Joe Lansdale - Cold in July

“It crossed my mind.”

“Guilt?”

“Something like that.”

“I know how you feel, but you’re letting this get out of hand. You’ve got to accept the fact that you killed him in self-defense. He broke into your house.”

“Just got to thinking about it. Doesn’t seem right he’ll be buried without anyone there.”

“You think his spirit’s going to feel cheerier with you there? The man who killed him?”

I was quiet for a moment. When Price spoke again, his words seemed packed in ice. “Look, I’m not trying to make you feel shitty, okay? I’m just saying there’s no point. I doubt if he’d killed you he’d be attending your funeral.”

“Not the point-”

“Maybe it is the point. Just do your best to forget it. Get on with your life. People are going to talk about it and you’re going to hear it. It’ll be rough for a while. But it’ll pass.”

“What time are they burying him?”

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Just humor me, Price. I don’t know I’m going to do anything, but it would make me feel better to know. Day after tomorrow when?”

Price sighed. “One-thirty. But Dane, do yourself a favor. Stay away.”

I hung up and dialed a good friend of mine who’s a house painter, gritted my teeth and told him what had happened. I tried to make it simple and clear.

“Hell, Richard, I’m sorry.”

“No need to be,” I said. “It’s done. Look, what I need is for you to paint my living room. It’s not that there’s still blood on the wall, but it would make me feel better to have a fresh coat on the room.”

“I understand, I’ll get my boys and we’ll be over there about noon.”

“Thanks, Ted. And I’m calling a locksmith and the furniture store. You beat any of them there, let them in. Best way for you to get in is to take some wire pliers and go around back and cut through the wire rig I made last night.”

“No problem,” Ted said.

“Thanks.”

I used the book again and got the number of a furniture store.

“I want a couch,” I said, and I gave them the colors of the room, the general dimensions. They described what they had and I picked. I hoped Ann would like it well enough. Buying it sight unseen was not a good idea, but I just didn’t want to deal with people face to face any more than I had to.

“When can you deliver? I’d like it today if you could.”

“That will be fine. About one o’clock all right?”

“That’s good. There’ll be a painter there named Ted Lawson to let you in. Could you take my old couch off my hands? It’s not good for anything, but I’ll pay you extra to carry it off.”

He thought on that a moment. “I suppose we can do that. No charge.”

“Good. And could you cover the new one with plastic?. I don’t want to get paint on it.”

He said they could, and I hung up, then dialed the locksmith.

“Truman’s Locks, Truman speaking.”

“My name is Richard Dane, and-”

“You’re the fella shot that burglar last night, ain’t you?”

Great Godalmighty, word sure did move.

“That’s right. I need a lock on the door he tore up. Can you do it today?”

“I can start today. Depends on how bad the door is busted. You might have to get someone out there to fix that first”

“It just needs a lock,” I said.

“All right. Hey, they gonna put you in jail?”

“It was self-defense.”

“That don’t mean nothing these days. You can’t trust the cops any better than the crooks. What’s that address?”

I told him.

“Say, Mr. Dane. How about a burglar alarm and some burglar bars? I could fix you up real good. Goddamn Houdini couldn’t get in your house once I got you secured.”

I knew he was working on my paranoia, and I knew I’d r [kn?”

“Good move. We’ll get that lock and the bars in today. Start on that alarm system tomorrow. That sound okay?”

“Peachy,” I said, and hung up.

I went up-front and sat at my booth again and finished my Coke. It tasted a little better. I looked at the clock behind the counter and over the mirror. Eleven. Too early for lunch.

To hell with that.

“Kay,” I called, “how about you get that cook in back to fix me up a fried egg sandwich, and don’t hold the grease.”

“Got it,” she said, then yelled to the back. “Clyde.”

A black man in a stained white apron appeared at the cook window. “Two baby chicks, dead on bread and don’t hold the grease,” she said.

Clyde tapped two fingers to his forehead in salute and disappeared. I heard grease splattering in a pan a little later.

Kay came over with a Lone Star beer and sat it on the table. “On the house,” she said.

I took my time drinking the beer, and later eating the sandwich, listened to a couple of Dwight Yoakam songs on the jukebox, then drove back to the shop.

A few people who had heard about the killing came into the shop, and at least one of them was nothing more than a morbid curiosity seeker. He didn’t even try to pretend he had business there, he just wanted to know about last night. I told him all I felt like telling him, then went to the bathroom in the back and stayed there until James and Valerie got rid of him.

Rest of the day I worked on frames by myself and had James and Valerie stay up front. There wasn’t that much work for them up there, and I really could have used one of them on the frames, but I wanted to be left alone and I wanted to stay away from bullshit conversation. Talk about the weather and the Dallas Cowboys wasn’t going to cut it today. It would only remind me I was putting up a veneer against the real concerns, and that would be worse.

About four-thirty, I was working on a limited-edition print, putting 100 percent rag matt around it, when the phone rang. James answered and said it was for me.

It was Price.

“There may be a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem?”

“Ben Russel. Freddy’s father. He got out of Huntsville yesterday. He knows his son is dead, knows he was killed in a burglary, and word is he’s coming to the funeral. He could be dangerous. Don’t go to the funeral.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Stay away from Ben Russel, Mr. Dane. He’s dangerous. You being at his son’s funeral would just make matters worse. You stay home and maybe he’ll just let things be and move on. He probably doesn’t care one way or a another about the boy. His type is vengeful. Just looking for an excuse.”

“Thanks for the advice, Price.”

“Heed it, Dane. Trust me on this.”

I hung up and went back to my matting. I backed the print and got a piece of no-glare glass for it, but found I couldn’t make it fit the frame. My hands didn’t work right.

I had James finish it. I drank a cup of coffee I didn’t need, then went to the bathroom to think. I tried to picture Ben Russel and imagined him long and lean with a crew cut and a scar on the side of his face. I figured he had a gravelly voice and was the kind of guy that had killed a fellow inmate in prison with a spoon he had sharpened in metal shop. I could imagine the warden talking to him when they let him out, telling him, “Go straight, Russel,” And I could imagine Russel thinking, “Yeah, soon as I finish a little job in LaBorde.”

I washed my face and went home early.

Ann picks Jordan up from day school every day when she gets off work, so when I got home he was sitting at the table eating a bologna sandwich. Mayonnaise was dripping out of it and there was a circle of the stuff thick as mad dog foam around his mouth. The mayonnaise jar and the table were covered with it too.