Wolf Whistle by Lewis Nordan

Dexter would never notice. He could have that little pea-shooter in his hand before Dexter ever knew what happened. He could blow this arrogant rich man’s hair and eyeballs all over these ferns before he knew what hit him. That’s what he was going to do, too, if Lord Montberclair wanted to pursue the subject of Solon’s white-trashery any further. Lord Montberclair wouldn’t look half so handsome, with all his military and plantation airs, if he had a bullet between his eyes, now would he?
    Sometimes in New Orleans Solon didn’t even remember the men he robbed. Sometimes he would wake up the next morning with folding-money in his pocket and new suits in his closet, and maybe a wet dick in his pants, and not know where he got any of them. He might have killed somebody and not remembered, he honest to God couldn’t be sure. He hoped he left at least one of those perverts bleeding in a hotel room.
    Solon wouldn’t mind killing Lord Montberclair, either. It would give him pleasure, sholy would. All Solon wanted to do right now, though, was just to get out of this durn crazy house alive.
    The conversation was over at last. Nothing was decided.Lord Montberclair said much obliged for the information, thank you very much, you are a good neighbor, words to that effect.
    Solon said, “No payment necessary, none at all.”
    Lord Montberclair said, “You’re a good man,” and paid Solon nothing, stingy son of a bitch.
    After Solon had walked back out into the rain, Dexter Montberclair filled up a whiskey glass with ice and poured bourbon over it—it was late enough in the morning to switch from brandy to bourbon now—and sat down again in a wicker chair on the sun porch. He stretched out his legs in front of him and propped the glass on his stomach.
    His lips were numb with alcohol. For two months now, Sally Anne had been sleeping in the room she called her office. It was an insult to Dexter. A woman was supposed to sleep in the bedroom with her husband. Wasn’t she? Wasn’t that the deal when they got married? Didn’t a woman promise to sleep in the bed with her husband, when they spoke their sacred marriage vows?
    The last time they talked, Dexter said, “Why, Sally Anne?”
    Sally Anne said, “I don’t know.”
    He kept on asking the same question.
    All she would say was “I don’t understand it myself, Dexter. I’ve just got to be alone for now.”
    Well, what kind of answer was that?
    When Dexter stood up from the wicker chair, he wobbled a little bit and realized that he was drunk.
    He left the glass of bourbon on the table and stuffed the Luger into the front of his pants. He started to walk through the house, though he wasn’t sure where he was going, and he felt unsteady on his feet.
    If that sassy little nigger lived out on Scratch Ankle, Dexter’s own place, it would be a different story. He’d evict them, whole family, simple as that, cut off their credit, anyway. That was the whole problem with letting foreign niggers come into town. Our own niggers don’t act like that. It’s these out-of-town niggers that are forever causing the trouble.
    Dexter had seen the light revolver in Solon’s pocket. It might as well have had a string of Christmas tree lights on it, it was so obvious. You could all but read the writing on the barrel.
    This was who Dexter found himself indebted to.
    Dexter was pacing the house. Sun porch, living room, kitchen, and back again. He adjusted the gun in his pants for comfort.
    His head was beginning to clear up. He needed a clear head, to think what he had to do here. He had to do something. He might just pistol-whip the shit out of his wife, it’s what she deserved, humiliating him like this. It might give him some satisfaction.
    He paced through the kitchen and looked at the dishes Sally Anne had left in the sink. She must have gotten up in the middle of the night and fixed