Blacktop Wasteland(42)

“Billy, just tell Lazy I can explain. I can make this right,” Lou Ellen said. She twisted in her chair, so she could see what he was doing behind her. It hurt like hell, but she contorted her torso and tried to look over the top of the chair. Her eyeballs bulged from their sockets as she strained to see. Billy pulled a rolled-up black plastic bag out of his back pocket.

“Nah, ya can’t, Lou. Some things when they get broke, you can’t put them back together.”

He slapped the bag over her head and pulled it tight around her neck. Lou Ellen bucked up out of the chair and tried to stand as she clawed the bag.

“Can you get her fucking hands, please?” Billy asked. Horace ran over and straddled her hips and grabbed her arms. Horace thought he could see the outline of her nose in the dark plastic. A bubble rose and fell where he thought her mouth was. Lou screamed but the sound was dampened by the bag. Her screams became a desperate squealing. The squealing devolved into animalistic grunts that became increasingly desperate. Her gesticulations slowly became less frantic. Her grunts slowed and became nearly imperceptible gasps. A few minutes passed, and her legs stopped kicking.

A few more minutes passed, and she stopped moving completely.

A pungent stench filled the apartment. Neither Billy or Horace were too perturbed by this. It wasn’t the first time someone had voided their bowels in their presence. Billy removed the bag, rolled it up and shoved it back in his pocket. Lou’s head lolled to the right. Her tongue protruded from her mouth like a turtle’s head from its shell.

Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his forehead and put the cloth back in his pocket. From his other pocket he pulled a flat silver flask, a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit one of the cigarettes with one of the matches and dropped it on the floor between Lou’s feet. He hadn’t put it in his mouth. He’d just held the match to the tip until a small cherry appeared. He poured the contents of the flask on the floor and the curtains. He poured some of it directly on Lou Ellen’s body. The acrid smell of moonshine overtook the scent of shit that had filled the air.

Billy let out a sigh and gently stroked Lou Ellen’s cheek.

“Dammit, Sis,” he mumbled.

He tossed another lit match onto her body. The flame started slowly, shyly. Then it spread quickly up her leg. He tossed another match near the curtains. They went up like paraffin. Billy watched the flames dance across the fabric like zealots full of the holy ghost. The flames reminded him of the snake handlers at his grandfather’s church. Gyrating across the rough-hewn wooden floor boogying for the Lord.

“I guess we better get going,” Horace said. Billy blinked his eyes.

“Yeah. You go see the redhead. I’m gonna talk to Lisa.”

“I thought Jenny was the one.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to cover your ass. Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here. I don’t want to watch her burn,” Billy said. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand and opened the front door. He and Horace strolled to the Cadillac. By the time they left the parking lot and turned onto the street, the first plumes of smoke were just beginning to pour from under Lou’s front door.





FIFTEEN



Beauregard sat in the Duster and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The skies were overcast, threatening to release a deluge of much needed rain. In the distance a water tower emblazoned with the name CARYTOWN stared down at him like an iron giant. An abandoned train trestle bisected the horizon to his left. All around him the remains of an old factory were scattered like the bones of dinosaurs made of brick and steel.

He checked his watch. It was five minutes after four. Ronnie was supposed to meet him at two on the dot. He wasn’t surprised he was late for the meeting. He had been a week late getting the money from his “guy” in DC. The delay had made Beauregard’s already desperate situation worse. His suppliers were blowing up his phone like a spurned lover. The mortgage on the garage was due in three days. Not to mention the deadline for Ariel’s college registration was approaching quick, fast, and in a hurry. The nursing home staff was gleefully packing his mother’s bags, anticipating her imminent removal.

“God, Ronnie, don’t fuck me on this. I think I just might have to make you into a paperweight if you do,” Beauregard said to no one. He checked his watch again. It was ten minutes after four. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He heard the rumble of a big-block engine. He opened his eyes and saw a black Mustang rolling across the pavement. The driver navigated the vehicle around cracks and potholes with the gentle ease of a new car owner.

The Mustang pulled up alongside the Duster. Ronnie Sessions grinned at Beauregard from behind the wheel. Beauregard lowered his window as Ronnie did the same.

“What the fuck is this?” Beauregard asked.

“What? It’s a car, man. A BOSS car. 2004 Mustang.”

Beauregard leaned out the window. “Have you been watching the news? All they been talking about is that someone died, and two other people were shot in a brazen jewelry store robbery. The police are on this like stink on shit and you go buy a new car,” he said. He said each word slowly and distinctly like he was biting them out of the air and spitting them at Ronnie.

“It’s not new. I got it used from Wayne Whitman.”

“What you pay for it?”