Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

Pine swallowed. “No. I wouldn’t blink at all at a figure like that.”

Sturm said, “Then I would suggest arranging for a trip say, around late August, somewhere around August 21st.” Sturm hung up.

He leaned forward. “This photo has been sent to a very exclusive group of gentlemen. Men who do not blink at spending ten thousand dollars or more to hunt anything they want.” Sturm rapped the desk. “That ten grand? That’s just to get here. The gentlemen are then free to gamble among themselves.” Sturm opened his large palms. “And naturally, in a situation such as this, it’s only reasonable that the house deserves thirty percent of every transaction.”

Everybody tried to quickly calculate the amount. Frank said, “We got six lionesses left. That cheetah.” The amount got bigger.

“The monkeys,” Chuck suggested.

“The dogs,” Jack said.

“The rhino,” Theo said.

Sturm nodded. “We got ourselves a chance to make some real money. But it ain’t gonna just fall out of the sky. We have some work to do. First up. Walkie-talkies. I ain’t got time to driving over half creation to find you.” Theo handed the walktie-talkies out. Everyone got one, except for Frank. Sturm explained, “You stay at the vet’s, so I know where to find you if I need you. The rest of you, you keep these charged and close. I expect you to answer quick if I call. Jack, you and Chuck head down to Redding. We’re gonna need three, four big tents. I mean big. Big as you can get. And as much goddamn liquor as you can carry. You come talk to me soon as you get back.

“Pine, you go get as much ammo as possible. You need to leave immediately, so you can head back and unload at least a couple of times before our guests arrive. Hit Redding, then head over to Reno. Stop at every gun store, bait shop, and especially goddamn Wal-Mart you pass. Go down I-5 and clean that valley out. We need every .12 gauge and rifle shell they got.”

“You bet.”

“And you, Frank.” Sturm rolled his fingers across the top of the desk in a staccato burst. “Without them animals, this whole enterprise is nothing but a bunch of hicks with their thumb up their ass, trying to peddle a few silhouette targets. The Roman army had a special rank for getting their on exotic animals for the Colosseum games. Called ’em venator immunis . That’s you. So you’re gonna be my right hand man in this. Them cats, they’re an investment. A serious investment. We put their health first. ’Til the hunt, of course. But we will deliver what we promise. A chance to hunt one of the world’s biggest and lethal predators through the streets of a small town. I want them cats healthy as if God himself blessed them with his grace. And you’re gonna do that for me. For us.” Sturm stood up. “Gentlemen. We have thirteen days to whip this town into shape. There’s a whole shitload of work to do, so I suggest we all get to it.”

As they were leaving, the phone on Sturm’s desk began to ring.

* * * * *

Frank got back with enough time to feed the animals and take another shower. Standing in the cramped bathroom, he eyeballed his reflection critically, said to hell with it, went out and found the clippers and shaved his head. He wondered if he should wear his suit. In the end he decided against it, and went with jeans and a clean gray cowboy shirt. He wasn’t sure where they would head for dinner, fairly certain that Whitewood didn’t have any kind of restaurant or diner or café or anything like that, just a sliver of a cinderblock bar over by the railroad. That meant they’d have to drive to another town, and he wanted to look like just another field hand.

The dead tree was empty. Frank still parked where he’d watched the cop car park, protected by the satellite dish. The gas station across the street was closed and dark. The sun was setting and a persistent wind came down from the north. He felt almost cool as he stepped out of the car.

Smoke rose from the house as he came up the wide trail of baked bare earth that marked the path to the front door. Other than the smoke, the place was lifeless. Frank had been doing pretty good, wasn’t too nervous up until then. He’d seen Annie take care of her brothers on at least two occasions, and he knew she could handle them without worries. But up until now, Frank hadn’t thought of the mothers. He wasn’t sure how this little date would go over at all, wasn’t sure how they would react to a man taking their daughter out. He hadn’t seen them since the night of the BBQ and carnival. He wanted to just say hi, get Annie out of the house, and take off.

The front door was in his face, daring him to either knock or get back in the car. He knocked. It opened immediately. Two brothers, twins, both around seven or eight, waited stiffly inside. They wore identical clothing, deeply bleached white shirts ironed into sharp angles, black bow ties that matched the black pants and plastic wing tips, a white bathroom hand towel over their right forearm. Their hair was neat and slicked back. One of them had a Band-Aid on his chin.

“Please come in, sir,” Band-Aid said. Both were deeply respectful, deferential even, and kept their eyes downcast.

“Thank you,” Frank said and walked inside. A giant, flat slab of oak dominated the center of the large room. Five chairs and place settings had been laid out. They looked lonely at the large table. The walls were the color of merlot, bisected by a wooden chair rail. A large wood cabinet with glass fronts sat in the middle of each wall. Various ceramic figurines were carefully arranged inside. Orange shag carpet covered the floor.

More brothers rushed around, each dressed identically. Only the black eyes, split lips, and scabbed knuckles separated them. A few were hastily dragging an old vacuum out of the room. A door waited off to the right; the floor gave way to tile, and it smelled delicious, mostly tomatoes and garlic. Two other doorways led to the rest of the house, in the corners of the far wall.

“Please, sir, have a seat.” Band-Aid dragged out the chair that faced the kitchen across the large table. His twin brother positioned himself on the other side of the chair. “Um, my sis—Miss Annie will be down in a minute. May I offer you a drink?” Frank sat down and before he could scoot it forward, the brothers shoved the chair at the table like they were football lineman driving a heavy training sled, almost pitching Frank out of the chair.

“May I offer you a drink?” Band-Aid repeated, nearly demanded.

Frank wanted alcohol desperately, but thought it might be impolite to ask. So he said, “Maybe a glass of water, thank you.”

“Of course.”

The brothers headed for the kitchen, always together, like they were Siamese twins, joined at the shoulder. Edie, the mother with the crazy eyeball, came out of the kitchen in their wake. She was wearing her usual limp dishrag of a housedress, but this time she had a white apron over it. It looked more like it had come from a hospital than a kitchen, but it was clean. She walked with long, determined strides, crossing the room like that tiger had bounded across the street.

Edie held out her hand and shook Frank’s hand harder than Sturm, grinning so fiercely it looked like the crazy eye was squinting in rage. “So happy to see you again. I’m glad you have decided to take care of the animals in this town. We are all very pleased to have Petunia back with us.”

“Thank you, that’s—that’s all right. Glad I could help her.”

“Well.” She wiped her hands on the apron. “Dinner will be served shortly. I must apologize for the tardiness of my daughter and wife. They wanted to look their best.” She smiled fondly at the far door. It was closed. “I’m afraid I must get back into the kitchen.” The thin, wicked grin was back. “My supervision is needed.” She left the room as fast as she had entered and suddenly Frank was alone.