Creekers (8 page)

But Phil’s attention phased out; he was still musing upon Vicki.
Christ…
Where was she working now? Where did she live? Did she still look the same? And when—

When was the last time she thought about me?
he dared to wonder.
Grow up!
he ordered himself.
She probably doesn’t even remember who you are anymore, you smug, pompous ass…

“What’s that you were saying?” he finally got back to reality. “A crisis?”

“That’s right, I got big problems here all of a sudden, and if I don’t fix it, the town council might give me the boot.”

Phil couldn’t imagine any kind of genuine “crisis” out here, much less one severe enough to depose Mullins’ seemingly endless reign. The guy had been chief here longer than Caesar had ruled Rome. “What,” Phil jested, “You got stoners ripping off parking meters from the town square?”

Mullins didn’t laugh, or even smile. It was hard times when this man got serious. “No, smart boy. You remember Cody Natter, the Creeker?”

“I remember Cody Natter, vaguely.” Rumor had it that Natter was sort of the governor of the Creekers, the tribemaster.

“Well, the ugly fuck and his Creeker cronies are givin’ me problems like to make me shit my pants.”

Phil, if only indistinctly, remembered the tall, gangly, and incredibly ugly Cody Natter.
Yeah, ugly as all hell but smart as a whip.
The guy, it was claimed, was either psychic or could count cards, since he’d cleaned out many an illicit poker game in the back of Sallee’s after hours, and he had this subtly twisted smile that, the few times he’d seen him, sent shivers up Phil’s back. His own childhood’s version of Hannibal at the Gate; Phil’s aunt always told him, “If you don’t go to sleep, Cody Natter’ll be stopping by for a visit tonight.” The guy always drove a souped, rebuilt ’69 Chrysler Imperial, dark-red, and was always blowing money all over town, though no one knew how he earned it. And he was ugly, sure, the ugliest Creeker of the clan.

“Oh, so it’s Cody Natter who’s ripping off the parking meters from the town square. Sounds like a crisis to me.”

“I thought Sam Kinnison was dead, funny man,” Mullins responded. “Take my word for it, Cody Natter and his Creekers are a pain in my ass.”

“But the Creekers always pretty much kept to themselves,” Phil said. “At least that’s what I remember.”

“Yeah, well, they’re all over the friggin’ place now. Shit, he’s even got the less-fucked-up-lookin’ ones working around town.”

“Christ, Chief, I lived in Crick City twenty years, and I don’t think I saw more than a dozen Creekers in all that time.” But then Phil paused, reflecting.
I just saw one ten minutes ago, didn’t I? Walking down the Route?
The image remained: the swollen head, the uneven arms and legs, and—

—The red eyes,
he remembered.

“I don’t care what you seen when you were a punk,” Mullins articulated. “Things have changed in ten years. Natter’s trying to take over the town, and the ugly motherfucker’s doing a great job since I ain’t got no cops on my department.”

Phil still couldn’t quite believe this. The Creekers had always been harmless, and so seldom seen that most people didn’t even believe they existed. This sounded like bullshit to him; he stood his ground. “Okay, Chief. How’s Cody Natter taking over the town? Tell me that, will you?”

Mullins’ fat face turned dark, and his little eyes narrowed in puffy slits.

“He’s dealing drugs now,” he said. “Right here in town. Right now.”

“Drugs, huh?” Phil jeered. “Cody Natter? In Crick City? So what kind of drugs is he dealing? Laughing gas out of empty whipped cream cans?”

“No, funny man,” Mullins said. “He’s dealing PCP.”

— | — | —

Four

When darkness fell
, Scott and Gut’s spirits rose. Well, at least Scott-Boy’s did. All of a sudden, Gut wasn’t feelin’ too good…

A little later, they had a big dust drop to make; they’d be making a big pick up of product—in this case, pure, distilled PCP to later be turned into “flake”—and drop it off at one of the primary points just out past Lockwood. It would be their biggest run yet and, hence, their biggest payoff.

Gut ordinarily would’ve been pretty keyed-up at the prospect of making such a fine grab of money for so little effort. But…

He drove the big pickup with authority, down the Route and out of town. It was feigned authority, actually, though he tried hard not to show it.
Somethin’ bad in the air tonight,
his thoughts swayed. And he felt sure it didn’t have anything to do with their dope run later.

They weren’t due to make the pickup for another couple of hours; they had time to kill, in other words, and Gut knew too well how Scott liked to kill time.

“Hey, Scott-Boy? What say we do somethin’ different tonight ‘fore we make the pick up.”

Scott Tuckton was lounged-back in the big bench seat, swigging his can of Red, White & Blue. It was a warm, balmy night, and everything was perfect. A high, bright moon. Cold beer. Crickets makin’ a ruckus. Warm air rushed in through the open windows while Elvis crooned “Blue Moon” on the radio.

A perfect night, in other words, for killing.

“What’choo mean different?” Scott-Boy inquired, stroking his sideburns. “We’se goin’ on a razz first, ain’t we?”

“Uh—” Gut replied. He steered through the Route’s next bend. “How ’bout we go to Sallee’s instead? Gander us some knockers and tail.”

“Sheeeeee-it,” Scott came back. “Why’s look at it—at a tittie bar—when we’se can have it fer real in our face?”

“All rights, then how ’bout we go there and buy us some whores? They gots whores at Sallee’s. Or maybe stop by Crossroads fer some. We’se can afford it, ‘specially with the green we’se be makin’ later after the drop. We’se can afford a bunch of girls.”

Scott-Boy gaped. “Sheeeeee-it,” he repeated with typical verbal eloquence. “Bein’ able ta afford it ain’t the point, Gutter. We’se razzers, man. We never pay fer it. We’se gonna have a nut tonight, fer sure, and if you wants ta razz some bar whores ‘fore the run, well, that’s just dandy. We’ll pick ’em up, lay some peter on ’em, then bust ’em up and take their green likes we always do. I don’t know abouts you, but I needs ta get my dog in some bush in a big way, but they’ll be sellin’ snowcones in Satan’s place before I
pay
fer it. ‘Fact, I could go fer some serious razzin’ too, like ta crack me up some bitch’s head with my hickory pick handle, or maybe like that time out near Nalesville.  ‘Member that, Gut? When we snagged us that pixie with that real purdy long dark hair hangin’ all the way down past her ass?”

Gut remembered that one, all right. They’d been killin’ time before a run that night too, and there was this hot brunette they picked up thumbing it down the Old Governor’s Bridge Road. Gut wanked hisself off in her face while Scott-Boy pooped her dog style in the dirt and took a whizz up her tail after he blew his nut. She had a right purdy body on her though, but she weren’t purdy fer long. See, she had real long hair on her too, just like Scott said, long straight dark hair hangin’ to her ass, so’s they tied her hair to the trailer hitch on the back bumper of the truck and then lead-footed it down St. Stephen’s Church Road at about a hunnert miles an hour. Weren’t much left of her time they was done. ’Course, that didn’t stop Scott-Boy from havin’ another roll-around with her ‘fore they dumped her off at the big stinky Millersville landfill…

Razzin’ could be had just about anywheres that had hitchhikin’ gals and bar whores and the like. But Gut and Scott-Boy never razzed in Crick City, their home town, on account of Crick City, unlike most of the burgs along the Route, had theirselfs their own police department and a ball-breaker chief the likes of which Gut and Scott preferred not to fuck with. Plus they didn’t want ta bust up no whores at Krazy Sallee’s ’cos Krazy Sallee’s, they’d heard, was owned by some big ugly fella named Natter. Now, Gut had never hisself seen this dude Natter, but the word was he weren’t no one ta fuck with eithers.

But that were not the problem Gut was a’contemplatin’ as he drove the big pickup onward. There was many, and one were the critters. Gut hisself wanked at least once a day, an’ several times durin’ a fine razz. It wasn’t that Gut preferred the feel of his own hand to the feel of girly works—he just didn’t want to catch no critters an’ such, what with the crabs that were now as big as the crabs the watermen hauled out the bay, and the penicillin-resistant gonorrhea, and this new syph they was talkin’ ’bout that’d put a pusser knot the size of a walnut on a fella’s knob, and a’corse the AIDS. It seemed a prudent concern in these times, but Scott-Boy didn’t seem ta give a tiddly. “Aw, all this AIDS ballyhoo, a bunch of hype, it is. Everbody knows ya only catch it if yer a queerboy or a drugshooter. ‘Fact, I was just readin’ ’bout it the other day in
The Enquirer,
says the Army invented AIDS to take care of the fudgepackers and druggies ’cos they’se don’t gen’rally amount ta nothin’ noways, or work jobs or pay taxes an’ contribit ta society.”

“But, Scott-Boy,” Gut interjected, “just ’cos we’se ain’t queerboys or drug-shooters don’t mean we couldn’t get it from some gal who’s been with one. Lots of these by-sexshools runnin’ about these days.”

“Aw, Gut, that’s just a load of the horseflop,” Scott came right back. “Sorry day when a natural man can git a killer bug just by makin’ proper love ta a woman.”

Sometimes Scott-Boy could be the shit-stupidest fella to ever walk, but Gut kept quiet. Gut hisself was shore no model of morality or Christian goodwill. He’d cut a fella’s throat for a tenspot anyday. He’d crack a splittail upside the head and wank on her milkers without a second’s reservation. And drivin’ for flake dealers weren’t no problem with him either; if they didn’t move the shit, someone else would. But he did possess one sensibility that Scott “Scott-Boy” Tuckton didn’t, and that was somethin’ called common sense.

Scott-Boy didn’t give a pig’s wink about much of anything. It was like he thought he was invincible. He didn’t care about the herpes or the AIDS. He didn’t care that someday someone might see ’em on a razz and tell the cops, nor were he afraid that someday the cops might nab ’em on a dust run. And he didn’t seem to give an outhouse grunt that if they kept going like they been going, somethin’ even worse might befall ’em…

Sooner or later we’se gonna pick the wrong folks ta
razz, Gut thought fairly grimly.