Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

“I’m giving a nod of admiration where it’s deserved. Even so, he should stick to his road shows or the stock car derby. He gets any more serious and someone will have to come down hard on him and even things out again.”

Did Dave expect him to get right back into the game? Go back to running without a second thought?

Shad didn’t want to show too much interest but knew it was expected of him, because this was about the only topic they had in common. “Goats still the ones they use most?”

“Yeah, Luppy and some of the boys still favor the GTOs ’cause their daddies drove them around after ’Nam. Makes them feel like they’ve got a bit of world history themselves.”

“I always thought that ‘Gran Turismo Omologato’ might’ve sounded too Asian for them to ever go for the make.”

“Because none of them know that’s what GTO stands for.”

Your daddy’s car had as much meaning and implication as your first lay. You were never quite a man until you’d passed through numerous fires and crossed a dozen lines scuffed across your front walk. Every time you advanced beyond one, another was waiting. The first time you carried your father home drunk. Your first night in jail.

Lament crawled into the driver’s seat and was working at the knob trying to roll down the window. Pa had finally gotten a smart pup.

“Zeke Hester was in the emergency room last night,” Dave said, and they were into it.

Shad made his face into a C-Block mask of blankness. “That so?”

“Seems he broke his arm again.”

Sometimes you just had to be the asshole. On the rare occasion it was better than the alternatives. “Guess he should be more careful.”

The November air swept by full of ash. Over the crests of rising fields, the farmers were burning branches of holly and poplar from the edges of their orchards. Dave crossed his massive arms over his chest and made a show of barely maintained restraint. It was a gesture that would’ve held more gravity before the days of Little Pepe. “I reckon the same could be said for others.”

“Sure. Did he tell you what happened?”

“No.”

Shad pinched at his chin with thumb and forefinger, putting on his thinking cap, hitting the pose but trying not to go overboard with it. You didn’t really want to fuck around with Dave too much.

“Maybe he tripped over his mother’s loom again, coming in wrecked from the roadhouse. You got me wondering now. Did she ever do another paint-by-numbers to replace Elvis and Jesus up on the cloud?”

“No, she liked that one so much she just taped it back together.”

You gave away nothing, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun. He never would’ve tried it in the can, but he had to admit, being home made him feel smarter than he should’ve.

Dave glared, and his tie somehow became even straighter. “You gonna make me sorry you ever came back to town?”

“What a vicious thing to say.”

“I know, I’m appalled at myself as well.”

Lament had the window a quarter of the way down and was sticking his snout and jowls out, tongue lapping at the glass.

“I suppose you’ll do what you have to do while you’re home,” Dave said, “whatever the price.”

“You only know that because you’d do the same.”

“I believe in stepping lightly until it’s time to jump.”

“So do I, but until you all decide what ‘death by misadventure’ means, I guess I have to go my own way on this.”

“Look, I don’t expect you to hand out buttered hot biscuits and gravy to your neighbors. But the sheriff isn’t going to put up with too many problems.”

“If that’s true, then why isn’t he here talking to me instead of you?”

It was a good question. Lament considered it too, head cocked and tail swiping back and forth, oversized puppy paws looking like they were too heavy for him to lift. Dave shifted his stance and Shad saw the hardness come into his eyes. “There was a stabbing at Dober’s last night. Sheriff’s busy with that.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No. I followed up with you as a courtesy, and you ought to count it as such.”

“I do.” This sort of jab and feint was beginning to chip at his resolve. “If you’re interested, Zeke came at me. From behind, charging like an ox. I wasn’t looking for a fight.”

“Learned to be nonviolent in prison, that so? Studied up plenty on the principles of Gandhi.”

“I admit I didn’t mind knocking him on his ass.”

“You did a little more than that.”

“Yes, and it could’ve been worse. Let’s leave it go.”

“All right, for the time being.” Dave turned aside, stared into the deep reflection of his own face peering from the highly buffed hood of the Mustang. Dave Fox’s daddy had once owned one just like it, when he’d gotten back from Da Nang. “Where you headed now?”

Already knowing where Shad was going, but making sure he realized the pressure was on, that the eye was on him.

“Luppy’s place. I want to talk with his new wife.”

“Callie. She’s young, but has a real flair. I like her a lot. Joe’s lucky, and she’s gotten him to change some of his more dire ways.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

“Wonder if she’ll feel the same.”

They let it go at that. When Dave pulled out and drove past, Shad had the angry urge to race after him, get in front, and smoke him all the way out to Waynescross.

Okay, so that hadn’t gone as well as it might’ve. He got the distinct impression that he’d possibly lost the one friend around here who could actually help him find out what happened to his sister.

Lament picked up on the mood and flicked his tail cautiously, heavy hound dog face drawn into a grief-stricken look. The window was all the way down and Lament hung halfway out of the car, uncertain whether he should jump free. Shad knew how he felt. Hung up half-in and half-out, too scared to leap.

LUPPY JOE HAD BEEN THE KING MOONSHINE MAKER in the hollow for about ten years, running more than three thousand gallons a month. He had fifteen men working for his outfit, driving moon around to three counties, spreading it to the bars and shake shacks, the trailer parks and dice dens, where they’d use food coloring to turn the moon into bourbon, rum, tequila, and scotch.

Shad drove up the deeply grooved back road and swung toward the Anson farm, past clumps of birch and virgin white pine. He didn’t know most of the men wandering around the property stacking boxes inside the barn and hiding the drums and sugar sacks around back.

He expected at least a little hassling but no one flagged him down or gave him any trouble. Luppy must’ve been paying the Feds and local law an even higher kickback, allowing them to pinch a couple of the sixteen-year-old haulers now and again. The kids would only get probation, and the department could spend their money and still look like they were doing their jobs. Nobody gave a shit about the hollow anyway.

Jake Hapgood squatted on the far side of the house near a vat of corn mash, working one of the old-timer stills. He was tapping at the coiled tubing with a wooden bedframe slat. He chawed on a stalk of grass, boots covered with pig shit. He’d trimmed most of the singed ends off and needed another shot of mousse, but his hair was hanging in pretty good, one curl uncoiled over his eye. More duck’s ass today than pompadour.

Shad drove up slowly, watching out for the hogs, and parked. Jake turned and smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting back into the make-liquor business.”

“I’ll leave that to the professionals,” Shad said.

“Run-liquor then?”

“No, I’m just here to visit with Joe.”

“Don’t think he’s home, but maybe he snuck in while I wasn’t watching.” He wore a slightly shamed expression that threw Shad for a second until he realized Jake felt guilty about being seen with Becka Dudlow at the bonfire. Situations like that could catch up with a man in the light of day.