And that was something scary to see.
A guy is maybe dumb, he can still put a hole in your head, it doesn't take smarts to do that.
Hutt Kenny didn't want to stop, but he pulled in at Liberty, northeast of Houston, and filled the car up.
Had the kid check everything, drove a couple blocks, saw a Dairy Queen, and stopped.
Ordered steak fingers and fries, a Vanilla-Coke malt.
That was the thing about Dairy Queens, they'd make about anything you want.
Grind up a candy bar, any kind you like, mix it right in or pour it on the top.
There were only four people inside, three girls in cheerleader suits, two of them cute, the other maybe not.
An old man sitting by himself.
The old man was reading a paper, holding it high so he could check out some teenage leg.
Kenny knew what he was doing; he'd done it a couple times himself.
The food was real good.
Kenny got extra fries to go.
Outside, the heat hit him hard.
You're under the A/C, it's worse when you get out again.
The phone booth was right by the door.
They couldn't put the sucker inside, right?
Hutt didn't want to make the call, didn't want to talk to
Junior now, later, any time at all.
He dropped some coins in, listened for the tone.
Nothing.
Looked at the thing in his hand, saw it didn't have a cord.
"Fuck you," Hutt said, pissed off a little, mostly relieved that he couldn't make the call.
Pissed off again because Ma Bell had swallowed all his quarters, wouldn't give them back.
The Buick was baking, heat waves rising off the roof.
He opened the door to let the hot air out.
Leaned in and opened the far side too.
And when he looked up, he saw the trooper in his brown uniform, in his cowboy boots, in his Smokey Bear hat.
"Shit," Kenny said, and knew, at once, the trooper had parked out back, and walked around the side.
Which didn't mean a thing, cops were always doing that, looking for a freebie, talking up the high school girls.
This one, though, wasn't doing either one.
This one walked right up and said,
"Afternoon, how we doin', sir?"
"Fine," Kenny said, "how are you?"
"Shoot, I could do without this heat."
"Me too," Hutt said, and wondered, his mind working down a little list, wondered if he had anything in the car, any shit that shouldn't be there, anything a cop would like to see.
Decided he was fine, there was nothing there but an empty Coke can from the trip coming up.
"I like the Dairy Queen better'n any place in town," the cop said. "The food's good, they keep the place clean."
"I see one, I'm going to stop there," Hutt said.
"I won't stop some place I don't know, something says
EATS
or
BARBECUE,
you don't know what you'll get there."
"That's the truth," the cop said.
"I like to be careful what I eat."
"Yes sir, more people ought to do that."
"Some of these places, you see on the road, they oughta close them down."
"That's why a Dairy Queen always has plenty of customers.
People know what they're going to get."
"They do.
That's why they keep coming here."
"This your vehicle, sir?"
"What?"
"I said, this your vehicle, this your car, sir?"
"Yeah.
Well, it's a rental, not mine."
The question, coming out of nowhere, rattled him some, took him by surprise.
Up to then, they were doing okay, why did the guy start acting like a cop, everything's going just fine?
"Louisiana plates.
That where you're from?"
"New Orleans," Hutt said.
The cop grinned.
The grin said, I know what kind of stuff you clowns get away with down there.
The cop took his hat off, took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face, down in his neck, up on his brow.
His brow was half red, half fish-belly white from the Smokey Bear hat.
He was forty, maybe, thinning hair and an ordinary face.
Stripes on his sleeve, a plastic tag that read
KREET.
What the hell kind of name is that?
Hutt thought.
Probably some godamn name like Cecil R. Dupree.
"Avis," said the cop, walking around the side, kicking at the tires.
"You like the Park Avenue?"
"GM makes a good car," Hutt said.
"I'd rather have that than a Ford.
We get Fords sometimes, then they'll do Chevy's a while.
Can I see your license and insurance, sir?"
Hutt kept his cool, got his wallet out without shaking at all.
Reached in the glove compartment, got the insurance paper out.
The cop looked them over, looked up at Hutt.
"Mr. Hutt Kenny?
This your current address?"
"Yes it is."
"I don't think I know anyone named Hutt."
I don't know any assholes named Kreet, Hutt thought.
"What you do down there, sir?
You don't mind I ask?"
Hutt did.
"Sales.
Wholesale beverages and food."
"Uh-huh."
The cop gave Hutt a nod, walked around the side of the Dairy Queen and disappeared.
Came back a minute later with his car.
Stepped out and brought a sheet of paper up to Hutt.
"I just stopped you because you were out-of-state, sir.
That's just routine, you didn't have any offense."
"I didn't think I did."
"The only thing is, I ran your name through, and a lot of bad shit come out.
I don't guess you're surprised to hear that."
Hutt didn't answer.
The cop glanced at his paper, back up to Hutt.
"I got thirty-two arrests here, sir.
Assault, assault, breaking and entering, possession of controlled substance, assault, assault, possession again, assault, assault.
You assault folks a lot, Mr. Hutt."
"Kenny.
It's Hutt Kenny, not Kenny Hutt."
"Yes, sir."
"That stuff you were reading.
That's not right, that's a mistake."
"Which one is that, sir?
There's thirty-two here."
"All of 'em.
I was falsely charged, officer.
If you got the record there, you know I was acquitted on every fucking one."
"I'd prefer you hold back on the obscenities, sir."
"Yeah, fine.
Only what happened is, there's people in the same business I'm in, I'm just trying to make a living, okay?
These people I'm talkin' about, every time I fuc–every time I turn around, they're accusing me of something I didn't even do.
I never did any that stuff you're reading there."
"Mr Kenny..."
The cop folded up his paper and stuffed it in his pocket.
"I've got no reason to hold you here.
There's nothing I can charge you with, nothing you're wanted for.
You want to get in your car and go, that's fine with me."
"Well...yeah, okay."
Hutt felt a great sense of relief.
The cop could see it too. Hutt didn't like that, but he didn't let it show.
"You're just doing your job," Hutt said, "what you're supposed to do."
"Have a good trip," the cop said.
Hutt got in his car.
Put his seatbelt on, which he hardly ever did.
The cop put his hands on the sill, leaned his head in. Looked at Kenny a second, looked kind of funny for a while, said, "Would you hit that trunk release for me, Mr. Kenny, then step outside of the car?"
"Huh?
What for?"
"'Cause I asked you to, sir."
"I don't get it.
You said we were fine, you said it was all okay."
"Hit the release, and step out of the car, please, sir."
Hutt did.
Something was wrong now, he didn't know what.
The cop waited for him, waited so he'd be behind, and Hutt was in front.
Walked him to the back, walked him to the big Buick trunk open wide.
Hutt took one quick look, made an awful sound, staggered back and covered up his eyes.
The smell hit hard, hit him like a wall, hit him so hard he nearly fell.
He could feel the steak fingers and the fries, The vanilla-Coke malt, everything he'd had for a year, was coming up fast.
He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, held it all back.
"I didn't smell 'em till I leaned in the car, Mr. Kenny.
Just a whiff is all.
Figured something bad was back here.
You acquainted with either of these persons, sir?
You know who these fellas are?"
Hutt Kenny didn't, didn't know the joker with his zipper open and his pecker hanging out.
Didn't know the guy in the aviator jacket that was black or maybe brown.
Didn't know either one, but knew how they got there, knew who'd stuffed them in his trunk, and even knew why, fucking Cecil R. Dupree...
"I don't know 'em," Hutt said, "never saw them before in my life."
The cop shook his head.
"I don't think I could stop at a Dairy Queen, something like that in the car.
I sure couldn't handle that."
He let his hand rest on the big black pistol at his side.
"Might be good if you put your hands on your head now, sir.
I expect you know how to do that..."
J
ack thought about Utah, Arizona, maybe Montana, somewhere he'd never been before, somewhere they'd never heard of Mexican Wells or Cecil Dupree.
Canada maybe.
Canada sounded fine. He'd seen a thing on the Travel Channel, it sounded okay.
They had some nice babes up there; he'd seen them on the tube.
French babes, too, and everybody knew what they liked to do.
What he couldn't do, he couldn't stay at Piggs.
You kick Cat Eye in the nuts, you don't want to work on the same fucking planet anymore, you got to go somewhere else.
Cecil wouldn't let Cat kill him, 'cause help is hard to find, but Jack knew he'd wish he was dead by the time Cat was through.
Cat was good at that.
Cat couldn't blink unless someone showed him how, but he knew how to hurt, he could hurt real good.
T
he sun was blazing hot overhead by the time he slipped into the hole behind Wan's.
He was tired, he was beat, his gut was on fire, but he felt okay, he was feeling just fine.
The cellar was cool, it was dark, and nobody knew he was there.
Funny how the place could do that, make him feel safe, make him feel everything would turn out right.
It fucking wouldn't, not until he got to the fucking North Pole or somewhere, but now it seemed fine.
When his gut cooled off, he wished he'd thought to slip into Wan's, make a butter and jelly, get something to drink. That's one thing he meant to do.
Get a loaf of white bread, couple cans of something, bottles of water to keep down there.
"This is what I got to start doing," he said to himself, "I got to start thinking, got to start planning shit instead of just letting shit happen, which is what it's going to do you're not thinking ahead.
You're not thinking, shit's thinking for you, and that's the kind of stuff you're going to get."
Jack lay back on the concrete floor and looked up in the dark.
He could see little slits of light between the boards, but no one was up yet at Piggs, no one was moving about.
Funny how he wasn't even scared.
He'd be scared later, when he had to figure some way to get a few bucks and get out of town, clear out of Texas before Cat knocked a few teeth out, broke a couple ribs.
Canada was further off than Kansas.
Further than the big square states that were stacked on top of that.
A few bucks wouldn't cut it; he'd have to get his hands on a bundle for a jump like that.