Feast Day of Fools hh-10 Page 12

  He rolled over in bed and let the soft blue coolness of the dawn seep inside his eyelids and lull him back to sleep. That was when he heard a sound that made no sense. Someone was brushing his teeth in Cody’s bathroom. He sat up in bed and stared in disbelief at a man who was bent over the lavatory, jerking Cody’s toothbrush like a ragged stick in his mouth, toothpaste and saliva running down his fingers and wrist.

  The figure looked like a half-formed ape wearing a vest and striped trousers without a shirt or belt, his skin streaked with tufts of orange hair. A knife in a scabbard was tied flatly along his upper right arm with leather thongs. He stopped brushing and cupped water into his mouth and spat into the lavatory. “How you doin’, man?” he asked.

  “You’re using my toothbrush.”

  “Yeah, it’s a good one, man.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “You were supposed to make a signal fire. How come you didn’t do that? Krill is pissed at you.”

  “Signal fire for what?”

  “About that crazy man who killed those two guys down below. He had a machine gun. You can hear it a long way, man. You didn’t hear nothing?”

  “I was gone. I didn’t hear or see anything. All I know is what was on the news. Get out of here.”

  “A friend of ours says your truck was parked here all day yesterday. You calling our friend a liar?”

  “Where’s Krill?”

  “Outside, looking through your telescope at la china. He’s got a fascination with her. Know why that is?”

  “No. I mean I don’t care. I just want you guys out of my life.”

  “Krill’s children were killed by a U.S. Army helicopter. They wasn’t baptized. He thinks la china can do it for him. At least he’s been thinking that up till now. Guess why Krill likes you?”

  “Likes me?”

  “Yeah, man, you’re lucky. He likes you a lot, even when he’s pissed at you. He needs you to do him a favor. You got a lot of luck.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “He wants you to baptize his kids.”

  “You said they’re dead.”

  “Yeah, man, they’re dead. They’re gonna be that way a long time.”

  “I cain’t baptize dead people. Nobody can.”

  “Why not? They’re the ones that need it most. I was baptized when I was born. It didn’t do me no good. Maybe it’s better to get baptized after you die. Then you can’t fuck things up anymore.”

  “How long have his kids been dead?”

  “A lot of years, man.”

  “Then they’re buried, right? In Nicaragua or El Salvador or Guatemala or one of those other shitholes, right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Cody waited for Negrito to go on, his heart dilating with fear for reasons he didn’t understand. Negrito was grinning at him, his eyes lit with a lunatic shine. “They’re in a box,” Negrito said. “He carried it around a long time, then buried it in the desert.”

  “They’re what?”

  “He’s got them in a wood box. Their bones look like sticks inside skin that’s all shriveled up. Like little mummies. When you shake the box, you can hear them rattle.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Say that to Krill and see what happens. He talks to them, man. Krill’s brain is a couple of quarts down sometimes. That’s why he’s out here in a place that’s like a big skillet. That’s why all of you are here. It’s a place for losers, man. You ain’t figured that out?”

  “Figured out what?”

  “Why you live here. You, la china, the crazy man they call Preacher Jack. Krill understands. But you can’t figure it out? You’re saying you’re not as smart as Krill?”

  “Smart about what?”

  “About who you are, man. About where you live. Krill says you’re in the belly of God. That’s what Krill thinks the desert is. You thought I was scary, huh? What you think now, man? Look at Krill. He takes scalps ’cause he’s more Indian than white. You gonna tell him you ain’t gonna baptize his kids ’cause they already turned into mummies? You got that kind of guts? I sure ain’t.”

  “That’s what it will take to get shut of y’all?”

  “No, man. That’s just a small part of it.”

  Negrito removed the knife from the scabbard tied down on his upper arm and began cleaning his nails as though he had forgotten the point of the conversation. His hand slipped, and the tip of the knife sliced open the ball of his index finger. He watched a thick drop of blood well from the proud tissue, then inserted his finger in his mouth and sucked the wound clean.

  “Go on with what you were saying. What does Krill want?” Cody said.

  “Your soul, man. What’d you think?” Negrito replied. “He collects souls that he wants to take with him into the next world. Why are you so stupid, my little gringo friend?”

  That same morning, Maydeen Stoltz walked into Hackberry’s office without knocking, her mouth glossy with lipstick. She waited as though gathering her thoughts, her love handles protruding over her belt. “A guy who refuses to give his name has called twice on the business line and demands I put you on the phone,” she said.

  “Demands?”

  “I think he said, ‘Get to it, woman.’”

  “What’s on his mind?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He claims you two go back.” She looked at him blankly.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “His voice isn’t one you forget. I think I talked to him once last year.”

  “Collins?”

  “How many sexist pricks call in on the business line?”

  “If he calls again, put him through.”

  “I put him on hold. I also told him if I get my hands on him, his brains are gonna be running out his nose.”

  “You said that to Jack Collins?”

  “If that’s who he is.”

  “I’m going to pick up now. See if you can get a trace.”

  “Watch yourself, Hack.”

  He winked at her and lifted the receiver to his ear. Oddly, it gave off a sound like a high wind blowing through the holes in the earpiece. “This is Sheriff Holland. Can I help you?” he said.

  “I thought I ought to check in. We haven’t talked in a while.”

  The accent was what a linguist would call southern midlands, a dialect common on the plains west of Fort Worth and up through Oklahoma, the pronunciations attenuated, as though the speaker doesn’t have enough oxygen in his blood. This speaker sounded like he had put a teaspoon of metal filings in his morning coffee.

  “It’s good to hear from you, Mr. Collins. I had you figured for dead,” Hackberry said.

  “In a way, I was.”

  “Can you clarify that? I’m not that fast.”

  “I did penance for one year. I ate from people’s garbage and slept in caves and wore rags and washed myself with wet ash. I think you know why.”

  “I dug those girls up. I wish you could have shared the experience with me. I think you’d find your role as penitent a little absurd.”

  “Judge me as you will.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “How about those two federal agents? Do you think they were innocent victims?”

  “The two guys you capped? I’ve got news for you. They were PIs out of Houston, not feds. They didn’t have squat to do with burning up your shack and your Bible.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Tell that to their families.”

  “No, I mean I’m sorry I wasted all that ammunition. There’s been a right smart jump in the price of bullets since the election of our new president.”

  “You made a mistake coming back here, bub.”

  “I address you by your title, Sheriff Holland. I’d appreciate your showing me the same level of respect.”

  “In your way, you’re an intelligent man. But you’re also a narcissist. Like most narcissists, you’re probably a self-loathing failure whose mother wished she had thrown her son away and raised th
e afterbirth. All of your power is dependent on the Thompson you use to overwhelm your victims, some of whom were Thai girls hardly older than children. How’s that feel, Mr. Collins? You think authors such as Garland Roark or B. Traven would break bread with you?”

  “I don’t make claims for myself or impose myself on others.”

  “How about Noie Barnum? Does he know you’re a mass killer?”

  “Who says I know such a person?”

  “You were seen with him while robbing food and camping gear from other people. I hate to disillusion you about your criminal abilities, but you have a tendency to leave fecal prints on whatever you touch.”

  “Noie is a decent man untainted by the enterprises you serve, Sheriff.”

  “That could be, but you’re not a decent man, Mr. Collins. You bring misery and death into the lives of others and quote Scripture while you do it. I’m not a theologian, but if the Prince of Darkness has acolytes, I think you’ve made the cut.”

  “You’re a damn liar.”

  “No, sir, you’re the dissembler, but the only person you deceive is yourself. This time out, I’m going to burn your kite and expose you for the cheap titty-sucking fraud that you are.”

  “You won’t talk to me that way.”

  “I just did. Don’t call here again. You’re an embarrassment to talk with.” Hackberry eased the receiver back into the phone cradle. Maydeen appeared at the doorway and studied his face. “Get it?” he asked.

  “Nope. He’s using some kind of relay system.”

  “I was afraid of that. No matter. We’ll see him directly, one way or another.”

  “I have a feeling you made sure of that,” she said.

  He leaned back in his swivel chair and put his boots on the cusp of the wastebasket and stretched his arms. “You got to do something for kicks,” he said. “Can I buy you and Pam lunch?”

  Anton Ling had just pushed her grocery cart around a pyramid of pork and beans when another shopper wheeled his cart straight out of the aisle and crashed into her basket so hard that her hands flew in the air as though they had received an electric shock. A bag of tomatoes she had just sacked spilled over the top of the basket and rolled across the floor.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Cody Daniels said.

  “You did that on purpose,” she replied.

  “No, ma’am, I certainly did not. I was looking for the Vi-ennas and soda crackers, and there you were.”

  “The what?”

  “Vi-enna sausages. They don’t have those in China?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “I have a diabetic condition. It causes my breath to smell like chemicals.” He grinned at her stupidly, his face dilated and shiny. “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass in here.”

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Here, I’ll pick up your ‘maters. Want to get a snack over at the Dog ‘n’ Shake? It’s on me.”

  “Sir, you can hardly stand.”

  “Drunk on the love of the Lord, is what I call it.”

  “Don’t touch my tomatoes. Don’t touch anything in my basket. Just get away from me,” she said.

  She picked up her tomatoes from the floor and replaced them in her cart and got in line at the cash register. But when she went into the parking lot, Cody Daniels was waiting by her pickup truck. “We’re both clergy, Miss Anton. We’ve got us a mutual problem, and we need to put our heads together and work out a solution.”

  “I’m not a cleric, Reverend Daniels. I think you’re very confused and should go home.”

  “Easy for you to say ‘should go home.’ Krill was at my house. Krill wants me to baptize some dead children he’s got buried out in the desert. He gave me the feeling you won’t do it, and so it’s getting put on me.”

  “Of course I won’t do it.”

  “So why should it fall on me?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to Sheriff Holland.”

  Cody Daniels swayed slightly, obviously trying to concentrate. “Sheriff Holland threatened me. I’m not one of his big fans.”

  “Look at me.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I said look at me.”

  “What the hell you think I’m doing?”

  “Why are you so angry at yourself and others?”

  The sky was gray, and the wind was blowing in the parking lot, and pieces of newspaper were flapping and twisting through the air. Cody Daniels’s eyes seemed to search the sky as though he saw meaning in the wind and the clouds and the flying scraps of paper imprinted with tracks of car tires. “I’m not angry at anybody. I just want to go about my ministry. I want to be let alone.”

  “No, you carry a terrible guilt with you, something you won’t tell anybody about. It’s what gives other people power over you, Reverend Daniels. It’s why you’re drunk. It’s why you’re blaming everybody else for your problems.”

  “I was saved a long time ago. I don’t have to listen to anything you say.”

  She dropped the tailgate on the back of her truck and loaded her groceries in the bed, hoping he would be gone when she turned around again. She closed the tailgate and latched it with the chain, her gaze focused on a blue-collar family getting in their automobile, the children trying to pull inside the stringed balloons they had gotten at a street carnival. Cody Daniels had not budged. “Let me get by, please,” she said.

  “I could have dropped the dime on you any time I wanted and had you arrested,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Smuggling wets, aiding and abetting dope mules, maybe hiding out a fellow name of Noie Barnum, a guy who might end up in the hands of Al Qaeda.”

  She tried to walk around him, but he stepped in front of her. His breath made her wince. “I saw the man with the machine gun kill those two men down below your place,” he said. “It was Preacher Jack Collins.”

  “So what?”

  “If you ask me, not everything he’s done is all bad.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Nits make lice.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’re disgusting.”

  “Those Thai women didn’t have any business in this country. Just like those Mexicans you’re bringing in. Every one of them is a breeder, wanting to have their babies here so they can be U.S. citizens.”

  Anton Ling’s eyes were burning, her jaw clenched. She held her gaze on him as though watching a zoo creature behind a pane of glass. He stepped back, a twitch in his face. “Why you staring at me like that?”

  “It had to do with a woman, didn’t it?” she said.

  “What?”

  “You hurt a woman very badly. Maybe even killed her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “You spread lies about me, I’ll come down there and-”

  “You’ll what?”

  His face was contorted, his eyes hot and small and unfocused. “I just wanted to be your friend,” he said. “You’re putting Krill and that man Negrito on me while you’re walking around with your nose in the air like you’re some kind of female pope. La Magdalena, my cotton-picking ass.”

  She got in the cab of her pickup and started the engine. “Don’t come around my home again. Don’t presume about whom you’re dealing with, either.”

  “ Presume? What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “You gonna call the Chinese army down on me?”

  She drove away without replying, her truck rattling and leaking smoke at every rusted seam.

  “ Presume what?” he shouted after her.

  Hackberry worked late that evening, and at dusk he removed his hat from the peg on his office wall and put it on and hung his gun belt and holstered white-handled revolver from his shoulder and drove out to the site where Jack Collins had machine-gunned the two PIs. The crime-scene tape that had been wrapped around the mesquite and yucca had been broken by wild animals, the brass cartridges from Collins’s gun picked up from the ground, the blood splatter washed from the rocks by the previous night’s rain, even the sandw
ich crumbs eaten by ants and the ants in all probability eaten by armadillos. Other than the broken yellow tape, impaled and fluttering among the creosote bush and agaves and prickly pear, there was little to indicate in the reddish-blue melt of the sunset that two men had pleaded for their lives on this spot less than thirty-six hours ago, their sphincters failing them, their courage draining through the soles of their feet, all their assumptions about their time on earth leached from their hearts, their last glimpse of the earth dissolving in a bloody mist.

  What good purpose could lie in his visit to the site of an execution? he asked himself. Perhaps none. In reality, he knew why he was there, and the reason had little to do with the two gunshot victims. Hackberry had come to learn that wars did not end with a soldier’s discharge. The ordeal, if that was not too strong a word, was open-ended, an alpha without an omega, a surreal landscape lit by trip flares that could burst unexpectedly to life in the time it took to shut one’s eyes.

  Hackberry had many memories left over from the war: the human-wave assaults; the. 30-caliber machine-gun barrels that had to be changed out with bare hands; the Chinese dead frozen in the snow as far as the eye could see; the constant blowing of bugles in the hills and the wind furrowing across the ice fields under a sky in which the sun was never more than a gaseous smudge. But none of these memories compared to a strip of film that he could not rip from his unconscious, or kill with alcohol or drugs or sex or born-again religion or psychotherapy or good works or sackcloth and ashes. He did not see the filmstrip every night, but he knew it was always on the projector, waiting to play whenever it wished, and when that happened, he would be forced to watch every inch of it, as though his eyelids were stitched to his forehead.

  In the filmstrip, Sergeant Kwong would finish urinating through a sewer grate on Hackberry’s head, then extract him from the hole where, for six weeks, Hackberry had learned how to defecate in a GI helmet and survive on a diet of fish heads and weevil-infested rice. In the next few frames of the strip, Hackberry would stand woodenly in the cold, his body trembling, his eyelashes crusted with snow, while Kwong lifted his burp gun on its strap and fired point-blank into the faces of two prisoners from Hackberry’s shack, their bodies jackknifing backward into an open latrine.