Bad Chili Read online

  “What you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. Somethin’.”

  “Nothing stupid, I hope?”

  “You mean like shoot them?”

  “Like that, yeah.”

  “Naw, that ain’t my speed, bud. I might even could forgive her, you know.”

  “You confronted her?”

  “Not yet . . . Hap, I got to tell you, this whole cop business—I’ve about had it.”

  “That’s the beer talkin’,” I said.

  “Naw, it ain’t the beer,” Charlie said. “It’s me. Listen, you guys told me about King Arthur, but there’s stuff you haven’t told me. I’d do that now.”

  I gave him the short version of Big Man Mountain and the ball-stimulator incident.

  “You tellin’ me Jim Bob killed those two bastards right out?” Charlie said.

  “Looked dead to me.”

  “Guess I gotta find some reason to check that cabin out.”

  “He was just tryin’ to protect me, Charlie. He burst in there like he did to keep me from going the way Raul went. He didn’t have a choice but to shoot them.”

  “He came there to shoot ’em, Hap, you know that. That ’lectricity, it make your pecker stand out?”

  “I tell you about how my life was threatened, I nearly died, and you want to know that?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I think it made it curl up,” I said. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about which direction it was going. It hurt too bad. What do you know about Big Man?”

  “He’s had him some arrests,” Charlie said. “Quit wrestlin’—rather, they threw him out—a while ago. He’s been in some shitty business. He worked for King a while. Word is they split early. Big Man didn’t like takin’ orders way King gave ’em. It wasn’t a conflict in morals, it was two assholes bumpin’ together and not likin’ it. Story on Big Man is he starts a job, he finishes it. But when he finished for King last time, he didn’t sign on again. Who knows, maybe he’s had a change of heart. Or a need for money.”

  “So you really don’t know if he’s working for King?”

  “Not last time I heard,” Charlie said, lighting a cigarette. “But things change, man. Look at Hanson. Christ, my marriage.”

  “You know the guy?”

  “Yeah, and I hate to say it. It’s so goddamn insultin’. It’s our goddamn insurance agent. Anybody would fuck an insurance agent, they got to be low. Sonofabitch don’t buy at Kmart or Wal-Mart. Them suits he wears, they’re tailor-made. Got him a razor cut. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Motherfucker smokes. And he’s gettin’ her pussy, and he smokes. Fuckin’ cigars, no less. Now ain’t that some shit?”

  I smiled, and Charlie tried to smile, but it wasn’t working.

  “Tornado weather,” Charlie said.

  “You said that.”

  “Warnings are out. Been out all day. Things scare me to death. Can’t stand the thought of them. You think I ought to let Amy go?”

  “You’re asking me about women?” I said. “You got to be desperate.”

  “You’re right,” Charlie said. “I forgot, you’re like a number-one fuck-up in that department.”

  “Things are kind of better, now,” I said. I told him about Brett, and about how Big Man had threatened her, what we were doin’ about it.

  “You could be fixin’ yourself up for worse business,” Charlie said.

  “You going to put a twenty-four-hour guard on her house for me?” I asked.

  “You know I can’t,” Charlie said. “More I pay attention to you guys, even tryin’ to help, just makes it worse. Past business has made it so the chief would just as soon throw you boys to the dogs.”

  “Brett isn’t part of that.”

  “I know. But the chief isn’t going to let me put a twenty-four-hour guard on anybody. I do, I got to tell him why. Then I got to tell him Jim Bob blew two guys away, and that connects to you and Leonard. Fact is, I ought to do something about Jim Bob zeroin’ them guys, but it just ain’t in me, man. I don’t give a shit. The one with the pock face, I know who he is. He’s done everything from robbery to murder to fuckin’ little girls. One of them his own eleven-year-old daughter. If you can call givin’ sperm to an egg makin’ you a father. Hard for me to lose much sleep on that sonofabitch it’s him. It ain’t him, it’s one just like him. I don’t know the black guy, but I figure he’s a member of the same platoon. I got some off-duty time comin’ up, though. I can help you watch your girlfriend then. Next week, all week.”

  “Charlie, I was you, I’d use that time to talk to my wife. I don’t know much, but could be she’s not getting what she wants at home, and I’m not talkin’ about sex.”

  “Could be lots of things, Hap. And I don’t know what any of them are. I think maybe I got to confront her. She’s in love with this guy, not me, then she ought to go on. I want her to go on. But it has to do with me, I ain’t doin’ somethin’ just right and can start doin’ it way she needs, we might can work stuff out.”

  “I certainly hope so,” I said.

  “’Course, she could just be an asshole.”

  “There is that.”

  Leonard came out on the porch. “What you guys doin’? Come back in. Have a beer.”

  “No, thanks,” Charlie said. “Got to go. Good luck to both you fellas. And be careful, I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

  * * *

  When Charlie was gone, Jim Bob came out on the porch to join us. He sat down on the swing and started moving it with his foot. He said, “Way I see it, boys, we’re kind of at an impasse.”

  “How’s that?” Leonard said.

  “I think this chili fuck is responsible for the beating my client took. This connects with them other two gettin’ killed, Horse and Raul, but that isn’t strictly my business, though I’m willin’ to make it my business. But, Hap, you don’t feel confident chili dude’s the man. Leonard, you think it’s him, but I can see you fadin’ a bit.”

  “Fadin’?” Leonard said.

  “You got your doubts,” Jim Bob said, “or rather you know Hap’s got his and you’re runnin’ on his track.”

  “I think for myself,” Leonard said.

  “I never doubted that,” Jim Bob said, “but you think a way fits in with how Hap feels. He’s the same with you. I can respect that. It’s stupid. But I can respect it.”

  “This leading up to something?” Leonard asked.

  “Yeah, it’s leading up to me goin’ back to the hotel, takin’ a bath, jerkin’ off, watchin’ a little TV, a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow I’m back down to business. I’m gonna stay on chili man’s ass until I get what I’m lookin’ for.”

  “And if it isn’t him?” I asked.

  “It’s him, all right,” Jim Bob said. He stood up, set the beer bottle on the porch railing, went down to his car and drove away.

  26

  I lay in a tub of warm soapy water with my arm around Brett. She lay with her head against my shoulder. We had been lying like that for some time. Enough that the water was starting to cool.

  Outside I could hear rain beating on the roof of the house. In the living room I knew Leonard, Clinton, and Leon were watching television, probably thinking about what we were doing in the bedroom, thinking all sorts of wild things, and of course, they were right.

  We had bucked like colts, squirmed like snakes, rolled like seals, and done some cheap, disgusting things that had made us happy.

  After a while the water cooled and so did we. We got out of the tub, dried each other, lay on the bed, kissed and fondled, and one thing led to another and we were at it again. Afterwards, we lay there in each other’s arms and talked. I said, “I’m beginning to feel guilty. You and me in here having fun, and the boys having to watch television.”

  “Shit,” Brett said. “There’s this special on poisonous toad frogs in the Amazon tonight. How in hell could they be envious of us, knowin’ that’s comin’ on?”


  “You know, you’re right.”

  “They finish that, we’re still busy, they can switch over and watch the life of that shit O.J. Simpson on Biography. Sounds to me they got a pretty full evenin’.”

  “You’re right again.”

  “’Course, I have to go to work, so it doesn’t matter much. We got to quit fuckin’ sometime. ’Course, I’m not tryin’ to say it has to be right now. You want to see you can lower the bald man into the canyon one more time?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  We tried to make love again, but this time we weren’t as successful. Oh, all right—I wasn’t as successful. The bald man was tuckered out. We laughed about it, kissed, got dressed, went into the living room.

  Leon was asleep on the couch. Clinton was lying on a pallet, his head propped up on pillows. Leonard was sitting on a chair drinking a Coca-Cola. They were watching an old detective show.

  “Lazy, rainy day,” I said.

  “Man, ya’ll must have been playin’ Monopoly,” Leonard said. “Long as y’all were in there, you had to be.”

  “Monopoly?” Clinton said. “I like that game. We could play to pass time.”

  “I was kidding,” Leonard said.

  “I do have a Monopoly game,” Brett said. She went to the closet and dragged it out.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You get to playin’ that, you might could get distracted too easy.”

  “Naw,” Leonard said. “It’s okay. It’s not that engrossing.”

  I went to the window, pushed back the curtain, and looked out. It was rainy and dark and the day was dying on top of it. I could see lightning shimmering against distant clouds.

  Soon Brett would be heading to work, Leon and his .45 with her. Me, I had a late job interview at the LaBorde Fowl Processing Plant for a night watchman job. My application had yielded some interest in the way of a postcard. I had called and a night foreman named George Waggoner had set up an interview.

  I turned to Leonard. “What are your plans, Leonard?”

  “Me and Clinton gonna play a little Monopoly, I think. Then I’ll go pick up some grub. I might stay the night, Brett don’t mind.”

  “’Course not,” Brett said. “It’s good to know you’ll be here when I come home.”

  “In the mornin’ I’m supposed to meet Jim Bob at my place, and so are you, Hap.”

  “What for?”

  “I called him earlier, see if he’d had any luck.”

  “Well?” I said.

  “He said he had some things comin’ together, he’d know better tomorrow, so we’re gonna meet in the morning. Nine o’clock, my place.”

  “Good enough,” I said.

  “You fellas think this wrestler really means to hurt me?” Brett asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m just being cautious. For a while.”

  “How long?” Brett said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you really haven’t any idea if he means to hurt me or not, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You can count on one thing, though,” Leonard said. “It ain’t gonna happen. He ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

  Brett smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  Leonard nodded.

  Brett looked at me. “You got that interview.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m about to leave. . . . Didn’t you tell me to remind you to call Ella?”

  “That’s right,” Brett said. “I thought I’d check on her. She called yesterday. She’s made up her mind to leave that thug Kevin.”

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  “Me too,” Brett said. “I’m going to call, try and give her the moral support. ’Course, if he’s there, that won’t be easy. He sleeps a lot, though.”

  “He work?”

  “Some kind of shift where he’s on a few days, off a few days. He’s off right now.”

  I gave Brett a kiss, told everyone so long, drove to the chicken-processing plant to check on the night watchman’s job.

  * * *

  “This is a costly operation,” Waggoner said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand.”

  “There’s all manner of expensive equipment here. We even have the occasional business spies. People trying to sneak in here and get our secrets. That’s going to get worse, Collins.”

  “You’ve actually had spies?” I asked.

  “Couple of niggers hired by our competition, and I won’t even show the company the respect of saying their name.”

  “What did these spies do?”

  “They took photographs of our equipment.”

  “No shit.”

  “And of our chickens.”

  “Doesn’t one chicken look like another?”

  “Not when they’re raised the way we raise them. We slap the juice to them, Collins. We got the biggest, fattest chickens you ever seen. Big fat juicy drumsticks. That’s ’cause they don’t walk on ’em. Can’t. Our chickens can’t walk. We’ve bred them that way.”

  “Hope you haven’t just given me one of your secrets.”

  “No. That one’s out. Darn animal-rights people been all over our rear ends about that one. Let me tell you, Collins, we’re the envy of every chicken-processing plant in East Texas. Possibly Oklahoma and Louisiana as well. You can even throw in Arkansas if you want.”

  “Why not,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said why not throw in Arkansas.”

  “Is that some kind of remark, Mr. Collins?”

  “You said we could throw in Arkansas. I’m saying it’s okay with me.”

  Shit, I thought, don’t do it to yourself, Hap. Waggoner is an officious, fat, rednecked prick in an expensive suit with a tie that doesn’t match, but hold back, baby. You need the work.

  Waggoner studied me to see if I was being humorous. I could tell this was a guy didn’t like humorous. He saw humorous, he’d shoot it and fuck it in the ass and bury it in the chicken shit at the plant. That’s how he felt about humorous.

  “We need a man who is willin’ to put his life on the line, if need be,” Waggoner said.

  “For chickens?” I said.

  “For the business, Mr. Collins. And yes, chickens. We take this business very serious, and I need a man who is serious.”

  “I think I can be serious about chickens,” I said.

  “No thinking to it, you are or you aren’t.”

  “I can do the job, Mr. Waggoner. I can keep people out. I can patrol the area. And I don’t think there’s really that big a threat to the chickens or your industry from industrial spies, but I see one of those sonofabitches, I’ll be on him like stink on shit.”

  “I’d prefer you not use that language, Mr. Collins.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “I’m a churchgoing man myself.”

  “Which church?”

  “Methodist.”

  “Dancing Baptist.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s what they call Methodist. Dancing Baptist. You know, they’re allowed to dance. Baptist aren’t supposed to. Sometimes, they call Methodist Baptist that can read.”

  “I’m not sure I care for that sort of thing, Mr. Collins.”

  “It’s a joke, Mr. Waggoner. I’m a little nervous. I’m tryin’ to warm us up.”

  “Well, you’re not. I don’t care for humor in job interviews.”

  “Sure you’re not a Baptist?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You know, we got some other jobs here might be better for you. Chicken reproduction, for one.”

  “Come again.”

  “Chicken reproduction. We need people to help us stud chickens.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. How would I stud a chicken?”

  “I think you’re tryin’ to be humorous again, Mr. Collins.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Obviously, you would be required to stimulate
the roosters and preserve their sperm.”

  “You’re kiddin’?”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re sayin’ you’d want me to jack a rooster off into a test tube?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You really do that?”

  “Have you heard of such a thing for bulls? Horses?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s bad enough, but you want to offer me a job jacking off chickens? You got to be out of your mind, man.”

  “People do it.”

  “Not me. I came to see about a night watchman job.”

  Waggoner took my application, opened a drawer, and slipped it inside. “I believe that’ll be all the questions I need to ask, Mr. Collins. Something comes up, you fit the qualifications, I’ll give you a call.”

  “You’re not going to call me, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. That being the case, let me tell you something. I think your fuckin’ chickens are second-rate. I wouldn’t wipe my ass on your chickens, let alone jack one of the sonofabitches off.”

  “Good night, Mr. Collins.”

  * * *

  I drove home, sat around in my kitchen with a glass of milk and a Moon Pie, nibbled at it, felt blue. I couldn’t even get a job at the goddamn chicken plant being a night watchman. All they had for me was a position jerking a rooster’s dick. It didn’t get much worse than that.

  I looked through my old record albums, my audiotapes, and the handful of CDs I owned. ’Course, I didn’t own a CD player, so I just sort of pretended I could play those if I wanted to.

  Finally I found a tape Leonard had given me. It was Junior Brown. Junior Brown played an instrument of his own devising, a cross between a guitar and steel. He sounded like Ernest Tubb singing to music played by Chet Atkins, Jimi Hendrix, and a honkie-tonk drunk.

  I listened to that a while. Took a shower. Went to bed. Looked at the ceiling. Squirmed in the covers. Listened to the rain outside. I kept checking my .38 on the nightstand.

  I tried to figure if Jim Bob was right, and this King Arthur was the mastermind. He seemed the most logical, but Big Man hadn’t said he was behind it. He hadn’t asked for videos. He had asked for a video and the book.

  I churned all of this around for a while, got up, turned on the box fan, put a chair under the back doorknob to reinforce the lock. I put a chair under the front doorknob. I checked all the windows to make sure they were locked. I wanted them open to let in the cool, wet wind, but I was afraid. I kept visualizing Big Man Mountain slipping through one of the windows, that goddamn battery and crank generator under his arm.