Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

“Okay.”

Mrs. Rhyerson’s yard began to take on more detail as the dawn broke against the mountains, a murky orange stewing behind the hills.

“Are you dead?” Shad asked.

“Hell no. I’ve assumed the name Prescott Plumber, and I’ve got a sweet deal in East Hollywood. I take care of Albert Herrin. He used to be a director. Pretty popular back in the fifties, did a lot of war movies and had a couple of hits. In the sixties he did biker flicks and cashed in on the drive-in exploitation market right when it was getting big. I invested in a production company, bought up the DVD rights, and we’re making a fortune. Now he’s seventy-eight years old and still has no problem keeping it up.”

“The benefits of a pure life,” Shad said, a little surprised at the sound of his own bitterness.

“Highly suspect, that.” Jeffie checked the knot of his tie, the same as Ashtoreth had, the same way the warden always did. “Don’t go up to the ridge. Your luck might not hold. There’s things going on you won’t believe.”

“So tell me.”

“I can’t. I don’t know what they are.”

You never quite knew what was in your head and what was outside of it. “I’ve got to see this through to the end.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t want you to. Your sister. Ever think of that?”

“No.”

It brought the greasy smirk back. “You know you’re probably insane, right?”

“Sure,” Shad said. “But it’s the probably that keeps me going.”

“Yeah, but still, everything I’ve told you is the truth. You can check on that.”

“No need.”

The moonrunners were starting early, their superchargers screaming down the dirt roads under the highway. The stink of whiskey wafted on the breeze.

That new flash of smugness in Jeffie’s eyes turned ugly and came on a little bolder, and when he smiled his mouth was full of blood. “Do you want to know what you used to scream in the middle of the night?”

“No.”

Bathed in sweat now, Shad turned to go back inside and heard drunken laughter in the undergrowth. He dug through the brush and saw Becka Dudlow and Hoober Luvell seated on a tree stump sharing a jug, hunched and leaning their heads together, lifting their chins to leer at him.

Hoober looked up with glassy red eyes gleaming, that toothless smile giving him a simpleminded expression. Some folks figured him for retarded because they never got any closer to him than the other side of the street. He was so bloated that his tawny skin seemed ready to peel away at any second.

Becka’s angry teeth and antagonistic nipples aimed at Shad, and he felt the same way he used to feel when he was sitting in her Bible class and didn’t know the correct chapter and verse. There was a smudge of cocaine on her upper lip.

It took a minute for Hoober to clear his head enough to actually speak. It was clearly an effort, and Shad wondered why he was even making it.

The nub of a tongue slid to one side, then to the other as the black gums parted. Hoober said, “Comfort and condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I think I was.”

“Nightwalking, eh? Got a pair of tricky feet.”

“It happens.”

“To me too, on occasion.” Hoober couldn’t quite open his eyes but his voice sounded sober and smart. “Some of us got a call we got to answer.”

Becka Dudlow nodded as though the tendons in her neck had been clipped. Her lips quivered as if she might speak, but then her mouth closed again. Very slowly she slid off the stump in a well-practiced motion, curled up on the grass, and began to snore.

“Ain’t you cold?” Hoober asked.

The moment Shad thought about it he began to tremble. “Yes. Did you hear me talking before?”

“No.”

“You smell any paint?”

“Paint?” Hoober sniffed. His nostrils were caked with dirt and cocaine. “No.”

“Or blood?”

“Damn, those must’ve been some bad dreams you’ve been having.”

Or something else. Shad could still feel the sticky touch of Jeffie O’Rourke on his neck, but he couldn’t see any of the red flecks on his flesh now. His shuddering became violent and he made his way to the back door of the boardinghouse.

He passed the phone in the hall. For a moment he thought he might call Information for the East Hollywood phone number of Albert Herrin, give it a ring, and ask for Prescott Plumber. But he didn’t know what the hell he might do if Jeffie answered.

HE WAS ON HIS WAY TO SEE LUPPY JOE ANSON’S new wife, with Lament laid out and panting in the passenger seat, when Dave’s cruiser filled the rearview mirror. Shad slowed and pulled over, got out, leaned against the ’Stang, and waited. He felt the same way he did when the bulls made their spot inspections.

When he used to block for the moonrunners, he’d hang a quarter mile in back of Tub Gattling or one of the other boys until the cops pounced from behind the bridges and billboards on the highway. On occasion, Sheriff Increase Wintel himself would circle around the twenty-foot-high stacks of planks at the lumberyard and hop the river on the outskirts of town. He had a girlfriend over that way and if the timing was right, he’d join the fray. The sheriff liked to lean out his window and take potshots.

The cops could always tell who was carrying make-liquor because the weight would hunker the springs down under the trunk. When Shad suggested that the crews haul only half their loads and make two runs, or evenly distribute the jugs all over the car so the shocks didn’t sag, the runners just looked at him like he was crazy.

You couldn’t ruin the game, you simply had to play it. So Shad did his part, gunning in and cutting off the cruisers, taking the heat and blocking the cops until the runners got clear. Then he’d lead the police on a reckless chase across town before shaking them loose.

Everyone had their designated roles to perform. Too much money came into the county on untaxed whiskey. If the stills ever went out of business, a third of the population would suddenly be unemployed. The hollow would fold up in a weekend and reappear in a trailer park up in Poverhoe City.

The sheriff couldn’t arrest more than a couple of haulers a month. The fun part was doing your best not to be one of the handful that got busted.

Dave walked over, and said, “Still in nice shape. Who kept it for you?”

“Tub Gattling.”

“He do any extra work while you were gone?”

“No, just kept it cleaned and the battery charged.”

“I’m surprised he could control himself, considering all the muscle cars he handles for the crews. Enhanced carriages and augmented suspension so they can bolt over rutted back roads, jump the creek beds without too much damage. He’s got a real touch. He’s doing new interior cage designs all the time.”

Any other cop would’ve played it meaner, even if he was a friend. Coming up and hissing quietly in your ear. The bulls used to play it that way all the time on the tier, shove past with a grin and make threats under their breaths just to keep the cons off-balance. Hit you with a smile up front but their hands always wavered near their belts for the nightstick, just feeling you out. Bull goes home and finds out his sixteen-year-old daughter is pregnant, his son’s selling weed and flunking geometry, his wife is maxing the credit cards out on new living room furniture, and he just doy-de-dums his way through it all until he gets to work. Then he cuts loose on some banger with a bad attitude.

Any other cop would’ve played it rougher, especially if he had the muscle behind him, but not Dave Fox. He took it calm and quietly. Shad realized he might be in trouble when Dave wasted time with small talk, but he couldn’t do anything except wait it out. “The more money the state gives the police department for cruisers, the more seriously Tub has to take his part.”