Joe Lansdale - Devil Red

“You guys leave,” he said.

“We work for the health department, mister,” I said. “I wouldn’t push it.”

He looked at me, said, “Show me your credentials.”

“We don’t carry any. We’re here to surprise people, not let them know we’re coming.”

“Credentials just show who you are,” he said. “I’m already surprised.”

“True,” Leonard said, “but you’ve got on my bad side. Go wash your hands.”

The man studied Leonard for a moment, figured quite correctly we weren’t with the health department, but he wasn’t really sure about throwing us out. Especially Leonard, who had a kind of lazy look that said “I’d love to kill you very much.”

“All right,” he said. “Two hamburgers.”

“After you wash your hands,” Leonard said. “And I even think or consider you might spit in my food or mess with it, I will personally see you get some big demerits. And on top of that, I will hold your face against the stove until it cooks your nose off.”

“No need to get nasty,” the man said.

“Your fingers are nasty enough,” Leonard said.

The man went away.

I said, “Leonard, why do you always try to make friends wherever we go?”

“Our man Jimson comes here all the time, so he’s got to tip Shit Fingers something or another now and then to use the space, and I figure whatever he tips him is big enough to buy some loyalty. I figure Shit Fingers is in the back there now, punching him up on the cell phone. I figure it’s a way to pull Jimson out of the Jacuzzi and get him on the road.”

“You know, you’re not as dumb as you look.”

Our hamburgers arrived, and about the same time we saw Jimson and two of his goon balls push through the door, start toward us. Leonard turned so that he was facing that direction. He had his hand inside his coat. Things went south, he’d have the shotgun up and ready. I put my hand in my coat and felt for the automatic, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I could use it, way I’d been lately. I hoped I could at least talk tough.

Jimson was a fortyish guy who looked as if he was trying to smooth his image with expensive clothes. He was wearing a tan fedora, a very nice brown leather coat over a maroon sweater, and tan slacks so tight you wanted to yell “snake.”

With him were two men that couldn’t look sophisticated if they were wearing tuxes and monocles. One of them was so muscular he looked as if he had been pumped up with air. The other was leaner, and he carried his right hand close to him with his palm folded back, his coat slightly pushed. He’d be the shooter, the big man with the muscles would be the hitter.

As Jimson walked toward us, he turned to Shit Fingers, said, “You’re right, they’re not the health department. More like sewer.”

Jimson sat at the table near us and looked at us like we were wild animal exhibits. Leonard had turned completely around in his chair. He wouldn’t even need to take the shotgun out of his coat. All he had to do was lift and shoot through fabric. A shot from that sawed-off and Jimson would be mixed in with the pickled eggs.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Leonard said.

“Yeah,” Jimson said, “imagine that. Last time I seen you guys I didn’t like it, and now I see you again, I don’t like it some more.”

“Is that line out of the movies?” Leonard said.

“That’s an original,” Jimson said. “I got a feeling you boys didn’t just come over for a hamburger.”

“Well,” I said, “there’s the pie.”

Jimson smiled. “Yeah. There is the pie. So, I get a call from Marvin Hanson, a guy I don’t like much, but knows me all right, and he says can his boys come see me. And you know what I say?”

“No,” Leonard said.

“That’s right. I say no. And then you know what?”

“Pray tell,” Leonard said.

“You show up anyway.”

“Not at your house,” Leonard said.

“At my spot.”

“Here?” Leonard said. “Really? This is your spot?”

“You been hasslin’ my man over there.” He nodded at Shit Fingers. “He kind of keeps me an open office here. I let you hassle my man, what kind of reputation I got with the locals?”

“What do you get out of him letting you have your office here?” I said.

“Pie.”

“All right,” I said. “I can see that.”

Leonard nodded.

“Look, I don’t know what you two assholes want, but I got nothin’ to do with nothin’ you’re dealin’ with.”

“Now, how would you know that, when we haven’t told you what we’re dealing with? We could be selling Girl Scout cookies for all you know.”

“Them’s some good cookies,” said the man with muscles.

Jimson turned and glanced at him. Muscles looked embarrassed, then tried to look as serious as a heart attack.

“I come here ’cause my man there called,” Jimson said, “and I come here to show you guys I’m not afraid of you, that you ain’t got no mojo on me. You dig on that?”

“I think ‘dig’ went out with the beatniks,” Leonard said.

Jimson sighed. “You don’t even try to work with a man when he’s trying to work with you. I wanted, I could rub you guys out. I still owe you a shitstorm that didn’t never come down.”

“Actually,” I said, “you threw a lot of shit our way, but we sort of threw it back.”

“I’m talkin’ about what I could have done.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Leonard said. “That was then, and this is now.”

“You fellas don’t want this,” Jimson said. “You don’t want me mad.”

“Do we look nervous?” Leonard said. Leonard didn’t. Me, I wasn’t so sure about. “We made you mad before, and we’re still standing,” Leonard said.

“I thought you made a deal to stay out of my business if I stayed out of yours,” Jimson said.

I nodded. “It’s a deal we like, stayin’ out of each other’s business, but we’re thinkin’, considerin’ what we know lately, maybe your business is in our business again. And if it is, well, we got to come say howdy.”

“And what in the hell business could that be?” Jimson said.

Leonard said, “You know, I’m gonna pause and eat this hamburger. It’s better when it’s warm. Hey, Shit Fingers. Come over here.”

Shit Fingers was behind the counter. He looked at Jimson. Jimson nodded.

Shit Fingers came out from behind the counter, over to Leonard.

“Let me see those hands,” Leonard said.

Shit Fingers showed them to him. They had been washed.

“All right, go on about your business,” Leonard said.

I looked at Jimson. He was starting to fume. That’s the way Leonard wanted him. He liked people he was dealing with mad, especially when he was trying to find something out. Me too. They were more likely to mess up, reveal something they shouldn’t. They were easier to read when they were angry. It’s the way we worked. Either that or kicking their ass. Subtlety was not our long suit.

Muscles said, “You want me to fuck ’em up, boss?”

Jimson shook his head. “I don’t know you can.”

Muscles looked hurt, the way a kid might if you told him his drawing of the sky and a moon looked like a boat on the ocean.

“Here’s the thing,” Leonard said. “We got this client, and our client has a problem. Someone she knows, family, was murdered, and there were other murders, and they’re all connected by a little symbol. A devil’s head. Red. Left at the scene of the murders. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

Leonard said, “Oh, Shit Fingers. I’ll have a slice of pie. Hap?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Big slice.”

“I don’t see how this has anything to do with me,” Jimson said. “Got that whole Kincaid-does-your-taxes thing going,” Leonard said.