Dirty South

“Lord, Lord. He killed my brother.” Teddy ran to his desk and I watched him. Manic and angry. Three hundred pounds of crying grief. Wringing his hands, face crunched tight in sorrow.

“You made this all happen, Nick,” Teddy said. “You got everybody to come to Jesus. Thank you, Nick. Thank you, Nick. Thank you, Nick. Malcolm knew you’d do right.”

He hugged me awkwardly again. “Brill is dead,” Teddy said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “The cops are looking for him. Dahlia turned on Trey and Christian.”

“She what?” Teddy asked.

“They messed up her mind,” I said. “Her soul is gone. They used her up, man.”

“Jesus. Jesus,” Teddy said. “Malcolm said you’d set it straight. I didn’t believe him. That day when we come to you, I told him he’s bein’ foolish. But that boy knew you’d set it straight. He always look up to you. Even when he was a kid.”

I smiled. I patted Teddy on the back. “Come on, let’s go.”

He fell to his knees. He dragged all the papers off his desk and toppled hundreds of CDs. He tried to stand, bounding like a trapped elephant, scattering plastic everywhere.

“Malcolm,” he screamed. “Malcolm. Lord God. Help me.”

He found his feet and gained his composure, wiping his face with the tail of his red silk shirt. He mopped his face, exposing his massive hairless stomach.

I watched him as he reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a handgun.

“Jesus, no,” I said. “The police will get his ass.”

“Trey couldn’t get enough. He had to bring in the kid.”

I looked at him and tilted my head.

Before I could speak, Teddy leveled the gun at me and fired off three quick rounds, dropping me onto his white carpet. I had to bite into my arm to stop the heat and pain.

“We wouldn’t never found out about Trey and Dahlia wasn’t for you,” Teddy said. “We appreciate that.”

Hard shoes kicked into me and rolled me on my back with the toe.

I stared up into the green eyes of Christian Chase.

67

YOU CAN’T SLEEP. It’s 4 A.M. and the old man snorin’ in Nick’s bed, his friend Bronco watching a black-and-white movie from the Old West. Bronco doesn’t care much for the man in the mask but he sure like that Indian that ride with him. Every time some shit goes down, Bronco give you a nudge in the ribs and say wake up and listen.

The warehouse seem like a big cave to you, some kind of place where you keep an airplane. Big fans work up the tin ceiling and the smooth wood on the floor feels soft on your bare feet. But you ain’t got no comfort. Neither does the dog. She knows something wrong. The way she just hang by the door, making some whimperin’ sounds.

The old man shootin’ up out of bed in his nightshirt, silver hair on his chest. “Nick?”

“It ain’t him,” you say. “He ain’t back.”

“What time is it?”

“Four.”

He sighs real tight. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” you ask. “I called Teddy fifty times.”

“Show me,” JoJo said, snaking his belt through his britches and buttonin’ up his shirt.

Bronco watches him, stands, cuts off the TV, and straps the shoulders onto his country-ass overalls. His eyes are real hard as he reaches for his cigarettes and some shotgun he bought that he call “Sweet Sixteen.”

“Smells,” JoJo said.

You nod. Things are wrong. Feel wrong in your head.

You stand and walk over to the sink, pourin’ cold water into your hands and watching the sink fill up while you wash your face. As you bend into the water, you watch the Superman symbol Dio touched sink into the clear water like an anchor.