Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

The rhythm of my words was steady, but my voice was a little strained. A little squeaky. “I didn’t see any meat in there.”

Fat Ernst stood, started back around the bar, moving slow, but he didn’t look tired. He moved languidly, like a bored shark going after a drowning seagull.

“Well, hell, if you don’t have any meat, that’s okay. How about some pancakes, then?” Ray asked.

“Oh, no, we’ve got some meat. We’ve got plenty of meat,” Fat Ernstanswered, glancing at Ray. “Seems to me there’s been a … mistake.” With the last word, his eyes nailed me to the wall. But then his eyes slid up and over me, staring out the window to my left. “Christ, what’s she want?”

I turned to look. Through the rain-streaked window, I could see a red Dodge pickup bouncing through the deep mud of the parking lot. It stopped next to Ray’s police car and Misty Johnson climbed out.

CHAPTER 25

Ray pulled his shoulders back and did his best to straighten up his hunched posture. He licked his fingers and smoothed out his pencil mustache, then his eyebrows. “Probably wants to talk to me.”

Fat Ernst slowly backed up to the bar. I knew he was worried that she’d been out to the cemetery. Hell, I was worried too, worried that she’d been out to the cemetery, worried that she’d been talking to her uncle Slim. But I had to admit, it was nice to see her. She jumped out and dashed through the rain to the front door. I opened it for her and she stepped inside, shaking water droplets out of that perfect blond hair. She was dressed almost exactly like yesterday, with a white blouse and jeans that looked like blue skin.

“Hey there,” Misty said to me.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to smile too much.

“Howdy,” Fat Ernst nodded. “Get you anything?”

“No, thanks. I was just stopping by, wondering if you guys had seen my uncle anywhere this morning.”

I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

Fat Ernst shook his head. “Nope. Haven’t seen him since, let’s see … yesterday. Came in, had a burger around lunchtime.”

“He got real sick early this morning, took off a couple of hours ago. Aunt Gertie is having a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Ray said, hitching his belt and reaching down desperately for a deep voice. “If you want, I can drive you around, and we can look for him.”

“He’s sick?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s been throwing up, and—”

“Stomach flu’s been going around,” Fat Ernst cut in. “Hell, I ain’t been feeling so good either.”

Ray stood and puffed his chest out, pulling his chin in so that his Adam’s apple protruded out damn near equal to his nose, still talking like Darth Vader. “So, uh, like I said, why don’t we go look for him?” He pushed his cowboy hat back. “Ever been for a ride in a real police car?”

“Oh, motherfucking Christ. Not now,” Fat Ernst said in a low growl, staring out the window again. I whipped my head around, and saw the Sawyer brothers had just plowed through the parking lot. This place was turning into Grand Central Station. Junior stopped behind Fat Ernst’s Cadillac, shut off the engine, and jumped out. He had several strips of gray tape across his nose, probably from last night’s mishap with the crowbar. Bert followed, wobbling around the front of the truck.

Misty casually moved sideways a few paces, putting me between her and the front door.

Junior kicked the door open. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’ yourself.” Fat Ernst said, lips drawn tight against his teeth, and folded his arms once again over his stomach. “What are you doing here?”

Junior grinned. “Thought you might need some help today. In Sacramento.”

Fat Ernst shook his head. “Nope. Now, we talked about this last night. You go on home, and we’ll …”

Junior suddenly noticed Misty. His grin got even bigger. “Well, hey-hey-hey there. Wondered if that was your truck outside.” He sidled over to Misty. Bert leaned against the doorframe and stared blankly at the bar through bloodshot eyes.

Ray stepped forward, hand on his gun. “Why don’t you fellas do like Fat Ernst said and go on home now.”

Junior took a whirling step and snarled up at Ray’s Adam’s apple, “Why don’t you lick my ass?”

Ray flinched. “Wouldn’t take much to put a bullet in that thick head of yours. The only thing that’s stopping me is all the goddamn paperwork I’d have to fill out.”

They reminded me of a couple of dogs, sizing each other up to fight over a scrap of meat. But Ray was the one bluffing; he kept swallowing, and you couldn’t miss that Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a buoy in a storm.

Junior laughed in Ray’s face. “You think you got the balls, you try it.”

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ. You stupid fucks knock it off,” Fat Ernst barked. “Junior. Get out’ve here. We’ll talk later.”

Junior turned away from Ray and faced Fat Ernst. “No. You ain’t going nowhere with—”

Fat Ernst slammed his hand flat on the bar and it sounded like a gunshot, echoing around the wooden walls and floor. “This is private business—watch your mouth.” His eyes flickered over to Ray and Misty and settled back on Junior. He waited a moment, letting his meaning sink in, then spoke quietly. “We can discuss this later.”

Junior shook his head. “We’re discussing this right fucking now.”

Fat Ernst started to say, “I mean it,” but Junior jumped in and stopped Fat Ernst cold.

“That ain’t what Ma wants.”

The restaurant got quiet. Fat Ernst finally said, “I don’t give a flying fuck,” but the weight of his words sounded false. “This ain’t got nothing to do with your ma. This is between us.”

“That ain’t what Ma said. She said, ‘You boys either come home with the money or the buckle.’ And I’m not arguing with her.”

“What buckle?” Misty asked in a low voice.

“Never mind,” Fat Ernst snapped. “This ain’t any of your concern.”

“Hold on a minute here,” Ray spoke up. “Buckle?”

Fat Ernst sucked in a long, long breath, ignoring Ray’s question. He never took his eyes off of Junior. “Now you listen. You listen but good. We had a business arrangement. You agreed to it. Now you want to change the arrangement. You wanna break our contract. Fine.” Fat Ernst drew himself up and eyeballed Junior. “The way I see it, we got two ways we can do this here. We can do it the easy way, the way we agreed, or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice. But I gotta tell you, you ain’t gonna like the hard way. You ain’t gonna like it at all.”

“Shit,” Junior spat. “You think you’re dealing with some fresh pussy here?” He snorted. “Hard way. Don’t make me laugh. Ma’ll show you the hard way. She’ll fuck you up the ass with a chainsaw.”

“You wanna push it? You wanna find out?” Fat Ernst stepped forward, curling his hands into fists the size of footballs.

Junior only came up to about Fat Ernst’s sternum, but he didn’t back down, I’ll give him that. He just nodded slowly, saying, “If that’s the way you want it, then—”

Junior never did get to finish the sentence because Fat Ernst’s right fist lashed out and smashed into his taped nose. Junior’s head snapped back, and before he could either fall or take a step backward, Fat Ernst’s left fist swung up and popped his nose again. This time, Junior landed on the floor in front of Bert.

Bert looked down. “Hey, Junior, your nose is bleedin’ again.”

Fat Ernst stepped forward, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Yeah, you’re one tough customer all right. Told ya you weren’t gonna like it the hard way.”