The Savage(25)

Horace nodded back. “We make our company silent.”

The man slid his chair from the table. Stepped toward Dorn and Horace. “Mind if I join you and your offspring?”

Horace was on his third Maker’s over ice. Looked to Van Dorn. “Up to my spawn.”

Van Dorn sensed something about the man. The way he carried himself. His demeanor. Not cocky but confident.

“Makes no mind to me,” Van Dorn said.

The man offered a hand. “Name’s McGill, Bellmont McGill.”

Horace took his hand. “Horace Riesing. This here is my son, Van Dorn.”

McGill winked at Van Dorn. “That name rings a bell.” He sat in the chair he’d clattered over the deck boards. Pondered on the name, then spoke. “Couldn’t help but eavesdrop on your words, your knowledge of the opposite sex.” He used his hands as he spoke. Continued with “Pounding the soft part of the truth. I come here sometimes. Normally bring my daughter for company and the drive home. Name’s Scar. Oh, she’s a wad of fury. Feel for the man that tries to settle with her. Like her mother, more tom than puss.”

Bellmont slapped the table with his punch line.

“Blood’s blood regardless of gender. Long as they carry the knowledge of their kin, that’ll constitute their worth,” Horace said.

“Your talk is in an odd tongue. Where is it you and the boy live?”

“Down off Harrison Springs Road.”

Van Dorn glanced at his father, unable to believe his openness to the stranger. His becoming too lax from the booze brought on a nervous pang in his belly. His father was never an open book to others. Kept to himself. His troubles and ways were his own business and nobody else’s.

“Hmm, I know near every person in the county. Hell, I own enough of it.” McGill took a swig of his brew and, sounding cocky, he said, “Maybe you heard of my gathering I hold every year, Donnybrook?”

“An Irish festival?”

“Sorta, it’s a festival of carnage for the working. Where men and women can eat, drink, fuck, do what drug they prefer while wagering and watching men beat the tar from one another for three days and a big ball sack of coin. Lets them forget about all this loss of wages and self that our world keeps stealing from the middle and lower.”

Horace took a swallow of Maker’s. “Sounds barbaric. Unruly.”

“Oh, it’s inhumane and pugilistic,” Bellmont said. “Would you care for another swallow, the round’s on me?”

“Maker’s on the rocks. Appreciate it.”

“Welcome. And your boy, Van Dorn, what’s your poison?”

“Sweet tea. I’m not of age.”

Surprised, Bellmont leaned his head back, slanted his neck, squinted his eyes. “Sweet fucking tea? You a Jehovah’s Witness or some shit? Of what age are you, son, look to be twenty-one or better, almost as big as your ole man?”

“Seventeen, sir. Almost eighteen.”

“Seventeen and you hold a tongue of manners.” Slapping the table again, he said, “Tea and Maker’s it is. Be right back, Poe seems to be lagging on his help round this fucking grease shack.”

As Bellmont sat the glasses of hops, mash, and tea about the table, Van Dorn and Horace offered another thank-you. Bellmont sat down, looked at Dorn, and said, “Know where I’ve heard mention of your name.” He threw the bone out slow. Words simple. Methodical. As if wanting to see Horace’s reaction to his own. “I’ve an acquaintance goes by the moniker of Manny. He’s connected with a runner of guns in the area named Dillard Alcorn.”

Except for a heated breeze, a wave of silence passed. Horace scuffed his chair over the boards. Situated himself with caution. That pang in Van Dorn’s gut caused his nerves to bleed with the same. Bellmont knew this. Eyed Horace, raised a palm. “I’ve no quarrel with you, nor does Manny. Any man who gives fit to Alcorn is a man to be admired. Alcorn’s a wannabe racist. Proclaimed his blood to be Aryan but turned a blind eye to supply weapons to Manny and his gangs, who are Mexican, Salvadoran, and Guatemalan. One of which is run by his son, a revolutionary type down south of the border. In my mind that’s yellow as yellow gets. Goes against everything he preached in his early days. He lays claim that you and the Widow somehow offed his idolatrous brother, who in the minds of most should’ve been buried long ago. Manny knows when his ass has been spit-shined by a man of worth. He’s territorial, not ignorant, you earned his respect in many ways.”

Chewing on Bellmont’s words, Horace sat in quiet. Considering his cards. Dorn knew he wasn’t buying it. There was something foul about the entire moment. Like trading sins the way he and his father had done on the road. Breaking into abandoned homes, stealing the weight of metal. Knowing it was wrong. Horace telling him they had to do it to get by. If not us, then who, some other thief?

Horace rattled the ice in the moistening glass. Brought the bourbon to his lips. Laid it back on the table. “Alcorn thought he could harass something from the Widow that doesn’t exist. I recognize his misery. Wanting to find his sib. But he was warned of striking the wrong path.”

Bellmont’s eyes flickered. “Agreed. It’s been near three years since he vanished. Never hear of the Widow going to Alcorn’s place and accusing him of murdering her provider. His own baby brother.”