A Crying Shame (117 page)

Christy Nelson. She's in the house.”

Badly hurt?”

Not physically, so I'm told. I'll talk to her later. Doc? Sit on this; isolate the girl. No visitors except the parents. Very short time only.”

Thurman nodded.
I heard about Joe quitting you. Good luck.”

Yeah,” was all Mike would say about that. Spoken with no conviction in his voice. He nodded at Jon, walked to his car, and pulled out.

 

Joe Ratliff had gathered a gaggle of good ol' boys, including Whacker Jolson, who, in his drunken state, thought Joe was going to announce his candidacy for sheriff and was throwing a free barbecue. The men were armed with shotguns, .308s, .30-30s, and an occasional 7-mm. There was much tobacco-chewing and spitting. Hats, ranging from ball caps to twenty-three-gallon types, adorned with various types of feathers and pin-on buttons, which proclaimed everything from the individual owner's belief in the National Rifle Association to how sexy he was, were cocked at every conceivable angle. There were so many feathers it was difficult to tell if the men were gathered to hear a speech or to build a shrine to pay homage to a ring-necked pheasant.

But they were, by gawd, going to protect their women and children from them damned things in the swamp.

During this upcoming exercise in futility, which would end in failure and disaster, one would shoot himself in the foot; two would shoot a friend; one would be bitten by a cottonmouth; one would die of a heart attack; and, of the sixty-odd men who would initially enter the swamp, only three would ever come out—alive.

Joe?” Luther Tilton said.
Ah thank you're plumb full o' shit, puhsonally.”

Whacker belched loudly and polished off what remained of a pint of Old Taylor.
You got my vote, Joe!” he hollered.

Aw, shut up, Whacker!” Butterbean Morrison told him.

Butterbean had two brothers in the crowd. They were called Pinto and Lima.

Then why'd you bring that rifle?” Joe asked Luther.

'Cause you jist might be right. I'll listen to you, long as you don't start none of that fuckin' preachin'.”

I'll forgive you that blasphemy, Luther.” Joe fixed his steady eyes on the man.
But if you—any of you, all of you—don't believe me, why don't we all just take a run down to the funeral parlor and ask to see the bodies of Paul Breaux and that Guy What's-His-Name? What happened to that smart-aleck reporter from the paper, Gardner? Now Booger Brady has disappeared, too. And why was the governor up here—in secret—the other night? Add it all up, boys, then stick this with the total: you all got friends in the surrounding parishes; call 'em, all of you. Ask ‘em if there ain't a bunch of strangers in unmarked cars stayin' close in the motels around the area. And all them cars got police radios in them.”