Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
No one introduced us to the women.
We sat on the couch for a time, and Jim Bob and Rodriguez
talked about the weather and Jim Bob told him about his hogs. The third woman,
the one that might have been Raoul’s wife, seemed to be taking a personal interest
in me, and like the things she had seen before, I wasn’t any better. I smiled
at her, but she didn’t smile back. I checked my fly casually. Zipped. She
finally quit watching me and left the room, no doubt to glare at some wallpaper
or something. The little girl held up her doll for me to see, but it was a look
from a distance. She still didn’t come over to see me. I smiled at her and she
kept smiling. The two women at the sink kept their backs to us. Russel got up
and went out on the front porch to smoke a cigarette. I twiddled my thumbs and
tried to look interested in the conversation, which had switched from hogs to
the Astros. Jim Bob and Rodriguez were worried about someone’s pitching arm. I
wished I had a cigarette to smoke.
“Shall we go outside, gentlemen?” Rodriguez said.
“Why the hell not,” Jim Bob said, and we all went out to
join Russel on the front porch. I smiled at the little girl on the way out and
patted her doll on the head when she held it up to me.
It was cooler on the porch than inside. There was an old
couch on the porch, and Rodriguez sat on that. Jim Bob sat down on the edge of
the porch and Russel sat down on the steps. That left me to lean on the porch
post, because the rest of the couch was a disaster area. Springs stuck up through
the cushions like corkscrews craving your ass.
Rodriguez’s manner had changed now that we were outside. He
looked a little more alert. “The money up front like last time?” he said going
right into it.
“Five hundred up front,” Jim Bob said, “and if nothing
happens, you keep it. We get some holes in us, I’ll pay you whatever it takes
to plug them.”
“Last time,” Rodriguez said, “it was five hundred just for
you.”
“It’s five hundred for all of us this time,” Jim Bob said.
“You have to work on more than one of us, I’ll pay you for what it’s worth. You
know my word is good.”
“Medicine, when you are not legal, is very expensive,”
Rodriguez said, looking pained by the fact.
“I know that. Wouldn’t need you if you were legal. We just
want to make sure we got someone here to take care of us so we won’t have to
report any bullet wounds to the police.”
“I can only do so much. If it’s real bad—”
“We go through this every time,” Jim Bob said.
“I like you to know,” Rodriguez said, and he waved a hand at
us. “I want them to know. I can only do so much without a hospital and nurses
and the good medicines.”
“They understand,” Jim Bob said.
Rodriguez considered. “Five hundred for three up front is
not much.”
“Take it or go fuck a goat,” Jim Bob said.
Rodriguez smiled and his false teeth looked certain to go
for a dive. I started to leap for them, but by some miracle they stayed in his
mouth. “I like goats,” he said. “They feel good and tight on the dick and they
don’t talk back and want to have this orgasm thing. They just baa a little. But
you see, I got the wife. And she does talk. She likes money. We have to pay the
rent on this very nice place. She and I are legal, but the others are not. They
work hard to pay their part of the rent, but they can’t get very good jobs—”
“I pay Raoul good,” Jim Bob said with more than a taste of
indignation.
“And my wife and I, we’re not making so much either. Ever
since the legal abortions, I’ve hardly made enough to put food on the table.
And Rosalita, she has the bad knees. And there’s the little girl—”
“Christ,” Jim Bob said, “all right, all right cut the
fucking fiddle music.”
“But I haven’t told you about the mother I send money to in
Mexico.”
“Good,” Jim Bob said. “Don’t. I’ll make it a thousand up
front, just to have you on hold, but that’s more than you’re worth. I’m doing
this for your wife, who deserves an orgasm, by the way, and Raoul’s little
girl. To hell with your old mother in Mexico. She’s probably been dead fifteen
years.”
“Twenty,” Rodriguez said.
Jim Bob sighed like Atlas’s job with the world had just been
handed to him. He got up and took out his wallet and turned slightly so
Rodriguez couldn’t see in it. He took out some bills. He put the wallet in his
back pocket again and went over to Rodriguez and bent down and placed the bills
separate of each other along the Mexican’s leg and straightened up.
“Count ’em,” Jim Bob said.
Rodriguez did. “Very good,” he said. “A thousand. I am now
on duty.”
“Just make sure you don’t go to Mexico anytime soon to see
your old mother’s grave.”
Rodriguez laughed and showed those ill-fitting false teeth
again. Damn, those things made me nervous. “I will be here until you tell me
this thing is done and you do or do not need me.”
“Another thing,” Jim Bob said. “We’ll need to borrow a car
for a day or two. Three at the most.”
“You are welcome to Raoul’s truck,” Rodriguez said.
“That’s generous of you with his truck,” Jim Bob said, “but
I really didn’t want to send up a smoke signal everywhere I went. Something
with four doors would be nice. Inconspicuous, unlike the Bitch. And since you
only have one other car, I must be talking about that one.”
“You must be,” Rodriguez said. “That would be the Rambler,
of course.”
“Very good,” Jim Bob said.
Rodriguez shook his head. “The car is a great comfort to me.
I have places to go, people to see, things to do.”
“How much?” Jim Bob said.
“About forty dollars a day,” Rodriguez said.
“Forty dollars a day,” Jim Bob said. “I can rent cheaper
than that from fucking Hertz. I’ll give you twenty dollars flat out for as long
as I need it. I’ll check the oil and water and bring it back with a full tank.”
“Very well,” Raoul said. ‘Twenty dollars for as long as you
need it.”
Jim Bob looked suspicious. “That was too easy.”
Rodriguez shrugged. “It has three flats.”
36
When we got back from town with three new tires for the
Rambler, Jim Bob said to me: “From here on out, you’re not paying anything.
This is mine and Russel’s show, and I’ll put up the gravy. I got enough saved
to do us just fine. You stay along for as long as you like, then cut out when
you want.”
The Rambler was out back of Rodriguez’s house, parked in a
little shed that had once held chickens and still held their calling cards:
dirty feathers and dried chicken manure. When you walked in there, the smallest
feathers and the dust rose up in a fine, dry cloud and tried to make residence
in your nose and throat and choke you to death. The shed being constructed
mostly of tin made it as hot as a lion’s balls in the Congo.
The Rambler looked sad there on its three flat tires and the
one with tread so thin you could damn near see air through it. There was a coat
of dust on it thick enough to plant turnips.
Jim Bob got the jack, tire tool and four-way tool out of the
trunk, jacked up the front of the Rambler while Russel quickly loosened the
bolts. Rodriguez came out to smile at us with his bad dentures.
“Good tires?” Rodriguez said.
“Best Sears sells,” Jim Bob said. “Would I jack you on
tires?”
“You might do that,” Rodriguez said.
“They got tread on them and they hold air,” Jim Bob said,
“and that’s a sight more than I can say for these dudes. Now run along and play
and let us work.”
“Make the bolts tight,” Rodriguez said, and walked off.
When he was out of earshot, Russel said, “Can he be
trusted?”
“Wouldn’t have brought him in on this if I didn’t think he
could,” Jim Bob. said. “I’ve used him before, couple of times. Didn’t need him
either time, but I was kind of comforted knowing he was there.”
“Yeah,” Russel said, “but we get hit we got to get to him in
time.”
“Be an optimist,” Jim Bob said. “I am. Gets you through life
happier than a lizard.”
“What about guns?” Russel asked.
“I got us covered on that.”
“When I shoot Freddy,” Russel said softly, “I don’t want it
to… I want something that will take him out. You know what I mean. I don’t want
him to suffer. Just bam and it’s over.”
“It’s how you use what you have,” Jim Bob said, “but I’ll
try and get something with some punch. I’ve got a .357. That could be the
thing. I also got the sawed-off and an Ithaca 12-gauge.”
“I don’t like the idea of a shotgun somehow,” Russel said.
“It seems… messy.”
‘It is messy,” Jim Bob said. “It’s all messy… Look, you want
to back out of this plan, suits me.”
“You back out,” Russel said, “and I’ll still go through with
it, one way or another.”
“All right,” Jim Bob said. “I’ll get you something that’s a
stopper. It’ll be up to you to put the bullet home.”
“I used to be able to shoot,” Russel said. He took off the
old tire and I rolled the new, mounted one around to him and he put it on the
wheel stubs and put on the lug bolts and Jim Bob let the jack down. Russel
tightened the lug bolts, and we went around back to replace the other two.
When we were finished, Russel stood up and wiped his hands
on his pants and said, “I want him to know who I am, and what I’m doing,” he
said. “But I don’t want him to hurt much. I want it to be quick. That’s why I
want the right gun, Jim Bob. You know what I’m saying?”
“I know,” Jim Bob said.
I drove the Rambler and Jim Bob and Russel went in the pickup.
At the house, Jim Bob seated us at the kitchen table and gave us beers, then
went upstairs and came back down carrying pistols.
He put one of the revolvers on the table.
“A .38, short-barreled, no sight. A belly gun. I thought I’d
use it and the sawed-off double-barrel I got in the Bitch’s trunk. That way
I’ll have some insurance should the Mexican get into things. I got a hunch both
those boys carry guns.”
“The .357 is for me?” Russel said.
“Yeah.” Jim Bob reached in his shirt pocket and took out a
little plastic case and put it and the .357 on the table next to the .38.
“There’s your ammunition,” he said. “I’ve got a speed loader for you and a
holster. You might want to wear one of my sport jackets so you can keep it out
of sight.”
“Sport jacket?” I said.
“Well, I don’t wear it much,” Jim Bob said. “It ain’t my
style.”
“I can believe that,” I said.
“I guess we’re set,” Russel said, looking at the gun as if
someone had shit a turd in the middle of the table.
“I’ve got a snub-nose .38 in the trunk of the Bitch with an
ankle holster. You can wear that for backup.”
“That’s all right,” Russel said.
“I’m not asking, I’m saying. I’m still running the show
here, and I say you wear the ankle holster. None of this suits you, I got a
couple more guns upstairs, .45 automatic, a .44 western style revolver and an
Ithaca 12-gauge. All this is cold stuff, by the way. No way it can be traced
unless we get sloppy and leave them lying around with our fingerprints on
them.”
“Or they find your bodies,” I said. “Have you thought of
that? They just might outshoot you.”
“I’ve thought I might get wounded,” Jim Bob said, “and
that’s as far as I’ve thought. I won’t let myself think beyond that. Last two
times I didn’t even get that. Came out without a scratch.”
“Was there shooting?”
“First time I bluffed. Second time there was shooting. I
shot a little faster.”
“What now?” Russel said. “What’s our next step?”
“We leave the guns for now and start checking Freddy out,”
Jim Bob said. “Follow him around for a few days. Find out where he goes and
when, and figure how hard or how easy this is all going to be. We get his
program down, then we make our own program. Then we do it.” Jim Bob turned to
me. “I got the Rambler so if we needed a backup car, something less conspicuous
than the Red Bitch, we’d have it. Ben and I’ll do the first watch in the truck.
We find out anything that needs you and the Rambler, I’ll call you here. We may
just want to switch cars so they won’t be seeing the same one all the time and
get suspicious. Guess that’s all you need to know for now.”
“All right,” I said.
“Before you say that,” Jim Bob said, “understand exactly
what you’re into. You’re helping plot a murder. We’re going to kill a man and
you are an accessory to the deed. You don’t get caught, you got to go through
life living with it. Think you can?”
“I don’t like the idea,” I said, “but if I went away now I’d
still know you were going to do it, and my knowing is just as bad. I’m going to
end up living with it one way or another.”
“I just want it understood,” Russel said, “that when it
comes to Freddy, I do the shooting, Jim Bob.”
“No promises,” Jim Bob said. “Looks like Freddy is going to
give me a ventilator shaft, I’m taking him out. I’ll do my best to do it your
way, but I’m not putting my head on the block. I don’t go that far for anyone.
Thing is we’re going to do it, and that’s enough.”
“When do we start?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Jim Bob said. “Early.”
37
Next morning, well before light, Jim Bob and Russel drove
away in the pickup. I stayed around the house and killed time. I had an early
breakfast of fried eggs and burned toast and too-strong coffee. Later, about
eight, I had a muffin and a glass of milk. Before noon I drank a beer. At noon,
I ate a sandwich. I had some iced tea. I watched television; about half of a
monster movie where irritated puppets were destroying a cardboard city. Where
were The Three Stooges when you really needed them?
I was as nervous as a witch during the Inquisition. I wanted
to go home. I wanted to see my wife and son. I wanted to go fishing.