Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

Tushie Kline stood three or four guys behind him in line, eyeing A Canticle for Leibowitz and planning to rob Shad’s cell in a couple of days. Shad knew there were plans being formed that held him at their center, but he couldn’t pinpoint the who or why yet. He kept hoping the jonah thing would help him out a bit more than it appeared to be doing.

That afternoon, he felt the angry heat on the back of his neck and eyed Tush first, knowing there was going to be a problem there soon. But not right at that second. He scanned beyond the cons slopping mashed potatoes, beef patties, and string beans onto the metal plates and saw the insanely abnormal arms of Little Pepe swinging toward him. If he had a shiv, Shad couldn’t see it within those enormous fists.

Not much time to do anything except bark a cuss, reach over the counter, grab up the tray of burgers, and hurl it into Pepito’s face.

It was enough to get everyone yelling and laughing and for the bulls to run over. Shad’s luck held as he faded into the crowd and the bulls had no one to grab except Pepito, who was spouting off biblical passages in Spanish.

They didn’t throw Little Pepe into solitary because he hadn’t really been fighting, but two days later the leader of the tribe had him killed for disobeying orders.

So now Shad was coming out of Griff’s Suds’n’Pump holding a handful of change and a bottle of engine cleaner when the dead breath whispered and got his hackles up.

He took two more steps across the parking lot as Zeke Hester’s belligerent presence descended upon him.

Shad paused, listening to the sudden rush of air swirling behind him. He had compromised his hands, which was a dumb but understandable mistake. You tried to be on guard as much as possible, but you just couldn’t do it all the time. Immediately he dropped what he was carrying and spun to his right as Zeke’s fist plowed forward like a steam engine about to derail.

Zeke Hester stood six-four, weighed in at about 280, his body solidified from working on road crews since dropping out of school when he was fifteen. He was river bottom swamp scum who never bothered with pulling the legs off spiders or torturing small animals-he went straight to the weakest kids in grade school and started drawing blood. He moved up quickly to intimidating teachers, beating the drunks sleeping at the edge of the trailer park, and troubling girls at the roller rink in Waynescross.

Jake had been right when he’d said that prison had agreed with Shad. A crazy thing, but there it was. On the inside he’d lost his youthful clumsiness and earned a lissome agility. Working out in the gym every afternoon, honing himself, losing a beer gut and packing on an extra twenty pounds of crafted muscle. Two years with nothing to do but exercise your mind and body and try to keep from losing control. Sometimes it worked in your favor. It felt good to have real speed even when the highway patrol wasn’t chasing you back and forth across the river.

Zeke did an ungainly dance, trying to keep himself from falling as he overshot and wheeled in a half circle. Shad planted his foot on Zeke’s ass, kicked out, and sent him sprawling onto the pavement.

Here we go.

When Zeke looked up his face was filled with murderous frenzy. His cracked front tooth had worn away to a black nub. His gums were already rotted too, and he’d be down to eating nothing but succotash and applesauce by the time he was thirty. The busted cheekbone lay unnaturally flat and angled a little too far back toward his ear.

What Shad told M’am was true. He could kill this man with a very small amount of guilt. The realization disturbed him a bit, but not all that much, considering.

“I want to talk to you,” Shad said.

Zeke hadn’t shaved much or had a decent haircut since he was sixteen. His feral, savage appearance played well with the role he was going for. You had to cultivate your persona, your disguise.

If he was ever shorn down you’d see a pink face full of cutie-pie chubsie-ubsieness, all the weakness inside him scrawled into his soft, muddy face. When they were kids, the girls used to like him because he looked sort of like a lost puppy, until they got a look at his eyes.

Zeke scrambled on the ground for something to throw, but all he could find was the engine cleaner. He clambered to his feet and hurled the bottle at Shad like it was a brick. It flew over Shad’s left shoulder and splattered against the gas pumps.

“Been waitin’ two years to pay you back!”

“That so?”

“It is!”

Shad knew guys who liked to play the moment out, grinning before a brawl, warming up to it. All that mattered to them was ego and image. They went through the day acting like there was a camera covering their every move. Like there was a group of teenage girls sitting on a couch somewhere watching them, cheering them on, getting sweaty. It was much harder to fight when you were alone.

“You should’ve waited and put this off for as long as you could, Zeke.”

“And why’s that, convict?”

“Because I won’t let you off so easy this time.” Shad gave him the killing gaze so there’d be no doubt in Zeke Hester’s mind at all.

“You think I’m scared of a jailbird like you?”

“You should be after last time. You’re going to answer my questions or I’m going to hurt you again.”

“You ain’t got the brass,” Zeke hissed, with a hint of fear in his dull voice. He was an idiot, but he had sense enough to know that everything Shad said was genuine. He tried to smile, putting some snarl into it.

They squared off and Zeke let out a nervous chortle, shrugging his shoulders, loosening up as if this might be a twelve-rounder. He slid out of his jacket and threw it wildly over Shad’s head. He had on a sleeveless black T-shirt and hit a pose so his biceps bulged. He kept tightening and opening his fists, making his blood rush so the veins would stand out on his arms, hoping to look cut and strong. He scanned left and right to see if any girls might be around, but there was nobody except seventy-year-old Griff staring out the window, his lips covered in beer foam.

It was going to be tough getting through to Zeke Hester if he thought he was on a movie set, about to be the next action hero star. Already you could see he was hoping to come up with some snappy, sarcastic patter. Something they could use for the trailer and highlight on the poster.

Shad said, “Did you do anything to my sister?”

“What’s that?” Zeke was still flexing, scared and unwilling to face the real context of the situation.

“Answer me.”

“You-”

“I don’t have all day. I won’t ask you nicely again.”

Zeke bolted up straight and his crude features, already cloyed with ignorance, grew even more moronic. “Megan? Your sister? You think… so you think I had something to do with what happened to her?”

“I’m asking you.”

“I reckon you can just turn yourself around right now and go find yourself a knothole for you to stick your rod in ’cause I ain’t-”

Shad flowed forward and covered the ground between them in one step. He brought his hand up from low and backhanded Zeke with a solid shot, but Zeke’s unkempt head didn’t even turn aside. He wasn’t all flab. Beneath the matting of beard that chin was pointed stone.

“Goddamn you, Jenkins!”

“None of your usual posturing for the next five minutes, Zeke. What happened to her?”

“How the hell should I know!”

“You made a grab for her once.”

“Now you listen to me ’bout that! You done sullied my good name-”

Again Zeke checked left and right, really hoping somebody would come along and listen to his script. He’d worked hard on it for the last two years. The word sullied wasn’t an easy one to pull off, but Shad had to admit it sounded pretty natural. Zeke had been practicing.