Thomas McGuane - Crow Fair - Stories

“I just drive Ray around.” And observing Ray tuning in, he continued obligingly, “And whatever Ray wants I guess is what we do … whatever he’s into.” But to himself he said, Good luck hitting anything with that shit pistol .

He didn’t volunteer that he enjoyed popping the bastards out his car window, his favorite gun the.25–06 with the Swarovski rangefinder scope and tripod he bought at Hill Country Customs. Dave lived with his mother and had always liked telling her of the great shots he’d made, like the five hundred yarder on Tin Can Hill with only the car hood for a rest, no sandbags or tripod. So much for his uncle Maury’s opinion: “It don’t shoot flat, throw the fuckin’ thing away.”

Dave, who also liked brutally fattening food, thought Morsel quite the cook. Ray, however, was a surprisingly picky eater, sticking with the salad, discreetly lifting each leaf until the dressing ran off. Weldon watched him with hardly a word, but Morsel grew ever more manic, jiggling with laughter and enthusiasm at each lighthearted remark. In fact, it was necessary to dial down the subjects — to heart attacks, highway wrecks, cancer, and the like — just to keep her from guffawing at everything. Weldon planted his hands flat on the table, rose partway, and announced he was going to use the tractor to tow the plane around back. Dave, preoccupied with the mountain of tuna casserole between him and the cobbler, hardly heard him. Ray, small and disoriented beside Morsel, shot a glance around the table looking for something else he could eat.

“Daddy don’t say much,” said Morsel.

“I can’t say much,” said Ray, “not with him here. Dave, you cut us a little slack?”

Dave, using his napkin to conceal a mouthful of food, managed to say, “Sure, Ray, of course.” Once on his feet, he made a lunge for the cobbler, but dropping the napkin he decided just to finish chewing what he already had.

“See you in the room,” Ray said sharply, twisting his chin toward the door.

Weldon had shown them where they’d sleep by flicking the door open without ceremony when they’d first walked past it. There were two iron bedsteads and a dresser atop which sat Dave’s and Ray’s belongings, the latter consisting of a JanSport backpack with the straps cut off. Dave was much the better equipped, with an actual overnight bag and Dopp kit. He had left the cattle receipts and breeding documents in the car. He flopped immediately onto the bed, hands behind his head, then got up abruptly and went to the door. He looked out and listened for a long moment and, easing it shut, darted for the dresser to root through Ray’s things. Among them he found several rolls of cash in rubber bands; generic Viagra from India; California lottery tickets; a passport in the name of Raymond Coelho; a lady’s wallet, aqua in color and containing one Louise Coelho’s driver’s license, as well as her debit card issued by the Food Processors Credit Union of Modesto; a few Turlock grocery receipts; a bag of trail mix; and of course the gun. Dave lifted it carefully with the tips of his fingers. He was startled by its lightness. Turning it over in his hand he saw that it was a fake. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes, but he was compelled to acknowledge that there was no hole in the barrel. A toy. Carefully returning it to where it was, he fluffed the sides of the backpack and leaped to his bunk to begin feigning sleep. He was supposed to be at Jorgensen’s by now, with his arm up some cow’s ass. But opportunity was in the air. He’d need to get rid of the smile if he wanted to look like he was asleep.

It wasn’t long before Ray came in, making no attempt to be quiet, singing “Now Is the Hour” in a flat and aggressive tone that hardly suited the lyrics, “ ‘Sunset glow fades in the west, / Night o’er the valley is creeping! / Birds cuddle down in their nest, / Soon all the world will be sleeping.’ But not you, huh, Dave? Yeah, you’re awake, I can tell. We hope you enjoyed Morsel’s rendition of the song, lyrics by Hugo Winterhalter.”

At length, Dave gave up his pretense and said, “Sounds like you got the job.”

“Maybe so. But here’s what I know for sure: I’m starving.”

“Must be, Ray. You ate like a bird.”

“Couldn’t be helped. That kind of food just grips the chambers of my heart like an octopus. But right behind the house they got a vegetable garden. How about you slip out and pick me some. I’ve already been told to stay out of the garden. But don’t touch the tomatoes; they’re not ripe.”

“What else is there?”

“Greens and root vegetables.”

“I’m not going out there.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

Ray wasted no time reaching for his JanSport to draw the gun.

“Here’s a meal that’ll really stick to your ribs,” he said.

“I’m not picking vegetables for you or, technically speaking, stealing them for you. Forget it.”

“Wow. Is this a mood swing?”

“Call it what you want. Otherwise, it’s shoot or shut up.”

“As you might guess, I prefer not to wake up the whole house.”

“And the body’d be a problem for you.”

“Very well, very well.” Ray went to his pack and put the gun away. “But you may not be so lucky next time.”

“What-ever.”

Dave rolled over to sleep, but his greedy thoughts went on unwillingly. He had planned to head out in the morning. He was expected at ranches all around Jordan. As it was, he’d have to explain himself at Jorgensen’s. He had a living to make, and were it not for his morbid curiosity about Ray and Morsel, to say nothing of the possible business deal, he might have snuck out in time to grab a room in Jordan for the night. But the rolls of money in Ray’s pack were definitely real, and his hints of more to come made him wonder how anxious he was to go back to work.

“Ray, you awake?”

“I might be. What d’you want, asshole?”

“I just have something I want to get off my chest.”

“Make it quick, I need my z’s.”

“Sure, Ray, try this one on for size: the gun’s a toy.”

“The gun’s a what?”

“A fake. And, Ray, looks to me like you might be one, too.”

“Where’s the fuckin’ light switch? I’m not taking this shit.”

“Careful you don’t stub your toe jumping off the bed like that.”

“Might be time to clip your wings, sonny.”

“Ray, I’m here for you. But I’m not an idiot. Just take a moment so we can agree about your so-called gun, and then we can have some straight talk.”

Ray found the lamp and paced the squeaking floorboards. “I gotta take a leak,” he said, heading out to the porch. “Be right back.” Dave wondered whether he’d been too harsh, sensing defeat in Ray’s parting remark. Dave could see him silhouetted in the moonlight in the doorway, a silver arc splashing onto the lawn, head thrown back in what Dave took to be a posture of despair. Surely, he could squeeze this guy for something.

By the time Ray walked back in he was already confessing … an appraiser in Modesto, California, where I was raised. I did some community theater there, played Prince Oh-So-True in a children’s production of The Cave of Inky Blackness , and thought I was going places. Next came Twelve Angry Men —I was one of them — which is where the pistol came from. Then I was the hangman in Motherlode . Got married, had a baby girl, lost my job, got another one, went to Hawaii as a steward on a yacht belonging to a movie star who was working a snow-cone stand a year before the yacht, the coke, the babes, and the Dom Pérignon. I’d had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Eventually, I got into a fight with the movie star and got kicked off the boat at Diamond Head, just rowed me to shore in a dinghy. I hiked all the way to the crater, where I used the restroom to clean up and got some chow off the lunch wagon before catching a tour bus into Honolulu. I tried to sell the celebrity-drug-fueled-orgy story to a local paper, but that went nowhere because of the thing I’d signed. Everything I sign costs me money. About this time, my wife’s uncle’s walnut farm went bust. He took a loan out on the real estate, and I sold my car, a rust-free ’78 Trans Am, handling package, W72 performance motor, solar gold with a Martinique-blue interior — we’re talking mint. We bought a bunch of FEMA trailers off the Katrina deal and hauled them to California. But of course we lost our asses. So the uncle gases himself in his garage, and my wife throws me out. I moved into a hotel for migrants and started using the computers at the Stanislaus County Library, sleeping at the McHenry Mansion, where one of the tour guides was someone I used to fuck in high school. She slipped me into one of the canopy beds for naps. Online is where I met Morsel. We shared about our lives. I shared I had fallen on hard times. She shared she was coining it selling bootleg OxyContin in the Bakken oil field. It was a long shot: Montana. Fresh start. New me. But, hey. I took the bus to Billings and thumbed the rest of the way. By the time I made it to Jordan I had nothing left. The clerk at that fleabag almost wouldn’t let me have a room. I told him I was there for the comets. I don’t know where I come up with that. I had to make a move. Well, now you know. So, what happens next? You bust me with Morsel? You turn me in? I can’t marry her anyway. I don’t need bigamy on my sheet.”