"Sometimes it helps to open up and share," Gloria said.
"I can understand that..."
"Huh-unh.
Don't.
Do not ever mess with me, Gloria.
Do not ever tell me shit you think I want to hear."
Gloria's heart nearly stopped.
He didn't raise his voice, didn't glare, didn't stare, didn't show her anything at all.
What happened, happened in his face, the thing that was there getting dark and darker still, getting dark as liver, getting close to black.
Cecil got up.
Put down his cup.
"Don't tell those cunts at Piggs I was here.
Don't fuck anyone, don't go out of town.
I am declaring my affection for you, Gloria, you understand that?
This is a serious matter to me.
If you got any smarts at all, you'll respect my feelings, okay?
And get some real coffee, grind the beans yourself.
Find a place to live.
Cecil Dupree don't go with some broad, you gotta climb a fucking tree..."
T
he sun flared over the trees, howling in a nuclear rage, incandescent anger in its single flaming eye, simmering and seething, pissed at everyone.
Ate up the night, sucked the morning dry.
Chewed up a dawn in Tennessee, hawked it back up, spit it on southern Arkansas.
Loosed all its fury on Texas, determined to burn the state down this time, starting with Medicine Wells...
C
ecil stomped out in the sun, neck burning up, overalls sticking to his knees.
Gut still churning from climbing down the tree.
Hoppers jumped ahead.
Gnats came out and headed for his nose.
Cecil got in the car and said, "Get the hell out of here, Cat."
"Hey, what happened," Grape said, "you get any, man?"
"Shut the fuck up," Cecil said.
Grape was much smarter than Cat, but Grape had been napping and didn't see Cecil stomping through the weeds, wading through the wrecks, didn't know what was going on, got a look at Cecil's face half a second late.
Sat back, shut up, didn't say a word after that.
The ride back to Piggs was very quiet.
Cat Eye thought about a pie.
A chocolate or a peach.
Grape thought about a drink.
Cecil thought about Gloria Mundi.
Thought about her in a going-out dress, a dress that fits good, like you see in a ladies' magazine.
Thought about her in an apron, cooking something nice.
Remembered her coffee, decided to think of something else.
What he thought about most, was whether he ought to be doing this at all.
Messing with the help is no good.
Even if you own the place, you're asking for trouble right off.
The guy runs the bar, he's going to steal a little more.
Even the guy sweeps up, he's sore because everybody else is sore, too.
The dancers, Jesus, that's the worst of all.
A person of the stripper persuasion is strung out to start.
Piss 'em off, and they'll drive you fucking nuts.
Gloria Mundi, Cecil thinks, is a bad idea.
Slap her around, do what you want to do.
Do that, she's out the door fast.
Wait her out, be nice, she maybe comes around.
Then what?
Then you got to buy her shit, take her into town.
Whatever you do, it'll turn out wrong.
Cecil knows that, he's done it all before.
He also knows he is wasting time thinking about it, he knows he's going to do it all again.
C
ecil is sitting in the back.
Cat Eye's driving, Grape is in the front.
Cecil looks at the back of Cat's head.
He looks at the back of Cat's head maybe five, six times a day.
Cat's neck is very thick.
It has seven folds of fat.
Cat shaves his head close, right down to the skin.
And even if there isn't any hair up there, Cat has dandruff anyway.
Little flakes falling on his shirt, on the seat behind his back.
Cecil's used to that, he sees it all the time.
But this is not an ordinary day.
It's six in the morning, he's been up all night.
He didn't get laid, all he did was climb a tree.
His face is on fire.
His face gets worse when he's mad.
It burns like someone's dropping kitchen matches on his skin.
I feel like shit, I gotta sit and look at that, Cecil thinks,
I gotta look at Cat's head.
"Stop," Cecil says, poking Cat in the back, "stop the fucking car.
Stop at the 7-Eleven store."
"Gotcha," Cat says.
The store is maybe half a mile away.
Cat pulls in.
The store is bright with cold fluorescent light.
A million crickets are bouncing off the windows outside.
Grape turns around.
"What you need, Cecil, what you want me to get?"
"I don't want you to do nothing," Cecil says.
"Cat, go in the store.
Get some Head 'n Shoulders.
Get me a Coke.
Get me a Snickers, better make it two."
"I'd like some Fritos," Grape says.
"See if they got a Big Red."
"Get it yourself," Cecil says, "don't be asking him.
I don't remember he's in your employ, I think he works for me."
"Right," Grape says, and doesn't look at Cecil again.
Cecil gets out.
The windows on the Caddie are tinted, and he squints in the sudden morning light.
Reaches in the pocket of his overalls, puts on his shades.
He can smell the coffee they're making inside.
Maybe he'll have a coffee too.
Maybe get a doughnut.
You can get a good doughnut or a roll, you get there early before they're all gone.
Two little black kids are making wide circles on the drive, running over crickets with their bikes.
They are seven or eight, maybe thirteen.
Cecil can't tell.
Nigger-rap T-shirts, worn-out jeans.
Brand new basketball shoes, bigger than either kid's head.
When the tires get a cricket, they make an awful sound.
Cat Eye comes out.
He's chewing on a donut, sugar all over his mouth.
"They didn't have a Snickers," Cat says, "I had to get a Mars."
"I don't want a Mars, I want a Snickers," Cecil says.
"They didn't have none."
"You didn't look."
"They hadda Milky Way and Mars, that's all they got."
"They got a Hershey with nuts, why'nt you get that?"
"You said a Snickers.
You said, get me a Snickers and a Coke."
"Fuck it, gimme that."
Cecil takes the paper sack.
Opens up his Coke, looks at his Mars.
Hands the Head 'n Shoulders to Cat.
"Go over there.
They got a hose by the tanks.
Shampoo your head."
"Huh?" Cat Eye looks blank.
"What for?"
"Do it.
Do it right now.
You're making me fucking sick."
Cat Eye doesn't argue.
Cat knows better than that.
He doesn't tell Cecil you don't shampoo if you don't have hair.
Even if you did, you didn't do it at the 7-Eleven store.
He takes off his shirt and lays it on the hood.
Walks over to the gas tanks, turns on the hose.
Takes the top off the shampoo.
The young kid running the store looks out.
Sees Cecil and the Cat.
Sees the lizard-green Cadillac.
Decides he doesn't care to get into that.
Cecil drinks his Coke.
Doesn't like the Mars.
Likes the nuts fine, doesn't like white stuff inside.
One of the kids has a Cowboys gimme-cap, bill turned to the back.
"Why he doin' that," he asks Cecil.
"How come he washin' his head?"
"'Cause he wants to," Cecil says.
"Man hasn't got any hair."
"Won't do any good," the other kid says, "man hasn't got any hair."
The kids go huk-huk-huk! Cover up their mouths to hold the giggles back.
Pedal in circles round Cecil, laughing and looking at Cat.
"Stop it," Cecil said, "quit doing that."
"Doin' what?"
"Running over bugs."
"Ain't your bugs, man."
"You listening, kid?
Don't squash the bugs.
I don't like to hear you squashing bugs."
The first kid grins at his friend.
"Better not squish no bugs.
Lone don't like you squishin' bugs."
The other kid laughs.
Cecil says, "What?
What'd you say to me?"
The kid's not dumb.
The kid pedals quickly away, making a bigger circle with his friend.
"Called you Lone," says the friend.
"Got you a mask and all, you the Lone Ranger, man."
"Where you Indian, where Tonto, man?"
"Tonto, he givin' hisself a sham-poo."
"Shit.
Tonto ain't got any hair, can't get a sham-poo, man don't got any hair."
"Where your horse, man?
Where Silver at, he waitin' in the car?"
The kids laugh and howl.
They make big circles and run over crickets. Squish-squash-squish.
"Gimme the keys," Cecil says.
"What for?" Grape says.
"Gimme the keys, Grape."
Cecil holds out his hand and snatches the keys.
Walks around and opens the trunk.
Paws through beer cans and sacks, finds the Winchester, the 12-gauge pump.
"Cecil, that ain't a good idea."
"Get in the car.
Get Cat, get him in the back."
"What I'd like you to do, I'd like you to think about this."
"I already did," Cecil says, racking a shell in the chamber, snack-snick!
"Killing the poor is a blessing, Grape.
What kinda life these little bastards gonna have, you ever think about that?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Going to grow up and have more little kids, that's what.
Little assholes'll be running over bugs."
Cecil raises the weapon and fires.
The butt slams into his shoulder, the barrel jerks up into the air.
Cartons of Cokes are stacked in front of the store.
The cartons explode in a hail of foam and glass.
The kids scream and howl, duck their heads and pedal for their lives.
Cecil stands behind his car, coolly blasting one load and then another down the street.
He fires until every shell is gone, until the kids are out of sight.
The boy in the 7-Eleven is down behind the counter on the floor.
Cat's eyes are full of shampoo, he can't see a thing.
He can hear someone shooting, he doesn't know what.
"Holy shit," Grape says, sitting in the car.
He looks straight ahead, he doesn't look back.
If Cecil has shot two little black boys, he doesn't want to know about that.
He needed a drink half an hour ago, and he really needs it now...
J
ack sat in the Yak.
Small explosions of fierce morning light pierced the thick green canopy above.
One caught Jack, struck him dead center,
stung him in the eye.
"Thanks," Jack said, "I guess I needed that."
He was grateful for the help.
He'd nodded off again for a minute and a half.
He was tired, he was hot and he needed to pee.
Sitting up straight, he squinted at the big German plane in the live oak tree.