The Devil's Alphabet

Chapter 10

THE SMELL OF the house was driving him crazy.

His father’s scent seemed to have infused every surface: the carpets, the cloth of the furniture, the walls. The smell couldn’t have been much different than a few days ago, but it seemed worse to him now that he knew the taste of fresh vintage. Now Pax could smell only the decay, the corruption of the pure product, like a fruit farmer attuned to the taint of rot.

He opened all the windows and set up fans in the front and back screen doors to start a cross-draft, but the humidity only seemed to give weight to the odor, turning it into something physical that shifted in strength and intensity, moving from room to room like an animal.

He tried to ignore it. He went through his father’s pile of mail, sorting junk from bills and bank statements, with the idea that he should figure out if his father was in financial trouble, but he quickly lost concentration. He couldn’t even watch TV; the scent of his father was strongest there by the couch. Finally he fell asleep in the guest room with an arm thrown over his face.

When he awoke the next morning he was damp and aching and the scent was still with him.

I should leave now, he thought. Get dressed and drive out of Switchcreek as fast as I drove in.

He went to the bathroom, stripped, and sat on the edge of the tub for a long time waiting for the water to get hot. Despite the hollowness in his stomach he had no appetite. Finally he stepped under the shower, steadying himself with one palm against the tile.

Leave or go, he thought. Back to Chicago, or sink back into the life he’d left when he was fifteen? There was hardly anything calling him back to the city. He’d probably been fired from the restaurant by now. And there was no one back there who’d miss him, not really. He had coworkers, and people he got drunk with, and coworkers he got drunk with. Had even one of them called him to see if he was okay? Okay, his cell phone was dead and he hadn’t packed the charger, but even if they had called, was there one of them he would have felt compelled to call back? People around him fell in and out of love affairs—some of them even got married—and he had no more interest in their dramas than he did for his father’s Discovery Channel documentaries. Fuck or don’t fuck. Move in together or not. Don’t dress it up in all this costume emotion to make it seem important. There’d been a few women and a couple of men who’d wanted more from him, who wanted a relationship. But Jesus, no. He’d never had to do much to drive them away. He didn’t have to be mean, or push them away. He simply shut off whatever part of him he’d let slip, whatever glimmer of him that made them think they knew him. Once he sealed that crack, soon enough they went away on their own.

He dried off and walked naked down the hallway. He knew there weren’t any clean clothes left in his suitcase; he’d only expected to stay a couple of days. He walked past the guest room to his father’s room and pushed open the door.

The room looked much as it had a dozen years before: a long, mirrored bureau, wood veneer bedside tables, the long gauzy drapes his mother had liked. The bed was unmade, the bedclothes pushed against the wall. The box spring had been lifted off the frame and reinforced by a row of two-by-fours, but his father’s weight had still pressed a hollow into the mattress.

A pile of clothes lay on the floor beside the bed. Pax picked up a huge white T-shirt. He rubbed it through his hands, then lifted it to his face. He inhaled, breathed out, and inhaled again. The smell of the vintage swam thickly into his nose, his lungs.

He dropped the shirt over his head. The wide neck hung lopsided on his shoulders, open to his collarbone; the hem reached to his knees. He held out his arms and looked down at himself. The shirt was as big as a tablecloth.

He imagined his father laid out on some bed at Rhonda’s Home, staring down the expanse of his body. Waiting.

He took off the T-shirt, went to the closet. He pushed aside hangers until he found his father’s old clothes, from before the Changes. He pulled on a striped button-down shirt—several sizes bigger than what he wore, but in the realm of the wearable—then went back to the guest room to find his jeans.

He realized he had his father’s T-shirt in his hand again. He spread it across the bed like a blanket.

His father loved him. His father needed him. The terms were indistinguishable.

He went back to the guest room and looked under the bed for the stack of papers Rhonda had given him. They weren’t there. He sat on the bed, looking around at the bookshelves. He’d signed them that night, then—what? He remembered falling asleep, but he couldn’t recall putting the papers away.

It didn’t matter. He’d find them later, and burn them.

The gate was closed, of course. He leaned out of the window of the Tempo and pressed the intercom’s call button. “Hello?”

After a long pause a male voice came back. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hi, this is Paxton Martin. Is this—” He couldn’t remember the name of the security guard he’d met. Barry? Brian? “I’m here to see my father.”

“Oh, hi there, Paxton,” the voice said. Genuinely friendly. “I thought that was you. We met the other day.”

Pax looked at the gate, then spotted the camera sticking up above the wall. Paxton lifted a hand in a wave. Another five seconds passed. “So if you could open the gate?”

“Rhonda’s not here right now,” the guard said. “You want to leave a message?”

“No message. I’m just here to see my father. Harlan Martin.”

“Rhonda always tells me if we’re going to have visitors. Did you call ahead? Visitors need to call ahead.”

“Well I didn’t do that.” Pax struggled to keep his voice level. “So if you could just let me in, I need to talk to my father. It’s important. Family business.”

“You really need to call ahead.”

“Listen—what was your name again?”

“Barron.” Cold now.

“Barron, open the gate. I never signed anything, so you’re holding my father illegally. I’ve come to take him home. You can’t stop the next of kin from seeing him.”

“You’re going to have to talk to Aunt Rhonda about that. Now if you can give me your phone number, I’m ready to write it down.”

“Open the fucking gate, Barron.”

“Son, there’s no call for cussing.”

“Open the fucking gate!”

No answer. Pax pressed the call button, then pressed it again.

He switched off the car, got out, and marched up to the gate. He grabbed the iron bars with both hands and yanked, but they didn’t move.

He stepped back, looked at the stone walls that adjoined the gate at each side. They were about ten feet high, made of big stones set into the mortar. Maybe climbable, if his legs didn’t already feel like Jell-O. An argo could have pulled himself right over them.

He walked back to the car, slid between the side mirror and the intercom post, and got in. He thought about gunning the engine and ramming the gates, but the little Ford would probably bounce off.

He took a breath and pressed the button again. “Barron, I’m sorry I swore. I’m a little frustrated. All I want to do is see my father.”

No answer.

He pressed the call button again. Pax said, “I need to talk to Aunt Rhonda in person. Could you tell me where she is? Barron?”

“Hold on,” the guard said.

A minute passed. Pax leaned against the steering wheel. The back of his head was wet with sweat. Another blazing August day in Switchcreek, Tennessee.

Another minute passed, then Barron said, “Aunt Rhonda says she’ll talk to you. It’s Saturday, so she’s working at the Welcome Center.”

Jesus, Pax thought, he couldn’t have just told him that?

“Okay, thanks,” Pax said. He started the car and then leaned out to the box again. “Could you do me one favor? Could you tell my father that I was here?”

“Uh, I’d have to ask Rhonda about that,” Barron said.

“Barron?”

“Yes?”

He was going to ask him, When you take a shit, do you ask Rhonda if it’s okay to wipe your ass?

“Have a super day,” Pax said.

Downtown seemed busier than when he’d arrived last Saturday. There were two buses at the Icee Freeze, and scores of cars lined the streets and filled the Bugler’s parking lot. He finally found an empty parking spot on Main Street and walked a block to the Welcome Center.

Pax didn’t know how old the building was—late 1800s? Over the years it had been a church, a post office, and a one-room schoolhouse. It had been boarded up years before he was born and no one had gotten around to tearing it down.

He walked up the wooden steps and through the open door. Inside it was cool and shadowy. The wide, uneven planks of the floor looked original, but the rest of the interior had been refurbished into a combination information center and gift shop; half a dozen tourists were browsing through racks of books and postcards and knickknacks. A charlie girl worked the cash register in the back. Aunt Rhonda was talking to an older couple and pointing to a topographical map of the area hanging on the wall. She noticed Pax and let him know with a nod that she’d get to him in a bit.

He looked over the merchandise: commemorative plates; novelty “argo-sized” pencils; stuffed black bears with “Welcome to Switchcreek” dog tags; bald beta dolls you could dress in male or female outfits. One wall was all T-shirts and sweatshirts. The book rack held several scientific books on the Changes, as well as a couple photo-heavy coffee-table books and a slim, cheaply printed book titled The Families of Switchcreek. He looked up “Martin” in the index and found that his father was given an entire page. His mother got two sentences—one about her life as the pastor’s wife and one on her death of TDS-B. Paxton got one line: “His son, Paxton Martin, was one of the few who did not contract TDS.” He was relieved there wasn’t more. Something like, “He lives in Chicago, where he smokes dope, plays Halo, and continues to be an embarrassment to his father.”

“How do you like our little store?” Aunt Rhonda said. She’d slipped up beside him.

“It’s …” He put the book back in its spot. “People buy a lot of this stuff?”

“More than you think. It’s only been open two summers and we’ve already earned back the setup costs. Why don’t you come on back?”

She led him to the back of the center. “We’re part of the Smoky Mountain Tourist Complex. We’ve got the most visited national park in the country just down the road, and that generates all kinds of spillover.” She lifted up a section of the back counter and held it open for him. “Now, we’re never going to be Pigeon Forge or Gatlinburg. The whole unsolved genetic catastrophe thing keeps our numbers down.”

Rhonda told the girl behind the counter that she’d be out back, then led him out to a fenced yard behind the center. Everett, bald head gleaming in the sun, sat at a patio table talking quietly into a cell phone. Rhonda took a chair next to Everett and gestured for Pax to sit next to her. “This is just the start,” she said. “I’m working with an eco-tourist company to develop an educational entertainment package. Meet with the residents, see how they live, that kind of thing. Have you ever been to Williamsburg? The colonial village? Something like that. But with all the clades. Shake hands with an argo! Cook dinner with a beta. That kind of thing.”

“A freak show.”

Rhonda poked him hard with a stubby finger. “It’s only a freak show, Paxton Martin, if ignorant people talk about us that way. How do you think we’re going to get people to understand us and not fear us? Education. Education and exposure. I’m trying to get the Learning Channel to do a reality show on us, like they did with that midget family.”

“Yeah …” Pax said. He had no idea what to say to that. “Listen, why I wanted to talk with you—”

“Barron said you were pretty riled up.”

“I was a little frustrated. Your hired help wasn’t that helpful.”

Everett glanced up, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve decided that my father needs to stay with me,” Pax said. “At home.”

Rhonda looked at Everett, who was still mumbling into his phone. A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, and she took her time turning back to him. “Oh, hon.” She patted his hand. “That’s sweet. And very brave of you.”

“My father doesn’t want to be in your ‘Home.’ He told me that himself.”

“But you called me anyway, didn’t you?” Rhonda said. “Your father ran away at the break of dawn, half out of his mind. And you asked for me to come and take care of him.”

“I know that, and I appreciate your help, but I may have—I overreacted. I’ve thought about it now. It’s my job to take care of him.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought about this at all. You know you can’t watch your daddy twenty-four hours a day—the other night proved that. You don’t know the first thing about taking care of a man like your father.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re going to quit your job in Chicago? Move back to Switchcreek, back into this house—and spend the next twenty or thirty years playing nursemaid?” She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I’m his son. I can take him out of there whenever I want. Legally, there’s nothing—”

“Legally?”

“I haven’t signed anything. Yes, I called you, but—”

“Oh, hon, you signed those papers days ago.”

“What?” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t pretend, Paxton. They were sitting there waiting for me.”

“You broke into my house?”

“Of course not. The door was wide open, and they were sitting right there by the door—it was a wonder they didn’t blow away. I’ll send over your copies as soon as I can.”

“You walked into my house and took them. Just like that.”

Rhonda leaned back in her chair—or rather, her head leaned back, since her spherical body had nowhere to go—and crossed her arms under her enormous bosom. “Settle down, now,” she said in a firm voice. “You’re shaking, Paxton, and your color’s not good.”

Everett said something final into his phone and snapped it shut.

“You can’t do this,” Pax said. “I’m going to get a lawyer.”

“You’re welcome to,” Rhonda said. “But I don’t think it’s going to make you feel better. There’s only one thing that’ll do that right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be frank, Paxton. You’ve taken a large dose of the vintage—maybe bigger than anyone’s ever taken, and you’re not even a charlie! The doctor told me there’d be effects. Right now you’re feeling the loss. It feels like something’s dying, doesn’t it?”

For a moment he couldn’t speak. Something was dying. Or someone.

He pushed away from the table and stood. “You can’t do this,” he said.

“Now you’re just repeating yourself,” Everett said.

“Paxton,” Rhonda said kindly. “I’ll talk to you again when you’re feeling more like yourself. Go back to Chicago. Take some time. You’re going to see that I’m doing right by you and your daddy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Pax said. But then he was walking away, back into the dark of the building.

———

Deke’s house was only a block from where he’d parked. Pax knocked hard on the double-height door and a low voice called him in.

Donna and two beta women looked up at him. They were sitting in the living room, the betas on the couch. They’d all been gazing at something Donna held in the palm of one hand. At first he thought it was a napkin or lump of cloth, but then he saw a tiny red arm reach up and he realized it was a baby.

“Paxton,” Donna said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jesus, he was tired of people asking him that. “It’s just hot.” He’d felt a little nauseous on the walk over, and as soon as he’d stepped into the air-conditioning he’d immediately broken into a sweat.

“Paxton, this is my cousin Jocelyn, and her friend April. And this is Celia.” She turned her hand so that he could see the girl’s face. She was perfectly bald, with mottled, red-orange skin. Her eyes were closed, and her little mouth hung open.

“She’s beautiful,” Pax said to the women on the couch. Both of them were the color of raspberry syrup. He had no idea which one was Jocelyn, and if Jocelyn was the mother. He also didn’t know if the baby really was beautiful for a beta; he’d only recognized that she was cute in the way of babies from so many species, from meerkat pups to ducklings.

“She’s only a month old,” Donna said softly.

“One month old today,” one of the beta women said.

They made small talk for a couple of minutes, all of it about babies, which Pax knew nothing about. Donna didn’t offer to let him hold the child, thank God. She rocked it in her big hand and talked to it in that rumbling voice.

“So is Deke around?” Pax asked finally.

“He’s at the shop,” Donna said. When he looked blank she said, “Alpha Furniture. Just go up Main and take a left on High Street. Listen for power tools and stop when you get to the fire truck—can’t miss it.”

“Nice meeting you,” Pax said to the betas. “Congratulations.”

Outside, he untucked his shirt and used it to mop his face. The shop was only a few blocks away, but it was uphill. He decided to drive.

An old-fashioned fire truck was parked in front of a garage like an old dog napping in the sun. It was thirty or forty years old, shiny and red and braced with white ladders, and fronted by a chrome bumper like a fat lip. Like so many antique vehicles it seemed smaller than it ought to be, maybe seven-eighths actual size. The small, round-roofed cab was topped by a single red cylinder light like a Shriner’s cap.

The garage was attached to another building the size of a barn. ALPHA FURNITURE was painted in big blue letters on the slanted roof. Through an open bay door came the high whine of a power saw. Deke’s Jeep was parked out front alongside another Jeep and a Chevy pickup with a roof peeled off like the lid of a can.

Pax walked up to the open door. An old argo man was pushing with one hand an enormous plank down a table saw; another, younger argo was catching the split ends. The man doing the pushing was about seven feet tall, shorter than most of the argos. His right arm ended in a stump at the elbow. Maybe he’d lost it to a saw, but more likely something had gone wrong during the Changes; not all body parts took to the transformation. After the plank had cleared he noticed Pax standing in the doorway.

“I’m looking for Deke?” Pax called.

The young argo gestured toward the far end of the building, where space had been sectioned off by plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling. Pax picked his way across the room through projects in various states of completion. Everything was giant-sized: bed frames, tables, chairs. At the far end much of the space was taken up by church pews, a dozen huge oak slabs with high backs. Most were still raw wood, but two had been lacquered and polished to a buttery gleam.

He reached the plastic sheets and stepped through a part in the curtains. Deke sat at an enormous desk, staring grimly at a computer screen.

“Cool fire truck,” Pax said.

“Oh, hey there, P.K.” He leaned back from the screen. Pax caught a glimpse of a spreadsheet. “Yeah, that’s Bart. A 1974 Pierce. A town in Kentucky donated it to us. It was worth more to them as a tax write-off.”

Pax nodded at the screen. “If this is a bad time …”

“No, no. Just paying the bills. I’d been hoping for some bank stuff to come through, but—never mind. Sit down, P.K. I’m glad you found the place.”

“Donna gave me directions.” There was nothing in the room but a pair of paint-stained barstools the size of step ladders. Pax leaned over one with his elbows on the seat. “She was at the house with some beta women and their baby—she said it was her cousin?”

“Shit. How was she doing?”

“Donna? Fine, why?”

“Donna and babies … It’s hard for her sometimes, to be around them.”

“She looked fine,” Pax said. “Happy.” At least she didn’t look unhappy. “So, have you looked at the emails from Weygand yet?”

Deke looked back at the screen as if he couldn’t remember what he’d been working on. “Last night. I’m pretty sure they’re from Jo Lynn. She talked about things only a real beta would know about, and a couple things she mentioned …”

“What?”

“They were personal things. Stuff only Jo Lynn would know.” He sat up, changing the subject. “The rest of it, well, Weygand wasn’t kidding when he said that Bewlay talked a lot about this parallel evolution stuff. Pages and pages of it. Gets kind of freaky. If I didn’t think it was Jo I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Like the stuff about genetic engineering.”

“Not that shit again,” Pax said. After the Changes, one of the most popular of the conspiracy theories was that someone was experimenting with them. The Russians, their own government, aliens. Half the town probably still thought that.

“Yeah, I know,” Deke said. “I just was hoping to find something that would tell me what happened. What was going on in her head.”

“Like what?”

“A suicide note?” He tapped at the keyboard with the eraser end of a pencil and the spreadsheet window minimized. “No, not really. But maybe some clue that she was upset, suicidal.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m just bangin’ around in the dark.” He looked at Pax. “So how you feeling today?”

“I need your help,” Pax said. “I need you to help me get my father out of Rhonda’s place.”

“Wait a minute,” Deke said. “Back up.”

Pax told him about the visit to the Home, the conversation with Rhonda, the papers she’d taken from the house. He’d started pacing.

“And even if I did sign them,” Pax said, “I didn’t give them to her.”

“Did you leave the door open behind you?”

“Fuck, I don’t know! I was in kind of a hurry, if you remember. You called me.”

Deke looked away. The muscles of his jaw worked beneath chalky skin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The papers, how she got them, all of that. Rhonda isn’t the problem.”

“Then who the fuck is the problem?”

Deke swung his big head around and regarded him squarely. After a long moment he said, “It’s not your father you’re wanting, Paxton.”

Pax stepped back, his face hot. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Listen, man. What you’re feeling is chemical. A few days ago you couldn’t wait to get out of here, and now you’re going to move back? Now I’m not judging you. You had an accident. But you have to realize that you’re not thinking straight. That’s why your dad needs to stay at the Home right now.”

“That’s bullshit. First of all, Rhonda is the one that wants him for what he’s producing. I’m his son. I can’t just sell him off—”

“Calm down, P.K.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! Jesus, how the hell did she get you wrapped around her fat finger? Is this some kind of clade thing? Chubs and trolls versus the skips?”

“You’re over the line, man.”

“Just tell me. You’re the Chief, right? Are you going to back me on this or not?”

“It’s not about backing you. Why don’t you take some time to—”

“Time? Time?” Pax looked down at his hands clutching the edges of the barstool. His knuckles were white. He released his grip—one hand, two, easy does it—and stood up. “Forget it. I can see you’re too busy for this. You have yourself a wonderful day.”

“P.K. …” Deke followed him across the shop, trying to talk to him the whole time.

Paxton sat in the dark at the side of the highway, engine and headlights off. No car had passed for ten minutes. The only light came from the light pole set next to the driveway to the Home.

He got out, jogged across the road, and started up the drive. He’d planned on going straight up the hill, avoiding the driveway—because what if they had cameras watching it?—but he saw now that that was impossible; he hadn’t remembered how high the banks were, how thickly the brush covered the hill.

The driveway was also much steeper than he’d thought. Immediately he was sweating, his heart pounding in his throat. He jogged around the first curve and the light from the pole vanished, plunging him into darkness.

He slowed to a walk, panting, then stopped altogether, hands on his hips. He stared at the ground, but he could barely make out his shoes in the scant moonlight.

Fuck it.

He clumped back down to the car, cranked the engine. He aimed for the mouth of the driveway and pressed the accelerator as far as he dared. The Ford lurched up the hill, engine whining. He swung through the first curve a little too fast, over-braked as he entered the second, and then the car stuttered and he was losing momentum. He dropped into low and hunched over the wheel, willing his headlights up the slope. When he passed the third curve and he thought he was almost at the top he stopped the car, cut the lights, and set the emergency brake.

Five more minutes of walking got him within sight of the iron gate and the stone wall. There was a light pole here as well, casting a circle of light on the gate and the patch of pavement around the intercom. He skirted the light, moving off to the right until he was standing at the base of the wall.

The wall was set into the slope. He couldn’t take a running start because he’d be running uphill. He ran a hand over the surface, but the big stones didn’t project far from the mortar; there was no way he could pull himself all the way up by his fingers, and a fall would send him rolling down the hill.

He started moving along the wall to the right. The ground had to level out at some point. Or maybe he’d find a tree or something close to the wall that would let him drop over.

With every step away from the light it grew darker. By the time he reached the first corner he couldn’t see his hands. He moved around the corner and his feet slid out from under him. He stifled a yell, but then his chest hit the ground and his elbow struck rock, sending fire shooting up his arm. He swore loudly. Then he started to slide. It felt like the hill was almost straight down on this side. He threw out his left arm, hands clutching at weeds and grass, and spread his legs.

He slid to a stop after ten or twelve feet. He pressed his face into the grass and lay there, breathing.

Then he saw the lights.

Fuck, he thought. Fuckity fuck fuck.

A pair of headlights snaked up the drive. The lights disappeared for a moment behind the bulk of the hill, then reappeared, higher and closer. The underside of the car glowed neon green, and he could hear the thump of bass from its stereo.

The car stopped not quite up the hill. A spotlight switched on from the passenger side, and the light illuminated his Ford Tempo. After a few seconds the glowing car rolled forward and he lost sight of it again.

Pax rose to hands and knees and started crawling to his left, toward the driveway. A minute later he could see the glowing car again, stopped in front of the gate. The stereo had switched off. The spotlight played over the grass near the wall. Pax dropped low and began crawling backward. If he could drop down about fifty yards he could cut across to his car and get the hell out of here.

The light suddenly hit him in the face. Voices burst out in laughter.

“Hey there, Cuz!” someone called.

The slope here was less extreme. He got to his feet, wincing into the light. He made his way back to the gate, supporting himself with one hand against the wall. His elbow still buzzed with pain.

Two chub boys stood in front of a metallic green Toyota Camry. Two chub girls in the backseat laughed nervously.

“Hi, Clete,” Pax said. He couldn’t remember the name of the younger boy, the one holding the spotlight. Something like “Elvis,” or maybe he thought that just because of the sideburns.

“What the hell you doing out here?” Clete asked. “You’re liable to get shot, sneaking around in the dark.”

“People might think you’re a pervert,” the other one said. Travis, that was his name.

Pax reached the edge of the driveway. His hands were shaking, and he felt ready to throw up. The girls in the backseat stared at him. The red-haired one was Doreen, the nurse who’d washed him at the clinic.

“I’m just going to go home,” Pax said. From this close, the boys smelled of vintage, but vintage with a strange tang to it—nothing like his father’s scent.

Clete said, “That’s good. That’s why they called us, to take you home. Before they shot your ass.”

Travis aimed that light into his face. “It’s kind of a last-chance taxi service.”

Pax said, “Look, my car’s right down there. I’ll drive home, and you can tell Rhonda that I’ll—”

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere. Pax hit the ground. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he’d been hit. His nose burned.

“I have to ask you,” Clete said. He picked up Pax under his arms and lifted him easily. Pax’s knees threatened to give out, but Clete steadied him. “What the hell was your plan? Carry your six-hundred-pound daddy down the hill by yourself?”

“Clete, listen …” Pax said.

“No, push him down the driveway in his hospital bed,” Travis said, laughing. “Get up to like sixty mile an hour, until he hits that first curve, then airborne!”

“UFO!” Clete said. “Unidentified Fat Object.”

Inside the car the chub girls whooped with laughter.

Pax gripped Clete’s forearms. “I know people in Chicago. This is an incredible drug. You help me get him out, and I can help you, help you sell it.”

“Really?” Clete said. “This stuff really got to you, huh?”

“UFO,” Travis said, still laughing. “You kill me, man.”

Clete said, “I gotta admit, your daddy makes some of the finest vintage I ever smelled. I’d love to try some on Doreen.”

“Rhonda doesn’t have to keep all this to herself,” Pax said. “You could sell it.”

Clete nodded. “I hear you, Cuz, I hear you. But right now?” He shrugged. “Right now I got to beat the living shit out of you.”