal’s out yonder. Wants to talk to ya.”
“Whadya got? Carload of goons?”
“See fer yerself.” Fuller waved toward the window. Sally sat with Lindy in the front seat of Fuller’s car. Buddy followed Fuller outside motioning for Sally to roll down the window, but she opened the door, letting Lindy out.
“You baby-set for a while,” she said.
Fuller laughed as he started the car.
Buddy bent to collar Lindy, but she stayed by him. Straightening himself, Buddy looked after the car and saw his TV bobbing in the back seat.
“C’mon,” Estep said from behind him. “Let’s get drunked up an’ shoot pool.”
“Yer on,” Buddy said, leading the dog into the bar.
Buddy lay on the trailer’s carpet, a little ball of rayon batting against his nostril as he breathed, and tried to remember how he got there, but Sally’s smile in his mind jumbled him. He remembered being driven back by Estep, falling down in the parking lot, and hitting Fred Johnson, but he did not know why.
He stood up, shook himself, and leaned down the hall to the bathroom. The blood flow from his head and the shock of the light turned the room purple for a moment, and he ran water from the shower on his head to clear the veil. Looking into the mirror, he saw the imprints of the carpet pattern on his cheek, the poison hanging beneath his eyes. He wanted to throw up but could not.
“Ol’ dead stuff,” he muttered, and heaved dryly.
Atop the commode sat a half-finished bourbon Coke, and he tossed it down, waiting for it to settle or come up again. Leaning against the wall, he remembered the dog, called to her, but she did not come. He looked at his watch: it was five-thirty.
He went into the living room and opened the door—the wet snow was collecting in patches. He called Lindy, and she came to him from behind the trailer, a hound close behind her. He shut the door between the dogs and sat on the couch. Lindy hopped up beside him. “Poor old girl,” he said, patting her wet side. “Yer in fer the works now.” His knuckles were split, and blood flaked from his fingers, but he could not feel any burning.
“Sal’s gone, yes, she is. Yes, she is. Couple of months, an’ we’ll show her, yes we will.” He saw himself in Charleston, in the Club, then taking Sally home in his new car…
“Hungry, ol’ girl? C’mon, I’ll fix ya up.”
In the kitchen, he looked for fresh meat to treat her, and finding none, opened a can of sardines. Watching her lap them up, he poured himself a bourbon, and feeling better, leaned against the counter. Sally’s plate lay skinned with beansoup in the sink, and for a moment he missed her. He laughed to himself: he would show her.
Lindy walked under the table and coughed up her sardines.
“Don’t blame ya a damn bit,” he said, but in the roil of sardines and saliva, he saw himself cleaning it up, knew the smell would always be there. There was no
“Johnson found out who’s stealin’ his coal,” Estep said, letting the car slow up. “Old Man Cox.”
“How’s he know for sure?”
“Drikked a chunk an’ put in a four-ten shell. Sealed ’er over with dust an’ glue.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Aw, didn’t hurt ’im none. Just scared ’im,” Estep said, guiding the car between chugholes in the parking lot.
Buddy opened his door. “Man alive, that’s bad,” he mumbled.
Inside Tiny’s, Buddy nodded and waved to friends through the smoke and laughter, but he did not see Fuller. He asked Tiny, but the one-eared man only shrugged, setting up two beers as Buddy paid. He walked to the pool table, placed his quarter beside four others, and returned to lean against the bar with Estep.
“Slop,” Buddy yelled to one of Johnson’s shots.
“Slop you too,” Johnson smiled. “Them quarters go fast.”
Fuller came in, walked to the bar, and shook his head when Tiny came up.
“ ’Bout time ya got here,” Buddy said.
“Sal’s out yonder. Wants to talk to ya.”
“Whadya got? Carload of goons?”
“See fer yerself.” Fuller waved toward the window. Sally sat with Lindy in the front seat of Fuller’s car. Buddy followed Fuller outside motioning for Sally to roll down the window, but she opened the door, letting Lindy out.
“You baby-set for a while,” she said.
Fuller laughed as he started the car.
Buddy bent to collar Lindy, but she stayed by him. Straightening himself, Buddy looked after the car and saw his TV bobbing in the back seat.
“C’mon,” Estep said from behind him. “Let’s get drunked up an’ shoot pool.”
“Yer on,” Buddy said, leading the dog into the bar.
Buddy lay on the trailer’s carpet, a little ball of rayon batting against his nostril as he breathed, and tried to remember how he got there, but Sally’s smile in his mind jumbled him. He remembered being driven back by Estep, falling down in the parking lot, and hitting Fred Johnson, but he did not know why.
He stood up, shook himself, and leaned down the hall to the bathroom. The blood flow from his head and the shock of the light turned the room purple for a moment, and he ran water from the shower on his head to clear the veil. Looking into the mirror, he saw the imprints of the carpet pattern on his cheek, the poison hanging beneath his eyes. He wanted to throw up but could not.
“Ol’ dead stuff,” he muttered, and heaved dryly.
Atop the commode sat a half-finished bourbon Coke, and he tossed it down, waiting for it to settle or come up again. Leaning against the wall, he remembered the dog, called to her, but she did not come. He looked at his watch: it was five-thirty.
He went into the living room and opened the door—the wet snow was collecting in patches. He called Lindy, and she came to him from behind the trailer, a hound close behind her. He shut the door between the dogs and sat on the couch. Lindy hopped up beside him. “Poor old girl,” he said, patting her wet side. “Yer in fer the works now.” His knuckles were split, and blood flaked from his fingers, but he could not feel any burning.
“Sal’s gone, yes, she is. Yes, she is. Couple of months, an’ we’ll show her, yes we will.” He saw himself in Charleston, in the Club, then taking Sally home in his new car…
“Hungry, ol’ girl? C’mon, I’ll fix ya up.”
In the kitchen, he looked for fresh meat to treat her, and finding none, opened a can of sardines. Watching her lap them up, he poured himself a bourbon, and feeling better, leaned against the counter. Sally’s plate lay skinned with beansoup in the sink, and for a moment he missed her. He laughed to himself: he would show her.
Lindy walked under the table and coughed up her sardines.
“Don’t blame ya a damn bit,” he said, but in the roil of sardines and saliva, he saw himself cleaning it up, knew the smell would always be there. There was no
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