Joe Lansdale - Hyenas

I DID TAKE a look inside the BIG FROG CLUB before I drove Leonard home, and the cop trying to work the guy’s head out of the sheet rock was snickering. He looked at me and lost it, made a spitting sound, and let go of him and wandered off bent over and hooting.

Another cop, smiling, went over, and without a whole lot of conviction, pulled one of the guy’s ears—the other one wasn’t visible—said, “Come on out, now.”

The guy’s head was pretty far through the wall. It was poking into a bathroom. He must have turned his back to escape and found a wall, and then Leonard shoved the back of his head, pushing the front of it through the wall and into the bathroom. He was all scratched up, like a cat had been sharpening its claws on his face.

The bathroom walls had never really been laid out, just sheet rocked, so it hadn’t been too hard to push the guy’s head through. I took a good look at him. His chin had locked behind a support board, and the back of his head was locked behind another. He had fit in there easily enough, but in such a way he couldn’t get out, and the cops didn’t seem to be working that hard to release him.

I said, “You had some antlers, we could just leave you there and tell folks you’re a deer.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but it was weak and without conviction, so I didn’t take offense.

I used the urinal, which was just under him and smiled as I peed. I didn’t flush. I went back in the main room and saw the back of the guy. He was bent slightly with his butt in the air, standing on his tip toes, probably getting a good bracing from the piss in the urinal.

I went over to the bar, leaned and peeked over. The other guy Leonard had hit was awake and had his back against the bar. A broken chair was on the floor next to him.

I said, “You put your dick in a bee hive, my friend.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “We was just funnin’.”

“Yeah, how fun was it?”

“Not so much,” he said.

I got Leonard and drove him home.

WHEN WE WHERE at my place, I sat Leonard in a chair in the kitchen. Brett, my gorgeous redhead, came downstairs. She was wearing a pair of my pajamas and she looked cute in them, as they were oversized. She was barefoot and her red painted toe nails stood out like miniature Easter eggs. She came over and looked at Leonard.

“Anyone check you over?” she said.

“Wouldn’t let them,” he said.

Brett made him move his hand and the bloody rag. She checked out the wound. She’s a nurse, so she was the right one to do it.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I think you can get by without stitches.”

“Yeah, well, it feels bad,” Leonard said.

“Would some vanilla cookies and cold milk make it feel better?” she said.

“Hell, yeah,” Leonard said. “Maybe after the milk, a Dr Pepper.”

“That can be arranged,” Brett said, “but first, come in the bathroom and let me patch you up.”

When that was finished, Leonard came in with a bandage on his head. Brett got him a plate with some cookies on it and a big glass of cold milk. Leonard sat and smiled and dipped the cookies in the milk.

I said, “So, what happened?”

“They called me a queer.”

“You are a queer,” I said.

“It was their tone of voice,” he said.

“How did they know?” Brett said.

“I made a very delicate pass at one of them,” Leonard said.

“How delicate?” I asked.

“I merely asked him if he was gay, because he looked it, and then the shit hit the fan.”

“Actually, you hit a guy with a chair, shoved another guy’s head through some sheet rock, and beat the cold dead dog shit out of the other guy in the parking lot. No fan was involved.”

“Yeah, that was pretty much it,” Leonard said, and bit into a cookie.

NEXT MORNING WE went down to the cop shop. They sent us in to see the chief. He was in his office. There was a cop I had never seen before in there with him. They had a bunch of photos spread out on the desk, and the cop was laughing.

I glanced at the photos. They were of the guy with his head through the sheet rock.

The cop was trying to get hold of himself, trying to quit laughing.

The chief said, “You can’t act professional, you can just leave.”

The cop went past us and out of the room. He was giggling as he went, trying to hold it in, making a sound like a kid spitting water.

“Have a seat,” said the chief.

There were two chairs on our side and we took them. The chief said, “We can’t have this, fellows. It’s keeping all my officers from doing their jobs. They keep coming in here to look at the crime scene photos.”

He held up one of the photos.

It was of the guy’s face thrust through the sheet rock.

“This one,” he said, “is especially precious.”

I made the spitting water sound the cop had made.

“And then,” he said, “there’s this one.”

This was an extreme close up of the fellow’s face, casting a baleful eye out at us.

The chief even laughed this time. He put the photo down on the desk.

“Everyone in the department had copies made. Officer Jane Bowden took them, in the name of efficiency and coverage of a crime scene.”

“Do you have any wallet size?” I asked.

“No, but we’re having some made up. Listen here, Leonard. You’re lucky. Witnesses said they started it and you had to defend yourself. Bar owner is pressing charges against them. Thing is, them starting it, that’s probably right, but sometimes, it don’t hurt to walk away.”

“It was the chair upside my head kept me from walking,” Leonard said. “It knocked me down for a minute, and then when I got up, I was perturbed.”

“Point taken,” said the chief. “Not only were there witnesses, but one of the three you whipped is a witness himself. In your favor. He’s going to have to pay a fine and some repairs at the club, but he’s admitting they started it.”

“Which one would that be,” Leonard said. “Mr. Sheetrock?”

“No.”

“I’m betting it isn’t toothless,” I said.

“That would be a good bet.”

“So, that leaves the one I knocked over the bar with a chair,” Leonard said.

“Bingo.”

WHEN WE WENT out, we saw the guy who had been knocked behind the bar. He was sitting in the waiting room. He hadn’t been there when we came in.

Leonard touched two fingers to the edge of his eyebrow in salute as we passed.

The guy was about thirty, blond, and in good shape. He might be nice looking when he healed up. His left eye was closed and swollen and black, his lips were red and meaty like rubber fishing worms. As he followed us out into the parking lot, he had

a limp.

We were about to get in my car when he came toward us.

Leonard turned, said, “You and me not finished?”

The man held up his hands. “We are. Mr. Pine—that’s right isn’t it? Pine?”

Leonard nodded.

“I want to apologize,” the man said.

“Accepted,” Leonard said. “Good bye.”

“Wait. Please.”

I had been at the driver’s side, about to get in, but now I went around on Leonard’s side and we both leaned against the car.