Black as Blood

Chapter Three:
Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Nona Martens struggled into wakefulness, drugged and feverish from sleeping in the heat. It was late morning. She sat up dispiritedly, gathered her strength, and slid her feet out of the bed. Sitting with face in hands, she wondered vaguely why she went on, but habit eventually brought her upright. Bernie McKay had given her a second-hand air conditioner, but while he was generous with items like that, he didn’t give her money. Consequently, she couldn’t afford to run it much.

Why on earth I ever got mixed up with him—

She’d known it would do her no good even if no one ever found out. But McKay reminded her a little of her father—on the rare occasions when he was sober and loving. And also of her ex-husband, Kevin Martens, when he was sober and loving. Well, it was true what they said; you marry your father. She herself, she knew, just missed being an alcoholic, and she had her fears for Billy.

Billy—she stopped, her hand on the doorknob, reminded—he was back with her again. In this heat, she slept in the nude. She opened the small mobile home’s tiny closet and found her old green bathrobe. Here where her nearest neighbor was far away and a screen of leaves lay between her and the road, she had gotten out of the habit of using it.

Neither the air conditioner, which she turned on first, nor the shower, woke Billy, sleeping on the couch in the tiny living space. The sounds and smells of cooking breakfast did. Nona watched him rouse, unshaven and unattractive. He was turning into another man, she thought wistfully. Self-centered, shiftless, insensitive—he hadn’t been born so, nor had he been that way as a child.

"What’s f’breakfast?" he asked, knuckling his eyes and sitting up.

"Bacon and eggs," she said. Good morning, she thought. Good morning, Mom, good to see you. How are you? Aw shit.

"Good." He got up, kicking the sheet carelessly to the floor, and went past to the bathroom in his undershorts. Presently he returned and hopped clumsily into his pants, not having bothered to shave, or even shower.

Nona debated sending him back for both operations. She felt delicate about it, remembering her father’s wars with her brothers, remembering too how Kevin had constantly ding-donged at Billy when he was little, before she’d sent him packing back to the Army.

"Here you are, Billy," she said brightly, smiling.

He sat down at the counter with an uncouth grunt. She started to pour orange juice but he stopped her.

"Aw, Mom, you know I only drink grapefruit juice."

"Sorry, Hon, this is all I got."

"Aw, gimme coffee."

She poured it silently, thinking, You’re welcome. Should she mention his lack of manners? He was eighteen, for god’s sake, and out of school. She hadn’t seen him for a month, except at the Night Owl with his friends, that damned Hat Stetson and all.

Feeling guilty at not having raised him better, she sat down to her own breakfast, giving him another bright smile.

Billy responded with a sullen, hang-dog look that said: Don’t talk to me. Suddenly she realized that Billy was afraid. Terribly afraid.

"Today is Jane Crosby’s day to come in," Angie said, buttering toast. "She’s going to be cleaning your den."

Bernie McKay grunted, swallowed coffee. "Long’s she doesn’t touch my monster models. My Frankenstein is authentic from ancient photos; it’s worth plenty." He glanced at her past his copy of the Kansas City Star. "The family made any decisions about the agency?"

Uncle Albert’s will would be read today, but the family already knew what was in it. He’d left all his possessions to his brothers and sisters, share and share alike. That didn’t include the real estate agency; by the terms of the partnership agreement, the surviving partner inherited everything. But the family had part interest in many of the assets, and had done a good deal of investment with Uncle Albert. Bernie wasn’t worried. None of them knew real estate, so they couldn’t move in on him even if they could agree to do it.

"Oh, Bernie, you know they haven’t. Why, the will hasn’t even been read yet. Maybe he surprised us."

"Yeah, maybe he left his share of the family assets to Paul Gibson."

Out of the corner of his eye Bernie saw Angie’s swift sharp glance, but he was folding his paper, face rigidly placid. He pretended to study the business section, watching her peripherally. Angie dabbed a bit of apple jelly on one corner of her buttered toast and bit it off, crunched it thoughtfully, with a glance at him.

"Why do you say that?" she asked with so noncommittal an air that if he hadn’t known, Bernie might have thought her innocent. But he’d caught that swift sharp glance.

"Say what?" he asked absently, still looking at his paper.

"That Uncle Albert might have left his share of the family’s assets to Paul Gibson. I thought he didn’t like him."

"Uncle Albert didn’t like anyone. Nah, if he wanted to surprise us, he’d have to leave it to the church or Save Our Children or something like that." He glanced at her. "Why, did you ding-dong at him about making Gibson a partner like you do me? Stupid, if you did. Uncle Albert was stubborn, too. Surest way to make him not do it."

Angie smiled and shook her head. "No, I never dreamed of mentioning it to him. The family had to twist his arm to get him to let you in, when we were married. Without you, he would soon have been broke, and we all knew it, even him. But he was too stubborn to admit it."

"True. Nobody liked or trusted him. Gibson’s a lot like him. He’s good-lookin’ now, but he’ll be an ugly old man like your uncle, and about as mean." Bernie shook his head, folding his paper. "These self-centered types always turn mean and stingy at the end."

"Well, maybe. Even so, he’s young enough yet to learn better. However, it’s your agency now; don’t mind me. He’ll make partner soon enough with Gunderson." Angie pushed her plate back. "Look, I’ve got to run; the church committee meets at nine."

"Right, dear, see you this evening," Bernie said absently, and studied his paper till the door closed behind her. When he heard the starter of her car, he looked out the window, smiling tightly.

Little jumpy this morning, are we, Angie?

Best to call Uncle Bill before he gets to the office, Bernie thought, and got up. When the older man came on the phone, Bernie said, "Uncle Bill, how are you? Looks like it’s gonna be another scorcher."

"Bernie, uh, good to hear you, how are you? Maybe it’ll rain and cool things down; radio’s callin’ for a chance of thunderstorms."

"Yeah, I hope, things’re gettin’ too dry. Listen, how are you comin’ on the audit? You know they’ll read the will today, and since the family’s gonna want to rush it through probate. . . ."

"Uh, yeah, they are. And we’ll have to have a list of the partnership assets, of course. Uh, but these things take time. I’m workin’ on it myself. . . ."

"Right, I know you are. Gibson tells me it’s comin’ kinda slow, though. . . ."

"Yeah, these things take time."

"You havin’ any problems? I mean, Uncle Albert was a secretive old bird, he never told me half the stuff he was workin’ on. Some of his transactions—"

"Oh, no, no problems, nothing like that, it’s just a big agency and we need documentation of everything, these things take time. . . ."

Deputy Rod Parker pulled up at the building that doubled as jail and sheriff’s department. Evelyn Anderson came hurrying out, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Good, you’re back; come with me."

They jumped into the sheriff’s cruiser. Anderson peeled out.

"What is it?" Parker asked, trying to suppress his excitement.

"Smigly kids. You know old man Hennessey? Lives south of Jackson City on Highway H?"

"No." But the Smiglies—

"He complained couple times the past month about stuff bein’ stole from his yard. Small stuff. We figured it was the Smigly kids, remember?"

Parker remembered the complaint about the Smiglies. These kids were yelled at a lot by their parents, but had never been hit. They had all—five or six of them—grown up completely contemptuous of authority of any kind, and sneered at punishment, which they believed to be a myth. The oldest boy had already done time in jail.

"Couple of ’em come into Hennessey’s yard this morning, boy and girl. About nine and ten, maybe, small for their ages. The boy was carryin’ a pitchfork, prob’ly Hennessey’s. The old man went to the back door—he’s about sixty-five, seventy—to ask ’em what they was doin’ there. Boy jammed the fork into his chest, ’n’ they ran like hell. The old woman called us, and we sent out the ambulance. I was just up to the hospital, talkin’ to her."

"She identify ’em?"

"Not well, but the Smiglies live just back of them through the woods, and the description’s close enough. She was shook up pretty bad."

"Well, no wonder."

"Oh, that too, but mostly by the ambulance ride. Pinky White drove it."

Parker grunted. "We pickin’ up the kids?"

"Right. I got a warrant for ’em from juvenile court. We’ll turn ’em over to Miz Harker; they need a firm hand."

The sheriff settled down to driving. Parker said, "I had a little talk with Poochie Doo-brett. Dyew-Bray. Wouldn’t talk."

"Didn’t expect him to. How’d he act?"

"Guilty. Kep’ flinchin’ an’ wouldn’t meet my eye."

"Well, Deputy Nordstrom finally found Orlin Deutscher and asked him about those keys to the graveyard shed. He claims he give ’em back to Judith Lamour—you know her, girl who works for Culter the mortician."

"Yeah, I talked to her m’self, yestiddee. Figured she’d know who Dutchies and Poochie was runnin’ with. What did she say?"

"She said Deutscher was lyin’. Doesn’t like him much. Every set of keys was accounted for, the pastor’s, the handyman’s, Culter’s, and the two sets of spares. But Judith Lamour says she never put that set back in the box, where we found it. What d’you make of it?"

Parker mulled it over. "The Lamour girl don’t remember Dutchies giving them back to her. She also don’t remember puttin’ them back in the box. She might fergit one of those things, not likely both. Hmm. Could Dutchies have snuck the key back into the box?"

"Must have. Culter thought so. Deutscher showed up to see if there was any work for him the following morning."

"Prints is not gonna be much help. They could’ve left their prints on the tractors or shovels durin’ the day. Hmm. Unless we can find one that matches one ’a’ their friends."

"Yeah."

At length they pulled up into the littered yard of the Smigly place. It was covered with car bodies far gone in rust, with old refrigerators, a defunct buzz saw, a pile of corrugated sheet metal that had been or might some day be a shed, pieces of nondescript farm equipment meant to be pulled by horses, and piles and piles of just plain junk. Jake Smigly had spent years hauling it all in.

Parker followed the sheriff’s deceptively lackadaisical progress to the equally littered porch of the tiny decrepit house.

"Come in," came Jake Smigly’s voice sullenly.

The inside of the house was a continuation of the yard. A tiny front room had a wood-burning heater in its center, a flour-sack cover over it. Decrepit furniture left only footpaths around the stove, and every horizontal surface was covered with household items and just plain junk. The TV was broken; must’ve been, for it was off.

The family huddled in its lair and stared at them. Eyes glittering.

Two skinny, dirty kids with tangled hair glared from near their mother Clothilde, a weary, graying woman, as thin and sharp as they. Two older kids glowered sullenly from other corners. Jake Smigly, a smallish, gray-unshaven man older than his years, warmed himself by habit at the cold stove. His large untidy mustache twitched nervously.

Smigly had some kind of disability pension, did odd jobs, sold wood off his twenty acres, and scrounged by. ADC supported the kids. Smigly was a paranoid. Last year’s tornado, which had touched down on a distant corner of his property and done him no real damage, was a problem for him. He had never been able to figure how his imaginary enemies could have arranged it, and the concept of a universe that did not revolve hostilely around himself shook him.

Evelyn took off his hat, revealing his pale forehead above the tanned lower part of his face, but wasted no time. "Got a warrant here for the arrest of Randy and Cordelia Smigly. Assault with a deadly weapon."

The smaller kids screeched: "We never done it!" "We was here all morning!" "We never been near ole man Hennessey’s!"

The older ones chimed in: "Yeah, they was here all mornin’!" "You go away, you old nasty nigger sheriff!" "Yeah, you fuck off an’ leave us alone!"

"Jake?" Evelyn’s quiet voice cut like a knife through the clack.

"Well, Sheriff, I don’t know who’s been tellin’ you these lies, I mean, I got lots of enemies who’d love to see my kids in jail, you know how they railroaded Jake Junior—"

"Yeah, ole man Hennessey’s lyin’!"

"He just hates us!"

Evelyn looked at them. "If you done nothin’ and been here all morning, how do you know who was stabbed?"

Silence; they glanced at each other. Parker had never seen such feral eyes since the time he’d had to shoot the mad dog.

"The old woman got a good look, and what’s more, Hennessey will live to testify."

Stubborn silence.

"Right, I’m takin’ you in." And Evelyn Anderson uncoiled with the speed of a serpent; had both of the kids before they could blink.

Parker had seen the sheriff in action before and was ready; he stepped forward to help. At that moment Clothilde Smigly landed on him, shrieking, moving with speed even more surprising than that of the sheriff.

"You let my kids alone! They didn’t do nothin,’ you bastards, you let ’em alone—"

Parker recoiled and flung up a meaty arm. Fortunately the woman was small and half starved; she rebounded, came at him again. This time he used both arms, one eye nervously on Smigly. Mouth open, Jake made no move to help, and after a moment Parker realized he could concentrate on the woman.

She was a handful, but fought without any training. She clawed and struck futilely overhand with her fists, and his hat distracted her for fatal seconds. Finally he got her wrist, forced it down, and in a moment had her twisted around and bent over, though he almost uprooted the woodstove when he bumped into it.

He looked around, panting. Jake Smigly was opening and closing his mouth, getting ready to be indignant when he got his wits back. The older kids, early teens he guessed, and also small for their ages, were on their feet ready to throw the items they’d picked up. Evelyn was just snapping cuffs on the girl, his foot on the manacled and writhing boy. He’d had as bad a scuffle as Parker.

Parker shoved their mother into the kids, breaking up their formation, and crouched facing the three, discounting Jake. Parker might not be tall and slim and good looking, but there was a solid strength about him that even half-grown fools could recognize. The kids hesitated and uncocked their arms.

Clothilde struggled back to her feet, screeching. Behind him, Evelyn hustled the screaming kids out onto the porch. Parker picked up his hat and backed away, but Clothilde had no further ambition for combat; she’d bumped her head, by the red mark. The Smiglies contented themselves by following them to the car, screaming at every step. They didn’t throw anything till the car was in motion.

Randy and Cordelia never ceased to shriek in the back seat. Parker leaned back between seats and manacled them to the floor, though there were no door handles in the back. The girl spat in his face, and he slapped her chops with a cannon-crack sound. Wiping his face, he found the scratches Clothilde had left, not having noticed them before. Panting and sweating and more than a little shaken, he looked at the even and seemingly untroubled features of Evelyn Anderson.

The sheriff surprised him by leaning over and saying, under the screaming, "Hell of a thing. ’Druther deal with werewolves."

Parker shivered. He had a superstitious fear of werewolves. He glanced back at the feral children. "How do you know we ain’t?"

Anderson had no answer to that. They drove in tense silence to the town.

Once there, things seemed a little more rational. "Where’ll we keep ’em?" Parker asked, holding the squirming children. The bars on the cells were too far apart.

Anderson looked around. "There," he grunted, "until I get hold of Miz Harker." He indicated the supply closet. "Here—I’ll unlock it." He worked the sturdy lock on the door. "This ought to hold them."

Bernie McKay had a sheet of paper ready to hide quickly under the other papers on his desk. On it, to the best of his memory, he was tallying up the times Paul Gibson had been out of the office long enough to have gotten it on with Angie. And then there were Sundays—Bernie went to church only when bullied into it—and often she went out on Saturdays. She wouldn’t have put up with quickies; even so, the total was startling. Even discounting half of them for sheer jealousy, it was still startling.

Just when did she start in on me to make him partner—aaah!

Uncle Albert’s ghost opened the door and walked in, just as the living man had so often done. Bernie stared with bulging eyes, noting that the actual door had not opened. Uncle Albert’s fleshless Scrooge face was as dour in death as in life, louring down sidelong from beetled brows in the old fashion.

"Hi, Bernie, you little shit," said Uncle Albert.

Bernie stopped himself from asking the automatic, Who let you in? "Wha— What are you—"

He became aware that his mouth was open and shut it with a clop. His erstwhile partner put his immaterial hands on the desk and thrust his liver-spotted features into Bernie’s. Bernie recoiled, goose-pimples on his back.

"Where’s my gold, you lying thieving little asshole?" The dead old man glared, eyes like chips of gray steel. "Where’s my gold? You white trash, you bum, you thief! I’ll—"

The door opened behind the ghost and Paul Gibson stepped in. "Mr. McKay? Mr. Smithers called from his office. He gave me a list of deeds he wants researched. I expect to be at the courthouse most of the morning."

Bernie had a little trouble hearing this because of the screeching of the ghost, which Gibson did not seem to see or hear. Bernie nodded jerkily, trying not to see or hear it himself.

Apparently Gibson only noticed Bernie’s distraught air after making his little speech.

"You all right, Mr. McKay?"

"I’ll hound you, Bernie, I’ll be with you day and night till you give me back my gold!" The ghost shook its finger in his face.

But Bernie heard the hint of hope in Gibson’s tone. He pretended to be a bit woozy, looking through the gesticulating ghost at Gibson’s image.

"I’m fine. Just need more coffee, I guess." He hoped he wasn’t yelling over the ghost that Gibson couldn’t hear. "I don’t sleep well in this kind of weather, even with the air conditioning."

"Yes, I expect it’ll break and we’ll get a storm soon. Anyway, I’ll be out for a while—maybe till after lunch."

"Okay." Bernie stopped himself from saying anything that would reveal his suspicions.

With a smug smile, the other turned and left. Bernie’s rage was so great he found the ghost, a moment ago so frightening, now a mere distraction. He waved it off, irritably saying, "Yes, yes, yes," and picked up the phone.

He caught himself halfway through dialing his own number. Absolutely the stupidest thing he could do, trying to check up on Angie. "Oh, shut up," he said to the ghost. It was pounding loudly on his desk.

"Don’t you tell me to shut up, you mangy little fuckhead—"

He tuned it out, thinking furiously. The Gibsons were a family of plumbers, carpenters, and odd job handymen from way back. Paul had spent two years at Central Missouri State U in Warrensburg, and a couple of years in community colleges in Kansas City. Angie’d possibly met him at the church; she was on some damn kind of committee that oversaw the renovation. Or even at the house, some day when Bernie was at work and she’d called a plumber or whatever.

This could have been going on for years.

He turned fiercely on the blathering ghost. "Gold? Gold?" He tried to keep his voice down; others could hear him talking to it. "You never had any gold. You’re dreaming, you ghastly old creep. You’re crazy. You’re dead! Go back to hell."

"Oh yes I had gold, don’t tell me I didn’t have gold, you know I did, you stole it, you—"

"Knock it off! You never had gold. What on earth would you buy gold for? Where would you keep it? How did you pay for—"

Bernie checked, staring at the ghost. Uncle Albert, halted in full cry, clamped his immaterial jaw and turned partly away, glancing sidelong at Bernie, sullen, stubborn. A look he’d seen a thousand times in arguments.

Uncle Bill Smithers was, after all, examining the books—with a great deal of nervousness.

"Why, you swindling old bastard," Bernie said softly, almost whispering. "You used partnership funds to buy your damn gold—and then forgot where you hid it! You stupid fucking old—"

The ghost was already on its way to the door, glancing back sullenly one last time. Before Bernie could get around the desk, it opened—but did not open—the door, and was gone.

Justin Waley stood up, feeling his lean cheeks crease in a broad grin. "Red Bud, Margie! Sit down. Good to see you, Margie, and you’re even prettier than ever. Too good for this mug. How’s Tyler?"

Margie Hadley was a young woman with dark brown hair, currently in an ear-length wave. Justin had always found her more attractive than many better-looking women, because of the warmth of her personality.

"Oh, Ty’s wonderful, Juss, and looks just like Red Bud did when he was six. We looked at old pictures and they’re just alike. Gonna be a real heartbreaker! He’s already reading and writing, of course."

"Starts school this fall," Red Bud said. He seated her on the red leatherette of the booth.

"Already," Justin said. He sat down across from them. The Night Owl’s normal roar was mute; the lunch-hour crowd was always sparse. Nona Martens wouldn’t be in till evening. "It seems like just last year he was born," he added.

When the waitress had come and they had ordered their burgers, Red Bud said, "Tell him about I Know," looking fondly at his wife.

Justin raised an eyebrow. "You never did tell me how you came to name that cat."

The young couple laughed. "Oh, that’s on account of our dumb neighbors," Margie said. "One of them had this dog, and couldn’t think of a name for it, and so they would say, ‘You know, the hound.’ To this day the hound’s name is You Know. So one of the other neighbors thought that was funny, and they named one of their dogs I Don’t Know. So we named our cat I Know."

Justin laughed. "A good name for him. What about him?"

"I was up in the attic yesterday," Margie said eagerly, "and I Know was looking at a big box up against the wall, and up at me, like he wanted me to pull it out. I figured there was a mouse behind it, so I said, ‘Oh, I Know, you wouldn’t be able to catch it,’ but I went ahead and pulled the box out and I Know jumped behind it. A mouse ran out, and I said, ‘I told you so!’ But I Know didn’t come running after her, so I looked over the box, and there he was with his paws in a nest. There were two half-grown mice in his mouth. He twisted around and killed them both and laid them down, then he lifted his right paw and killed the two under it, and then the two under his left paw. He sat there with six dead mice in front of him and looked up at me, as much as if to say, ‘You told me what?’ "

Justin laughed with them. "Reminds me of our old family cat. —But if we get started talking pets, we’ll never get done."

"Yes, what did you decide?" Red Bud said eagerly.

"Well, you know I never thought Oswego was big enough to support an investment counseling service. We’ll have to open an office in Clinchfield. There are good offices fairly cheap, but that’s a bit of a drive. And if we keep our jobs, we’ll have to have someone in the office on the days we’re not there."

"I could be your office girl five days a week," Margie said eagerly. "I can leave Ty with Shirley; he loves his aunt and cousins, and when school starts it’s even easier."

"That’ll be a big help," Justin said. "Thanks! We’ve also got to decide whether we should incorporate or set up a partnership. You’re the lawyer; what do you think?"

Red Bud shook his head. "I’m still looking into it. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Oh, and those books on investment and money management; I need to start studying up."

"They’re in the car," Justin said. "Though as I told you, the people around here like to invest in land. I’ve had a few conversations with Bernie McKay—not so many since his partner died—and it can be fairly lucrative, especially around Clinchfield."

"Could we work with McKay?" Red Bud asked.

Justin smiled frostily. "We won’t. I think he’s honest, but he knows his business too well. He’d get all the profit."

"So we need to be studying the real estate market to the north," Red Bud mused.

Margie looked brightly around. "Ah, here comes our food. Thanks, Betty! It’s like old times, isn’t it, dear? Don’t you think so, Juss?"

The rough sound of an ill-kept engine aroused Nona Martens from her desultory housekeeping. Billy continued to stare sullenly at the TV.

"It’s that Hat Stetson," she said, exasperated.

Hat jumped jauntily out of his old pickup and slammed the door. Surveying him through the machine-lace curtains, Nona felt a sinking sensation. Of all the people she didn’t want knowing where she lived, Hat Stetson topped the list. He strode over the more or less flat stones of the walk with the exaggerated swagger that three generations of "macho men" had learned from John Wayne. Just what I need, she thought.

She opened the door when he stepped onto the tiny plank deck.

"Nona, my favorite sweetheart!" He swept off his cheap white cowboy had and turned on all the freckle-faced country boy charm he had. It wasn’t much. "Good to see you! Hey, put on your glad rags. I’m takin’ you and Billy to Clinchfield."

"Sorry, Hat, I can’t go."

"What? I didn’t hear you say that. I won’t hear you say it!" Seriously, he added, "I’m buyin’ and it’d do you good to get out."

Nona worked in a night spot; she got out more than she wanted to.

"Sorry, Hat, not interested. Besides, I have things to do." She became conscious that she was letting cool air out, but she wasn’t going to let Stetson in.

"Hey, really, Nona, why don’t you come?" Plaintively but still country boy charming. "I really like you, you know. You’re the only reason I go to the Night Owl. What’s the matter; don’t you like men?"

Nona looked at him and fought down her stomach’s answer to the question. "I do like men, quite a lot. But I have my own definition of ‘man’ and it includes ‘job.’ Get it?"

A sullen expression crossed his face, but he was persistent. "Hey, is that any way to treat your best son’s friend?"

She turned to Billy. "You want to go with him, Billy?"

Billy never looked away from the TV. "Naw. I got to mow the lawn." He had never mowed her lawn.

"Aw, come on, Billy, don’t you give me that high hat!" Stetson cried. "It ain’t my fault we didn’t make out. It’s more yours!"

Billy rose and came slowly to the door. He looked at Stetson. "Nothing’s ever your fault," he said with quiet bitterness, and closed the door firmly, simultaneously locking it.

The knob immediately rattled as Stetson tried to open the door, saying, "Hey, listen—"

Nona fully expected him to kick the door. She and Billy stood close together, holding their breaths, he still gripping the knob. Then she heard Stetson say, "Aw shit." A hollow wooden tramp on the deck, the clap as his boots hit the flagstones, the stomp of his steps, and the slam of the pickup’s door.

Billy relaxed and so did she, as the pickup’s engine ground, then caught with a roar. Stetson peeled out in a circle, tearing up as much of the weedy lawn as he could, and rattled off down the long drive.

Nona wanted to hug Billy, but knew he’d resent it.

He scowled at her. "You’d be better off not getting involved with Stetson," he said. "He’s a bad ’un." He went back to the TV.

Nona followed, to look at him with wild surmise.

Hat Stetson roared and rattled down the county highway, seething. He didn’t know which he hated more at that moment, Nona or Billy. I’ll have her ass yet, he thought. Get a job! Sounded just like his damn mother. A job! In St. Claude County? Who was she trying to kid? Alls she had was that lousy waitress job in the damn Night Owl; hell of a job.

God, she looked good in those old tight jeans. Hat wandered off into a fantasy, with a naked Nona at his knees.

He was still fantasizing when he went down the long, long hill into Monegaw Springs, a town built on a slope. There was a small, Baptist church; Abner Mazarofsky’s unpainted store; and across the street from it, a building that had been a store owned by Abner’s father till the older man retired. A dozen houses drowsed under the spiky oaks. A crude handlettered sign—CAUTION HOG CROSSING—gave warning of Abner Mazarofsky’s livestock. Monegaw Springs; population, a hundred people and about three times as many dogs.

Parking next to Abner’s store, Hat slouched in and bought a beer with change. Have to hit the old lady up for a loan, he thought. "Seen Orlin Deutscher?" he asked Abner.

Receiving a negative, he slouched back out onto the concrete porch. It was no higher than a curb at one end; four feet high at the other. Hat jumped off the high end, landing with more of a jolt than he had expected.

"Hey, you— Snyder!"

The boy across the street, with a baseball bat over his shoulder, was about fourteen. He’d shot up, or was wearing his brother’s pants, for his lean shanks stuck out below the pant legs for a palm’s breadth. As he was the color of a good gunstock, he had to be a Snyder—there was only the one black family in the small town.

The Snyder turned to face him expressionlessly. A big old hound that Hat recognized as Knuckles sat down and panted with polite interest in Hat’s direction. A much smaller dog, a purebred Heinz named Winnie-the-Pooch, laid his ears back warningly. His mutt face registered suspicion.

"Yeah?"

"Seen Orlin Deutscher?"

After a moment’s deliberation, the Snyder said, "He ain’t in the store?"

"No."

"Checked the church shed?"

"No."

A freckle-faced boy appeared out of a vacant lot, one of the few nearly level places in town, even here near the bottom of the slope. He glanced at and ignored Hat. "Hey, Gus! Come on, game’s startin’!"

"I gotta go. If he ain’t there, try his Mom."

G G G

Poochie Dubret and Orlin Deutscher were sitting on Deutscher’s mother’s porch, cracking pecans, drinking cider, and throwing walnuts at a Siamese cat. Hat jumped out of his pickup and ambled in a friendly manner toward them. After one sidelong glance, they ignored him.

Hat realized that they weren’t throwing at the cat, but past it. The cat went after each skipping walnut as if it were a mouse.

"Hey, that cat’s wild," said Hat. "Does he bring ’em back?"

They didn’t answer. Somewhat daunted, he picked up a walnut and threw it past the cat. The cat killed the walnut and looked hopefully around for more. Poochie threw.

"How you been makin’ out?" Hat asked.

Deutscher grunted.

Poochie looked at him, at Hat, and pursed his lips. "Broke, as usual."

They all looked at the frantically sprinting cat. Hat felt a certain constraint, as well as exasperation.

"Well, hell, is that my fault?" he said defensively. He knew he shouldn’t get mad, but damn it—

"It was a damn fool idee in the first place," said Deutscher stonily.

"Yeah," said Poochie.

"We tole you the ole man was movin’."

"Yeah."

"You wouldn’ listen."

"Yeah."

"You always got to be the big shot, the one who’s runnin’ things—"

"Oh, fuck that shit! Who was it run away and left me to fight the damn thing off? ‘We’ll just bash it on the head,’ you said. Sheeyit! If you would only have stood with me, we could ’a’ taken care of it. Hell, ole McKay, that ole man, took care of it single-handed when he was half asleep."

"So what?" said Deutscher. "The whole idee was stupid. It would ’a’ never worked. Somebody would ’a’ reckonnized the pieces of copper, sure."

"Yeah. That damn depitty Parker’s been all over my ass," Poochie said, pushing out his lips angrily.

"Yeah. Depitty Nordstrom’s been sniffin’ around me," Deutscher said. "What’s more, ol’ Culter’s gonna fire us, bet on it. He’s pretty sure I snuck them keys back into the box; he ain’t fuckin’ stupid like you, Hat. You forgit other people got brains too."

"Yeah, that damn depitty Parker—"

"Well, shit, I never promised you a rose garden. I don’t see where the fuck you get off, bein’ mad at me when it was you that let me down—"

By the time he left, Hat was in a rage, and his fantasies alternated between gruesome deaths for Deutscher and Poochie, and them crawling to him for a share of the astonishing wealth he would realize in some hazy fashion. The copper coffin swam in and out of his visions, gleaming like gold. If only— Too late now, it was gone, but if only—!

A pair of grubby little kids ran out almost in front of him, near the top of Monegaw’s long hill, and he stomped his brakes savagely.

"Out of the damn way, little assholes!" Hat yelled out the window.

"Fuck you, shithead!" the little girl cried shrilly, and gave him the finger.

"Why, you—"

But before he could put the old pickup into motion after them, they had scrambled up the weedy bank. They ducked under the barbed wire and vanished in the sultry forest.

The battered old bat struck the ball with a crisp, clean crack, and Winnie-the-Pooch danced his forepaws up and down on the sideline, yelping delightedly to the children’s yells and running. He had no idea of the score, but he enjoyed the game as much as anybody who played it. Beside him, Knuckles was clearly uninterested, even in the part just after the crack that so delighted Winnie-the-Pooch’s doggy heart. The big hound instead watched the baby who sat pawing at the dirt and cooing in the shade.

The baby smelled interestingly of milk and baby food, and even more interestingly of urine. It was the last that told the dogs that the baby was human, very very young, female, well-fed, and bursting with good health. Every now and then Knuckles’s head, bigger than the baby’s, would swing over and he would take a few luxurious sniffs. She would babble at him and reach up to grab at his nose or lips, and Knuckles would grin and submit.

Only in the quiet intervals of the game did Winnie-the-Pooch go wagging over to the baby and lick her face, causing her to squirm ecstatically and laugh. The light was fading to twilight sooner than normal, and at intervals in the game the children pointed up toward the sky, calling out. The storm Winnie-the-Pooch had been smelling all day had finally taken visible shape as a bank of high, massed clouds in the northwest.

Winnie-the-Pooch smelled a warm, musky animal smell. He looked around, growling.

Two children came out of the woods.

Knuckles greeted them with restrained but dignified courtesy. The ball players paid them no attention, for the newcomers were smaller than they. Winnie-the-Pooch regarded them with deep suspicion. They smelled wrong.

Normal children might smell dirty, but there was always an underlying clean animal odor about them, and reminiscences of soap. These children had no soapy undertone, and in fact, they smelled far more like Knuckles—who had never in his life had a bath—than like normal children. Not that they were hog-filthy. Winnie-the-Pooch did not know how to express the concept of infrequent and sketchy washing, but his nose told him the tale.

One of the girls in the game looked over and called out to the new children that the baby’s name was "Linnie." Her tone was brisk and not unfriendly; she was obviously addressing strangers. But Winnie-the-Pooch’s suspicions were not allayed.

There came again the crack of the bat and the disappointed yells that told Winnie-the-Pooch that this hit didn’t count.

Then the baby screamed.

It was a long, loud, shrill scream of pain and terror. The two new kids were all over the baby, down on hands and knees, the baby flat on her back, screaming. Knuckles was springing back in an attitude of total astonishment. The hot savage smell of blood was in the air. Winnie-the-Pooch was already in furious motion as he took in these details, and a moment later, with feral pleasure, he felt living flesh between his teeth--the boy’s animal-odored leg.

The boy screamed in pain and rage and kicked, struck back at him. Winnie-the-Pooch tasted blood and wasted a moment in another savage bite, then shifted over to the oblivious girl, lunging forward to get her in the buttock. She screamed also and jerked away from the baby, her face smeared with blood. The boy struck at him and Winnie-the-Pooch leaped for his face with a bark that was more like a shriek of rage. The boy went over backward, screaming and striking out wildly. Winnie-the-Pooch got home a couple of juicy ones, but felt a furious blow on his back.

He rolled and scrambled away, turning to the girl again, but the fight was over. The ball players were yelling and running toward them, some waving bats. The bad kids scrambled up and ran off into the woods.

Furious, Winnie-the-Pooch followed and heard with fierce pleasure the deep-chested baying of Knuckles, coming strong after him. The huge hound was a mighty hunter of great nasal prowess, and though a little past his prime, still formidable. The bad kids ran fast, leaving a broad spoor of old unwash and fresh blood.

With a great bell-mouthed baying, the hound followed. Knuckles would have pursued them all night. But Winnie-the-Pooch abruptly realized that there was nobody following them. He hesitated, looked back, and barked the big hound into submission. Knuckles stood panting in the middle of a spoor as broad and easily "seen" as a paved road, not understanding Winnie-the-Pooch’s concern.

The big hound’s blunt old teeth and amiable heart unfitted him for close-in combat. Winnie-the-Pooch wanted backup. He stood panting, listening. Distant yells, but no sound of anyone following. He barked at Knuckles and started back, but the hound was stubborn. It took a long time to persuade him, but finally they came despondently back into the open areas of the people place.

Knuckles was plainly disgusted with him, and Winnie-the-Pooch couldn’t blame him. They sniffed the spot where the baby had been attacked, and followed the trail to a nearby house. There was a great deal of excitement about it, people coming and going, and they heard the baby crying inside, but not in terror, only in pain. The children were not permitted inside, but congregated without, talking in shrill excited voices.

He and Knuckles came in for a good deal of attention and fierce petting. Every passerby was invited to examine the blood on Winnie-the-Pooch’s face where his tongue didn’t reach. He and Knuckles whined anxiously and several times tried to lead people into the woods, but no one would follow.

Finally a strange man came over to the children and talked to them for a long time. He smelled of leather and khaki and guns, and sweat and a hint of beer over an underlying pleasant odor of clean man-smell and soap. He spoke patiently to the kids, forcing them to talk one at a time, and made scritching sounds on a flat thing in his hand. Presently he also came over and examined Winnie-the-Pooch’s muzzle, and petted him and Knuckles.

It was he who finally urged them into the woods, making it plain that he would follow. But it was too late.