‘Duke, do something.’
‘He’ll quieten down soon enough.’
Only he didn’t. He kept that weird braying sound going – louder and louder, too.
Christ, I can’t take this anymore. He’s going to bring everyone running.
Norman dropped down into a squat, found a hunk of stone the size of a football. Then he stood back up. Heaved the rock up high over his head until his arms were straight, elbows locked.
Terry still hee-hawed. Still stared at him.
Duke stood, coolly watching what Norman did next.
I’ve gotta do this, Norman thought. I’ve no choice. Gotta stop him yelling out like that.
Gotta stop him staring at me.
Freaking me out.
The huge hunk of stone that Norman had lifted straight above his head in his two hands must’ve weighed at least twenty pounds. His elbows quivered. Can’t hold it much longer.
Gritting his teeth, Norman brought it down hard onto Terry’s head. The top of the guy’s skull caved in.
One eye popped clear of its socket.
Terry went down.
Lay twitching.
Feet kicking up a swirl of dust.
The mindless hee-hawing stopped. Norman thought the silence was beautiful.
Duke was impressed. ‘Nice work, Norman.’ He gave the body a casual kick with the toe of his motorcycle boot. ‘He won’t wake from that one.’
‘I killed him.’ Norman wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question.
‘Yeah, and how. You know, you’re getting some bloodlust on you.’ Duke grinned. ‘You’ve become a killing machine. A real term-in-a-tuh.’
‘I’d like to go back to the trailer now.’
‘Sure. You need to clean up. That damp patch in your crotch is unsightly, you know? You’re supposed to leave that in a woman’s pussy, not in your shorts.’
Norman could only nod. Half staggering, he turned and then walked back toward the trailer.
Duke called after him. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. It’s time we started work.’
Chapter Forty-two
‘Anyone seen Terry?’ Pamela asked Hank who was dragging a plastic sack full of trash from the kitchen toward the utility room.
One of the old-timer’s chores. Part-time mayor, part-time tour guide, part-time trashman.
‘I ain’t seen Terry but I got an eyeful of you.’ He winked that old-lecher wink of his. His scabbed lips stretched into a wide grin. The grin put his gums on display again with their half a dozen yellow teeth. ‘Yer a beauty, that’s God’s honest truth.’
‘Thank you, Hank.’ Pamela smiled. She was used to his ways by now. ‘There’s customers waiting for food and I can’t find Terry. Do you know where he might be?’
‘I don’t rightly know.’ Hank scratched his white whiskers. ‘He’s always here by nine.’
Pamela colored a little as she said, ‘You don’t think he might be with Nicki? In her trailer?’
‘I knows he’s taken with Nicki, but that ain’t reciprocated.’
‘Terry’s nice, she might have . . . you know . . . warmed to him.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, ma’am. Nicki likes Terry but not in that kinda way.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve bin on God’s Earth long enough to know a thing or two. If you ask me, Nicki plays for the other bowling team, if you see what I mean?’ Hank winked his bloodshot eye again.
‘Hank, that’s not nice; you shouldn’t speculate about things like that.’
‘It’s not just speculatin’.’ Again the crusty wink. ‘I’ve got two eyes in m’ head. I seen Nicki entertainin’ ladies in her trailer ’fore now.’
‘Oh, Hank, you shouldn’t spy on people.’
‘So I seen Nicki on the old beaver hunt, if ya catch my drift.’
‘I catch it all right.’
‘Seen her do the scissor-sister thing. Watched her drink from the hairy cup. Saw her plow a fresh furrow. Took a gander as she—’
‘Okay, okay, Hank, I get the picture.’
‘Me, too.’ Hank’s purple tongue licked his lips. ‘A nice clear picture.’ He patted his chest. ‘Makes the old ticker step up a beat, too.’
From the cafe behind Pamela came the sound of someone pounding a fist on the counter.
‘Hello! We gonna get any service in this dump?’
Hank resumed dragging the sack of trash in the direction of the rear door. ‘If you could use some advice, ma’am, it’s not smart to keep a hungry feller from his vittles.’
‘Oh, great.’ Pamela simmered.
I can’t find Terry. I’m alone in the cafe. And there’s a trucker and his buddy grumping for food.
‘Catch ya later, sugar pie.’
Pamela glowered at Hank. ‘Thanks a bunch. If you see—’
‘Terry. Sure, sure. I’ll tell him ya can’t live without him. Tee-hee.’ He cackled with laughter.
‘Hey! Anyone home?’ The trucker calling out again.
Pamela made sure her best professional waitress smile was on her face, then walked back into the cafe.
The trucker and his friend sat at the counter. They rested their muscular bare arms on the counter top and glared at her. They both wore white T-shirts with a stylized brown log running across the nipple zone. Beneath that were the words ‘We Love Lumber, Too.’ Then a telephone number.
Company uniform.
Came with regulation sweat circles in the armpits, too.
The two guys were in their forties. One wore a baseball cap. The other had a mass of curly hair that must have added three inches to his height.
‘Ain’t our money any good here?’ said the one in the cap.
The other added, ‘Yeah, or do you only take Iraqi pesos?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s the Iraqi dinar.’
‘Uh?’
‘The currency of Iraq,’ Pamela said, smiling. ‘It’s dinar, not peso. Coffee?’
‘Oh, a smart waitress, eh?’ The one with the curly hair said this with a sneer. ‘You got a university degree or just in love with an Iraqi guy?’
‘I know what she has got . . .’ This came from the trucker in the cap. ‘She’s got long legs that go all the way up to her fanny.’
‘Yeah, and what a fanny.’ The curly-haired one smirked. ‘Nice titties, too. Make a nice soft pillow for a workin’ man.’
‘You’re dead right. Won’t you pass me my X-ray glasses, Frank?’
The one called Frank slipped a pair of Elvis-style shades with large aluminum frames from his pocket and held them out to his buddy.
The trucker slipped them on, then looked Pamela up and down and gave an appreciative whistle. ‘Best thing we ever bought, Frank, these X-ray spectacles.’
‘Oh, very droll,’ Pamela said. She plucked her order book from her apron pocket.
‘Lovely breasts. The right one has a freckle. Nice flat stomach. And man, oh man, you should see her—’
‘Okay.’ Pamela plucked the cap from the trucker’s head. ‘Either you quit the commentary or I’ll fry your hat alongside your eggs.’
‘At least you’ll be fryin’ somethin’,’ the curly one said with feeling.
‘Yeah, and you can give me my bitchin’ hat back.’
Pamela’s patience was running low. ‘What’re ya going to do if I don’t give it back? Sir.’
‘I’ll come round there and give your sweet fanny the slappin’ it deserves.’ He nudged his buddy.
Both of them laughed.
Maybe they’re thinking I’m all alone here.
They’re getting ideas.
That dessert might not come in a bowl.
Oh, where are you, Terry? Where’s anyone? Lauren? Nicki?
‘Okay, you’re both hungry. I’m a waitress. What can I get you?’ Pamela stood with her pen poised over the pad, ready to write.
The one called Frank had a look in his eye now that needed no explanation. ‘Oh, I know exactly what I want
. How about you, Joe?’
‘Sure. Something hot and spicy.’ Both of them laughed again.
Pamela sighed. ‘Are you two going to keep up this dazzling repartee all day or are you going to give me your order for food, so I can fix you something?’
‘Give me some tasty rump, followed by—’
Pamela’s schoolteaching experience kicked in. ‘Okay, you two. I’ve just about had enough of this.’ Her voice was a perfect balance of ice and steel. ‘Either you order your food now or you can go hungry for the rest of the day.’
‘Hey, listen, we—’
‘No, you listen to me, buster.’ Pamela slammed her hand down on the counter. ‘The next diner is four hours’ drive from here. So it’s your choice. Eat here or hit the road.’
‘I—’
‘And if you eat here I expect a modicum of civilized behavior.’
The two men looked at each other. One handed the sunglasses back to the other.
‘Now, do either of you wish to say anything?’ Pamela shot them her best steel-eyed look. The kind she’d reserved for the hoodlum kids in class.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The trucker sagged visibly under the impact of her formidable stare.
‘Well? I’m waiting.’
‘Please may I have my cap back, ma’am?’
She handed it back to him.
‘Now,’ she said briskly. ‘Coffee?’
The two guys nodded and were quick to say their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’.
‘That’s better. So, gentlemen. What would you like to eat?’
Respectful now, they gave their order.
With Terry a no-show I’m going to have to cook, Pamela thought. But no big deal. I can fix bacon, fried eggs and the usual breakfast extras.
As she turned away she heard one of the men whisper to the other, ‘Time of the month.’
She smiled to herself. They couldn’t resist reassuring themselves that they’d lost the battle to the superior biological force of menstruation. They couldn’t admit to themselves that a waitress had stood up to them. When confronted with the period thing most men yielded like a vampire cringing from a crucifix.
Without turning to them as she laid rashers of bacon on the hot skillet, Pamela couldn’t resist saying, ‘Bathroom’s over there. You might want to wash your hands before you eat.’
She turned to smile at them as they looked at their grubby fingers in surprise. As if washing their hands before eating was alien to them.
Which it probably was.
They nodded. The one in the cap touched the peak. A respectful gesture.
‘Good idea, ma’am.’
The pair scuttled toward the bathroom.
Game, set and match.
‘Nice work.’ Pamela spun to her right.
Duke stood in the kitchen doorway.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘You soon got the upper hand with those two,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Just a little firmness.’
‘Worked, too. You’re some gal.’
‘Thank you.’ She cracked eggs onto the hot metal. The clear liquid turned a sizzling white around the yellow yolk.
Duke slipped a stick of gum into his mouth. He gave Pamela an appraising look as he chewed.
‘You’re not a waitress.’
‘I’m both waitress and cook now.’
‘I mean you’ve not been in this line of work long.’
‘No, I used to be a schoolteacher.’
‘How come you wound up in Pits?’
‘Long story.’
‘Sharpe bring you in?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Pamela flipped the bacon rashers over. Bubbles of oil seemed to dance on the cooking meat. Even though she kept her eyes on the food she was aware of the guy studying her.
Yeah, he’s good looking in a bad-boy way. Blue eyes, blond hair. Tattoo. Narrow waist. Broad shoulders.
Course, a guy like that’s gotta be trouble.
‘You could set two plates out here for me.’
She guessed Duke didn’t take orders from anyone.
But he gave a little nod. As if what he saw in Pamela he approved of. So he was prepared to give a little help.
Oh God, I hope he doesn’t have any romantic intentions. I’m not ready for that yet.
And especially not for a guy like Duke. He looks as if he’s running away from a whole heap of trouble.
Could have broken out of jail.
Or poisoned his grandmother for her life savings.
The two guys returned from the bathroom. They looked cheerful and relaxed now that she’d laid down some ground rules.
They both held their hands up, palms facing Pamela.
‘Nice and clean, miss,’ said the one in the hat.
‘You’ll pass muster. Grab a seat, breakfast’s ready.’
Pamela glanced to see how Duke had reacted to her handling of the customers.
Duke had already vanished.
Like he’s got somewhere important to go.
The shiver that ran down her spine wasn’t lost on her.
Someone just walked over my grave.
And as Pamela served up the bacon and egg, hoping that Terry wouldn’t be long in returning from wherever he’d taken himself to, she didn’t know that the cafe’s cook was lying under a cactus with ants busily crawling across the unholy mess of his crushed skull.
Chapter Forty-three
Norman sat drinking cold, sweet water from a glass. He was back in the trailer.
Changed his underpants before his jism dried and formed a crust. His mind was full of all kinds of shit.
Boots and Nicki making naked whoopee in the old house.
Duke hauling Terry in the tarp.
Norman killing Terry with a rock.
Oh Christ, I’m a killing machine.
Three men in less than a week.
Norman shook his head. He let his head rest against the back of the sofa. The fan blew air to cool his face. But that desert heat was seeping into the living room of the trailer.
Gonna be hot today.
Have a feeling it’s gonna get hotter than hell yet. In more ways than one.
Norman swallowed another mouthful of water.
Felt good, that cold liquid sliding down his throat.
I wish I could stay like this for the next zillion days. Do nothing but feel the fan on my face. Drink cold water.
’Cos every time I move from one place to another I wind up killing someone.
Or nearly getting killed myself.
Dangerous times, Norman. So stay in the trailer. Hey, stay on the fucking couch. That way no one gets hurt. Least of all me.
A tap sounded on the door.
Now you’ve got a dilemma, Norman told himself. Either answer the door. Or stay here. If you answer the door it’ll be someone trying to kill you. Or you’ll trip on the mat and head-butt them to death by accident.
Oh, shit.
The tap came again. This time followed by a croaking voice. ‘Young ’un. You in there?’
Holy cow. The old-timer. What’s his name?
Hank. Yeah, Hank.
Only old Hank. Should be no danger.
To the old mule skinner or to Norman.
Norman headed to the door. Then suddenly paused.
Maybe Hank had heard that Norman had been bitten by a venomous snake.
I haven’t, of course, but that might not stop the guy wanting to suck out the poison. Norman couldn’t stop himself remembering the mind movie that his imagination had made for him. Of Norman being struck by a rattlesnake that had planted its fangs in his fanny. Then lurid mental images of toothless old Hank with the cracked lips and bushy whiskers taking his own sweet time in sucking out the poison.
Shit.
What an imagination. Why did it have to torture him 24/7?
‘Huloooo!’ More tapping.
Norman went to the door.
He opened it. The sunlight hit him in t
he eye like a couple of pistol rounds. He recoiled, blinking at its brilliance.
‘Had a mind you were in there, young feller. An’ I was right.’
‘Good morning,’ Norman said politely, wondering why the hell the old guy’d shown up at his door.
Hank stood in the dust at the bottom of the trailer steps. He looked up at Norman. His eyes were puckered into folds of skin to stop the sunlight dazzling him. His nose showed through a foliage of bristles. It was as red as a strawberry. An over-ripe, stood-upon strawberry. The coot could have been an old-time prospector in those clothes. Even in this heat he wore a plaid flannel shirt that had long sleeves. Below that were blue jeans. On his feet were dusty black cowboy boots. Good scorpion-stomping footwear, those.
Norman saw that the old man was grinning. He was holding that filthy hat of his that was probably held together by nothing more than dust and the old coot’s sweat.
‘Figured you might want to take a look-see in my hat.’
‘Look in your hat?’
‘Yessiree.’
My God, why do I want to stand here admiring the inside of the old shit-shoveller’s hat? What’s the man thinking of?
‘See what I got fer ya and yer two buddies.’
Norman peered into the shadowy interior of the hat. Were those poop stains on the brim?
Come to think of it, toilet tissue could be in short supply when you’re walking out in the desert.
And the brim of a hat’s got to be softer than cactus leaf.
Norman began, ‘I don’t quite see . . .’
‘Right there in the bottom.’
‘Oh. Eggs.’
‘Damn straight. Fresh today.’
‘Thanks, but we’ve got some in the refrigerator.’
Hank’s lopsided grin broadened. ‘No, these ain’t come from no hen’s tush.’
‘They’re not hen’s eggs?’ Duck, goose, quail?
‘These eggs are the best ya’ll ever taste.’ Hank smacked his lips. ‘Rattler eggs.’
Norman’s jaw sagged. ‘Snake eggs!’
‘Sure they’re snake eggs. You never tasted ’em afore?’
‘Never.’
Never likely to, either.
‘Fresh rattlesnake eggs are good fer whatever ails ya.’
‘I don’t think that—’
‘Just pick ’em up, like so.’ Hank took a round white egg from his hat. ‘See, they’re soft. Ya can squish ’em.’ Hank squeezed gently. ‘Ya can pickle ’em, or boil ’em in milk.’ He winked at Norman. ‘But ya can’t beat ’em just as God made ’em. Just like this . . . now you watch, young feller.’ He chewed on one with the remains of his yellow teeth. ‘Gotta tough outer membrane. But you stick with it, you’ll bite a hole clean through. Now tilt yer head back, open yer mouth. And squeeze.’