Burgess, with Luther
Stringfellow next to him, pulled into the gravel lot of Foster’s hardware
store. “We’ll get a couple of post-hole
diggers an’ a sharpshooter. We’ll see
what else we might need.” He stepped one
foot out of the truck. When Luther sat
unmoving in the passenger seat, he hesitated.
“I’ll wait out here,” said
Luther.
“What? What are you talkin’ about?”
“You see that ol’ blue
pick-up? That belongs to R.L. Hicks.”
“So?”
“He’s de one I tol’ you
about; got me fired from de lumber ya’d.”
“Oh, that bastard. Well, you’re
with me. There won’t be any trouble.”
“They’ll be trouble for bot’
uv us. I ain’t kiddin’ yuh,
Burgess. R.L., he’s mean as a
snake. I go in dere, he’ll make sump’um
of it. I swear he will. He hates colored folks. Me ‘specially. He’s always makin’ trouble.”
“Luther – “
“He’s KKK!” Burgess stood eyein’ Luther, one foot on the
gravel, one foot still in the truck. “I
mean it, Burgess. You go in. I’ll wait heah. Best to avoid trouble when yuh can.”
“Suit yourself,” said
Burgess, stepping out and slamming the truck door. “I guess, I’m s’posed to carry all the shit
by myself.”
Burgess entered the store
through the screen door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
“Hey,
Burgess. Pull up a chair. Set a spell,” said Plez Foster. Four men were seated near a wood stove which
still held the embers of the morning fire.
“You know R.L. Hicks?”
“Don’t
believe I do,” said Burgess, shaking the man’s thick, meaty hand.
“His
boy Junior ... an’ you know Harry Evans.”
Burgess nodded and took a seat.
“Anyways,”
said R.L. He had been in the middle of a
story and seemed annoyed at the interruption.
“I cleaned out ol’ Lonnie Pritchett in a poker game a week ago last
night, over at Brook’s Lounge.”
“Barely got out with the
shirt on his back,” said Junior, laughing.
“Brooks cashed Pritchett’s paycheck for him halfway through the
game. A week’s pay. He lost ev’ry dime of it.”
“On the last hand,”
continued R.L., “he was seven dollars shy of seein’ everybody’s cards, so we
let him put in an IOU. Well, he
lost. An’ I won. He tol’ me he’d pay me ‘fore Sunday night an’
I ain’t seen the bastard since.”
“Lonnie
gets to drinkin’ and gamblin’ an’ he loses what little sense he’s got,” said
Harry.
“He’s
one dumb son of a bitch,” said R.L.
“Can’t
play poker worth a shit,” said Junior with a strange sort of snicker.
“You
know Pritchett, don’t you, Burgess?” asked Plez.
“I
know him some. He shows up at my church
every now an’ then.” Burgess turned to
look at R.L. “His wife an’ two little
girls come every Sunday.”
R.L.
threw Burgess a curious glance without moving his head. He was quiet for a spell, the silence growing
thick among the five men. “Anyways,” he
said, “Now, I have to whip that ol’ boy’s ass.”
“R.L. You ain’t go’n’ whip a man’s ass for seven
dollars, are you?” asked Plez.
“It
ain’t the money, Plez. It’s the
principal. He lied to me.”
“Lonnie
is a mighty big fellah,” said Burgess.
“The
bigger they come, the harder they fall,” said Junior, snickering and looking
over at his father.
R.L. was silent for a time,
studying Burgess. Then, he said, “I got
skinned in a card game once. I was ‘bout
Junior’s age. I had me a job with a road
crew, spreadin’ gravel. Travelin’ here
an’ there. First time in my life I ever
had any money. There was this honky-tonk
down in Elberton. I was underage but
they let me in ‘cause I had some money to gamble with.
“The man who run the game
was named Lawless. I don’t remember his
first name, jus’ that name – Lawless. He
wore this fancy hat perched up on the back of head. He was a jokester. He was a smart-ass. Anyways, he picked me clean. Plucked me like a chicken. Then, he laughed at me. Made fun of me. Tol’ me to git back up in them hills where I
belonged.
“Well, I went out to my
truck. There was a two-by-four in the
back of it, ‘bout yea long. An’ I waited
in that parkin’ lot prob’bly two hours.
I remember it was a cold night, too.
Finally, that son of a bitch came out.
I sneaked up behind him an’ crushed that fancy little hat with my
two-by-four. Sent him sprawlin’ across
the gravel.” R.L. paused for
effect. “I got my money back.” Turning toward Burgess, he added, “It don’t
matter how big he is. Worse comes to
worse, I got a little bulldog ...” R.L. formed his beefy right hand into the
shape of a pistol, “ ... that barks over here an’ bites way the hell over
yonder.”
Junior laughed at the
joke. “Nobody gets nothin’ on Daddy.”
R.L. was silent again,
looking over toward Burgess. Suddenly,
he stood up an’
said, “Junior, you an’ me need to make like a horse
turd ... an’ hit the dusty trail.”
“An
‘I better git back to tendin’ my store,” said Plez, “’fore I run it outta
business.”
“You
take good care of my investment now, Plez,” said R.L.
“Oh,
I will, R.L. You can bet on it.” Junior snickered again. R.L. gave out a sort of snort that was
curiously devoid of any mirth. Plez
grinned sheepishly at the unintended joke.
“Yessir,” he said again, “You can bet on it.”
R.L.
and Junior left the store without another word.
Burgess watched them through the front window as they drove away.
“What can I do for you,
Burgess Moore?” asked Plez.
“I need some horse fencin’
an’ some creosote posts. Some odds an’
ends.’
Out of the side of his
mouth, Plez said in a low voice. “I got
a fresh supply of ‘shine in, if you’re int’rested.”
“That stuff rots your brain,
Plez.”
“Mostly, it’s your stomach,”
said Plez. “But, it do fire a body up.”
“I’ll pass,” said Burgess,
“but, I reckon Runt’ll be over here on the run.
He can smell corn from across the county.”
“He’s a mighty good
customer,” said Plez with sincerity.
“Mind if I call in my
helper?” asked Burgess.. “I might need
him to tote some things.”
“Luther? I was wond’rin’ where he was.”
.Burgess stepped to the door
and called. Luther came out from behind
the side of the store. “Come on in here.”
“Yes, suh, Mr. Moore,” said Luther.
Burgess gave him a wink,
nodding in the direction of R.L. Hicks.
“That’s about the rottenest bastard I’ve seen outside a jail cell,” said
Burgess.
“Rotten basta’ds, bot’ of
‘em,” Luther answered. “Junior’s jus’ as
mean as de ol’ man.”
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