Vernon God Little by D. B. C. Pierre Page A

go for a little ride.’
    I search her face for signs of uncovered truth, imminent apology. None appear. ‘Ma’am, I wasn’t even there . . .’
    â€˜Is that right. Makes it difficult to explain the fingerprints we found then, doesn’t it.’
    Picture a Smith County Sheriff’s truck with me inside, sitting quiet on a road between three wooden houses. Bugs chitter in the willows, oblivious. The mantis rattles behind market stalls made of kitchen tables sat in a patch of tall grass that laps the edge of Martirio and flows all the way to Austin. Then Brad Pritchard appears at my window; nose to the sky, finger pointed at his shoes.
    â€˜Air Maxes,’ he states. ‘New.’
    He stands with his eyes shut, waiting for me to blow a fucken kiss, or break down weeping or something. Asshole.
    I lift my leg to the window. ‘Jordan New Jacks.’
    He squints momentarily before pointing at my Nikes. ‘Old,’ he explains patiently. Then he points at his. ‘NEW.’
    I point at his, ‘Price of a Barbie Camper.’ Then at mine, ‘Price of a medium-range corporate jet.’
    â€˜Are not.’
    â€˜Are fucken too.’
    â€˜Enjoy jail.’
    His shuffle across the lawn turns into a scamper up the porch steps. A single raised finger shines back at me through my own front doorway, until the screen cracks shut in front of it. Then, just as the officers start the truck, the screen swings open again. My ole lady bursts out, and hurries down to the road.
    â€˜Vernon, I love you! Forget about before – even
murderers
are loved by their families, you know . . .’
    â€˜Heck, Ma, I ain’t a murderer!’
    â€˜Well I know – it’s just an
example
.’
    Lally shoots me a stare from his van, motioning like a camera with his hands. ‘Just say the word!’ he yells.
    Mom stands helpless in the road behind us, and parks her chin on her chest. Her lips prime up for tears. The pain of it ploughs me over, inside out. I spin to see Lally through the back window as he rushes to her, puts a hand to her shoulder. Her ole soggy head leans toward it. He slides his shoulder under to absorb her tears, then stands tall, and stares gravely at my truck disappearing.
    I can’t take it. I lunge across Gurie and holler back through her window with all the air in the fucken world: ‘Do it, Lally –
tell ’em the fucken truth
.’
    Jail is sour tonight. Dead like the air between your ass and your underwear when you’re sitting down. A TV buzzes somewhere in the background; I listen out for a news-flash about my innocence, but instead the weather report theme plays. I hate that fucken theme. Then a voice bangs down the corridor. Footsteps approach.
    â€˜Don’t you let me find them burgers gone, I mean it. Sure, right, it’s Dr Actions Diet Revolution now, huh. All your noise about Prettykins, and now – don’t tell me – it’s a fuckin burger diet, right? Sure, fuckin protein, uh-huh. What? Because there
is
no other news except your fuckin barn of an ass . . .’
    The man stops outside my cell. Light through the grille outlines a fuck-you pout crowded with teeth.
Barry E Gurie – Detention Executive
, says the badge. He sees me awake, and presses the phone into his neck.
    â€˜You ain’t pullin your rod in there are ya, Little? You ain’t chokin your chicken all day and night, are ya?’ He laughs this smutty laugh, like Miss goddam Universe just sucked his boy or something. Even at long range his breath hits you like a solid block, just slithers down your face leaving a trail of onion-relish and lard. What a disgusting human being, I swear. If this is how much of an asshole everybody’s going to be, about such a devastating fucken issue, then I better get the hell out of town. Maybe even out of Texas. Just until they get the story straight. Nana’sain’t even fucken far enough, the