Joe Lansdale - Waltz of Shadows

“What could he do with it tonight?”

“It would make him feel better to have it. I understand how he feels. I’m like that myself. I got something on my mind, I want it solved as soon as possible.”

“What happened to the twenty you had?”

“I gave it to him, but he needs fifty beyond that.”

“Now the fifty is actually seventy.” She eyeballed me for a long suspicious moment, said, “But, I guess it’s cheaper than an emu farm.”

She got her purse from the bedroom and gave me fifty out of it, like it was an allowance. “I know you earned this money,” she said, “but I figure I earned it from you by dealing with our heathen kids while you went off to bring home the bacon.”

“No question,” I said. “In fact, you deserve a raise.”

“And since I earned mine the hard way,” she said. “I’d like to think this isn’t being spent foolishly.”

“Only a little foolishly,” I said. “He’s going to use it to eat with.”

“Well, I hate to think I’m helping keep him alive,” she said.

Any other time I would have thought of that as a joke, but this time it struck me hard, and I guess it showed on my face.

“Honey,” Beverly said, “is there more going on here than you’re telling me?”

“Some. Yeah. But I’ll explain later, okay? I got to think some things through, and I really need to get on over there.”

“He ought to start doing some of his own thinking… Never mind. Neither of you ever change. He’s always in need, and you’re always going to be there.”

“That’s why you love me though, right?”

“No, actually it bothers the hell out of me. But what’s the use, huh? Go on… and honey, don’t stay late.” She smiled. “I’m a little itchy, you know?”

I tried to keep things light. “I’m feeling a little itchy myself,” I said.

“When aren’t you?”

“Actually I can’t seem to recall. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll do some major scratching.”

“Not after midnight we won’t,” she said. “You want to get scratched, you got to be back here before Cinderella goes to sleep. Actually, sp. idth="1emI’m more like the coach in the story. After midnight, I turn into a pumpkin.”

“But a pretty pumpkin,” I said.

“Goddamn gorgeous,” she said.

I drove over to where Bill lived. Red Vine Street. It was as dark as Bill had said. The street light I passed appeared to be greased over. I didn’t know which house was his, but I remembered he said it had oaks in the yard.

I drove slowly down the street and noted all the houses had oaks in their yards. But only one had an orange ribbon across the front porch with, CRIME SCENE/DO NOT CROSS, written on it in bright, white letters. And only one had a carport with Bill’s car in it, and another car, a sporty model I didn’t recognize, parked behind it.

Bill told me he left his car at Dave’s, that he walked home, and when he got here the carport was empty, except for shadows. If that were the case, what were these cars doing here now? They were considerably more substantial than shadows.

I killed my headlights and drove on by the house with just my parking beams on. I turned around at the end of the street and came back up. I pulled over opposite Bill’s house and parked. I got my Dad’s revolver and put it in my coat pocket and got my flashlight and climbed out of the truck quietly and crossed the street and walked along the edge of Bill’s yard. I went around back of Bill’s house, onto the back porch.

There was an orange ribbon stretched across the back screen door. I stood there staring at it, listening. I didn’t hear anything that made me nervous.

I used the flashlight to break loose one end of the crime scene ribbon and let it drop. I slipped the flashlight into my coat pocket, crooked my finger through the hole in the screen, lifted the latch, and elbowed the screen open. I put my hand in my coat pocket and grabbed the back door knob with the coat and pushed up on the knob and leaned into it.

I heard the latch pop, and the sound was as loud as a firecracker. I stood for a moment wondering if anyone was going to rush out of their house and see what the sound was about, but nothing happened.

I twisted the knob, and the door came open. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and brought my Dad’s revolver out with it. I slipped inside and got the flashlight with my free hand and turned it on. Nobody moved in the light. I put the gun back in my coat and left my hand there and used the coat to pull the door shut behind me. Then I brought my hand out with the gun in it again.

I played the light around the room. I crossed the room, into the hall. I shone the light on the floor next to the front door. There was a dark stain there. I knelt and touched the floor with the side of my hand. It was also sticky. That would be the blood Bill had described. It smelled rank and rusty.

I looked into the kitchen. There was a white taped outline on the floor where Dave’s body had lain.

I turned around and went back through the living room and over to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I gave it a light kick with the toe of my boot, went inside, probing the darkness with the flashlight.

The bed had been stripped of its covers an sits0em"›

I flashed on the chinning bar. There was white tape on the wall and there was writing on the tape. I didn’t go over and look at it. I flashed the light behind the door and saw the tape outline of where Bob had been leaning against the wall, the outline of his butt and legs on the floor. It didn’t look as if I were going to have to shoot anybody, or be shot at, which pleased me considerably. I put the revolver in my coat pocket.

So far, except for his car in the carport and the sporty one parked behind it, Bill’s story checked out.

I turned off the flash and went out the back way and used my tricks to close the door and lock the screen. I didn’t put the ribbon back up. I didn’t think it would matter.

I drove away, feeling scared and confused.

I went to a Stop and Rob, as a friend of mine calls them, bought a carton of cigarettes, a lighter, a couple large styrofoam containers of coffee and some snack food, then went to the same hamburger joint as before, got another burger and fries and drove over to Sleepy Time Tourist Courts.

There were quite a few seedy looking characters hanging about the lot, and I patted the revolver in my coat pocket just to let it know I cared, got the stuff for Bill and went up to his room.

I knocked. The curtain inside the window to my right moved slightly and dropped. A moment later, the door opened. Bill, still dressed in his towel, let me in.

“I hope you brought some clothes,” he said. “I got the others soaking in the tub, and I don’t think that blood is going to come out.”

“I brought some,” I said. “Cigarettes and a lot of other junk too. Enough to get you through tonight and tomorrow. I’ve got some money here too, you need it. Whatever was left from a fifty I busted for this stuff.”

He took the clothes out of the bag and shook them. “Man, you actually wear plaid flannel shirts?”

“Just to bar mitzvahs.”

“Nobody’s gonna call you Mr. Fashion. Look at these pants, all covered in paint.”

“I didn’t bring this stuff so you could go on a date. You want, you can keep wearing that towel.”

“This’ll do. Once in a while, I like to have the common man look. Goddamn, these shorts have Santa Clauses on them.”

“Your grandma gave those to me. She thought they were just cute as a bug.”

“I bet they turn Beverly on.”

“The sex and compliments never stop. But, I’ll sacrifice and give them to you.”