You know, sometimes, when I get in a funk, I really hate my life. I mean I get to thinking about the routine, you know. How I'm not really doing nothing with myself. I get this way especially late at night when I'm sitting in the corner of some Southside dive after a hard day pounding the pavement, helping the helpless. I just sulk there in the darkness nursing a whiskey brooding on my go-nowhere life.
Mornings are worse, though, when I crawl out from under my rock after the alcohol has absorbed all the water from my system and my body's instant pudding and my head feels like the sun being crammed into Mars.
Cassidy, I think to myself, you've got to find yourself another line of work.
I'm in what you might call a service industry. I take up for the downtrodden and the defenseless, for a nominal fee, mind you (I may live in a rat-hole, but I still got bills). Like this morning, for instance, I'd been out to the Bucket O'Blood last night, drowning my sorrows in a bit of Ol'Scratch, and I woke up somewhere between my bedroom and the john lying in a pool of my own creation with this ringing in my head that just wouldn't quit. After a while, I realized that the ringing wasn't in my head, but under it. I sat up groggily and patted down my bile-sodden shirt until I found my cell phone.
"McAlistair, here," I mumbled into the speaker trying not to breathe, "Whaddaya want?"
The last voice anybody wants to hear first thing in the morning when he's fighting off a hangover is his boss. Well, I guess that's an exaggeration; the last voice anybody really wants to hear first thing in the morning when he's fighting off a hangover is the Voice of God reading His Final Judgment, but that's six of one, half dozen of the other if you ask me.
"Ah, Mr. McAlistair," Mr. Nalson's voice always sounds measured and calm, like nothing in the world can surprise him. It's always crystal clear, too, despite the faint buzzing on his end of the line. "I'm glad to see you're up. Long night?"
"You might say that," I tried to stand slowly and brush the dried vomit, beer, and crumbs, from my shirt. Whenever I talk to Lucky Nalson, it's like he's in the room with me even if he's in the other hemisphere. I feel vaguely ashamed and even dirtier than usual.
"Well, get yourself cleaned up, then, and fetch Mr. Griffin, I've got some work for you two this morning."
It don't take me but thirteen minutes to shower, shave, and get out the door on any given day. You see back in the service, we had to snap to real quick, but I've gotten lax since joining the civvie world, and I can't get going quite as quick as I used to. Be that as it may, this morning, I'm cleaned up in a new pair of jeans and a reasonably clean Hawaiian shirt, and I'm cranking up the van before you can scratch.
Hode Griffin's my partner. Work partner, mind you. I don't get into that freaky stuff. Me and Griff's strictly business, you know. He won't even drink with me after work. Five o'clock rolls around, and we just head off into the sunset . . . except in different directions, of course.
Overall, Griff looks like the product of an unfortunate union between Jimmy Durante and a troll. He's got the largest nose this side of Paradise, and he's about six feet tall. He's also got this weird discolored skin, blue-grey like he's either been buried in ash or held under water too long. He always wears this dark brown duffel coat over a pair of faded Oshkosh B'gosh overalls and a yellowing "Kool-Aid" t-shirt. Except for a couple tufts of grey hair growing out his ears, he's completely bald. He must be going blind, too, because he wears these thick glasses be cause he claims he has poor day-vision, but at night he can see like a hawk.
He's already waiting on me when I pull into his alley, squinting through the smoke of those sulphur-smelling cigars he's always puffing on.
"For Chrissakes, Griff," I scowl and fan his smoke back in his face as he climbs into the van, "if you're gonna ride with me, have the fucking decency to put that damned stinkweed out."
Griff manages to crawl into the passenger seat and stubs his cigar out on the sole of his left work boot. Yellow ash falls onto the floorboard, but he smears it into the carpet with his right foot, and grunts at me. "You look like shit, Cass. Fall asleep in your own puke again?" Griff's gravelly voice ratlles some people, but I find it oddly comforting. It reminds me of my dad.
"Shut the fuck up, and lemme drive." Griff obliges me and just chews on his cigar stub until we get to the diner.
Lucky loves this god-forsaken place. He says it's got that "down-home" feeling. Down-trodden's more like it. Now, I admit, Hell's Ditch has some little claim to fame, since it's one of the last family owned-and-run diners left in this world of Waffle and Huddle Houses. What's even more amazing is that it could stay in business. The owner must've made some kinda deal with either the Health Department or the devil as filthy as it is. But the boss likes it, so I guess that means I got to also. . . or at least keep my opinions about it to myself.
Lucky's nowhere to be seen when we walk into the diner. He never is. He kind of runs this business on the side. You see, Lucky works for Allen Fodder, maybe you've heard of him. Al's kinda like a judge for the private sector. "Lord of the Gallows" I think they call him. I've only ever seen him once, but that was enough.
He's much taller than Lucky with a predilection for bluish-grey suits and wide brimmed hats. He wears this wicked looking patch over one of his eyes (word has it, he lost the eye in a bet over a fucking glass of wine), and his remaining eye is the brightest shade of yellow I've ever seen.
Anyway, Lucky doesn't wanna get on Al's bad side, and I suspect Al'd be pretty upset with the idea of Lucky's moonlighting, so he has to sneak out of his basement office and get his secretary to cover for him whenever he gets a commission for me and Griff. As a result, he's almost always late for our meetings.
Griff, chewing on the still smoldering cigar stub, lopes to the back and slides into the booth next to the bathrooms as Bob, the greasy, over-weight cook, glares at him over a pot of chili.
"Hey, buddy," he growls in the deep drawl predominant in these parts, "I done told you before, you cain't be smoking in this here establishment."
Griff holds up his unlit stub without looking at the man. The cook glares again at my companion, then nonchalantly flicks his own cigar ash on the floor before stirring the chili. "Jesus," Griff mumbles as I slide in beside him, "suddenly everybody's a friggin' health nut."
The bench is amazingly inadequate for both me and Griff, and we're practically sitting in each other's laps like two queer peas in a pod while a perfectly good bench goes empty across from us. Looking over my shoulder at the entrance, I silently curse Lucky's name. He does this to me every time. I feel like a moron sitting here facing the wall. My dad survived twenty years walking a Chicago beat, taking no shit from nobody, only to have a cap popped in his ass facing the wall at McGillicuddy's bar one night after his shift. Now here I am with just as many enemy's as him, if not more, with my back to the door and my ass in the wind. "Where the fuck is that creepy son of a bitch?" I ask still watching the front.
"Now, Cassidy, is that any way to talk about the man who has done so much for you?" The voice comes from behind me, so I turn back and find Lucky sitting across from us, daintily wiping a ring of water with his handkerchief.
"Dammit, Boss, you know I hate it when you do that." I slide down and slouch uncomfortably on the bench as Bertha the waitress, a large misshapen mass of a woman, puts down three glasses of iced water and walks off before we can place an order.
Lucky just tucks his handkerchief back in the breast pocket of his dark grey pinstriped suit and smiles serenely at me. He's a gaunt man, Lucky is. When he smiles, his mouth seems to take up the better part of his face, like the Grinch, and his beady little red eyes beam from under the fiery hair hanging over his pale brow. From inside his jacket, he produces a sealed envelope with my name written in pristine script across the front and places it on the table.
"I don't have much time, gentlemen, so I'll get right to the point." he slides the envelope to me. "Inside that envelope, you'll find the name and address of a man who took something of value some time ago from our client, a Mister Albert Rich, and we've been asked to intercede on the matter."
I open the envelope and a business card falls out:
On the back is written Mr. Dair's address:
1314 Ash Lane
Owen, Georgia
"A repo-man, boss?" I shake my head, put the envelope back on the table, my name up, and sip my water. "What are we, slumming now?"
"We go where the money is, Mr. McAlistair." Lucky strikes a match on his palm and holds it to the envelope. "And today, the money is with Messieurs Dair and Rich."
I watch my name crinkle up and blacken as Lucky speaks, then Griff, who's been sitting there like a bump on log this whole time, chimes in with his two-cents. "I got no problem with that, boss." He tries to relight his cigar on the envelope, but I pour water on the flame before he can get it to his stub. "How y'want the job done?" Griff glares at me as I begin sopping up the water with our napkins.
"I simply wish you two to have a polite word with Mr. Dair. Explain to him that Mr. Rich wants his property back. Dair is a reasonable and wise man; I'm sure he'll be as helpful as it's in his power to be."
"And if he isn't?" Griff leans a little towards Lucky.
"Offer him an out, and if he refuses, enjoy yourselves." Lucky reaches again into his jacket and removes a wallet-sized photo flip-album and a roll of bills. He pulls a twenty off the top and places it precisely in the center of the table, amidst the water, slushy ash, burned envelope, and pulpy napkin. He then hands the album and the rest of the money to me. "Now you're on my clock, get to work, boys. I've got to get back and chain myself to the desk again before that one-eyed son of a frost-giant misses me."
We get up to leave, and Lucky calls to us as we reach the door. "Oh, and boys?"
We look back.
"Whatever you do, don't hurt the merchandise."
As soon as we pull out of Hell's Ditch, Griff turns to me and starts talking around his cigar. "So you gonna tell me about it, or am I gonna have to play twenty questions?"
"What're you jawing about?" I cut off a tractor-trailer as I pull onto the road and head into town. I step on the gas, oblivious to the truck's blaring horn behind me.
"Yer in a mood."
"A mood, Griff?"
"A mood. Somethin's botherin' you an' I wanna know what it is." Griff chews thoughtfully on his cigar stub.
"How's it any of your business, Griff? My moods are my own,"
"It's my business, because your mood swings can screw up our work. My work. I wanna get paid, too, you know." He presses the dashboard cigarette lighter
I cut my eyes towards his hands on the lighter. "Please don't light that thing in here. I'm begging you."
"I'll roll the window down," he begins to crank the window handle, and an earsplitting creak comes out of his door. "That's another thing, since when do you care if I smoke in the truck or not?"
"It just bugs me, that's all. I'm tired of smelling like fire, brimstone, and shit every time I come home from work."
"Well," he pulls out the lighter and touches it to the end of his cigar, "I got news for you; it ain't the cigar doing that. It's the work."
"Well, maybe I'm tired of the work." I slow down, and the truck behind me renews its honking and rides my ass.
"Ah," Griff dismisses my complaint with a wave of his hand. "It's just a means to end, my brother. A means to an end."
"What end, Griff?" I press the brakes some more and the truck tries to pass me on a hill, but almost collides with a station wagon coming the other way. I smile cheerlessly as the driver moves in behind me again. "This is what we do. It's what we've always done, and it's what we probably always will do."
"Lucky's not doing it anymore."
"Don't kid yourself. He does the same thing for Fodder that we do for him, just on a grander scale."
"Well, that's progress right there." Griff flicks yellow ash out his window and looks at me. "One day, we'll do it on a grander scale, too. One day we'll have Lucky's power. He said so hisself when we started. If we just play the game."
"We'll never see that power. We'll never see a grander scale." Though we're on a straightway, I turn on my right blinker and slam on the breaks again. "Lucky invented the fucking game. He makes the rules; we follow'em."
"Nah," Griff shakes his head, "you're just hung over, is all. Lucky wouldn't gyp us."
"Oh, give me a break. 'Wouldn't gyp us.' Lucky Nalson invented the fucking gyp. He taught P. T. Barnum everything he knew. He created Three Card Monte. He sold the first piece of beachfront property in Arizona. Wouldn't gyp us, my ass." The truck tries again to pass me, and I press the gas pedal to match his speed.
"We're too valuable to him." Griff reaches into the front pocket of his overalls and takes out the knife Lucky gave him for Christmas last year. It's a switchblade with a mistletoe handle. "Who else'd do his work for him?" He waves the shiv at me like it's proof of our value to Lucky.
"Look around, Griff. Any of these people could do our jobs. If we didn't do it, somebody else'd just come along and do it for us."
Griff just waves his hand at me and stares out the window with a disgusted grunt and begins a futile attempt to clean his fingernails with the knife. I finally let the truck pass, and we ride for the next few minutes in silence.
Griff has this heavy silence, you know what I mean? For all his salt of the earth gruffness, the little troll is too fucking sensitive, man. I mean, he can get his feelings hurt over nothing, and when he does, that little bastard will sulk like nobody's business. He stares away from you, focuses on the horizon, and just stares. His silence weighs you down like no amount of yelling and nagging and bitching can. It just settles there between you, and he never acknowledges it.
I don't know how long Griff can take it. The longest I've ever born his silence was the time I made some off-hand remark about his Kool-Aid Man t-shirt and the shape of Griff's backside. He didn't speak for three days until I finally broke down and apologized. I spent the next week reassuring him that his ass wasn't too big, but he never really believed me. He wears that fucking duffel coat all year long, now
After we've been driving for about half an hour, I finally break the silence. "Look, I'm just tired of broken promises, is all." Griff turns to look at me but still says nothing. "We were promised a future, and we haven't gotten it. I've been doing the same thing, day after day, year after year since I don't know when, and I'm just getting sick of it. I'm tired of looking forward to something and having it pulled out from under my feet. You know what I'm saying?"
Griff grunts noncommittally.
"Like the Y2K thing."
"Aw jeez," Griff rolls his eyes, "here we go again. Cass, ain't that dog dead, yet?"
"It was a good idea, Griff. You know it was."
"If you say so."
Couple three years ago, everybody was freaking out about the coming millennium, like we'd never seen one before. Last time it was a plague or something that was gonna wipe us all out; this time it was computers. Apparently, the machines couldn't handle dates very well, and everything was supposed to shut down and freeze up on New Years day 2000 A.D. Anyway, it was supposed to be this big disaster, a regular post-apocalyptic Mel Gibson movie complete with ravaging hordes of downwardly mobile city-dwellers killing each other off for food, shelter, and sex.
Well, Owen isn't large, but it is, technically speaking, a city, and it is right down the highway from Atlanta, so I figured we'd be seeing some of this ravaging action ourselves. I also figured that we'd be out of jobs, seeing as the local populace would be doing Lucky's job for him for free. So I worked out this masterful security system for me and my nearest and dearest. Well, Griff.
The beauty of this system was its stunning simplicity. It was basically a system of signals and counter-signals, only streamlined. You see, the problem with most password systems is that they have to be changed fairly frequently. Not so with mine. I based my system on the number thirteen. Whenever someone knocked on my door, I'd give a number, and the counter-signal would be whatever number would add up to thirteen. Griff and I practiced for weeks before the dreaded day.
"Eight," I'd say.
"Christ on a Cross, Cass."
"Eight."
"Come on. Lemme in dammit"
"Look, Griff, what if this was the real thing? How would I know it's you?"
Putrid yellow smoke would waft in under the door.
"Very funny. Eight."
"Alright already. Five. Are you happy, now?"
But the four horsemen stayed home, and Ragnarok never came. The only thing happened was the city hall lights went out precisely at midnight on New Year's Eve, but they go out precisely at midnight every night. I tried to keep up the practice, but it lost its magic when the computers kept working and life went on as normal.
Griff brings me out of my reverie by snapping his blade shut and turning to me. "Look," he says, "I ain't sayin' our job's a bed'o'roses, by any means. All I'm sayin' is it could be worse. What would we be without it?"
"Cleaner?"
"No." Griff points his stubby finger at me. "You'd be an unemployed alcoholic on skid row, and I'd be out in the street living behind a dumpster or something."
I look at him but say nothing.
"And we'd both be broke. What about that roll of bills Lucky gave us? Huh?" Griff smiles triumphantly. "Where we gonna get that kinda dough just for puttin' the fear o'God into some mope?"
"In a board game, maybe?" With one hand on the wheel, I reach into my pocket and toss him the roll. Griff's smile falls as he pulls the top two twenties from the roll. Underneath is a roll of light green bills sporting a stylized locomotive in the top right corner and a geometric house in the lower left. I turn left onto Ash Lane. There's only one driveway.
"The only thing keeping us here, Griff," I say as I pull onto the curb in front of the house, "is fear of what Lucky'd do if we stopped. We were promised, wealth, power, and principalities. We'll be lucky to be janitors of Powers and Principalities. Now put on your game face; we're here."
There's a wooden sign by the driveway. "Welcome to the Broad Gleaming Ringhorn," it says, "Please Keep off the Grass." I fucking hate people who name their houses. It's so pretentious, like they think they're gods or something. Who cares if it's got a silver roof and two gold pillars supporting the threshold. It's still not much of a house. For one thing, it's all one level and made of wooden logs like some kind of big frontier cabin; they can't even afford vinyl siding. It sits along the right side of the yard, and parallel to it is another long wooden building with two cars in it. I smile to myself wondering what kind of idiots don't think to attach the garage to the rest of the house. At the head of the yard he's built a kind of garden shed out of what must've been the leftover logs from the house and garage. He could've saved a lot of money if he'd forgotten about the silver and gold and built it all as one structure. He could've really had something to be proud of, but who am I to judge?
When we reach the door, I pull the cord for the door chime while Griff raps loudly on the brass knocker. Presently the door is answered by the most beautiful man I've ever seen. Now let me remind you that there isn't a homosexual bone in my body. I'm about as straight as they come; I'm all about the ladies. It's just that "beautiful" is the only word to adequately describe William Dair.
He stood a little taller than me, and even though, he was pale of skin, this wasn't a flaw since it accented his clothing perfectly. He wore a double-breasted white suit (which he filled out perfectly: not a wrinkle or a stretched seam anywhere) with a silver tie and golden pin. His most striking feature, though, was his face. His long hair was so white it gleamed like the roof of his house, and underneath his bangs his eyes were ice-blue and piercing. He smiles when he opens the door, and this calming feeling of gentle peace emanates from him. I hate him immediately.
"Good morning," he says, "May I help you?"
Suddenly I'm all professional. As much as I bitch about this job, I'm a natural at it. I really am. "Mr. Dair?"
"Yes."
Griff stands slightly behind me and glares at him, trying to throw him off-kilter, but Dair is the picture of serene congeniality.
"Mr. William Dair?" I ask, just to be sure. There could be more than one Dair here, you know.
"Yes?" Not even a hint of irritation. This guy is good. Griff quietly growls, but Dair seems not to notice.
"Bill?" A woman's voice comes from within. "Who is it?"
"Nobody, Nan." He speaks over his shoulder. "Just a couple of guys."
"What do they want?" She at least seems nervous.
"That's what I'm trying to find out, honey." He turns back to us. "What can I do for you fellows?"
"Rich sent us," Griff growls from behind me.
"Excuse me?" Dair's smile grows broader.
"Albert Rich." I stand up a little straighter and look Bill Dair right in the eye. "You took something very valuable from him some time ago, and he wants it back." I smile back at him.
"I'm afraid, you boys are mistaken. I've taken nothing from Rich that didn't willingly part with him first." Dair steps onto his doorstep and tries to maneuver himself past us. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work. Please relay my condolences to Mr. Rich for his loss, but this envoy has been in vain."
I put my hand against the wall, blocking his path. "I'm afraid, I can't do that, Mr. Dair. You see my instructions were very explicit."
Griff positions himself behind Dair, nonchalantly draws his knife, and once again begins cleaning his nails, smiling the whole time.
"Look, Bill," I move my hand to rest gently on his shoulder. Dair simply looks patiently into my face. "I don't want to do anything we'll both regret on later reflection. You see, I've found myself in a crisis of faith today."
"Weeping Jesus on Calvary," Griff sighs. "Give the poor man a break, will you. Just rough him up and move on."
I ignore him and look plaintively at Dair.
"Lately, my life has slipped into a direction I'm not sure I want it to go. I'm concerned about my future and afraid I don't really have one in my present circumstances."
Dair smiles and gently removes my hand from his shoulder. "Mr. McAlistair," he says gently. It's not until later that I wonder how he knew my name. "I believe I understand perfectly. We've all been through this before, and your answer is obvious."
"Would you two like to lie on a couch or somethin'." Griff is tapping his foot impatiently and rubbing the mistletoe hilt of his knife. "I mean, I got nuthin' but time, here."
"I'm glad you understand, Mr. Dair. Truly, I am." I shoot Griff an irritated glance and continue. "We find ourselves in a seemingly hopeless situation. We've been tasked with retrieving Mr. Rich's property. Clearly, you're unwilling to assist. And honestly, who can blame you? I'm sure Nan is a beautiful woman, a loving wife, and loyal friend." Dair winces ever so slightly at the sound of his wife's name on my tongue. "Fortunately, I have been authorized to give you an out."
I've finally caught him off guard. I told you; I'm a natural at this job. For the first time since answering the door, Bill Dair blinks. "An out?" he asks. "What kind of an out?"
Griff catches up with me and smiles. I pull the photo album from my jacket pocket and flip it open. A chain of pictures unfolds, depicting women of all shapes and shades. "Pick one, and she's yours." My smile turns into a leer.
Dair's smile turns cold and he stares daggers at me. "Not interested."
"I tell you what," I tuck the chain of pictures into Dair's breast pocket. "You drive a hard bargain, and I shouldn't do this; I really shouldn't, but go ahead and pick two. One for the weekends."
"I think the two of you should leave now. Obviously, your employer failed to inform you who I am, and I'll give you the benefit of a doubt."
Griff chuckles menacingly behind Dair. "Oh no Bill. I know exactly who you are."
"I tell you what," My smile fades and I look almost sadly into Dair's eyes. "As I said, I'm concerned about my life's misdirection, and instead of risking my own peace of mind, I'd rather let you consider our offer." I pat Dair reassuringly on his shoulder. "Why don't we come back in about an hour, hmm? Please have Mr. Rich's property packed and ready to go."
It doesn't happen often, but I can be taken by surprise sometimes, and Dair's left hook into my jaw certainly does that. I never figured him for a southpaw. As my head whips around, something snaps. I understand who I am and what I do, and I slide comfortably back into my place in the world.
Yeah, the benefits suck, I think as I rub my jaw and glare coldly into Bill Dair's face, but enjoyment has to count for something. After all, if you can't take pride in your own handiwork, what have you got?
I shake off the pain as Griff grabs my assailant from behind and places the blade of his shiv ever so tenderly upon Dair's neck. "You shouldn't ouhgta done that to Cass." He whispers into Dair's right ear. "He don't like bein' hit."
I say nothing as I knee Dair's groin. He doesn't seem to react.
"Y'see," Griff continues, "His dad used to hit him as kid."
I throw a punch into Dair's gut. Again no reaction.
"So he walked into a bar one night and blew his ol'man's head clean off."
I go berserk, kicking punching, slapping. I even bite his nose at one point and spit in his ear. Dair never so much as flinches.
"You don't wanna know what he did with the body."
"Bill, dear? What's going on?" A very fetching blonde stands just inside the doorway, clutching her dressing gown at her neck. I can see why Rich desires her so. While she's not as beautiful as Al Fodder's wife, Brigit, she's certainly a close second.
"Go back in the house. Now." Dair's voice is shaking with anger and fear, revealing his weakness.
"But Bal-"
"Dammit, Nanna! Go inside! Put the bar on the door and hide!" Dair is really scared now. Not because of what we can do to him. (truth be told, I don't think there's much we can do to someone who doesn't want to be hurt). No, Dair fears what we'll do to his wife.
"You needn't worry about the missus, Bill." I pat his silver hair reassuringly. Griff continues to hold him as I move to the door and try the latch. It won't budge. Bitch must've barred the door like he told her. I speak over my shoulder "We've been instructed to leave her unharmed." I smile at the door and imagine the iron bar holding it in place. "You, however," I hear Griff snicker as I return to face our quarry. "Well, our employer gave us strict instructions to enjoy ourselves. I've had my fun, so now it's Griff's turn."
Griff laughs like a boy turned loose from school early, and presses his knife deeper into Dair's flesh. "I like this knife a lot, y'know. It's got craftsmanship. Not many people care about craftsmanship no more. Most things don't work like they're s'posed to, but this knife," Griff turns Dair around to face him. "This knife works. Lucky had it made for just this kind of situation."
For the second time, Dair is caught off guard. His eyes open wide and his jaw drops. "Loki?"
Griff giggles like a schoolgirl as he drives the knife deep into Bill Dair's left eye. Then, because Griff has such an attraction for the symmetrical, he plunges the blade into Bill Dair's right eye. Dair doesn't react in the least as Griff removes the knife and wipes his finger across the blade to remove the clear sticky fluid. "You gotta take care of blade like this. Don't want it to rust or nothin'." Griff sticks his finger in his mouth and licks it clean. "The jelly's the best part."
When Dair still makes no reaction, Griff gets frustrated. "Well, damn," he whines, "it's no fun playin' if yer not gonna act right." Then he plunges the knife into Dair's heart and almost goes through his spine. When he removes his arm from Dair's chest cavity, the body falls to the doorstep, face down and quite dead. Bill Dair never uttered so much as a whimper.
Griff pulls out the tail of his shirt and begins wiping Dair's blood from the switchblade.
I look disdainfully at his stained t-shirt. It looks like the Kool-Aid man wet himself. "What, you're not going to eat that, too?"
"Nah," he makes a face. "Too much iron makes my mouth taste funny. So what do we do now? Fetch the girl?"
"Don't think so." I point to the door. "She's barred us out, remember? I don't believe the two of us have the power to move an iron bar." Griff grunts in agreement.
"Besides," I continue as I approach Dair's body, "you know how Lucky is about following instructions to the letter. He told us to have a polite word with Mr. Dair, here. We did. He told us to offer him an out. We did. He told us to enjoy ourselves if he refused. I've got no complaints. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"I guess." Griff closes the switch-blade and puts it back in his overalls pocket. "He didn't play right, though. He coulda at least whimpered or somethin'."
"My point is," I roll the corpse over, grab the legs, and pull it into the yard. The white suit is covered in red stains, now. A squirrel watches us from the other side of the yard chewing thoughtfully on an acorn. "Lucky didn't say nothing about bringing the woman with us." The face still has a smile on it, but it no longer gleams. I reach into my pocket, pull out two quarters, and place one on each eye, tails up. "All he said was not to harm her." I carefully fold the hands over the chest. "Small chance of that with the door barred against us." Finally, I straighten the legs and point the toes of the shoes up. The squirrel runs up the trunk of a nearby tree and disappears. "I'd say we're done, here; wouldn't you."
"Fine w'me." Griff walks across the grass to the van. "Let's go eat somethin'. I'm starved."
I felt positively giddy as I sat in the driver's seat and adjusted the mirror. The sky was beginning to cloud over as Nan timidly opened the door and peeked outside. When she saw her husband spread out for the ravens, she ran into the yard with a scream, throwing herself over the body. She looked up at the van with tears streaming down her face and screamed curses at us. As I cranked the engine and pulled away, I smiled and waved, secure in the knowledge of a job well done and finally satisfied with my place in the world.
"You know, Griff," I said as I cut off a mini-van laden with yapping rugrats, "I've been thinking."
"Oh shit, we better get right with God." Griff punched the cigarette lighter, and I didn't stop him this time.
"We need to get you a cell phone."
"What the fuck for?" Griff stared at me as if I'd suddenly grown two snakes out of my head.
"I got it all planned. If there's some kind of nuclear attack or something," I slammed on my breaks and swerved into the on-coming lane, "we could get in touch with each other at a moment's notice and head for the valley away from the fallout and ravaging hordes of radioactive mutants."
"Shut-the-fuck-up and drive, Cass."