Читать книгу When the Pirate Prays - James B. Johnson - Страница 9

4: MONDAY, 11:30 A.M.

“Geography bee,” I said. The dog was making me angry.

“Spelling bee,” Tapes said.

“Geography bees make you think, know things. Spelling bees you memorize a few rules and a few exceptions and that’s it.” I crossed my arms.

“Spelling bees require discipline and presence of mind,” he said, putting down his Bud on the table. “Geography bees, you just got to know places; then memory tricks and associations bail you out.”

“Geography bees,” I said emphatically, “open the entire world to you. Stange and foreign places. Mystic lands. You know geography, you have a good start on knowing people, peoples of this good Earth—”

“Don’t get deep on me, Shorts,” he warned. “Next you’ll be using iambic pentameter—”

“I don’t do metric,” I shot at him.

“Anyway,” he said around a mouthful of roast beef, “you can tell a lot about a person by the way they use the language.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I said.

“You talk like you ate a dictionary,” he accused.

Tapes and I were sitting in the lounge eating sandwiches and potatoes I’d nuked: Silas Smith had sent the few remaining staff home last night. A move which I thought strange. Of course, the day shift had never arrived this morning.

Orlo and his two buddies were there, too, eating steaks they’d cooked.

Silas Smith entered through the double-wide doorway. I was becoming used to his sallow face and bad complexion. They say beauty is only skin deep, but Smith proved the old adage that ugly is clear to the bone.

“NOAA radio,” he said, stopping at our table, “just reported that winds are up to seventy-three miles an hour.”

“That makes it a tropical storm,” I said. Two more MPH’s and we’d have a hurricane. Shutters rattled as if to underscore his news.

“And it’s stalled right out there in the Gulf by some kind of weather front,” he finished.

Just like Henry B. had said.

“We’re in for it,” I said. “I hope your Budweiser holds out.”

“Storm party!” shouted Orlo and his buddies guffawed. They were giving good beer a bad name. But they were paying attention to Smith.

The Rottweiler with the red bandanna for a collar lapped beer from a plate at Orlo’s feet.

Silas ran his hand down his scarred neck. “We’re stuck for at least a day.”

“How’s—what’s the pregnant girl’s name?” I asked.

“Kowalski,” he said.

“Sandra Dee Kowalski,” said Ms. Maple coming through the doors with a couple of rolls and a grapefruit on a plate. “She’s still in labor. It will be a long day.”

Another three-name person. “What is this, a convention?” I said and nobody paid any attention because a series of thunderclaps shook the entire building like successive incoming mortar rounds. I wondered about Sandy’s mom.

Angie Maple wore a half-sleeve pullover shirt Tapes was staring at. One of his things is adorning shirts with weird and wonderful sayings, like “Pit bulls need love, too,” or “Get insight, eat a cornea.”

“Hi, Granny,” I said without thinking.

She didn’t respond, but she made sure we could all see her shirt. An elderly lady graced the front. She carried a big Uzi, and wore crossed bandoliers adorned with grenades and ammo.

Above her was the word “GRAMBO” and below her the caption read: “TAKE AWAY WHOSE SOCIAL SECURITY?”

Granny Maple was a Gray Panther if nothing else. She sat at the table next to us and buttered a roll and tinkled iced tea.

Silas Smith was looking awkward. “Thanks for, ah, carrying the governor back there and—”

The dog growled at him.

“No sweat,” I said. “What’s Mary Lynn’s last name?”

“Messenger,” he said.

“None of your beeswax,” said Angie Maple.

Smith looked funny and backed out the door, warily eying the beast. “Your accommodations are free and so is the food if you remain. By doing so, you release the Inn from any liability.”

I drank some Bud and leaned toward Ms. Maple. “Why isn’t it any of my business? I’m not intruding.”

“She already had one bad experience with a man and doesn’t need to get started on another.”

“Granny, I’m beginning to resent—”

“I saw the way you were looking at her last night. You’re trying to catch her on the rebound, just for your own nefarious purposes.”

“Yeah, and I might be a murderer, also,” I said. Hell, I was vulnerable, too. I’d just broken up with Rebecca and wasn’t too happy with the opposite sex. But, I stopped short in my reverie, Granny might be right. A kind and bold look last night from a pretty woman, sort of a soft touch which wormed into my heart a little. I shook my head. Tapes was correct, next thing I’ll be writing poetry and I like poetry only a little more than death marches and cholera.

“You remind me of somebody…,” she said and I ignored her.

Orlo and his buddies were drinking beer and paying close attention to us.

I stared wrath and hellfire at them and, lo and behold, they averted their gaze. I guess Rebecca’s defection had burned me more than I thought. The dog returned my glare. Beer dripped from his mouth.

“You might well be,” said Ms. Maple.

“Be what?” I asked.

“The murderer.”

“That’s the least of my worries.”

“I’ll find out and when I do—”

Things added up then. “Just one minute, Granny, you’ve been watching too much television—”

“Somebody’s got to uncover the culprit.”

“They send you a badge with your AARP kit?”

“Shortcut,” Tapes said warningly.

“Well, she got to me.”

“The old Shortcut wadn’t that touchy,” he said.

“Okay, okay. Granny, I apologize for my remark. It was insensitive.”

“It was,” she said, “especially coming from someone who puts peanut butter on his baked potato.”

I put the knife down. “It’s good for you—”

A noise at the doors interrupted. Trooper entered. He was wearing his full uniform, light brown with a darker trousers-stripe, and had shaved and appeared sober. He wore his revolver, a flashlight, and a pair of handcuffs tucked in his belt at the small of his back. He went straight to the bar and behind it; he drew himself a draft Bud like Orlo and the other two stooges had.

Trooper drank the entire beer without the glass leaving his mouth. He sighed and drew himself another draft and set it on the bar.

He looked around the room, surveying it as if for the first time. He ran a finger around his collar and stretched his neck uncomfortably.

I was watching him with interest and he began watching me watch him. He pulled a flipover notebook out of a rear pocket and came around the bar. He stopped next to me, towering bulkily there as if to intimidate me.

He found a mechanical pencil and licked the tip. “Give me your name please, last name first, first name last, then middle initial.”

“Why?”

He frowned and sighed. Surprisingly, his voice softened. “You’re a witness, mister.”

“He’s a suspect,” Orlo said from his table over his dog’s head, “ye’d better read him his rights.”

“I do my job as I see it,” Trooper replied.

“I don’t see any way around it,” Tapes said.

Nor did I. “Birthday, Billy. NMI.”

“Let me see your driver’s license please.”

Angry with him towering over me, I stood and moved aside. I still had no choice.

I pulled my wallet out and the dog lunged at me.

My wallet went flying and cards and plastic and cash fluttered about.

Since my Nikes were drying in the room, I was wearing my Tony Lamas. With pointy toes.

I’d been waiting for something to happen and had seen Orlo nudge the dog and whisper in its ear.

Executing a perfect swivel that helps me win club racquetball championships, I swung around and the pointy toe of the boot slammed into the Rottweiler’s throat knocking him aside.

Before anything else happened, Tapes had his Buck knife flicked open and was heading for the dog.

“Deacon!” shouted Orlo.

The dog scrambled back and stood poised at Orlo’s feet.

Tapes stopped.

“That sumbitch was fast,” said the one called “Axe.”

“Both them sumbitches were fast,” said Orlo, looking at me and Tapes with a new appreciation.

I was waiting for an apology or an explanation I never got. The third camo-dressed guy was on his hands and knees in front of Trooper and me scooping up the stuff from my wallet.

“Lookit, Orlo,” he said over his shoulder. He held up some of my cards. “Libary cards. A million of ’em.”

“Twelve,” I said.

The guy had black, greasy hair and one of those little pigtails tied by a rubber band. He was reading the cards. “Tucson, Tallahassee, San Antonio, Dallas, Florida State, Trinity, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, El Paso, Uvalde—”

“We’ve established you can read,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. I snatched them out of his hand. Angela Maple was staring at me quizzically. I was changing everybody’s opinion of me.

Trooper was still standing there stoically. Not helping, not making a gesture one way or the other.

Tapes clicked his Buck knife and it disappeared.

“Orlo,” I said. “You still hungry?”

“What?”

“You want to eat that dog, you turn him loose again.”

“Me? Eat the Deacon?”

“Balls first. You’re lucky: you already cut off his tail.” I will never, ever understand why people de-tail dogs. It can’t be for aesthetic reasons because most dogs are too ugly to change.

Orlo studied me under lowered brows. “I’d like to see that come to pass.” His voice was soft and speculative. He continued to stare at me. “I call him ‘Deacon’ because if he comes after ye, ye’d better say thy prayers.”

I’d figured something like that.

Shuffling my stuff, I handed Trooper my driver’s license and put everything back in my wallet.

“Arizona,” Trooper said, writing in his notebook. “How long did you say you’ve been in Florida?”

“I didn’t.”

“How long have you been in Florida?”

“Seven months.”

“You should’ve got a Florida license, and tags for that old junker you drive.” He wasn’t as nonobservant as he looked.

“It was my intention to return to Arizona before this,” I said.

“Ye surely should have,” Orlo said in that same piercing, soft voice.

“Mizz Maple said you were unemployed and itinerant,” Trooper said.

“Granny says a lot of things,” I said. She might be more damaging to me than Deacon, who was still poised and locked onto me like MG-10 radar in an F-102 (when it worked). I sincerely hoped the current USAF inventory aircraft had better radar.

Tapes interrupted by handing Trooper his license.

Trooper looked at the two licenses and paused in his writing. “Same Tucson address.” He squinted down at me. “You homosexuals?”

I shook my head. “No, but if we were, it wouldn’t be any of your goddamn business.”

“Fags,” said Orlo and I wondered why he was creating conflict and pushing the situation toward flash points. He made the traditional limp wrist.

The dog growled.

“You like mustard, Orlo?” I asked.

“Why is that?”

“It’ll make that dog taste better.”

Orlo looked puzzled for a moment. He glanced at his buddies then back to me. “Ye? A short little shit? Taking on three growed men?” He laughed. “Too Tall and Too Small.”

“I admit the odds are against you,” I said. I turned away from him. I was already tired of listening to him and shouldn’t have sparred with him.

Trooper returned our licenses. He nodded to Angie Maple. She found her purse and silently handed him her license.

When he was finished with her, he moved over to Orlo, ignoring Deacon. Trooper was doing his job and not letting anything threaten him. “Your names and licenses, please.”

Orlo stood and in that same chilling soft voice, he said, “And if we do not so choose?” He caressed Deacon’s head. Orlo was every bit as big as Trooper. He faced the Highway Patrol officer. “Deacon?”

You could tell the animal was ready. At the slightest signal he would attack. His neck strained against the red bandana.

Orlo’s two friends stood also, the one with the pigtail poised on the balls of his feet.

Trooper said calmly, “I don’t know you. You’re not from around here. But I have seen you here some time ago. There is something funny about you I can’t place, but I will. Twenty-five years in this business and I got the feel.”

Deacon growled low in his throat.

Trooper continued. “That dog makes one move toward me, he’s a dead motherfucker, understand?”

“There’s no call for any of this confrontation stuff,” I said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Trooper.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Trooper broke first, right then, and his hand went for his gun high on his hip.

The dog shot at him and Trooper wasn’t as quick as I had been. Deacon had Trooper’s arm in a nanosecond and Trooper screeched in sudden pain and fell to the side, the dog jumping at his shoulder now.

Angle Maple screamed.

Orlo stepped in and kicked Trooper in the temple with a fat boot. Pigtail began kicking Trooper in the back.

If he hadn’t told me to shut the fuck up, things might have been different. In about three heartbeats he was no longer defending himself. Likely the first blow to the temple had knocked him out.

Tapes was quicker than me. He kicked the dog about eleven feet into a table spilling a full ashtray and knocking over the table.

I took Pigtail out with a hand to the throat and a boot to his knee. Instantly he was on the floor next to Trooper making noises like his larynx was crushed which it wasn’t and like he was trying to breathe and couldn’t and I didn’t care about that.

Axe was still standing there drooling. He wasn’t much more than a kid anyway.

Tapes had his Buck knife out and to Orlo’s throat. “Call it off.”

The dog was scrambling back this way.

“Now,” said Tapes, voice not worried.

“Deacon,” said Orlo. “Freeze.”

The Rottweiler stopped in place as if turned to stone.

“Hold it!” said a commanding voice from the entryway.

Lieutenant Governor John Dellum Ionata walked in. “What the hell is going on here?”

Orlo spoke quickly, disregarding Tapes’ knife tickling his throat. “Your honor. The cop threatened me and Deacon, my dog, verily he did not understand and now, I think, everything is straightened out.”

“Angie?” the next governor said.

“Everybody in here was at everybody’s throat. However, these three, ah, gentlemen, were not cooperating with Trooper and his investigation.” She looked at me. “Possibly because Mr. Birthday had already started an argument with them and with Trooper—”

“That ain’t exactly how—” I began.

“Trooper needs help,” Tapes said mildly. “Here’s the way it happens. Orlo, you tell one of your friends to take the dog out, understand?”

“I do,” Orlo said and tried to nod. He hadn’t shaved in a week and looked like a pirate. Tapes’ knife scraped his throat at the base and Orlo grimaced. “Deacon. Go ye with Axe. Axe, ye put the Deacon in the van, hear?”

“Yessir, Orlo, I heard. C’mon, Deacon.” Axe simply walked off and the beast didn’t follow. He still had the blood lust upon him.

“Orlo?” Tapes prompted with a gentle flick of his knife.

“Deacon, now, baby. Go with Axe.” Orlo motioned with his left hand.

The dog obeyed and the tableau remained frozen. He trotted to Axe waiting at the entrance to the lounge.

Mary Lynn stood there. She’d been watching. She hiccupped twice.

I saw Axe pull the side doors to this the south wing open and the wind and rain burst in. It didn’t bother Axe. He leaned against one of the screen doors and pushed hard, not an easy task. The door opened and he held it for the animal. The weather didn’t seem to bother either.

The rain and wind poured in. Ionata went through the entry to the saloon and shouldered the heavy doors closed. The lashing rain soaked his slacks and the front of his white shirt.

“I don’t know if you’ll have to answer for assault on a lawman or not,” Ionata said to all of us. “But I want that knife out of sight right away.”

Tapes caressed Orlo’s neck for a split second sending a message, and thumbed the blade closed and the knife disappeared.

Angie and Ionata were bending over Trooper.

Tapes was watching Orlo.

I stepped over to Pigtail. He was lying quietly on the floor, apparently concentrating on breathing. But his color was good and he’d recover soon. One of his hands was rubbing his knee I’d kicked. I hoped he’d have a lifetime limp.

“Now that’s what I call rapid dissipation.”

“He’s unconscious,” Angie Maple said. “I suspect he’s got a concussion from that kick to the head.”

“Trooper’s tough,” said Ionata. “We’ll put him in his room and maybe you can keep ice on his head, Angie?”

“You’re going to run out of nurses soon,” I said.

Mary Lynn Messenger shook herself and hurried into the bar. Her eyes were wide and I wanted to drown in them. “Sandra Dee’s having contractions. Her baby’s coming.”

“Oh, shit,” I said.

Something is always interfering in my love life. Tapes saw my look at Mary Lynn and his eyes narrowed. He knew I hadn’t had time to get over Becky and was prone to fall in love anyway.

I didn’t know what the hell to think.

All I knew was that I didn’t want to deliver a baby, not a bit; but if that’s what it took to be in Mary Lynn’s presence, I’d do anything it took.

“Come on,” Mary Lynn urged. Her eyes drew me like a hypnotist.

Two quick witticisms jumped to my lips but I found myself suddenly tongue-tied.

The three hunters were after blood, my blood, not to mention their attack beast. There was absolutely no law to stand between us and them. I thought about their van. Most hunters have guns to hunt with.

It also occurred to me that there was a murderer running around loose, too.

I looked at Mary Lynn Messenger and felt very vulnerable.