The Heavenly Table(101)

“What is it?” the man said, taking a cautious sniff at the greasy meat.

“That ol’ bologna salesman called it honey loaf. It ain’t bad.”

The cabbie laid it on the seat next to him. “I better wait till my stomach settles down a little before I eat anything June Easter is selling. I appreciate it, though.”

“What’d ye do, get on a toot last night?” Blackie asked.

“Aw, I drank some rotgut my cheap-ass cousin brought over to the house. I should have known better. My ulcers, they can’t take it anymore.”

“You need to coat ’em with grease,” Blackie said. “That’s what my daddy always did. Gravy, butter, lard, whale’s blubber, you name it, he tried it.”

“Yeah, that worked for me, too, up until a couple years ago,” the cabbie said. “If I had any sense, I wouldn’t drink nothin’ but beer from here on out.” Then he put the car in gear and started down the lane.

Chimney sat in the backseat looking out at the tree-covered hills shining here and there with silvery frost, mist lying like smoke in the low places between them. He’d never noticed before how pretty the land was around here. Riding in the open car, the morning air was cold, and he shivered, reminded himself to buy a decent coat before they got to Canada. Then he smiled. There had been a moment last night with Matilda when he thought he was happier than he had ever been in his life; and if he could have a minute like that even once a week, he reckoned he’d be satisfied. Suddenly, the thought of all those men sticking their dicks inside her this weekend—she had told him that Friday and Saturday nights, when most of the soldiers got their passes, were her busy times—made him half sick. But then he caught hold of himself as they passed over the bridge, and tried to look at things realistically. Christ Almighty, she was a whore, and that’s how girls like that make their money. And was that any worse than being a killer and a thief, when it came right down to it? The question puzzled him. He was still debating it with himself when the cabbie said, “Which one did you screw? The yeller-haired one?”

“No,” Chimney said. “I was with Matilda.”

“Matilda?” the cabbie said. “Oh, you mean the skinny little bitch. The one they call Cock Gobbler.”

“I don’t know,” Chimney answered, his face turning red.

“Me, I like ’em with a little more meat on their bones.”

“You’d probably enjoy f*cking a hog then,” Chimney said.

“What’d you say?”

“I said you look like a pig-f*cker.”

The cabbie narrowed his red-veined eyes and slowed the car down just as they hit the business district. “You got a smart mouth on you, don’t ye, bub?”

Chimney rested his hand on the little Remington .22 he had in his pocket. “Just shut up and drive.”

“You don’t tell me what to do in my own cab, you little shit,” the man said.

The boy looked around at all the people on the sidewalks. He hated to leave the sonofabitch off the hook, but now was not a good time to be losing his temper. There was too much at stake, he reminded himself. Besides, what did it matter what this dried-up bastard thought of anything? You could tell by looking at him that he was on his last legs, him and his goddamn ulcers. “Just let me out here,” he said, ignoring the cabbie’s glare. He let loose of the gun and dug two dollars out of his pocket, dropped them on top of the greasy slice of meat lying on the front seat.





59


JASPER WAS ON his way to the bench hoping to meet up with Junior when he passed by the jail and saw Lester Wallingford tacking a new wanted poster to the billboard by the front door. Having once been instrumental in bringing a pickpocket to justice after he had seen the man’s mug on a flyer, he now made it a habit to stop by at least once a week to check out new criminals. “Who they lookin’ for now?” Jasper asked.

“Still hunting for them Jewetts,” the policeman told him. “Jacked the reward up some more. They’re thinking they might be in Ohio now. I’ll tell you what, those bastards come through Meade, ol’ Lester here will be a rich man.”

Jasper didn’t say anything. He was studying the drawing on the poster. Funny how that one looked like Junior. He’d have to tell him about that when he saw him. He read over the long list of crimes they had committed: included were arson, robbery, kidnapping, rape, murder, and several others that he had never heard of. What the hell was “bestiality”? Or “necrophilia”? He looked again at the drawings. My God, he had to say, the one on the end really was Junior all over again. But, shoot, it couldn’t be. That boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Still, the more he looked at the poster, the more the other one favored Junior’s brother, too. He had seen them standing in line in front of the Majestic last night waiting to buy tickets. But what about— “What’s wrong, Cone?” Lester said. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

“Nothing. Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Only thing you got on your mind is shithouses.”

“You don’t know me,” Jasper said. “You don’t know nothing about me.”

“I know you like to watch women takin’ a whiz. That’s what I know.”

Because Jasper spent so many sleepless hours walking the streets late at night, he knew more about the cop than the cop would ever know about him, including the fact that he almost always ended up at Lucas Charles’s little room above the Majestic whenever he closed down the Mecca Bar. Jasper was right on the cusp of asking Lester if his father knew about his relationship with the theater manager when he realized such information might be put to a better use later. Instead, he pretended to storm away, but then stopped and waited at the corner. As soon as the cop disappeared, he hurried back to the billboard and tore the poster off, stuck it inside his jacket. Making his way to the park, he sat down on a rock near the pond to study it. The Jewett Gang? Surely there had to be a mistake. But then how could there be another person walking around who looked identical to Junior? Or Cob, or whatever his name was. And where was the third brother? Had he gotten killed or run off? He thought back for a minute, trying to recall everything Junior had told him about himself, and then he realized that he didn’t know anything. Hell, he had done almost all the talking; Junior just nodded his head once in a while and ate doughnuts.