Dead Nolte (10 page)

Nolte had even called Martha’s husband RJ by name/initials,
instead of Goober, when he had offered his obligatory; ‘Sorry for your loss.’
This was completely out of character for Nolte. He took pride in degrading the
big hillbilly. In truth, Nolte had no idea where RJ was from and didn’t really
care, he could have descended from royalty, shat out of the Queen’s own crack,
and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference to Nolte, RJ was a hillbilly by
marriage. It was equal to a kiss of death in Nolte’s eyes, Hillbilly was a
station one would hold for life. You could marry in, but you could never marry
out.

When Nolte had married Mona, Alice and Martha’s mother, all
three had a thick southern drawl. Therefore, in Nolte’s eyes, they were
hillbillies, or hickerbillies, as he liked to say. Over the years the sisters
had worked hard to suppress their accents, even went so far as buying books and
audio tapes, to help them escape the hold Tennessee had on their vocal cords,
but once Nolte labeled you, he made sure it stuck.

Mona never bothered. She considered her stretching of vowels
to be sexy and fit nicely with the bourbon slur of a troubled and mysterious
southern belle. She, like Mommy, considered herself to be of an elite southern
bloodline, though Mona’s had originated somewhere in Alabama and Alabama Belles
were widely acknowledged to be far less needy, than wherever it was that
Mommy’s line came from,
No
one, was really sure where
that might be, but some say it was Topeka.

On the day of Mommy’s funeral, Alice’s husband Junior had
avoided Nolte at all costs, which was what he usually did if it was at all
possible. Junior felt that whoever had made up Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones,
had gotten it wrong, words do hurt, and Nolte could throw them harder than
anyone he had ever run across.

He spent the day eating fried chicken and sneaking gulps of
beer when Alice wasn’t watching. On social occasions, Alice required Junior to
keep his wits about him and this meant no alcohol. Although she allowed Junior
his evening beers, she swore they made him dumber than a box of rocks and she
sure as shit didn’t want people thinking he had less upstairs than he actually
did, if it could be helped. Junior thought beer brought out his boyish charm
and made him affable.

Besides titties, Junior was Nolte’s favorite target. He
would actually seek him out and verbally assault the timid man relentlessly at
every opportunity. On this day, however, Junior’s fears seemed to be unfounded;
it appeared he’d been given a pass. Nolte hadn’t said boo, shit, or go to hell
in his direction all day. Tickled with his reprieve, Junior secretly wished
more people would die, more often. The lack of attention he was receiving from
everyone, felt almost like it was his birthday.

Nolte had spent the day in relative silence and it was only
after everyone, except for the immediate family, had gone, that he’d finally
found words.

In the kitchen, RJ and Junior quietly regaled each other
with high school football lies, trying to keep their laughter below the radar
of the fun police.

Both of the ‘concerned daughters’ were on either side of
Nolte, both vocally admiring his strength in such a trying time, offering
nonstop condolences and trying to replace his ever present margarita with some
baked beans or a piece of chicken.

Ron and Charlie sat across from the old goat. Both had had
their fill of the ‘family thing’ and both had been busily devising an escape
when the old man finally broke his silence.

“I should have told her about the magic.” He told them,
slurring slightly. “The magical money. The pope had one left; I could have
gotten it from him, I could have raised her up from the dead.” Nolte’s eyes
looked as if he had been crying.

This struck Ron as strange. He hadn’t seen Nolte cry once
during the day, as a matter of fact, he’d never seen the man cry, ever. He
didn’t actually think he was capable of it. He suspected Nolte must have rubbed
salt or something in them to achieve the effect.

“Maybe you had better put down the chicken and go back to
the margaritas.” Charlie leaned forward, and slid Nolte’s drink closer to him.
Charlie winked at Ron twirling his finger next to his ear, indicating Nolte
wasn’t right in the head.

“You don’t know shit, you fucking cupcake.” Nolte grabbed
his drink and tossed it back. He looked around the room slowly from face to
face, pausing at each one, to either emphasize the fact, that none of them knew
shit from shinola, or perhaps, to give each of them a chance to see his “tear
worn eyes”. Ron was the first to recognize the performance, as the old fart’s
Lee Marvin impression, Charlie was a close second, the hill girls remained
clueless. Nolte used the Lee Marvin when he wanted someone to know he was
serious about an issue, heart-attack serious. “Fuck you all!” he said, slamming
his empty glass down hard. “I could have kept her alive. She deserved to live.
Not you fuckers, you fuckers all deserve to fucking die.”

 “Yeah? Well, I can’t say I’m real fond of you either.”
Ron said. He’d heard the ‘All you fuckers deserve to die,’ sermon before,
however, the raise grandma from the dead was a new twist.

Charlie flopped back in his chair. “You’re babbling drunk
old man. You need some sleep.” As far as he knew, Nolte had hated his mother,
had resented her meddling and extended breastfeeding, yet here he was talking
like Dr. Frankenstein. Charlie thought it might be a good idea to hide the
shovels until he sobered up, or at least until some of the crazy wore off.
Though he was pretty sure, the idea of human taxidermy had probably crossed
Nolte Bates’ mind more than once, over the years.

Nolte tapped his pants pocket. “I have the magic fucking
bean, right here in my pocket, you simple fuckers. The key to immortality.”
Nolte smiled for the first time since he’d left the cemetery. “I have the key
to the happy hereafter, right here in my pocket. I was going to show her, but I
knew she’d get mad. She had rules against magic.” His slurred words were tinged
with a childlike sadness. He rocked to one side, in order to dig in his pocket.
He fell against Alice and remained there, leering down her dress, until she
helped him right himself.

Nolte passed around another Lee Marvin before he
dramatically pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and presented it,
drunken magician style, in the palm of his hand. “This, assholes, is life
eternal.” He fumbled with the drawstring and poured out a single gray coin. He
drew an imaginary circle around it with his finger, as it lay in his hand.
“Life eternal, losers, feast your eyes on it.” Nolte’s eyes twinkled as he
ogled the small coin. A strange look was twisting and tugging at Nolte’s face,
a look no one in the room had seen before. If they all hadn’t known better, one
might have mistaken it for love.

“Touch it.” He offered the coin to Martha, who leaned away,
waving it off. Perhaps her apprehension was toward the coin, or perhaps it was
her experience, that nothing good ever followed the words ‘touch it’, when they
came from Nolte. Either way, the look on her face was one of fear, but then,
she always had the look of a rape victim when she was in close proximity to
Nolte. “Fuck you, goody-fuckin’-two shoes. Nolte handed the coin carefully to
Ron, instead. He placed it gently in the center of his palm, as though it were
the most valuable item on Earth. “Feel it, Cupcake. There is power in that
coin.” His voice had taken on an unusual friendly quality. “There is magic in
that coin.”

Ron turned the coin in his hand. He didn’t know anything
about coins, but this one looked to be ancient. It even felt old. He couldn’t
help but notice the hillbillies’ eyes were glued to it. He could almost hear
them mentally calculating its value, “naught, naught, carry the naught…” Martha
still looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth, but Ron could see the
dollar signs in her eyes. Nolte’s eyes never left it either. Unlike the
hillbillies’ stares of greed, he appeared to be mesmerized by it, transfixed.

Charlie plucked it rudely from his fingers; his stomach
instantly went sour, he suddenly felt as if he were sharing Martha’s
expression. Without a second glance, he quickly handed it to Alice, who had,
unconsciously, had her hand out; from the second she had realized it was a form
of money.

“Eternal life, huh?” Charlie asked. “If by eternal, you mean
the span it takes for Alice to pry it out of your semi cold dead fingers and
get it to the pawn shop, then, yeah, it looks eternal to me.”

“Laugh all you want, Nancy-Boy, but one of these days you’ll
be laughing out your ass,” Nolte said coldly, as he snatched the coin from
Alice’s fingers. “Stop spending it,
you
stupid bitch.
You will never get your grubby dick-beaters on this.” He turned his attention
to Martha. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to touch my thingy, honey?” he asked
in a drunken, singsong voice. Martha shook her head and moved away to the end
of the couch. There was something wrong with the coin; she could feel it in her
bones. Something inside her told her to stay away.

Nolte put the coin carefully back into the leather pouch,
making sure to double knot the drawstring. Once again his eyes became distant
and grim. “I miss my mommy.”

I
n
the French Quarter, a light rain washed the sidewalks and put a fresh shine on
the lamp posts. Thick air drew musk up from the river and into the magnolias,
the smell of fish and slow moving water. Scents that strum a primordial chord
deep within us, where instinct, the voices of our ancestors and God’s basic
instructions reside.

It was an easy winter rain, the pitter patter kind, which
puts everyone at ease. The ancient bouquet of the river, combined with the
pitter patter, was probably welcomed by those that came to the Quarter for
ambiance, but not so much by the vendors in the French Market. People at ease
don’t spend money urgently.

Tucked away from the open air shops and laid-back shoppers,
in the back of a small antique music store, a small man sorted through a large
stack of wrinkled papyrus. The rigid paper was handmade from reeds in the
traditional methods used by the ancients but left as sheets instead of
assembled into the more traditional scroll.

Contractual obligations, the nature of which the small man
dealt in, had long been recorded on scrolls and still were in certain countries
that romanced tradition. The American human, however, seemed to hold the 8.5 x
11-inch sheet in higher regard and considered it to be more legally binding,
than some obsolete rolled-up paper.

The naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling cast the
tiny man in a jaundiced wash. The frayed, cloth insulated wire that held the
antique fixture in place would send a shiver up the spine of even the most
lenient building inspector. Much of the shop maintained the same antiquity.

The smell of rain and magnolias, from the open air market,
could never penetrate the smell of musty horn cases, rusty spit valves, and
damp horsehair plaster, which dominated the music store.

A menacing shadow stretched across the floor, and up the wall.
It could easily have been cast by a large closet monster dining on a small
child, instead of the miniature fat man, who was indeed, casting it. The
exaggeration might have been the lightbulb’s attempt to draw attention away
from its own nudity, or a proclamation of its superiority over candles; light
bulbs are inconsistent in their modesty.

Behind the man’s back, terms like midget, dwarf, and little
person were bandied about, and though his appearance might fit any of those
classifications, in a generic sense, they didn't really do the man justice. His
too short arms, and too short legs lent him a uniqueness, which gave onlookers
the feeling they had just peeked behind the curtain at the freak show and saved
a quarter, but had they known the truth about the man, they would have shrunk
in fear.

Though his stature was that of an obese five-year-old boy,
his face, however, despite its rounded childlike features, was weathered and
worn with age; the yellowed lighting did little to hide his antiquity, the bulb’s
overhead position only deepened and highlighted every wrinkle. Quite possibly,
intentionally, the naked bulb has a cruel, cold heart.

Too short to reach the floor, he swung his legs back and
forth absent-mindedly, as he read. A passing glance, would give one the
impression of a studious schoolboy, perhaps a relation of Humpty Dumpty,
working diligently at his homework, but a closer look, particularly at his
eyes, if they are in fact, windows to the soul, would reveal a monster.
 
Evil can be satirical at times.

The man-boy chose a particular sheet from the pile, and held
it out before him with his short, pudgy appendages, as far as arms went, they
were almost useless, but he made do with them, just the same. Squinting in
various degrees, through tiny spectacles, he perused the evidence before him.
His cherubic face gathered and bunched as he read.

According to the document, some less than honorable fool had
broken his promise. An exchange had been made in good faith, yet the man, whose
signature graced the bottom of the contract, had failed to live up to his part
of the bargain. Agreements had been reached, and promises made, the contract in
his hand bore witness to this. A man’s word had been given in a gentleman’s
fashion, and received as such, only to be discarded by a rapscallion, with
absolutely no regard concerning his obligations. Such an indiscretion was not
only despicable, in Baal’s eyes, but unforgivable.

There wasn’t much personal detail in the contract, there
never was, only a basic description of goods and services, the all-important
signature, and the payment required to satisfy the arrangement. The payment, no
matter what was bartered or traded, was always the same.

As he tugged at the small triangular patch of hair that grew
beneath his bottom lip, Baal tried to recall the general atmosphere of the
transaction. Although the lack of integrity, involved in the treatment of the
account’s balance bothered him greatly, he was also somewhat puzzled by the
stipulations of the contract.

A first-century Shekel of Tyre, to be obtained by client,
from a Palestinian coin collector in the Golan Heights, Hakim W. Jefferson, one
round trip to Jerusalem, immediate physical enhancement (genitalia).

Physical enhancements were commonplace, though usually more
drastic and complete, than the one specified in the contract, but what truly
inspired curiosity, was the shekel. On its best day, at the most prestigious of
auction houses, the coin would only bring seven to ten thousand dollars. Why
would a man make such a lopsided deal?

There were no clues forthcoming in the document. Even in
light of the “Dine and dash”, the rarity of such an occurrence and the fact
that one has never been successful gave Baal cause to dismiss the notion of
premeditated nefariousness.

Another peculiarity was the acquisition itself, the man had
insisted on being flown to Jerusalem, so as to acquire the item from the coin
collector in person. He vaguely remembered the man, though not in great detail.
However, he did recall, a profound lack of intelligence, and if one were to
make a judgment based on the man’s desires, Baal would have considered him to
be somewhat simple in ambition, but imprudent, shiftless people were Baal’s
bread and butter. Stupidity and laziness were two major qualities he banked on,
in his line of work. In truth, there had been nothing that would throw up any
red flags, no indications of a deal-breaker. It was quite apparent; the heel’s
reasons for visiting the Holy Land were non-religious in nature when he had asked
for Baal to jot down directions to the location of Christ’s grave. It was
several minutes before Baal could contain his chuckling. He wasn’t chuckling
now, however.

Baal was just part of a process, part of the procedure, a
system designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, and ensure the chaff was
properly disposed of. Now, due to this reprobate’s absolute disdain toward the
verbal and written agreement, there appeared to be some chaff in the wind.

Collectors, the lowly underlings in the realm of things
evil, usually handle trade matters gone awry, in the field as they happen,
allowing Baal to focus on matters of more import. Collectors, also known as
Reapers, are if nothing else, wholly and thoroughly enthusiastic about their
work. Perhaps their commitment is a result of their limited intelligence, which
suits them to menial tasks, or it might be, due to the satisfaction they derive
through the torture of the human soul. Either way, they conduct their chores in
a timely manner, which is quite an achievement, considering they spend most of
their existence in a dimension where time doesn’t exist.

The Reaper is a misnomer, probably owing to all the farming
references in the Bible; however, the creatures wouldn’t know a hoe from a
hailstone, if they held one in each hand. They are basically, nothing more than
an extraordinarily efficient method of shipment. Any harvesting to be done was
completed prior to their arrival.

Those that read the Good Book, with a western, modern
mindset, might gather that God started out as a farmer, with all of His
allusions to sowing, harvesting, soil conditions and livestock tending, but a
little digging, would show God’s true passion is physics, quantum physics to be
precise.

God’s use of sand and stars as metaphors for unfathomable
numbers is commonplace throughout the Old Testament. Telling a sheep rancher,
that he would have fifty or sixty billion grandchildren, might produce the same
quizzical look, as mentioning particles lose their locality at 10-35. Yet,
modern science has discovered, God revels in the astronomical. The Almighty
appears to find comfort in the immeasurable. Man, unless it pertains to the sum
in his pocket, continues to be baffled by big math.

God probably thought the average Israelite might have become
frustrated trying to wrap his head around such things as, The Cosmological
Constant, Universal Fine-tuning, the inability to see the fifth dimension from
the fourth, and the graininess of time/space. Perhaps, at the time, when
hunter-gatherers had just started poking seeds into the dirt, it was best to
leave gravity a mystery and let them draw their own conclusions from falling
apples.

In fact, He might have lost Moses altogether, had he tried
to explain Schrodinger’s cat. Moses was good when it came to taking God’s word
on matters of the supernatural, but the quantum superposition of life and death
occurring simultaneously might breed skepticism in his faithful servant.

Some might say that God would do well to reveal the secrets
of the universe. Strip bare the correlation between sin and death, stop all the
metaphor stuff, but once the cat was out of the bag, and the educated man
realized he was but a whim of some greater entity, the wound in his pride would
bleed him out.

Baal didn’t care much for farming, physics, or God. He had
always been of the opinion the deity craved too much attention, though most
principalities conceded the dark prince’s disdain of the Almighty was
consequent of pure, green jealousy.

Nevertheless, there was a deviate soul on the loose, and no
excuses could be made, at least none that would be accepted, not by Baal, for
precious cargo had been lost. The responsible minion would, of course, be
extinguished. The Trumpet Fixer ran a taut ship. As far as he was concerned,
charity was as mythical as a cabin boy’s virginity, after a year at sea.
Payment would not be avoided.

Although deferments had been known to happen from one age to
another, and even if one considered the high level of dishonesty in humans,
these occurrences were extremely rare, (probably due to the tautness of Baal’s
ship, a penchant for soft skinned cabin boys, and zero tolerance for mistakes
and…) all mishaps were usually corrected immediately and viciously.

Somehow this one had slipped away before corrective actions
could be taken. Somewhere out there, suspended illegally in the ungoverned
fabric of creation, was a dark soul, doing who knows what. He had a runner on
his hands.

Things would be so much easier if everyone he dealt with
kept their word. The entities on the other side of the spectrum needed no
escort or guidance. Drawn by a sense of reward, they passed through the
dimensions on their own accord. On the darker, more unpleasant side of the
spectrum, the souls, who had already received their negotiated rewards, were
placed in his charge, so that he might coax them on to their final residence.
None were happy to go, of course, yet most, though a bit reluctant, submitted
and moved forward.

In the end, all those in his care needed a slight push; the
Chantry could be quite intimidating. Especially for those who had not carefully
weighed the pros and cons during negotiations, or given serious thought to the
finality of their commitment. The accuracy of hindsight can be heartbreaking.

The low value, the human man placed on honor, had always
astounded Baal. Such a powerful currency was honor, yet the philosophy of it
seemed completely lost on mortal man. Throughout measurable time, man had
ricocheted from one promise to another, primarily unconcerned with the damages
he brought to his reputation by not fulfilling each assurance. Damage to trust
and honor were usually irreparable. In Baal's eyes, once it was damaged, it was
gone forever. And man didn't seem to care.

Baal knew how to renovate such behavior. Mankind needed to
be taken behind the woodshed for a good thrashing, or perhaps a good old
fashioned plague or two. Baal was quite fond of The Book of Revelation.

Without immediate consequences for their actions, man would
never learn, their attention spans were much too short. When man deviated from
the rules, God should step in with a swift backhand while the infraction was
still fresh in the worm’s mind.

Though Baal had been tempted, many times, to implement his own
version of admonishment, to go against the protocol of the Head Office would
have devastating ramifications. Ramifications he had seen firsthand, with the
termination and severance of Lucifer. He would rather such a punishment didn’t
befall him.

Baal had subordinates, who could easily handle the retrieval
of one lost soul, but the questions that might arise concerning the details, or
more pointedly, the inattention to the details of the contract would most
certainly raise a few eyebrows, should the higher-ups get wind of the
situation. He thought it best to handle this situation himself. If Michael or
God forbid, Gabriel was to discover this minor mishap, while the culprit was
still at large, his very position would be placed in jeopardy.

Gabriel liked to throw his weight around, in Baal’s opinion.
Michael would work with a fellow, as long as results were forthcoming, but
Gabriel was by the book and always quick to point out that he, ‘stands before
the Throne of God’. Baal had often wished he had a shekel for every time he’d
heard that.

Baal would retrieve the soul and have it delivered before
anyone was any wiser. The hiding places for an entity in early level suspension
were as vast as eternity itself. It could place itself at the singularity of a
black hole or within the dark energy of a massive cloud nebula, the
possibilities were endless, but history has shown, that every one of them,
without fail, went directly home without so much as a side glance at the
wonders of the universe that had been created for them. It was almost like the
ungrateful deviants were drawn back to the mess that had brought them to the
unwanted conclusion of their existence. Like serial killers returning to dump
sites. Home was where he would find Nolte and Baal was leaving all methods of
soul acquisition on the table. There might be suffering. There would be
suffering.