Kill 'Em With Kindness, page 4
‘You see this, Chad? You see what this man is doing?’
I nodded and Jim was trying to get himself out of the goat. ‘Don’t let up on our account,’ Dad says. And he points his .38 at Jim and says, ‘C’mon, finish up. Least you owe my boy is a full show. You’re fucking his goat.’ But by then of course the mood had been ruined and Jim just started crying and dropped the goat, just let it hang and bahhhh from the shared boots.
‘Please don’t kill me, Chuck,’ the guy says. ‘I got kids.’
Dad laughs and says, ‘Interesting choice of words.’ Then he looks at me. ‘You can’t let a man fuck your goat. It’s not that he’s fucking it, some men just can’t help themselves. It’s that the goat he’s fucking is yours.’”
Chad tipped back the last of the beer and Nick watched his profile in the green moonlight. Chad tossed the empty can into the river. “This is what happens when you fuck a man’s goat: the man is put down. And the goat too because while innocent victim maybe, ruined is fucking ruined, right?”
Nick had no answer for that so he helped himself to another beer. “Where we taking the cow?” Nick asked.
“Down river,” was all Chad said.
They met the truck north of Grand Rapids at the northernmost tip of Cascade County. The transfer happened in the middle of the river. Russell let up on the throttle and the air fell to a cold quiet with only the sound of torn water as the boat glided, then a piercing splash as Erik threw out the anchor. Chad tossed a rope to one of the two dark figures on shore, then both of them pulled the boat to the launch. On the west bank behind them sat the ass-end of a slow-moving truck, a twelve-by-eight-foot box. The brake lights lit up the exhaust. Nick wondered where the cow was going but knew it was foolish to ask.
The men didn’t exchange words and the cow gave no trouble—followed the pull of the lead and clumped its hooves from the metallic deck to the grooved concrete that rose from the water. One of the men on shore led the cow into the truck and the other tossed a fat manila envelope into Chad’s waiting hands. Chad, in turn, handed it to Erik, and Russell cranked the diesel motor.
“Make yourself useful,” Chad said. “Raise the anchor.”
Nick pulled the rope and Russell immediately throttled the rumbling diesel, still heading north. Nick caught a last glimpse of the truck, the cow being led up the ramp. If his geography was right, there was nothing close but the Redi-Farm facility; they owned everything around here.
“Erik,” Chad said. “Money.” Erik tore open the envelope, counted out four small bundles, and set them next to Russell, on the dashboard above the flickering gauges. Russell knocked a fist atop the small pile and the gauges woke fully for a moment before flickering again.
Erik took several more bundles, looked to Chad, and handed them to Nick. Nick thumbed the bills and stuffed them in his jacket.
“Seems a good rate for raising an anchor.”
Erik chuckled and turned away to the water.
“Maybe,” Chad said. “But we got one more stop tonight. Then we’ll see how you feel about your pay.”
Erik laughed again and Russell joined in, now thumbing through his own cut of the deal.
Nick felt uneasy but figured the cash in his jacket meant some kind of security for him. So far he was chauffeur to Kimmy, cattle probe, anchor raiser, and soon to be something else. He looked at the dogs, lying on the deck with rested bodies and ready eyes.
Russell steered starboard and killed the engine. He brought the boat into shore too fast and jolted everyone loose.
“Fucking numbnuts,” Chad said, pushing himself from the open railing running the length of the bow. Even the dogs were made to look like fools as they were jerked out of their restful postures, regaining then losing their feet, their heavy rough pads sliding atop the wet deck.
“Are we here?” Nick asked.
“Couldn’t be anywhere else,” Erik said.
“Russell,” Chad said. “You stay here and be ready to git, huh?”
Russell nodded. Chad gave Nick a point toward the shore. “There it is: Land. Go.” Nick and Chad followed Erik from the bank to a narrow but thoroughly worn, smooth path through the vegetation. Erik led the way with a flashlight and Chad with his dogs followed with a light of his own. The thought crossed Nick’s mind to take a dive into the brush, just run and extricate himself, fucking bail, make for the river and get lost in its blackness. But he didn’t do it. Best case he’d be lost in blackness until morning, then still fifty miles from anywhere with no ride but his boots.
The path led to a small shack, no larger than the box belonging to the cow men at the ferry crossing. Inside the shack the dimmest flicker of flame shone from an oil-filled lantern, lashing out like a tongue to wet the splintery walls with light. The men and dogs went into the shack and waited for them. Inside was Hobo, tied up, no gag. Nick figured keeping him quiet wasn’t necessary since he was miles away from anyone who could have heard him scream. Nick also realized that he was in the same place.
“You know this guy, yeah?” Chad said.
Nick nodded.
“What the hell’s going on, Nick?” Hobo said, teeth chattering. He was unscathed, but rightly concerned. He shivered in his cold, pissed pants.
“He don’t know anything,” Chad said. He gave a short whistle and the dogs standing at his feet pricked up their ears.
“Nick! What do they want?” Hobo said.
Nick shook his head and began to repeat what Chad had told him. “Fuckface,” Chad said, “he doesn’t know!”
Nick wondered what he’d do if a weapon materialized. The answer, of course, was nothing. What could he do? Get shot or torn up.
“I’ll tell you why you’re here. Number one, you lied to me. You said a pound last night and that’s what was expected. But that’s only part of it. Truth is, you can’t be trusted. Didn’t even let your partner in on the deal. That’s what you said, right Nick? ‘I didn’t know you were working with Hobo.’”
Nick opened his mouth but no words came. He felt the same hot shame he’d felt for Kimmy when he thought she was powerless against the blonde at Nate’s. And for a moment Nick envied Hobo’s position in the chair. But that was short lived.
“Git ’em,” was all Chad said and then the dogs were on Hobo and it was messy as you’d expect. Helpless was the only way to feel, and horrified, watching the pieces of Hobo as they practically fell away from his frame and into the hot gullets of the beasts.
“What the fuck?” Nick said. “Stop them! Please!”
Chad continued walking. “What the fuck what? Too late for stops.”
“The shit was between me and him and he gets fucking eaten over it?! That’s fucking overkill, don’t you think?”
Chad turned, met Nick’s hot eyes with a look of open-wound hurt. “Maybe,” he said, “but the job gets done my way just fine.” He began walking to the boat again but stopped, as if he was thinking about which way to go. He turned back to Nick. “Old life is old life, doesn’t matter. You’re with us now.” He held his gaze for a long time, waiting, ready for Nick to reject the gift. “And there’s no overkill,” he added. “Dead is dead.”
Nick followed with the dogs close behind, licking their chops. Nick felt for the Makarov though he knew it wasn’t there. Perhaps another him in another universe was about to take the shot, but all he could do was stare at the back of Chad’s head and imagine. Chad stopped and turned and met Nick’s eye but shifted his gaze to the dogs. They stopped at Chad’s heels, tails wagging. Then one of them coughed up a finger. It quickly lapped it up again and followed Chad onto the boat. Russell piloted the vessel, turning it port side and taking them back the way they came, against the current.
“Got a job for you tomorrow, Nick.” Chad looked at his watch. “Today I mean.”
Nick couldn’t speak. Couldn’t ask what. All he saw was Hobo, pieces of him.
“You like helping Kimmy so much,” Chad said, turning to Nick and winking, “you can do it full time.”
SIX
THE SUN WAS nearly up before Chad dropped him in front of his house without a word, with four hundred dollars in worn twenties. It wasn’t much higher in the sky when pounding on his front door woke Nick with a start.
He opened the door to find Kimmy on the porch. Her bruised, swollen face and crooked grin reminded him of a jack-o-lantern two weeks after Halloween. She was out of the sling so he supposed she was on the mend.
He stared at her, making her speak first.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “They made me. I appreciate the ride though. For getting me out of there. You’re sweet.”
Nick shook his head, incredulous. The girl was convincing on the video. Nick would have taken her at her word, upset as she was, except he knew the truth. And now she was here to sweet talk him into God knew what.
“Think it’s a good idea to be here?” Nick asked. “Charges and all?”
“They ain’t gonna go anywhere with that. As long as,” she stopped.
“As long as I behave?”
“Long as.” She grinned.
They stood in silence a moment. She fumbled with a cigarette and he helped her. He searched for her eyes but they were quick to dart away and obscured by the swelling. She smoked, smiled, didn’t speak.
“So what do you want?” Nick said.
“I want you to take me to my mom’s so I can see my kid.”
“Sounds like boyfriend work.”
“He don’t have time for all that. Besides, his boys do errands for me all the time.”
“I’m not one of his boys.”
“You stole that cow with them. You’re one of his boys. That’s what he does, finds what he wants then finds a way to keep it close.”
“That how he’s keeping you so close? By letting me run you all over town?”
“Get over yourself, boy. Drive me.” She handed off the key to the Volkswagen, turned around slowly, and got in the passenger seat. They looked at one another through the windshield for a moment before she threw up a hand and began honking the horn.
Nick relented. “I’ve got to get dressed,” he said. “Cut it out with the fucking horn.”
Nick closed the door and looked out the peep while he evaluated the freshness of his shit sandwich. Best case he was initiated into the company of some dangerous folks, worst case he was in for some real kind of hurt. And the rub was that the two scenarios weren’t mutually exclusive.
Nick showered quickly and threw on a clean t-shirt and jeans. From the top drawer, under his socks, he pulled up the false bottom and grabbed his piece, a Makarov 9x18 he hadn’t shot in years, and for a moment it was like he was looking through Hobo’s eyes—soulmates in nerves, headfirst into a situation they wish they could’ve stayed the hell away from.
Nick checked the clip and put one in the chamber. The gun was part of a lot he’d bought from a frat kid turned tweeker back in college. Nick and the kid, Victor Anastas, were both taking target shooting for a PE credit and the kid’s family had an extensive stockpile of Soviet weapons. They figured the class would be a good place to get some much needed cash. Victor said his grandfather was some eastern bloc munitions guy and he’d spent most of the 1980s sending them to a relative in Canada. Nick walked away from the deal with three Makarovs (two shit, one beauty) and more Soviet 9x18s than he could ever shoot. The deal had cost him his textbook money for the semester, but it was too good to pass up. It was two years later, after Nick had been kicked out of school, that he heard the guy, the frat boy tweeker Victor, ate one of those Russian shells for breakfast.
Nick tucked the gun into the back of his pants and left the house. Kimmy was waiting, reading a celebrity magazine and sipping from a McDonald’s cup. Nick got in the driver side, smelled whiskey. He sat and watched as Kimmy added a healthy shot from a pint of Kessler’s, recapped the cup and sucked from the straw. Her eyes shifted to Nick and she pounded on the dashboard, wincing as she again forgot the headgear and tried to turn her head.
“Let’s go.”
“Where we going?” Nick asked.
“Just get on the eastbound and I’ll get us there.”
Nick backed out of the drive. Kimmy continued slurping from the cup. He drove.
“Your wife died,” Kimmy said.
It was the way a child would broach the subject. He looked at her and chuckled. She couldn’t look at him, only straight ahead.
“Yes,” Nick said.
“A kid too?”
“Stillborn, but yeah. Killed herself and the baby.”
“How come?” Kimmy asked.
The questions didn’t sting the way Nick thought they should. Nor did they rile him with their absence of compassion and tact. It was seven years ago and he had long given up trying to climb back up the rock he’d been thrown from; he’d acquiesced to reality and continued from below, on a different path for a different man.
“She wasn’t happy,” Nick said. “With me. With anything.”
“I lost my girl. Taken away, I mean. You know that?”
“I didn’t,” Nick said, uninterested. “I don’t really know you. Just from the bar.”
Kimmy took a long pull from her straw, slurping the remains. “My girl, my Janie, isn’t Chad’s. If she was she wouldn’t be living with my mama. Should be enough she’s mine, but Chad doesn’t care. It isn’t his, so why bother? He took Tommy away too, that’s her daddy, had him put away. Put him away and took the only thing I had left of him from me.”
“They don’t take a kid away for nothing,” Nick said, borrowing her lack of tact. “Why’d they take her?”
Kimmy remained quiet, pointed to a McDonald’s. “I need a refill.” She went back to her magazine, apparently tired of conversation.
Kimmy’s mother lived twenty-five dirt-road miles east of Horton and most of that was driven in silence. Kimmy didn’t speak again except to tell him when to get off the highway and which way to turn.
“Why do you need me to do this?” Nick finally asked.
“You think I’m in any condition to drive?” Kimmy laughed.
“You in any condition to see your kid?” Nick asked. It wasn’t his business and he didn’t truly care, but that part of him that was poised to turn father when Grete was expecting hadn’t completely eroded. Same with the husband part. A little hiccup of brain chemistry lit up the abandoned paths; the same part that had gotten him into this mess, biology trumping common sense.
Kimmy slurped the last of her drink and raised the empty pint to her eyes. She threw both the cup and the glass pint out the window of the car. The bottle hit the tall roadside weeds with a gasp. Nick kept his eyes on the empty road. More silence.
“No. I suppose not,” Kimmy said after a time, still on the question of her condition. “But it’s expected.” She rested her haloed head against the window with a metallic clink. The sound continued as the little Volkswagen bounced on the pocked country road. She remained still and Nick thought she’d fallen asleep, until finally she pointed. “It’s up here on the left. Slow down or you’ll miss it.”
Nick saw no driveway until he was on it, no more than a narrow break in the tall green corn that dominated the area. He pulled into the rutted dirt drive and the car was immediately swallowed up whole by thick stalks. The long, straight gravel drive was dark, shaded with little slashes of sunlight that ripped through narrow breaks and turned the corn stalks into shadowy fingers that bad-touched everything that dared come close.
“I hate coming back here,” Kimmy said.
The gravel gave way to dirt, then that gave way to a narrow strip of brown grass in front of the house. A clean pink manufactured home, single level with black metal stairs up to the small porch and door. A strip of lawn wrapped around the property, giving about fifteen feet of relief from the surrounding corn. Nick looked up to the house and saw a little white face pressed against the window. An older white face appeared above. The fresh eyes paused on him, but they quickly found Kimmy. The woman rolled her eyes and headed toward the door.
“Uh uh! No way, girl!” the woman hollered as she opened the door. “You ain’t supposed to be within two hundred feet. I’ll call the law, don’t you think I won’t.”
“Can I just see her, mama?” Kimmy’s voice croaked, lost the apathy she’d projected in the car. “I’ll stay away. I just want to see my Janie!”
Kimmy’s mother looked at her daughter as if all the love she’d had was beaten out of her. She shook her head and looked to Nick.
“You do that to her?” Kimmy’s mother said.
Nick shook his head. “I’m just a ride.”
“Hmmph. And what kind of ride is that?” Kimmy’s mother looked from Nick to Kimmy to the little girl watching the scene through a birdshit-spattered window. The little thing behind the glass was blonde and had the look of her mother, her grandmother, her wide doe eyes bright, yet uncertain as they found Nick. The elder Flynn woman was quite pretty, and tired, a gray extrapolation of Kimmy’s timeline.
Kimmy’s mother gave up, threw her hands in the air. “Well now she’s seen you. You can come in for five minutes, that’s it.” She looked at Nick. “He ain’t.”
Nick stepped off the porch, glad to be excluded. He leaned on the hood of Kimmy’s car and listened to the corn whisper and rub in the breeze. Crows, a lot of goddamn crows, hopped from the corn and into the yard. Some launched up and settled on the roof of the trailer home while others flew off, and the remainder hopped back into the corn, one after the other.
Kimmy stepped from the house quicker than Nick had expected, even as bad as her mother wanted her out. The elder Flynn followed her out, but held fast at the doorway.
“You don’t come back!” she screamed.
