Mack, staring into Cappy’s pale blue eyes, realized what an insane little motherfucker he really was.
THEN THEY got practical, and Lyle Mack called Honey Bee on her cell phone: “You still at Home Depot?”
“Just got back in my car.”
“I thought of a couple more things we need,” Lyle Mack said.
“Run back and get some of those contractor clean-up bags, okay? Like big garbage bags, but really big. And some Scrubbing Bubbles, and, uh, you know, some of those rubber kitchen gloves.”
“So when am I the goddamn maid around here?”
“Well, you’re right there at the store, goddamnit, Honey Bee ...”
THEY’D SENT Cappy down the street to wait at the Log Cabin Inn, and picked him up after Honey Bee got back. Honey Bee would open the bar: “You didn’t start the wienies. They’re still gonna be cold when we open.”
Lyle Mack shook his head. “Honey Bee, I’m just so ... busy. You know we’ve got some trouble. Help me out, here.”
When Lyle had gone out the back, and Joe Mack was getting his coat on, he tried to cheer her up by squeezing her butt, and giving her a little leg hump, but she wasn’t having it: “Get out of here. Go get busy.”
HONEY BEE had a horse ranch thirty miles south of St. Paul, though as ranches went, it was on the small side—forty acres. But Honey Bee liked it, and so did her three horses. The Macks were not horse persons themselves; their attitude was, if God had meant people to ride horses, He wouldn’t have invented the Fat Bob.
They rode out in Joe Mack’s van, so Cappy could hear it run, with the Macks in the front seats, and Cappy on a backseat with a shotgun that he’d brought from home. Joe Mack said to his brother, “I totally know where you’re coming from, you know, with this thing—but I gotta say, I kind of like these guys, when they’re not being assholes.”
“But they’re assholes most of the time,” Lyle Mack said. “Now look at this. We have a perfect job, big money, no trouble, and now what? Now we’re looking at a murder. I mean, fuck me. Murder? And they keep lettin’ you know about that eggplant that Shooter killed out in California. You can’t sit down and have a beer without them hinting around about it. It’s gonna be the same thing here.”
“You’re right about that,” Cappy grunted. The Macks had told him about the bind they were in; not because they wanted to, but because he said he needed to know. “I didn’t know him but two minutes when he started ranking me about it.”
“So we shouldn’t have used them,” Joe Mack said.
“Well, you’re right. You know? You’re right,” Lyle Mack said. “We made a mistake. There they were, handy. I shoulda gone, it shoulda just been me and you and the doc, but you know I’m no goddamn good in the morning.”
They both thought about that—and the fact that Lyle Mack was too chicken to have gone in—and then Lyle Mack added, “We made a mistake, and now they’re going to have to pay for it. I gotta say, it’s not fair, you know, but what’re we going to do? They’ll flat turn us in, if they get in a pinch.”
“Bother you?” Joe Mack asked Cappy.
Cappy shook his head. “Don’t bother me none, long as I get the van.”
THEY RODE along in silence for a while, looking at the winter countryside, then Lyle Mack said, over his shoulder to Cappy, “One thing I gotta tell you. If they’re sitting on the couch in the front room, it’s a purple couch, we gotta get them off it. We can’t shoot them on that couch. Honey Bee would have a fit. We need to get them up on their feet.”
“Not on the couch,” Cappy said.
“It’s velour, and it’s brand-new,” Lyle Mack said. “If we do them on the couch, the couch is toast. She’d be really, really pissed. She just got it from someplace like Pottery Barn. One of those big-time places.”
“Okay.”
Joe Mack asked, “What do you think about the van? Pretty nice, huh?”
“It’s
THEN THEY got practical, and Lyle Mack called Honey Bee on her cell phone: “You still at Home Depot?”
“Just got back in my car.”
“I thought of a couple more things we need,” Lyle Mack said.
“Run back and get some of those contractor clean-up bags, okay? Like big garbage bags, but really big. And some Scrubbing Bubbles, and, uh, you know, some of those rubber kitchen gloves.”
“So when am I the goddamn maid around here?”
“Well, you’re right there at the store, goddamnit, Honey Bee ...”
THEY’D SENT Cappy down the street to wait at the Log Cabin Inn, and picked him up after Honey Bee got back. Honey Bee would open the bar: “You didn’t start the wienies. They’re still gonna be cold when we open.”
Lyle Mack shook his head. “Honey Bee, I’m just so ... busy. You know we’ve got some trouble. Help me out, here.”
When Lyle had gone out the back, and Joe Mack was getting his coat on, he tried to cheer her up by squeezing her butt, and giving her a little leg hump, but she wasn’t having it: “Get out of here. Go get busy.”
HONEY BEE had a horse ranch thirty miles south of St. Paul, though as ranches went, it was on the small side—forty acres. But Honey Bee liked it, and so did her three horses. The Macks were not horse persons themselves; their attitude was, if God had meant people to ride horses, He wouldn’t have invented the Fat Bob.
They rode out in Joe Mack’s van, so Cappy could hear it run, with the Macks in the front seats, and Cappy on a backseat with a shotgun that he’d brought from home. Joe Mack said to his brother, “I totally know where you’re coming from, you know, with this thing—but I gotta say, I kind of like these guys, when they’re not being assholes.”
“But they’re assholes most of the time,” Lyle Mack said. “Now look at this. We have a perfect job, big money, no trouble, and now what? Now we’re looking at a murder. I mean, fuck me. Murder? And they keep lettin’ you know about that eggplant that Shooter killed out in California. You can’t sit down and have a beer without them hinting around about it. It’s gonna be the same thing here.”
“You’re right about that,” Cappy grunted. The Macks had told him about the bind they were in; not because they wanted to, but because he said he needed to know. “I didn’t know him but two minutes when he started ranking me about it.”
“So we shouldn’t have used them,” Joe Mack said.
“Well, you’re right. You know? You’re right,” Lyle Mack said. “We made a mistake. There they were, handy. I shoulda gone, it shoulda just been me and you and the doc, but you know I’m no goddamn good in the morning.”
They both thought about that—and the fact that Lyle Mack was too chicken to have gone in—and then Lyle Mack added, “We made a mistake, and now they’re going to have to pay for it. I gotta say, it’s not fair, you know, but what’re we going to do? They’ll flat turn us in, if they get in a pinch.”
“Bother you?” Joe Mack asked Cappy.
Cappy shook his head. “Don’t bother me none, long as I get the van.”
THEY RODE along in silence for a while, looking at the winter countryside, then Lyle Mack said, over his shoulder to Cappy, “One thing I gotta tell you. If they’re sitting on the couch in the front room, it’s a purple couch, we gotta get them off it. We can’t shoot them on that couch. Honey Bee would have a fit. We need to get them up on their feet.”
“Not on the couch,” Cappy said.
“It’s velour, and it’s brand-new,” Lyle Mack said. “If we do them on the couch, the couch is toast. She’d be really, really pissed. She just got it from someplace like Pottery Barn. One of those big-time places.”
“Okay.”
Joe Mack asked, “What do you think about the van? Pretty nice, huh?”
“It’s
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