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Chapter 5

(I)

“Maw? Maw? It’s me, Helton…”

Helton sat in the metal chair next to the convalescent bed, looking sorrowfully down at the wizened form of his 80-some-odd-year-old mother, Petunia Tuckton. The stroke last year had landed the noble backwoods matriarch here in the Daisy-Chase Nursing Home, and it was a place Helton could scarcely fathom, part of a system that for some inexplicable reason wouldn’t let dying people die. Upon entrance, he first noticed rows of hoppers heaped high with brown-stained linens. An unnerving silence was periodically broken by inane jabbering, hacking, and lone shrieks. Mostly overweight women who spoke not one word of the English language listlessly pushed medication carts from door to door. Several doors stood upon, revealing shuddering stick-figures beneath sheets, sunken-faced, hollow-eyed: seemingly cadavers that jabbered. No way to live, no sir, Helton thought. In one room, he saw the darnedest thing: a fat nurse in pigtails had pulled up the hospital gown of an absolutely ancient man. Bare, paper-white legs stuck out with knees the size of grapefruits. What kind’a pree-vert show we GOT here? Helton wondered, because now the nurse had the old man’s withered dick between her fingers, and what she did next…

What she did next was she began to insert a long clear plastic tube into the old man’s dickhole!

She pushed the tube down, down, down, and then, when it must’ve been in the poor old fucker two feet…the tube began to fill with piss. Helton’s astonished eyes followed that piss, which ran all the way down the tube and began to empty into a plastic bag…

Good God! They steal folks PEE in this crazy place!

Helton didn’t understand and didn’t want to. His big frame moved on past the nurses station over which hung Christmas decorations. A fella in white clothes sat asleep before a television where a bunch of tall, black fellas in the silliest little shorts and shirts were running back and forth on the wood floor, bouncing a ball. On a cork board, Helton spied an index card that read: HELP WANTED: YOU CAN EARN $10 PER HOUR CUTTING PATIENTS’ TOENAILS! APPLY AT FRONT DESK.

A dense, diarrhea-ish odor followed Helton to his mother’s room.

It pained him to see her like this, and pained him more to notice one of those bags of discolored urine connected to her bed as well. God in Heaven—they’se are even stealin’ my OWN MAW’S pee… Six-motherfuckin’-thousand-dollars a month is what this creepy, feces-smelling hell-hole cost, but Petunia had wisely never kept her cash in the bank; indeed, she remembered the “Bank Holidays” of the Great Depression and “that connivin’ closet Commer-nist FDR!” Too many good folks had lost everything back then, all because they trusted their government. Petunia knew better, which is why she kept all of her money hidden in a secret place. Fuck the government. This way, Medicaid got stuck with the six-motherfuckin’-thousand-dollar-per-month nursing-home fee, and this was Helton’s good fortune now. He’d never before asked his mother for money—money was something he rarely needed—but he knew she’d understand once he explained the complexion of the matter.

He kept gently nudging her. “Maw?”

The withered face looked like something trying to suck in on itself. Flap-like eyelids fluttered; then a rheumy gaze found Helton’s face.

“Helton, my wonderful son,” the voice creaked like old boat timbers. “It’s heavenly to see ya but—oh, dear, son—ya know I asked ya not to visit me. I just cain’t bear fer no one to see me like this…”

Helton squeezed her ancient hand. “I knows, Maw, and I’se terrible sorry fer not abidin’ by your wishes, but see…see… Somethin’ happened…”

Old and dilapidated as the woman was, her senses immediately seized on her son’s words. “Aw, Lord Almighty…is it my great grandson Crory?”

Helton swallowed hard. He could still hear the monstrous sounds from that DVD machine, the sounds the poor tot’s head made whiles goin’ in and out, in and out. “Yeah, Maw,” was the only reply he could muster.

The vigorless woman seemed to age another year just in the next few seconds; wells of tears magnified the cataracts in her eyes. “What yer face is tellin’ me, son, is my wonderful grandson is dead—”

Helton nodded.

“—and it weren’t by accident.”

Helton had to steel himself. “No, it weren’t—it were cold-blooded murder, Maw, of the horriblest kind. S’matter’a fact, what they done to Crory was so awful, I couldn’t never tell ya ’bout it, never.”

The old woman’s breath rattled in her sunken chest. She made a despairing nod. “I’se understand, son.”

“I knowed ya would, Maw. Ain’t no recourse but ta git our proper revenge, and with God’s help, I think I can.” He looked deeply at her. “See, Maw, what was done ta Crory was so devilsh, there ain’t but one way ta deal with it…”

Petunia Tuckton brought a crabbed hand to her bosom and moaned. “Aw, son, I know! I know what yer talkin’ ’bout! Thought them days was done, but I guess that were just wishful thinkin’. The world don’t get better, it just gets eviller. And I trust in yer judgment so’s…you do what’cha must.”

“I gots the truck, and Dumar’n Micky-Mack’re with me to help. But, see, we’se gonna have to be on the road, maybe fer a spell. We’se gonna have to go out inta the world, Maw.”

The woman nodded knowingly. “So’s you’ll need money ta do that, I know.” With great effort, then, Petunia leaned up, grabbed Helton’s collar, and pulled him close to whisper, “Ya gots my permission ta take as much as ya need.”

Helton knew he’d have to keep his voice down. If the folks here found out his mother had a stockpile of cash, then that six-motherfuckin’-thousand-dollar-per-month nursing-home bill would surely be levied against the Tuckton family.

Fuck that.

“Thanks, Maw. I’ll leave ya now, so’s we can go’n fight fer the family’s dig-ner-tee. When it’s all done…I’ll come back’n tell ya…”

“My wonderful, wonderful son,” the old woman wheezed. “It ain’t natural fer no one ta be livin’ in the wretched state I am—ain’t what God intended, these nursin’ homes. And I know my time’s near.” The claw-like hand grabbed Helton’s. “Ain’t nothin’ more important than family, son, so you do what’cha need to so’s ta restore the family name. God be with ya, and if’n I move on to the Firmament’a Heaven a’fore your tasks are done…just know I’ll be smilin’ down on ya the whole time…”

Choking up, Helton kissed his mother on the cheek and left.

The truck waited outside in the parking lot: a 20-year-old behemoth of a step van nearly twenty feet long. Helton and Dumar’s know-how of engines and such kept the corroded rattle-trap in fine working order, though they rarely used it for anything more than transporting firewood. The door on either side slid open, quite like that of a UPS truck.

“How’s Grandma?” Dumar asked behind the wheel.

Micky-Mack looked up from the back, hope in his eyes.

“Best we not speak of it, fellas.”

A short drive past Crick City took them to Petunia’s fine, old log cabin, and it only expended minutes for Helton to retrieve $50,000 in banded $100 bills. Best to have more’n we need than not enough, he reasoned. But now further provisions would be required…

“Where to now, Paw?”

“Boys. I’ll ‘splain more as we go,” Helton said, fairly dreading what came next. “Life has it’s travails, as my Daddy used to say. We ain’t city folks but I’se afraid we’se gonna have to go to the city now. The big city…”

Dumar and Mick-Macky cast Helton beseeching looks.

“Pulaski,” Helton finished.

In their youth, Dumar and Micky-Mack were excited by the prospect; it was very rare that any of them left their backwoods domain. Helton could see the evil of the city, could see how cities changed folks in their hearts. Traffic lights, shopping malls, cars and trucks going this way and that, folks honkin’ their horns’n givin’ each other the finger… Surely, city life stifled the natural good will of humankind. Helton had seen too many fine men fall prey to the lie. But it didn’t take long to arrive in Pulaski where the first thing they saw were streets lined with buildings—all crammed together—and bigger buildings in the background, apartment buildings, no doubt, where folks lived all hemmed in like chickens in a coop stacked on top of one another. “Watch these blasted traffic lights, son. If’n ya drive through one that’s red, a poe-leece man’ll make ya pay money.”

“Dang! Just fer drivin’ on the street?”

Helton nodded, already disheartened. “This is the world outside’a where true folks like us don’t live.”

“Ain’t been here in so long,” Dumar muttered. “Looks even bigger now.”

“It’s what they call progress…”

“Unc Helton! Cousin Dumar!” Micky-Mack blurted in excitement. He pointed in awe. “Lookit that! A real, live subway station!”

All of them peered at the squat, yellow-roofed building with the SUBWAY sign. “I heard’a subways,” Dumar said.

Helton frowned. “Just more’a the outside world gettin’ inta folks like chiggers.”

Micky-Mack was beside himself. “I heard a subway’s like, a train, but one that runs underground!”

“That it is,” Helton said disapprovingly. “Ain’t nothin’ natural ’bout underground trains.”

But Dumar was squinting at the queer building. “So the trains…are underground?”

“Yeah, they is, son. That’s why we cain’t see ’em.”

“But, shit, Paw. Don’t look to me like they’se selling train tickets in there. Looks like all’s they’re selling are sandwiches,” Dumar said of customers exiting the building as they munched on big long sandwiches.

“Guess they’se fixin’ ta eat them sandwiches while they’se ridin’ the underground train,” Micky-Mack speculated.

Helton nodded. It had been quite a while since he’d been here, but his memory remained keen. He directed Dumar around several more turns. “Nice Christmas decorations,” the younger man observed of the blinking wreaths atop the street lights. “But, ya know, it just don’t…,” and his words trailed off.

How’se can we enjoy the spirit’a Christmas time, Helton realized, after seein’ what happened to poor li’l Crory…

Many of the street posts, however, had signs on them. NEIGHBORHOOD CRIME WATCH, one read, and another: THIS IS A DRUG-FREE ZONE. To divert his souring mood, Helton turned on the radio. Intermittent Christmas music leaked between bars of static, evangelical outbursts, and annoying music. Then he finally found a station with decent reception, a news station.

“Once again the residents of Pulaski awoke to more horror in this Christmas season as authorities report yet another brutal puppy slaying. Deputy Chief Dood Malone has assured us that he and his officers are working round the clock in their effort to apprehend this despicable culprit…”

“What he say?” Micky-Mack asked.

Dumar scratched his head. “He say puppy slayin’?”

With rising bile, Helton listened further.

“Early this morning, a two-month old poodle belonging to long-time resident Adeline Parker was found mutilated and beheaded in the yard of an abandoned southside house. Authorities believe the house had previously been occupied by heroin dealers…”

Dumar’s jaw dropped. “Did he say—”

Helton cut him off with a slash of his finger.

“Members of the Pulaski County Sheriff’s Department remain mystified by the rash of hideous crimes against local pets. The perpetrator is in all likelihood a gang-member from South America where heroin dealers are known to torture, mutilate, and decapitate innocent puppies as a means of issuing warnings to rival drug gangs. Ms. Parker’s puppy, abducted from her yard early this morning, was similarly tortured, mutilated, and decapitated—”

Helton snapped the radio off.

“Jesus Lord Almighty!” Dumar shouted. “You hear that, Paw?”

“They’se torturin’ puppies here!” Micky-Mack nearly squalled. “What kind’a crazy place is this?”

“No point tryin’ ta reckon it, boys,” Helton advised. “In the city? That’s just the way it is.” The idea of someone murdering puppies was simply too much for Helton to bear. “It’s just more’a what I were sayin’, ’bout the outside world. Like earlier when we’se filt the truck up with gas at the Citgo…”

“Yeah,” Dumar said. “Cost damn near a hunnert bucks to fill the tank! Didn’t cost half that much last time we did.”

“It’s the government, fellas. The government lures regular folks from their natural roots and puts ’em in cities, and then they gots ta work jobs like a bunch’a ants in a anthill, and with ever dollar you make, you gotta pay part of it back to the blammed government as part’a these things called taxes, so then the government makes city folks dependent on things like cars, gas, store-bought food, ‘lecktricity and then they make ya pay taxes on that!” Helton shook a rueful head. “Boys, I just hope we’se can avenge young Crory’s death a right quick, ’cos the sooner we’se done doin’ it, the sooner we’se can get back to our natural lives…”

“But how, Paw?” Dumar’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “How we gonna do it?”

“All things at their proper time…”

Helton directed Dumar through several more turns, then instructed him to park in an extensive parking lot.

“Dang!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “Lookit them buildings!”

“They stores, Paw?”

“That they is, and they’se stores we’se gonna have to do some shoppin’ in.” He pointed through the large windshield. “See that ‘un there? Dumar, I know you ain’t much fer readin’, but what that sign there says is, it says Home Depot. It’s a big-ass place they’se sell tools in.”

“Shee-it, Paw, we’se got plenty’a tools—”

“Not the kind we need fer this.” Helton gave his son a handwritten note. “Take this list, son, and give it to the first fella ya see who’s workin’ there. Then once he gathers up ever-thing on the list, ya take it to the counter and ya buy it. Then bring it back ta the truck,” after which Helton placed ten $100 bills in his son’s hand.

“Dang, Paw, that’s a lot’a money!”

“Don’t waste time runnin’ yer mouth. Just git in there, git the tools, then git back.”

“Shore thing, Paw!” and then Dumar was off.

“You’re a bit better at readin’ than Dumar,” Helton told his nephew, “so’s what I want’cha to do first is run over yonder to that buildin’, ’cos it’s what they call…a grocery store.”

Micky-Mack cast a confident grin. “Shee-it, Unc Helton. “I’se been ta grocery stores—three or four times at least!”

“Good. Now, we’se gonna need food durin’ our trip, but it gotta be canned food on account we ain’t gonna be doin’ much cookin’. Get’cha as much as ya can carry, boy.”

“Shore, Unc, but what kind’a canned food?”

“Beans, I reckon, git lots’a beans, and they’se got this other stuff ya probably heard’a, called spaghetti. There’s this famous chef, and I think his name is Boy-Are-Dee. Ya gots that? Boy-Are-Dee. See, he sell his spaghetti in cans. Oh, and pick us up couple’a six-pack’s of Coca-Cola. Can ya remember all that, son?”

“Aw, shore, Unc!”

“Then after ya got us the viddles, ya go over yonder.” Helton pointed. “That there’s a convenience store, kind’a like Old Man Halm’s Qwik-Mart in Luntville, only bigger.”

The sign on the store read SHOP-SMART. “What’cha want me ta fetch there?” Micky-Mack asked.

“A girlie mag.”

“Huh?”

“You know what a girlie mag is, Micky-Mack?”

“Well, shore, but what the hail we need a girlie mag fer if’n we’se fixin’ to revenge the terrible murder’a Crory?”

“We’se need something—and I thinks the word is…provokertive, to look at.”

Micky-Mack peered in utter confusion.

“Somethin’ to keep our peters feisty, you know? Somethin’ we’se can lookit ever so often to keep our bones fit ta spit.”

“Uncle Helton, I’se just don’t understant…”

Helton’s stern finger pointed. “Just do as I say!”

“Yes, sir!”

“And here’s some money—”

“Aw, don’t bother with that, Unc. I’se got some’a my own on account last week I help Nuce Wynchel’n his boy Tube finish diggin’ post holes fer his new fence ’round that land’a his he’s fixin’ ta raise sheep on. This bein’ a family emergency, I’se reckon it’s only proper ta contri-bit my own earnin’s,” and then Micky-Mack withdrew several $20 bills from his jeans.

Helton beamed with pride. “Boy, what you got is what they call character, and that’s a rare thing in these dark days. I’se proud’a ya fer yer fine gesture, but see here. Ya put yer money away and use my Maw’s. It’s the way she’d want it.”

“Well, okay, Unc, whatever ya say.” Micky-Mack took the mint-condition $100 bill from his uncle and started out the truck door, but after a second’s thought, he stopped and turned back to his elder. “But where is you goin’, Uncle Helton?”

“To that great big fancy store ‘cross the street.”

Micky-Mack looked. “You’se mean the one with the giant yeller’n black sign?”

“And all them blinkin’ Christmas lights in the winders, yeah.”

“B-E-S-T…B-U-Y,” he slowly read. “What’cha fixin’ ta buy there?”

Helton stroked his beard. “See, what I’se fixin’ ta buy there…is a camera…”

(II)

“So what time are we going for pizza?” Veronica asked when Mike came out of the office.

“Huh? Oh, Veronica—”

“Yeah, Veronica—you know. Your girlfriend?” She giggled it off, knowing this was just another of his macho games. But—

Did he discretely wince when she’d uttered the word girlfriend?

No, no. Don’t be so paranoid, she scolded herself.

He turned his back to her, dropped change into the employee soda machine, and out clunked a can of Mr. Pibb. He popped it open and took a sip. “Oh, damn. I’d buy you one but I’m out of change.”

Veronica bristled. I don’t want a MR. PIBB! I want YOU!

Mike walked back to the showroom, talking as he walked. “Oh, pizza, wow. You know—jeez—I forgot, I’ve got all this year-end paperwork to do, and I’ll have to take it home. We’ll have to do pizza another time.”

Veronica’s breasts bobbed smartly as she hurried to keep up. “Oh. Well, okay. Tomorrow then, right?” but even just looking at the back of his head, she thought, God, I love him SO MUCH…

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. We’ll have pizza and talk.”

Veronica’s freshly tweaked nipples deflated when he’d said that. And TALK? What did that mean? It sounded…ominous. “Mike, is everything all right? With us, I mean?”

“Huh?” He hurried around the front check-out. “Oh, sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“But-but—”

The bell dinged, then the Greeter—a perky and utterly empty headed teeny bop pert-breasted pixie—said, “Welcome to Best Buy, sir!” She had one of those sticking-out-at-the-top ponytails.

Mike sipped more Mr. Pibb. “Chop-chop, Veronica. Looks like you got a customer…”

The bad vibe was already needling her. Distracted, she noticed the large man loping around the camera counters.

Who is…THAT?

Veronica hustled right over.

It was a very big man, with a jacket she could only think of as “shaggy,” big clunky boots, and a hat like in that old Clint Eastwood movie she’d watched with Mike not too long ago. Something about a sister named Sara. And…

He didn’t smell good.

“Hi, welcome to Best Buy, sir. My name’s Veronica.”

The looming man turned and looked down. Veronica flinched.

He had shaggy grayish hair and a big bushy beard.

“Why, hey there, Veronnerka. My name’s Helton,” and he thrust out his hand which, when fully opened might be able to cover her entire face and half her head. It was with some reluctance that she shook it—it looked kind of dirty—and she flinched again by the texture of his palm: like sandpaper.

“What can I help you with today, sir?”

“Helton, missy. No need ta call me sir. And, see”—he scratched his beard, releasing some trace dandruff. “What it is I need is a camera.”

“Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place—we’ve got the best selection in town.” She manned her station at once, going into saleswoman mode. “We’ve got the new line of Nikon Cool Pix just in.” She picked one up and showed him. “Versatile, easy to use, and modestly priced. They’re practically flying off the shelves.”

The shaggy man looked unimpressed. “Anything that puny ain’t gonna do the job. See, what I need is a movin’-picture camera, Veronnerka.”

The man’s accent was a riot. She giggled. “Why, I haven’t heard that term in years, Helton. What they’re called today are digital video cameras—”

“And I’m gonna need me a dang good one.”

Hmm. “Have you…owned a camera before?”

“Naw, I don’t know from such things. But I reckon I should ‘splain my sitcher-aye-shun, huh? See, I got me this…fella…who I gotta send some…movin’-pictures to.”

“Oh, you want to send videos to a friend.”

The looming man seemed to have some difficulty. “It’s very important…uh, family stuff.”

“Of course, Helton. Christmas movies of the family—”

Shaggy brows shot up. “Why, yeah, somethin’ like that. Sort’a. So’s…say I wanna leave a movie at this friend’s house, or maybe mail it to him, how do I do that, hon?”

Veronica picked up a typical mini-memory card. “Right here, Helton. You can put a beautiful high-rezz video on this card”—she moved over to the video cameras and picked up a Canon ZR900, demonstrating how the memory card fit into the slot—“then give it to your friend or mail it to him. Of course, it’s easier just to email him the vid file but…I’ve got a hunch you don’t own a computer.”

“Naw, naw, missy, I got no fancy fer such things, but…” Helton looked suspiciously at the tiny memory card. “You’re tellin’ me that a movin’-picture’ll fit on that little thing there that ain’t the size’a my thumbnail?”

“Modern technology, Helton. This little card will store a 30-minute movie.”

Helton looked astonished. “Dang. Well, I guess that’s the ticket. Don’t know how many we’ll need—”

“For the Christmas movies.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The Christmas movies. Might have to make…a lot of ’em.”

Veronica tried to sound accommodating, all the while hoping she could sell him the Canon as well. It would up her weekly sales. “It’s what the season’s for—sharing your holiday joy with family and friends.”

Helton paused. “Yeah. And I guess I better be on the safe side. I’ll take twenny’a them little doohickeys.”

“Twenty?”

“You heard me, darlin’. Twenny.” But then he gave a coarse chuckle. “But a’course, now I needs ya to sell me a camera to go along with them li’l things!”

“This Canon right here”—she passed it to him—“is a perfect choice for your needs, and it’s less than $300.”

Helton’s giant hand dwarfed the digital camera. “Veronnerka, what’cha need ta know ’bout me is I’se the kind’a fella who don’t trust nothin’ he cain’t get both hands on. This camera? I don’t like it. It’s too puny. These movies I gotta make—they’re important.”

“Of course, Helton.”

“So let’s not beat ’round the danged bush. I want the best camera ya got.”

This is…weird, she thought. But what did she have to lose? If he was mentally ill or something, she’d have been able to discern that by now. Her hand landed on the Samsung High Def Hybrid. “This, Helton, might suit your needs quite well. But…it’s $850, and since I’m not sure what your budget is—”

Helton shook his head. “Naw. That ‘un’s too puny too.” His lips pursed. “Veronnerka. You tellin’ me that in all’a this big fancy store here, that’s the best camera you got? Hail, girl, ya got tv’s the size’a garage doors! Ya must have a camera bigger’n that.”

Yeah, she thought, this is REAL weird. “All right, Helton. You asked for the best, I’ll show you the best.” She bent over, knowing that her cleavage was in full view. She unlocked the display cabinet and removed the Sony. It clunked when she set it down atop the counter.

“Dang!” Helton raved.

“This, Helton, is the Sony HVR-S27. It’s top of the line. It’s essentially identical to the cameras they use on television news shows, reality TV, soap operas—”

“That the dandiest camera I’se could ever imagine!”

“Lithium-ion battery, home-charger, car-charger, built in light and microphone.” Veronica splayed her hands over the device. “It’s everything you need.”

“Why, I’ll’se take it.”

“Actually, Helton, I haven’t told you the bad news yet.”

“Bad news? There ain’t no bad news. This here’s the ticket. Ring me up.”

She leaned over and whispered. “It’s $7500…”

Helton shrugged, reaching back into a ruck sack pocket. “Like

I said, missy. Ring me up.”

Veronica stared. This is too good to be true. Maybe…Mike is playing a joke. Maybe he had this guy come in here to ACT like he’s buying the most expensive camera in the store, but when she looked up front, she saw Mike and Archie, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. They’re as surprised as I am…

“Check or charge, Helton?”

“What’s that, Veronnerka… Dang, that’s a purdy name.”

“Thank you, Helton.” She smiled. “But…how are you paying?”

Helton roared laughter. “How’s I payin’? With cash money, a’course! What’cha think?”

Veronica almost fell backward when she saw Helton’s thick fingers peeling brand-new $100 bills off a stack. Oh, well. She rang up the total.

Mike’s shoes snapped as he approached. “Can I help you, sir?”

Faster than immediately, Helton frowned. “Naw, fella. Veronnerka’s helpin’ me just fine, so’s you can shuffle on back to standin’ over there doin’ not much’a nothin’.”

Mike smiled tightly. “I’m the store manager, sir, and—wow—that’s a lot of cash. On cash purchases this large, the manager’s got to ring up the sale.”

“Well, shee-it, all right.” Another frown. Then, “Hey there, son! What’choo doin’ writin’ on them there bills?”

Mike wielded the fat pen. “Big bills like this, sir? I’ve got to check each one—it’s the new government counterfeiting law.”

Helton sourly responded, “Government, huh? Shee-it. Cain’t even pay with cash money without havin’ some government goat-rope ta go along with it.”

Mike examined a bill with an amazed scrutiny. “Uh, wow, sir. These are old bills but in mint condition… 1966…” He chuckled. “Keep them in your mattress?”

Helton glared. “It’s my Maw’s money, boy”—then he stuck his big finger right in Mike’s face—“and where she keep it ain’t none’a yer business.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just joking.”

“Jokin’? Well, shee-it, fella. A joke’s s’posed ta be funny, ain’t that right, Veronnerka?” and then the mammoth man belted a laugh and slapped Mike hard on the back. Mike nearly went over the counter.

“It sure is, Helton,” Veronica said.

Mike coughed. “Well, sir, everything seems to be in order. Is there anything else you need today?”

“‘Sides you moseyin’ your slickster-lookin’ self out’a here…why, I don’t know.” The shaggy face tuned to Veronica. “Veronnerka, anythin’ else you reckon I need to go along with my fancy movin’-picture camera?”

Veronica felt flushed from the monumental sale. “Um, well, a tripod would be very useful—”

“We have a great assortment, sir,” Mike barged in. “Would you like me to show you—”

The finger again. “What I’d like, son, is fer you ta disser-pear so’s I can finish my business with my friend Veronnerka.” His gaze swivelled to her. “Ring me up for a tripod, missy—a good ‘un. That all?”

“You might find a carry-case convenient—”

“Ring me up. The best ya got.”

Mike slipped away, ecstatic over the sale. However, Veronica was light-headed now. This is the biggest single sale since I’ve been here! Mike’ll be so happy! Dazed, she got the tripod and the case, rang the additional sale, just as Helton peeled off more of the curiously dated bills, ( which, for those interested, were 1966 Series A notes, signed by then-secretary of the treasury Henry H. Fowler. These were the first $100 bills to bear a watermark).

“Let me help you out with some of this,” she offered.

“Naw, thanks, hon,” and then Helton easily lifted all of his purchases up under his arms. “Wouldn’t think’a lettin’ a purdy, refined gal such as yerself haul such heavy things.” He paused to look down at her. “Dang, in this bass-ackward world’a ours, meetin’ you’s like a breath’a fresh air.”

“Why…thank you, Helton.”

“You’s shorely the nicest city gal I’se ever meet, and I’se hope you have yerself a dandy Christmas.”

“You do the same, Helton,” she said, now fairly flabbergasted. “You’re a very nice person too.”

Helton turned and huffed for the door. “Ask me? What this world needs is ta be full up with Veronnerkas…”

“Need some help, sir?” Archie asked.

“Out my way, son.”

Mike piped up. “Thank you for shopping at Best Buy, sir, and have a happy holiday!”

Helton frowned and loped out of the store.

The instant the automatic doors closed, Mike raged, “Holy SHIT!”

Archie rushed over. “Veronica! The net profits from that sale’ll cover the store’s overhead for the next month and then some!”

Mike was jumping up and down as if on a springboard. “Un-fuckin’-believable! You just rang ten grand to Grizzly Adams!” He practically slid over on his shoes, then picked Veronica up and swirled her around. “What a saleswomen!”

Veronica’s joy at seeing Mike so exuberant brought tears to her eyes. When he gave her a big wet sloppy kiss right on the mouth, her heart pattered and her sex throbbed just short of instantaneous orgasm.

She hugged him desperately, whispering, “Oh, Mike, you don’t know what it means for me to see you so happy…,” and she knew, then, she knew to the very core of her spirit that Mike loved her with his whole heart…

(III)

The Winnebago rumbled toward the edge of town, its business in Pulaski done for the month. It was the beefy lieutenant Argi who drove the luxuriant vehicle, Paulie in the spacious passenger seat, and Cristo and Dr. Prouty sitting behind. In the vehicle’s rear-most compartment, of course, sat the atrocious and fiendishly rank Melda, who was now taking care of another box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.

When Argi made a wide lefthand turn, he squeezed his crotch for no apparent reason…

“All in a day’s work,” Paulie said, seemingly pleased.

“Yeah, boss,” Cristo accentuated. “Made our monthly drop-off to the gang, got our ashes hauled by that killer-bod whore, and pulled off some dynamite vendetta.”

Argi nodded. “Case Piece wasn’t kiddin’ about his squeeze havin’ a body. Shit, the bod on that hosebag’d make St. Augustine knife-fight ya for it.”

“Gotta hand it to that superfly little punk. That chick is smokin’ hot, even with the wrinkled face. Swear to God, guys, she’s got a body even better than Marshie’s.”

“Aw, damn, speakin’ of your wife”—Argi remembered something—“don’t you want me to drop ya off at her house now that we’re done here?”

Paulie shook his head, and took a bite of a cannoli they’d picked up at a local bakery. “Naw. Forgot to tell ya’s. I sent Marshie to Vegas—”

“Vegas?” Argi remarked. “Man, I love Vegas. The old days, we’d whack guys right and left. Leave their fuckin’ heads in the desert and shit.”

“Yeah. But Marshie, she was so down in the dumps about her father’s birthday, I thought I’d send her on a snappy little vacation. She’s waitin’ for me at the Bellagio—I’ll just grab a flight once we get back to Newark.” Paulie rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, when I tell her we did a special job on the family that whacked her father, she’ll fuck me in a big way.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Argi commented. “But, damn, boss, what about your kid—you know, the girl? Since we’re here, don’t ya wanna stop by the house and check on her?”

Paulie winced at the suggestion. “‘Becca? Fuck, she ain’t my kid, she’s my step-kid. Got no idea who the father is, probably some redneck ’cos that’s when Marshie got knocked up with the little smart-ass, back in her redneck days before she got her father’s money. Shit, if I stopped by the house, ‘Becca’d probably hit me up for cash. Last time it was fifty bucks to have her fuckin’ bellybutton pierced, and the time before that it was two-fifty for a goddamn tattoo. A fuckin’ butterfly or some shit, right above her ass. Kids these days, they’re all a bunch of selfish little assholes. And it just irks me, ya know?”

“What’s that, boss?” Cristo asked.

“I’ll wind up havin’ to pay for that kid’s college, and it wasn’t even my nut that knocked Marshie up with her. Just burns me up: spendin’ my hard-earned drug-and-porn cash raisin’ some other dude’s nut. Some redneck in a pickup truck gets the nut, I get the tuition.”

“Just ain’t right,” Argi remarked.

“Yeah, but what can I do?” Paulie conceded. “It’s my wife’s kid, and I love my wife.”

“An honorable burden you’ve taken upon yourself, sir,” Dr. Prouty said.

“Fuck…”

Argi stroked his chin. “But, boss, the kid’s just a teenager, ain’t she?”

“Yeah. The little smart-ass is sixteen.”

“And you and the wife give her the run of the house?”

“Naw, we got a servant looks after her.” He slapped his head, wincing further at the displeasure. “Oh, and I fuckin’ forgot! When ‘Becca turned sixteen, what did Paulie have to do? Had to buy the little shit a car!”

The topic was obviously eroding the boss’s mood, so Argi spoke up, “But, ya know, boss, that whore we fucked with back at the warehouse—Mama Lucretia! What a piece of ass!”

Cristo nodded. “Best fuck I had in a while, maybe even in years. Makes her pussy move kind of like a mouth.”

But the observation seemed to hinder Paulie’s spirit. He stared off…

“Somethin’ botherin’ ya, boss?” Argi asked.

“Indeed,” Dr. Prouty reflected. “Mr. Vinchetti seems to have become disquieted by an errant consideration.”

Cristo leaned his head up front. “Yeah, boss. All of a sudden ya look like someone shot your dog and—shit—you don’t even have a dog.”

“Fuck, fellas,” Paulie replied, eyes narrowed in self-ruminating concern. “I’ll be honest with ya. As hot-lookin’ as that whore was? My dick was harder watchin’ you guys stuff her head in Melda’s cunt than when I was actually fuckin’ her.” He shook his head. “Been thinkin’ about shit like that lately. I mean, all these snuff flicks and torture shit we film for the underground market? I get hard as a rock lookin’ at that sick shit. Startin’ to think maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

“Naw, boss,” Argi excused. “All men get their dicks up watchin’ flicks of women gettin’ raped, tortured, and murdered. It’s just that no one admits it.”

“Yeah, boss,” Cristo piped up.

But Paulie didn’t seem so sure. “Reminds me of a time long time ago—fuck, I was probably only fifteen. My dad… God rest his soul—”

He, Argi, and Cristo crossed themselves.

“My dad was showin’ me the ropes ’bout what goes on up in the compound—you know, givin’ me the ‘One day, son, all this will be yours’ speech—so he shows me how they snatched this gal who was married to some racketeering bigwig in the F.B.I., and my dad, see, he wanted to teach the guy a lesson. So, anyway, they got the guy’s wife stripped naked and hangin’ by her wrists in one of the snuff rooms, and then my dad’s major button at the time, Tony Guerini, he takes a boxcutter and he cuts a line around the bitch’s waist—you know, same place a belt wound be—and then he works his fingers around under the skin, and she’s screamin’ and flippin’ and floppin’, and you know what Tony did then?” Paulie’s eyes widened at the memory. “He starts pullin’ down on the skin, yankin’ it over her ass and legs just like he’s pullin’ off a pair of pants!”

“Oh, I remember Tony,” Argi said. “Hardest-core button I ever saw. One time he machine-gunned a busload of first graders because one of the kids on the bus was a judge’s grandson. Another time he snatched this chick who was cheatin’ on one of your dad’s crew-bosses and tourniqueted her neck till her eyeballs popped out and her face turned the color of a plum.”

Cristo reflected. “You know, I think I heard of him. Is that the same guy made porn up the Pennelville House and filmed it while he’d stick a knife in a chick’s belly and fuck her stomach?”

“Naw, naw,” Argi said. “That was Rocco… God rest his soul.”

They all crossed themselves.

“Tony was the guy used to feed kids of cops to the pitbulls,” Argi corrected.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paulie agreed. “Same Tony, all right, but you’re missin’ my point. See, when he was yankin’ this gal’s skin off like it was a pair of fuckin’ PANTS, I’m standin’ there watchin’ it and thinkin’ ‘Man, this is some over-the—top fucked-up shit, and then I look over at my dad, and you know what he’s doin’?” Paulie stared off. “He’s got his cock out, and he’s beatin’ off!”

Argi chuckled. “Yeah, boss, your dad was a character, all right. Loved the hardcore vendetta shit.”

“Sure, sure, Argi, but I mean, he was beatin’ off watchin’ a girl get her skin yanked off her ass and legs! And what I thought first is I thought, ‘Holy shit, my old man’s a sick pup jerkin’ off to all this torture, he must be sick in the head, and since he’s my dad…maybe that sickness’ll get passed on to me!’ But you know what? The second I thought that, I realized somethin’ else…” Paulie gulped. “My dick was rock-hard too…”

“Such are the rites of passage of industrious young men destined to become Mafia bosses,” Prouty offered. “The arrival of self-actualization amid such…axiomatic environs are no doubt quite common.”

Paulie smirked at the spiel. “No, no, Doc, what I mean is… If my dick gets hard watchin’ murder and torture and snuff-flicks and all that..doesn’t that mean I’m mentally fucked up? Doesn’t that mean I’m abnormal?”

Dr. Prouty stifled a gag, knowing that a negative response would only exacerbate his employer’s already negative mood, the result of which might have very negative effects on Prouty. Why? Because Paul Vinchetti was more than likely the most sexually sociopathic and bloodthirsty individual the good doctor had ever observed. “Abnormal, sir? I should think not. For normalcy and abnormalcy are subjective terms and therefore cannot be defined objectively. The primal human mind is incalculably intricate, and tags such as normal and abnormal, moral and immoral, good and bad, etc., are all subject to interpretation. One’s life-experiences and learned behavior most indubitably make subconscious impressions via observation: a normal function of the brain. Hence, sexual paraphilias and/or fetishes are derived quite naturally. So to answer your query, no, sir. You are not abnormal.”

Paulie relaxed in the plush forward seat, a hand to his heart. “Damn, I feel much better now.”

Prouty sighed in relief.

Argi looked down the road ahead. “Okay, so it’s back to Newark. Road out of town’s comin’ up.” He looked to Paulie with a smile. “Hey, boss. Ya feel like callin’ those rednecks back up on the cell and razzin’ ’em a little more?”

“Naw, best to let ’em stew.”

Cristo leaned forward. “But what if…”

“What if what, Cristo?”

“I mean, these crackers who live in the hills—ain’t they got a reputation for fuedin’?”

“Fuedin’?”

“Well, sure. Like maybe they’re so pissed off about what we did to that redneck kid…they’ll try to get us back.”

Paulie laughed. “Shit, man. These people are hillbillies. They eat woodchucks and shit in the woods. What the fuck could a bunch of piss-poor backwoods hillbillies do to us?”

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