Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

“Jesus, man. Turner probably wasn’t your best choice. Just because y’all were buds in uniform back in the day.”

“They came close to arresting my ass. I was like, ‘You got a possible murder out there under a foot of dirt on top of that mountain. And you’re worried about me?’ Look, Jones, you need to stay quiet for a while till this gets sorted out. Things didn’t used to be like this, not around here, anyway. You don’t need to be playing out right now. At all. Stay low till it blows over.”

Jones turns his head sideways, like he’s trying to hear something that’s too faint to make out. “Things’ve always been fucked around here. You know that. You need to sleep, man.”

“If you’re half as smart as you think you are, why’d you go home with Jennifer last night?”

“Jennifer,” he says. “My, my.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re wrong. We didn’t go home. We went to the Lakewood.”

“So now where you headed?”

“Over to Natalie’s.”

“Yep, he’s still drunk.”

“Get my guitar case, that’s all.”

“Whatever you do, not a word about Jennifer. Fucking hell, man. You’re in some crazy shit. Jennifer’s mixed up in it and so are you now. You better stay down.”

“Can I play the rest of this week like you said?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Somebody’s up there dead.” He points vaguely toward the mountain. “You can stay at my place and keep quiet about everything. That’s what you can do.”

“I got to go to Natalie’s. Then I’ll be back.” Instead he might skip around for a day or two, but it’s nice to know he’s got a spot to go. “If that’s all right with you.”

“I guess. Don’t forget your hat.”

“And can I get that box of demos? I’m about broke. Might try to sell a few.”

“I paid for those to get made,” Larry says. “I’ll give them to you. Just promise you won’t tell Natalie any of what happened. She’ll get to talking. All her friends will too.”

Jones pulls a pack from his breast pocket, taps one out and offers one to Larry. “You think we could have a morning pint together, one of them unfiltered whatevers? Just one. My head’s hurting bad.”

“Well,” Larry says, “as long as it’s for medicinal purposes.”

Behind the bar, he pulls him a cold draft. Sunlight comes in the front window through the jar of pickled eggs on the counter and sends wobbly prisms across the wall. Jones has been in the Hickory this early only once, the time he had to sleep here because Larry hid his keys.

He takes a swallow even before the pint glass touches the bar. It’s cold and yellow. Larry tells him to drink it slow, then goes into the kitchen. Jones puts it down and lets it sit there in front of him while he counts to a hundred and twenty.

Pans clatter back there, and by the time the beer’s half done Larry comes out with a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and fried bologna. “You’re looking pale. Better eat something.”

“Yeah, I better.” And like a humble bum in prayer, he picks up a fork and leans over the plate.

—

The van leaves exhaust hanging behind it in the road. Larry sits in a chair in his empty barroom. Jones still hasn’t fixed that oil leak. Larry remembers when he was that age, but back then people had more respect. None of this sleeping around business. Well, okay, maybe there was some, but still, folks had more respect for one another. And for themselves, damn it.

He calls Tiff and asks if she can cover the bar the next night or two. “It’s going to be a pretty big show this evening,” he says. “The Jaguars are playing. I might be around tomorrow to help out.”

He closes up but doesn’t bother hanging the sign on the locked door. Tiff will be here on time. She’s how young people ought to be.

Backward, that’s how this world is.

Turner got suspended twice for what he calls “necessary unnecessary roughness.” When the sheriff, a man going by Ricky, suspended him the second time, Turner swung on him. And Ricky, he told Larry, vanished right in front of him, then reappeared behind him and choked him out. “He’s a magical man,” Turner said. “I don’t mess with magical men no more. I said this to Mr. Ricky, trying to get my job back, I said, ‘You are a magical man, Ricky, and I will not mess with you no more.’ ”

His service Glock was taken from him, along with the badge (not before he xeroxed it) — the only things in life that loaned him any dignity — and though he now operates outside the force, he doesn’t carry a gun because the written law is something to be respected. If Turner can’t carry firearms, well, so be it, he’s got something just as good.

Turner limps in place next to his hubcapless Impala on top of South Hill. The slope where he parked is worn bare from sickly cattle, hoof-patterns in the mud all around him. The wind is strong up here, and he holds down his hair with one hand while the other blocks the sun from his eyes. He squints over toward the Lookout, watching Ricky and a handful of other young uniformed fucksticks string yellow tape around the inn.

They’ve already been along the ridge. He heard sirens down there near where he’d been last night. Glad he didn’t go back looking.

Years ago, when Jack was building this place, Turner was still an officer of the law, but he let the project go. He figured if the construction didn’t cause an explosion or collapse into the earth, then the lunatic had earned it. But now he’s an officer not by law but by force, the same force he had witnessed and respected in Jack, and he hopes he doesn’t have to shoot Arnett, the nephew, with this damn crossbow. But he will if he has to. He once took down a deer from a hundred yards. He aimed high and the arrow just dropped right on top of it. He’d hate to see what it does to a human face. Well, probably just a quick hole and a spot of blood before the guy falls over sideways like in a western.

He reaches through the back window for the crossbow, but it’s too wide and gets stuck. He pulls harder and the damn thing goes off. The arrow pierces the seat foam and hits metal. He looks around, opens the door, pulls out the arrow and loads it back into the sliding lock, nicked tip and all.

Clouds chase their shadows over the valley of trees and across the hills and over the ravine and then past the raw clapboard hillbilly palace sitting in the middle of all the mud. From here it looks like a landfill with heaps of stuff and everything smoke gray or clay red. When he passed by on the access last night, that rat bastard was probably running around in the dark. No way was Turner getting out. He’d only stepped out of the car once to let go of an arrow, just to set things straight and get them going on the right track.

The tape’s up now and evidently they’re done poking around. Arnett’s nowhere in sight. Probably watching them from some tree. They’re never going to catch him. Look at them, standing around picking their assholes.

Turner brings out his telescope and the Lookout comes into focus. That tin roof, rusted the color of dried blood. The leaning walls and collapsing porch made from unpainted sawmill slabs puzzled together to make a structure that defies all logic and gravity itself. Some stained pink sheets and shirts on the clothesline in the side yard, advertising what Arnett has been cooking and selling. Probably pretty good stuff.

A couple pigs follow the troopers around and scatter when kicked at. The dogs slink and jog in a wide ring around all the action. They’ve known nothing but beatings followed by meals of uncooked rice and gunpowder. That’s how Turner used to do it, too. Keep them crazy. Great hunters.