Wormfood (7 page)

I know it wasn’t the cool thing to do, to run like a frightened rabbit, but I couldn’t help myself. I never knew what to think when it came to the Sawyer brothers. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past them to try and hold up Fat Ernst. But Junior just laughed and grabbed a stool at the bar. His pompadour looked solid, as if he’d used about a gallon of hairspray along with some motor oil and industrial glue. I tried to act casual and started wiping down the nearest table.

Fat Ernst finally tore his gaze away from a fishing show on the television and shouted, “Close the door! You born in a barn?”

“Nope. I was born in the kitchen. Bert was the one born in the barn.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Bert staggered through the front door. His entire right arm was encased in a crude plaster cast. He was grinning too, but his eyes rolled loosely around in their sockets as if they weren’t attached to anything. He raised his left arm in greeting and lost his balance in the process, nearly falling onto the pool table.

“What the hell happened to you?” Fat Ernst asked.

“Broke my arm!” Bert said proudly, brandishing his cast.

“No shit? Figured it was your leg.”

“Aw, don’t mind him,” Junior said, making himself at home at the bar. “He was bitchin’ and moanin’ all day, so we swung by the vet’s, and he set that sucker real good and gave Bert some horse tranquilizers.” He looked over at Bert, still leaning against the pool table. “He’s as right as rain now. Ain’t that right, Bert?”

“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said in a matter-of-fact tone. He managed to stagger toward the bar and drop onto a stool.

“You fellas fucked up my deal with Slim today,” Fat Ernst said tiredly. “He was too damn pissed for business.”

“Slim’s always pissed about something.”

Ray pulled himself to his feet and stuck his chest out. “Been meaning to talk to you boys about this morning.”

“Shut your hole, Ray,” Fat Ernst snapped. “Better yet, get the fuck out. We’re closed. You too, Heck. Out.”

Ray turned to the bar. “Hell, Ernst, it ain’t even eleven yet. I got another three hours left on duty. And I’m supposed to interrogate these boys.”

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Ray put on his hat and stood up. He tossed down another shot of Wild Turkey and readjusted his belt and cowboy hat. “Fine. Fine. I’ll talk to you fellas later. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Shit, Ray, this morning, that wasn’t our fault. Slim knows it. Talk to dipshit here,” he said, and pointed at me. “And if Slim’s still pissed off, you tell him he can kiss my sweet hairy ass.”

Ray started to say something else, but Fat Ernst barked, “Pay up and get out. Now. And take Heck with you. Looks like he’s passed out again.”

“C’mon Heck. Let’s go home,” Ray grumbled. “Don’t see why I always have to be the babysitter.”

Heck whimpered something about his wife as Deputy Ray half carried, half dragged the old man toward the open door. Fat Ernst shouted after them, “And close that fucking door. Every goddamn mosquito in the county is just waltzing right in.”

“You want us out too?” Junior asked.

Fat Ernst rubbed his eyes with his fists, making him look oddly childlike. A fat three-year-old with a crew cut. “Not yet. I got a little job for you.” He sighed. “But since the rocket scientist here went and broke his arm, it looks like you’re gonna need a little help.”

Fat Ernst turned and stared at me. “Considering how you stepped into that pile of shit this morning, you just volunteered to help these fellas out. They’re gonna run a little errand for me, and you’re gonna go along for the ride. Maybe I’ll even throw in a little extra cash. Fair enough?”

“Well … depends,” I said, surprising myself.

Fat Ernst’s thick features scrunched up together as if the fat rolls were trying to touch each other in the middle of his face. He turned to Bert and Junior and said, “You fellas sit tight. Got me a little attitude adjustment to make on an employee. Be right back.”

He waddled down the length of the bar with surprising speed and grace, then grabbed me just above my elbow and nearly pulled me off my feet, shoving me through the swinging doors. I stumbled against the stove, sharp fear sparking and flaring in the pit of my stomach.

His thick, stubby thumb and fingers dug into the flesh on either side of my jaw, forcing my head up until I was looking directly into his big face. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared at me and I realized that this was the first time I had ever met Fat Ernst’s eyes. They were sunk deep into his pockmarked cheeks like two olives in a bowl of cottage cheese that had been left out too long.

Fat Ernst swiveled his blunt head to the side and spat on the stove, then turned up the heat with his free hand. “Seems to me, boy, we got ourselves a little problem here. You been forgetting your place in the food chain.” The spit started to sizzle and dance on the griddle.

My eyes never left the boiling spit. Thick grease began to pop on the black iron.

“I still own that shithole trailer and the land. So unless you and that old bitch want to find a new place to live, you best straighten up and fly right.” He grabbed my left wrist and jerked my hand out over the griddle.

“When I say jump, you jump,” he whispered into my right ear. “No questions. No back talk. No nothing. You got that?”

He forced my hand closer to the black iron. The heat started to sear my palm, just five inches over the stove. Liquid pain curled around my hand and raced up my arm. I sucked in a ragged breath.

“You hearing me, you little shit?” Fat Ernst hissed into my ear.

I tried to nod.

“So you’re gonna help the fellas out tonight, that’s all there is to it. You understand what I’m saying here?”

I kept nodding, unable to look away from what was left of the sizzling spit.

And suddenly, as quickly as he had grabbed me, he released my wrist and neck at the same time. I cringed back against the sink.

Fat Ernst took out a fresh cigar, bit the end off, and swallowed it. He shifted his center of gravity, rolling back on his heels. “Hell, son, I’m just trying to look out for your best interests. I know that you don’t have a father around anymore to teach you things. I’m just trying to help you here. Life ain’t a bunch of goddamn roses. You gotta work for things, get in there, spread a little manure around. Life don’t just step up and spread her legs for you. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I … I think so.” I didn’t have a goddamn clue what the hell he was talking about.

“You’re too damn soft, boy. Too much of a pansy. Life is gonna kick your ass and stomp you into the dirt unless you get yourself a little backbone.”

I nodded and let my gaze fall to the floor.

“You look at me when I’m talking.” I jerked my head back up and stared at his face. But I couldn’t look into his eyes. I focused on his squat nose instead.

He continued. “Like I said, I figure since you ain’t got a father around, I guess it’s my place to step in and help you out a little. Give to the world and the world gives back, you know? Now …” He paused, pulling the unlit cigar out of his mouth and sucking the flecks of tobacco out of his teeth. “You ain’t afraid of a little hard work, are you?”

I shook my head, still watching his nose.

He nodded, “Good, good. You’re gonna go help these boys out tonight. You do a good job and don’t bitch and whine too much and give ’em too much trouble, I’ll have maybe, something like twenty bucks waiting for you tomorrow.”

I got brave for a moment and spoke up. “What do I have to do?”

Fat Ernst’s eyes folded into slits and I could tell he didn’t like the question. “It’s a job, that’s all. If I want any shit out of you, I’ll kick it. Now get this stove cleaned up and finish those glasses in the sink.” He turned and walked back through the swinging door.

As it swung back, I took two quick steps and pressed my right cheek to the door, watching through the crack.

Junior asked, “What do we need him for?”

Fat Ernst lowered his voice. “Remember back, ’bout two years ago? I ran out of meat?”

Bert shook his head.

Junior said, “Yeah. You want us to do the same thing?”

Fat Ernst nodded.

Junior asked, “Same place?”

“Yep. Two fresh ones today.”

“So why do we need the kid?”

“Dickhead here’s got a broken arm. You gonna handle them things by yourself?”

Junior thought for a moment, then nodded.

Fat Ernst turned back toward the kitchen and shouted, “Boy! Time to go.”

I stepped away from the door, then slowly untied my apron, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go!” Fat Ernst barked again. I pushed through the doors.

A deep, cracking belch erupted out of Junior, lasting nearly ten seconds. He grinned at me. “Get your waders on, Archie.”

Fat Ernst thumped a bottle of Old Grandad on the bar to get Junior’s attention. “You just see that the job gets done right.”

Junior grabbed for the bottle, but Fat Ernst wouldn’t let go, staring into Junior’s eyes. “And keep it quiet, you understand?”

“You bet.”

I spoke quickly. “I’ll get paid tomorrow, right?”

Fat Ernst turned his attention back to the television. “Tomorrow,” he said simply and released the bottle.

“Giddyup,” Bert said and started giggling.

The Sawyer Hide and Tallow truck flew east down Highway 200 under a starless sky, heading for the foothills. Sickly twin cones of urine-colored light lit up the dark asphalt, but just barely. Not that anybody could see much out of the windshield. It was a regular bug graveyard out there.

I checked my watch. 11:23. I hoped Grandma wasn’t too pissed off. Fat Ernst hadn’t let me call her before the Sawyer brothers had dragged me out to their truck.

The silence made me uncomfortable. It meant that the Sawyers were thinking. I was afraid that Junior might bring up the crash this morning. So I asked suddenly, “How’d you guys end up picking up roadkill and dead farm animals for the county?” Anything to break the silence. “Sounds like a helluva job.”

“Hey, smartass, we provide a pretty goddamn valuable service here,” Junior said defensively, pointing at the grimy glass and the highway beyond for emphasis. “Shit, if it weren’t for us, folks’d be up to their eyeballs in these dead things. You couldn’t hardly drive down the highway with all the dead animals. I mean, do you have any fucking idea how long it takes for a horse to rot?”

“Long time, I guess.”

“You goddamn got that right,” Bert agreed, sniffing his finger.

“It takes fucking forever, let me tell you,” Junior nearly shouted. “Did I mention the flies? You better be on that shit quick.”

I whistled low. “I didn’t realize picking up dead animals was so complicated.”

“You better believe it.”

“And these ranchers around here, they pay you to come pick up dead livestock?”

“Most of ’em. ‘Cept for that sonofabitch Slim Johnson.”

“What’s he do?”

“He just puts ’em in his dump, way out in back of his place so he don’t have to smell nothing. Lets ’em rot. Too goddamn cheap to even pay us, and we come goddamn cheap.”

“Oh. So, uh, why do you pick them up at all? I mean, what can you do with them? What do you do with the meat?”

“Hell, all kinds of things. Dog food, fertilizer, glue … Shit, all kinds of things.” Silence filled the cab for a few moments. Junior handed the bottle back to Bert.

I asked, “Hey, how’d you guys get that bull skull in the first place, anyways?” The skull itself was back on the front of the hood. The broken horn had been reattached with a combination of duct tape, bailing wire, and probably the same glue that held Junior’s pompadour in place.

“Now that, that is a funny fucking story,” Junior cried, slapping the steering wheel.

“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said.

“You wanna tell the story? Huh? Then shut your hole,” Junior barked.

Bert stuck his finger back in his ear.

Junior continued. “It happened like this. You remember that bull of Slim’s? You know, named it King Solomon, some kind of goddamn Bible name, but you know the bull, right?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Slim’s prize fucking bull stud. Cheap bastard made a fortune off of selling the semen. Sent it all over the country.” He reached across me and grabbed the bottle of whiskey out of Bert’s limp hand. The truck drifted across the yellow line down the center of the highway and swung back.

“This one night, Ma decided she wanted some fried chicken for dinner. She gave us some money and sent us off to Ketchum’s Feed and Grain. Well, hell, I figured we’d just save that money, get us a few tiddlies at Fat Ernst’s instead.” Junior jerked his head back and poured a generous amount of Old Grandad down his throat.

I wondered where we were going.

Junior swallowed and exhaled slowly, a foul, dark mist spewing from his lips. “I figured, what the hell? Slim’s got a shitload of chickens. And his stupid fat cow of a wife, she don’t know how many goddamn chickens she got. They’re everywhere. So me and Bert, we’re feeling downright tuned up, so’s I said to Bert, fuck it. Let’s go hunt us some chickens. I grabbed Mr. Eliminator, my bow, this badass big boy right here,” he said, jabbing his thumb with drunken importance at the black compound bow hanging in the back window. “So we snuck over to Slim’s, found the chickens out back, by the barn. I gotta tell ya, it was so goddamn easy I can’t believe we hadn’t been doing it all the time. Them chickens are downright stupid. I got two or three, and decided I needed one more. Make Ma happy. So I’m ready, got a razor-tipped arrow, locked and loaded, and goddamned if I didn’t miss that chicken.”

“Missed that chicken,” Bert agreed.

“But I nailed ol’ King Solomon right in those precious balls of his. Razors went right through those fuckers like shit through a goose. Funniest damn thing I ever seen. Holy Jesus. Shoulda seen that bull take off, jumpin’ and buckin’ around. I ‘bout pissed myself.”

Smells like you did
, I thought.

“You goddamn got that right.” Bert giggled.

“Yeah, I heard Slim was so goddamn mad when he realized ol’ King Solomon’s balls was useless, he stomped out into the corral with his .30-.30, and
blam!
Shot that fucker right between the eyes. Then just let it rot, right there in the corral. And shit, if you thought he was pissed then, holy Jesus you shoulda seen his face when he found out me and Bert had stolen the skull and put it on the front of our truck. Now that, that was funny.” Junior and Bert both laughed.