Chaingang

“What's your name, son? I'm John Oscar.” He was holding out his hand to shake hands. Chaingang blinked. The old man was not the least put off, he'd been around the retarded all his life. It wasn't a problem. They was just like anybody else. He patted the big leg of the giant wedged next to him. It was the second time a man had put hands on him like that in recent memory. The next time it happened, that offender would lose those digits.

“I don't know my own name sometimes, son. It's my age. I don't know for sure how old I am, but I'm old enough I can recall riding the rods in the Great Depression. You have no i-dee what I'm talking about, do ya, boy?” Daniel blinked again. Swallowed. Finally managed a monosyllabic grunt. “Don't worry none."

“You ever fish below here? Slabtown? I use rank liver on big ol’ game-fish test. And look here, son. Homemade sinkers. You know what I make ‘em out of?” The big feller didn't seem to be interested, so he reached for his other pole. “Here.” He jabbed it at Chaingang. “Take this. Go on. Don't be afraid. Take holt of it real good."

Daniel opened a fist, and his big fingers swallowed the end of the bamboo pole.

“That's it, big ‘un. Now, keep that end of the pole pointed up more,” he scolded. “That's right. Soon as that pulls, you hold on real tight and we'll catch us some fish. How's that sound?"

Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski, his mind in icy pieces, sat quietly, obediently, on the edge of Blue Feature Thirty-One, fishing with John Oscar. Happy as two peas in a pod.

11

WATERTON

Hawthorne's funky ride, a superannuated-looking Ranchero that appeared to have seen about twenty better years, was parked on an out-of-the-way side street off Waterworks Road. Half a block away, near a small convenience store, he whispered hoarsely into a pay phone.

“Thank you,” he said, hanging up the receiver. The phone rang shrilly and he snatched it off the cradle, but a female voice instructed him to deposit money. He'd forgotten about the operator. He dropped coins and listened to the pinging routine. Shortly thereafter Southwestern Bell delivered him into the waiting arms of AT&T.

Someone spoke into his ear from two hundred miles away, and he said what he hoped were the magic words: “I'd like to speak with someone about buying some insurance.” The connection was noisy and the man's voice sounded far away.

“Who's calling please?"

“This is a man who's insurance—” Jesus in Heaven! Suddenly his mind had gone completely blank. A hundred times they'd gone over this. The stupid fucking routine. “This is a man who's—” What? An insurance fraud? Insurance policy? Insurance poor! “—insurance poor!" he blurted out, as if he'd just won the bonus question on a game show.

“Number?"

His number. What in the hell was wrong with him? He'd forgotten everything over this Drexel deal.

He finally snapped out of it and whispered the number. The man's voice requested corroboration of the pay telephone number, asking it in a certain way so that Hawthorne could clue them if he was “under severe and immediate threat."

He hung up, and it was a few moments this time before the telephone rang again. He grabbed at it.

“What?” The daddy rabbit's voice was one he had no trouble remembering.

“The guy I had set to make the initial buy ... he fell apart on me."

“Yeah? So?"

“I need some money, man! I need five grand."

“Go get it. You're the big drug pusher."

“Funny.” The fucking prick. “I don't have anybody else to take that kinda weight around Waterton fucking Missouri, you dig? I need you to cut me a huss, ya know?"

“You're jeopardizing this by even using this number. Now, you solve your problem, mister!” the voice growled in his ear. “And don't use this number again unless it's important.” Click.

God almighty. He just stood there with the thing in his hand, a noisy nothing in his ear. He swallowed and his ears popped like he was depressurizing. He had to do some sniff and get his shit together.

Those fucking pricks.

Royce Hawthorne had called her, sounding so funny over the phone that she assumed he might have learned something. He was on his way over to talk with her.

She was still dressed up from making the rounds with, the reward handbills, and was glad she hadn't had time to undress before the telephone rang. She answered the door wearing her fancy black gabardine suit jacket, with a straight short skirt, and Royce made a show about her being dressed up.

“Wow!” he said. “You look sensational, Mary.” She was the Mary he remembered. More beautiful, in fact, than he remembered seeing her.

“I bet,” she said. She'd washed her hair and put on makeup, but she felt tired to the bone, and she figured it must show.

“I mean it,” he said, obviously sincere.

“Thanks.” She asked him to sit down, wanting him to tell her what he'd learned. He made small talk, and she started getting the nagging feeling it was something bad.

“Royce, have you learned something about Sam having a mistress or something?"