Joe Lansdale - Bad Chili

“We’re slippin’ ’em some bills,” I said. “They’d do it for nothing, but they haven’t got jobs. Got laid off at the aluminum-chair factory sometime back, and they haven’t worked since. All the brain surgeon jobs are taken. But they’re all right.”

“They look a little scary?”

“You ought to see Big Man Mountain.”

Brett gave me a grim look.

“Sorry,” I said. “But that’s the reality. These guys, they can take care of themselves, and they’ll take care of you.”

“I can’t go to work with these fellas hanging on my neck,” Brett said.

“I know. What we’re gonna do, we’re gonna put Clinton here. He’s gonna stay in the house while you’re at work. That way, no one’s comin’ in to wait for you. You get home, need something, he goes with you if Leonard and I aren’t around. Okay?”

“Okay. What about work?”

“Leon will be there. I don’t know he needs to follow you around. He’ll just be around. Sittin’ in the waiting room, the parkin’ lot, kinda watchin’ out. I don’t know we can do better than that if you’re going to insist on workin’.”

“Like I said, landlord won’t fuck me for the rent.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a fool. You got your pistol?”

“Pistol-packin’ mama,” she said, reached down, and pulled up her nurse’s uniform. The gun was strapped to a holster around her thigh.

“Would you like me to check and see that garter holster is too tight?”

“That’s all right,” she said, lowering her hem.

“You know how to use that?” I said. “Having it is one thing, using it is another.”

“Hell, I’m certified to carry it. I took the course.”

The course was for the new law passed in Texas where you could legally carry a concealed handgun after taking instruction in laws and marksmanship.

“My guess,” she said, “is I’m the only one of us legal. And I could shoot before I was legal. And you can take that in any manner you want. I got a buck knife in my purse too. It isn’t legal. But I’ll tell you, that little honey, legal or not, will cut your fuckin’ nuts off with a wisp of a blade.”

“I’d rather not talk about nut injury right now,” I said.

“Sorry… That business gonna cut down on our activity?”

“Not even if I have to tie them in a sling.”

Leonard and the twins came inside. Leonard introduced them. Clinton, who did most of the talking, said, “How’re ya doin’?”

“Fine,” Brett said. “Well, not really. There’s someone might want to hurt me.”

“He ain’t gonna hurt nothin’,” Clinton said. “We tie that motherfucka in some fuckin’ knots is what we do.”

“And he don’t like knots, we shoot him some,” Leon said, reaching under his sweatshirt, producing a large, greasy. 45 automatic.

“Yeah,” Clinton said, “like till our guns run out of bullets.”

“Then we gonna reload,” Leon said.

“Good,” Brett said. “That’s what I want to hear.”

“That don’t stop him,” Clinton said, “we reload again.”

“We get the idea,” I said.

Brett turned to me. “What about you and Leonard?”

“I figure we’ll do what the old Southern guerrilla fighters used to do in the War Between the States.”

“And what was that?” Brett asked.

“Cuss niggers?” Leonard said.

“No,” I said.

“Lynch niggers?” Leonard said.

“Shut up, Leonard,” I said. “We’re going to quit waiting. We’re going to take it to them.”

“Goddamn,” Leonard said. “Now I’m inspired.”

Brett went back to work, Leon in tow. We left Clinton at the house with instructions not to eat Brett out of house and home, try and spare some furniture, and to piss in the toilet with the lid up.

A little research gave us the location of King Arthur’s place, and next morning we drove out there. It was on a vast acreage of mostly red clay, because a bulldozer was pushing down trees when we got there, making it that way.

We parked alongside the road and watched from the truck, over a barbed-wire fence. Watched the dozer work. It was knocking down hills of dirt that I figured were Indian mounds. They had the look of mounds, and in traditional East Texas manner, they were being pushed flat for progress.

Fuck the Indians. Fuck the pottery. Fuck the heritage. Fuck the ground. Fuck the trees. Let’s get this shit flat, mud red and nasty, bring in that double wide.

Which was exactly what had been done.

Several of them.

From where we sat we had a good view because there wasn’t any trees, just some stumps, and this big dozer knocking those annoying mounds flat. The property was all red clay for acres and acres, except for a patch of costal bermuda in one corner, and some steroid-fed cows and a big, red, metal barn, and, I swear, four double-wide mobile homes. Two long, two wide, linked.

“Well, what we gonna do, brother?” Leonard said. “Charge in, beat the piss out of him?”

“No, that’s more your style. I’m going to wait. We’re going to follow. We’re going to isolate. Then, we’re going to talk.”

Jim Bob’s yellow Pontiac pulled up behind us and he got out and walked around to my side of the truck. I had the window down and he took off his cowboy hat and stuck his head in.

“I hope you fucks ain’t sneakin’ around,” he said, “’cause you ain’t sneaky.”

“We figure we’re all right,” I said.

“I’m surprised you fellas have lived as long as you have,” he said. “You got charmed lives, that’s what I think.”

“Clean livin’,” Leonard said.

“Guess that’s it,” Jim Bob said.

“How did you know we were here?” I asked.

“I followed you from the nurse’s house.”

“Why are you still sneaking around?” Leonard said.

“Habit, I reckon.”

“When in hell do you sleep?” I asked.

“When I’ve got the time,” Jim Bob said. “As for other matters, like this King Arthur fella, maybe I can help you out, since I done been through all this some time ago. King Arthur, he don’t leave the place till after noon. Fact is, about one-fifteen every day, Monday through Friday. He drives over to the plant, goes in through a special back entrance. By five o’clock, he’s back out at the car, and he goes home. ’Course, I ought to mention that when he goes and comes from work, he goes with some guys look like they’d twist the heads off parakeets and suck the neck stumps for entertainment.”

“You know everything, don’t you?”

“Damn near it,” Jim Bob said. “What’s your plan?”

“Actually,” I said, “we have a simple plan. Two plans. I want to talk to King Arthur, but what I figure is, we’ll follow Leonard’s plan.”

“Which is?” Jim Bob asked.

“We’re going to beat the old fart up till he comes through with a confession.”

“Yeah,” Leonard said. “And we’re gonna beat up his companions too.”

“King Arthur ain’t that old,” Jim Bob said. “About my age. And he looks to me like he can handle himself. As for you beatin’ the companions up, Leonard, I hope you’ve had your Malto-Meal.”

“Well, what would you do?” I asked.

“I’d beat the fuckers up,” Jim Bob said.

We left the dozer to its work, followed Jim Bob back to the Holiday Inn. We had coffee in the cafeteria and Jim Bob told us some things about King Arthur.

“You know that King Arthur used to be a chili cook-off king, and that’s what catapulted his recipe to stardom, so to speak? Only thing is, they found ole King was payin’ judges off to vote for him. Didn’t matter it was some little local thing, or a big tadoo. He took winnin’ serious-like, right down to money and young pussy for the judges. Took to callin’ himself King Arthur. Started the chili business, and it skyrocketed. Didn’t hurt he was also into every goddamn dirty deal in East Texas, from runnin’ whores to makin’ sure black folks who owned stores paid a little kickback. They didn’t, their businesses had a way of attractin’ fires.”