James Burke - Light of the World

“I didn’t.”

“Would you mind telling me now?”

“It was Irma Jean. Her maiden name was Holliday. Her people was from Georgia.”

“Like Doc Holliday, the tubercular dentist?” Younger said.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s interesting. Your name is Wyatt. Maybe that’s more than coincidence.”

“You was calling us white trash?”

“No, I was saying you’re a man among men. I was saying we probably have many things in common.”

Wyatt gazed at the flower gardens and the fruit trees in the shade, and at the hand-waxed cars parked by the carriage house. “I can see our lifestyles are six of one and a half dozen of the other.”

Younger picked a sprig of mint out of a bowl and put it in his glass, then refilled it with whiskey and fresh ice. He did not invite Wyatt to join them. Wyatt watched Love Younger raise his glass and drink, his throat moving smoothly, as though he were drinking beer rather than whiskey. The stitched wound in Wyatt’s abdomen began to throb against the pressure of his belt buckle.

“Is there anything else?” Younger asked.

“Is there a reason your son has a hard-on for me, or is he just a nasty little termite by nature?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that kind of language while you’re on my property.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Taking a nap. He won’t be seeing you.”

“Directly, he will, one way or another.”

“Would you clarify that?” Younger said.

“He sent them men who attacked me and Miss Bertha. I don’t know why, but he done it.”

Younger put one sandaled foot up on the redwood bench. “Let’s talk another time. It’s such a fine day. Why cloud the sky when you don’t have to?”

“The name Irma Jean don’t mean nothing to you?”

“Afraid not.” Younger took a sip from his glass and set it down on the table. He scratched at the edge of his eye with his fingertip. “It’s rude to stare in another man’s face.”

“I can always tell when a man’s lying.”

“No man calls me a liar, Mr. Dixon.”

“It’s the other way around.”

“You’ll have to explain that.”

“The name Irma Jean didn’t ring no bells for you. If you’d known my mother, her memory would have been tattooed inside your pecker. Tell your son and Jack Shit here to forget they ever heard my name.”

Wyatt began walking back toward his truck, his day a little more intact. When he walked through the border of bougainvillea and ornamental trees, he heard either Boyd or Younger laugh behind him. He wasn’t sure at what. What he heard was not the laugh but its undisguised level of irreverence and ridicule. When he turned and looked through the branches of the trees, Younger was leaning toward Boyd like a man who had come down from the heights to share a private joke with one of his minions.

Because the two men were upwind from Wyatt, they obviously assumed he could not hear their words. Unfortunately for them, he didn’t have to.

I even told Jack Shit yonder I could read lips, he thought. Mr. Younger, if you’re so goddamn smart, how come you surround yourself with people who cain’t blow their noses for fear of losing a couple of brain cells?

He read each of Younger’s words like a bubble rising in the air, popping softly in the breeze. Then the words became a sentence, and the sentence continued into another sentence, and the sentences became a paragraph, and the paragraph became a knife blade that seemed to work its way through Wyatt’s abdomen into his scrotum.

I lived three months in a motel when we were drilling in East Texas, Younger said. Every third night, I fucked this cleaning girl named Josie something. An ass on her as big as a bed pillow. About a year later, I got a card from her saying I’d fathered her child. I tore it up and figured any number of men could have knocked her up, but from time to time it would bother me. I’d always carried my own water and paid my debts, including taking care of a woods colt or two. Finally, I had some private detectives look into it, and I thought Dixon might have been the product of my misplaced seed. But he’s not, thank God. He’s just run-of-the-mill rodeo trash and probably psychotic to boot.

What happened to the cleaning gal? Jack Boyd asked.

I’m not sure, really. One of the detectives said she and her husband may have been murdered. I wasn’t interested in the details. One of the detectives thought Dixon could have been Josie’s kid. Who knows? Nits all look alike. Anyway, Dixon’s mother was named Irma Jean. Case closed.

Too bad about the girl.

You’re right about that. She was the best piece of ass I ever had.

At noon on Sunday, Clete told me he was going to the sheriff’s home, then to Love Younger’s compound. I didn’t argue. Felicity was in the hands of a bestial man, and Clete was powerless to do anything about it. I believe the strongest, most suffering people on earth are those whose family members are abducted by monsters, and who never see their loved ones again. If there is any worse fate that can be visited upon human beings, I don’t know what it could be.

I was up on the hillside when Clete returned at 3:17 P.M. and parked by the garage. His face looked thinner somehow, as though he hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. I walked down the hill to meet him. “How’d it go?” I said.

“Younger was half-sloshed and cooking out,” he replied. “There were three or four other guys drinking in the backyard with him. I asked him what kind of day he thought his daughter-in-law was having. You know what that arrogant cocksucker said? ‘She’s in the Lord’s hands.’ ”

“When did you eat last?”

“I don’t remember. What were you doing up on the hill?”

“Trying to figure out how Surrette came and went with such ease on Albert’s property.”

“If Felicity dies, I’m going to smoke Love Younger. I’m going to smoke his son, too.”

“What else did Younger say?”

“Nothing. He’s an ice cube. Here’s what’s crazy: On the way up to his house, I thought I passed Wyatt Dixon.”

“Why would Dixon be at Younger’s place?”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t. I went to the sheriff’s home and asked why Felicity’s abduction wasn’t on the news. He says he and the feds want to force Surrette to make contact with the media.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“I think it sucks. You know why Love Younger is so relaxed? Surrette is getting rid of a big problem for him. Felicity knows Caspian was behind Angel Deer Heart’s homicide. Surrette is going to wipe the slate clean. I need a drink.”

Before I could answer, I saw a compact car coming up the road. The female driver looked too large for the vehicle. She turned under the arch and came up the driveway, braking at the last moment, almost running over Clete’s foot. She got out of the car, looking around as though not sure where she was. The density of her perfume made me think of magnolia blossoms opening on a hot night in the confines of a courtyard.

“You’re the fat one who gave Wyatt trouble,” she said to Clete.

“How you doin’, Miss Bertha?” I said. “Can I help you?”

“ You can. He can’t,” she replied, pointing to Clete.

“Is something going on with Wyatt?” I asked.

“Yes, and I’m very frightened about it. I need to talk with you, Mr. Robicheaux. Does this man have to be here?”

“Yes, he does,” I said.

“I’ll be at the cabin,” Clete said.

“No, stay here,” I said. “Miss Bertha, Clete is on our side. The good guys need to stick together. Did Wyatt go see Love Younger today?”