Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

“Huh?” ejected Bevode, his jaw going slack.

The black arm that shot out from the ajar door looked like a railroad tie cooked in creosote and the hand at the end of it pawed around until it seized Bevode by his still-in-place ducktail hairdo.

“What the…” Bevode was yanked off his feet with the aid of Broker’s foot, placed strategically to trip him. J. T. Merryweather emerged from the toilet. Working effortlessly in tandem, they jackhammered Bevode to his knees.

“Broker, my man,” exclaimed J.T., “there’s no toilet paper in this outhouse.” Then he turned his coal-hard eyes to Bevode who was immobilized, stretched out between J.T’s hand in his hair yanking his head back and Broker’s heel in the small of his back. Bevode was wide-eyed, but not with actual fear. More puzzled and indignant, like a man who had just discovered a garter belt in his underwear drawer.

“What’s that you got in your hand, J.T.?” asked Broker.

“Why,” J.T. peered into Bevode’s wide eyes, “it’s Louisiana baby-soft Charmins. I’ll bet I can just wipe my ass with this baby soft face and then…”

Together they sang happily, spontaneously, “Toss it down the hole with the rest of the shit.”

“Guys,” implored Bevode in a strangled voice.

“You hurt Nina, so I hurt you,” said Broker. “But you suckered me down to New Orleans, while some of the boys went after Nina-”

J.T. glowered. “And for that we’re going to take your southern manhood. Grab your balls for the last time, Fauvus…‘cause tomorrow you gonna be a bitch and I wouldn’t be surprised somebody makes an anonymous call down to New Orleans and tells the whole fuckin’ police department how we put your sorry ass down.”

Bevode roared to life and twisted and thrashed like a large carnivore caught in a net and that’s why Broker needed J.T. here because he’d never be able to put him down alone and what he had in mind was something that even Lyle Torgeson in Devil’s Rock wouldn’t countenance. For this, Broker needed a partner.

The plastic shed rocked as they battled him through the doorway. J.T. dragged, one hand in Bevode’s hair and the other on the chain between the cuffs. Broker pushed. The main threat came from Bevode’s powerfully kicking feet. Broker managed to get his arms over the tops of both of Bevode’s knees and, with his knees up under his armpits, they forced him through the door.

Inside, the light was filtered through green and white corrugated plastic. Flies buzzed in a heady, early summer soup of disinfectant and several cubic yards of human feces and urine that percolated up through the stout brown plastic commode bolted to the cement foundation. Broker thanked the DNR for building strong biffies.

They got him to the commode and J.T., groaning with the effort, pulled Bevode’s hands down in front of him with one hand and slammed his face on the toilet seat with the other. With the muscles of his arms stacked in ripped cuts, he manhandled Bevode’s cuffed hands through the opening and put a knee to his back. Momentarily free, Broker knelt and smiled into Bevode’s biblically outraged eyes.

“First the handcuff keys.” He dropped the key a few inches past Bevode’s nose and crossed eyes, through the hole into the foulness below.

“Aw jeez,” lamented Bevode, gritting his teeth.

Broker dug items from the manila envelope and dropped them one by one. “Wallet. Rental car keys. Travelers checks.” Gingerly he held up the leather folder that held Bevode’s police identification. “One New Orleans police ID and badge, used.”

Then they both surged down on him as he put up a mighty struggle to fight away from the oval maw of the toilet. “Gimme some air,” gasped Bevode. “I can’t breathe.”

“What’s your deal with Lola?” Broker yelled.

Bevode panted, pinned to the toilet. “No deal. Aw, man, she played prick tease with me to pick my brain like she did you. She don’t fuck nobody no more,” he gasped.

Broker seized Bevode’s long wild hair in his right fist and yanked his head back. “Now listen up. You go back to New Orleans and tell your boss I ain’t playing games from now on.”

Bevode rolled his eyes at the plastic toilet seat and groaned. “Oh, man, wait a minute here. Just slow down.”

It really bothered Broker that Bevode was probably more worried about his suit than his life. “Who else is in this? In Vietnam?” he yelled.

Bevode grinned weakly, surging away from the latrine opening. “Just us, don’t cha see. Thing like this, gotta keep it tight. It’s a foreign place. Bunch of Godless atheists. Just the salvage crew, general’s picked men.”

“And you expect me to lead you to it,” said Broker flatly.

Bevode smiled painfully. “General decided that there’s no way that cu…,” he caught himself, eyed the slime waiting below, and his smile stretched a bloody inch, “Miss Nina Pryce could track down that old jailbird herself. He’s bettin’ on you.”

Broker eased up on his hold. J.T.’s corded arms relaxed. Bevode took a breath and some hope. “Be reasonable, man; Nina’s a crazy lady. She don’t get it. Tuna and her dad were in it together . Think about it. The general stuck up for them and it ruined his career. Hell, if the army wasn’t in such a bummer about Vietnam, even they would’ve figured that out.” Bevode took another breath, his voice getting stronger. “They used you, man. Pryce’s kid and Tuna are still using you.”

Broker balked for a second. LaPorte, Tuna, and Pryce. Inseparable buddies for years . Could have been all three of them. He shook his head. What he got for believing in heroes.

J.T. eyed him for a cue. “What?”

Broker peered at Bevode. “Who are the other guys following Nina?”

Bevode ignored the question and smiled. “Look here. Only one way it can end. We got the fuckin’ boat. And we got the gear to get it off the bottom. We’ve bribed the shit out of the whole government. Hell, we can work it out.”

Broker decided to keep it simple and said, “You shouldn’t have killed Mike’s dog.” He nodded to J.T. They both surged down on the Cajun.

“Oh oh. This about the fucking dog ?” Bevode gasped, eyes wide, amazed.

They each grabbed a leg and levered him into the toilet. “He won’t fit through,” growled J.T. With one hand he reached down and tore at the seat. On the third try it came screeching loose from under Bevode. Then J.T. smashed at the plastic sides of the commode, cracking the plastic, kicking at the springy shards that twanged around Bevode’s twitching head.

They jammed one of Bevode’s shoulders and his head through the widened hole and his voice continued to bellow, but muffled. J.T. took the yoke of the toilet seat in both hands and began to pound on Bevode’s back with the flat. Between blows, Broker stomped.

“Two hundred pounds of crap,” whack , “won’t fit through a ten-pound hole,” whack . J.T. kept swinging, glistened with sweat. But then the other shoulder did go through and Bevode screamed like a cat nailed to a stump and his hips balanced on the edge of the cracked stool and his feet wildly churned in midair.

“Bevode,” yelled Broker, “rhymes with commode.”

As Bevode’s pant legs and shoes disappeared, Broker and J.T. leaped toward the door in a fit of hysterical laughter and got tangled together trying to fit through, now fighting each other to escape the mighty splash.

Still laughing, they made it outside and slammed the door shut and planted themselves side by side, backs up against it in an effort to suppress the subterranean thrashing howl emanating up from the ground.

“Like a goddamn monster movie,” gasped J.T.