Payne Weasley’s eyes were closed. Like if he didn’t open them, nothing bad would happen. In your dreams, Mr. Weasley.
He was a small man, bald on top and buzzed off on the sides. Like many bald men, he sported a neatly trimmed, close cropped beard. It hurt like hell when I tore the duct tape from his mouth, pulling some whiskers off in the process. His eyes at last flew open, watered over from the pain.
“We’re here, asshole.”
“You!” he said. He hadn’t seen my face when I kidnapped him from his garage.
“You remember me. How nice.”
I swung his legs out of the trunk and pulled him to his feet. He clunked his head on the trunk latch coming out. He squeezed his eyes shut like he’d give a hundred dollars to be able to rub the dent in his scalp.
I’d left lard butt Gourd’s feet untaped since he was too old and plush to go anywhere on his own. But Weasley was younger. About my age. A day or two older, maybe.
So, I left his feet taped and made him hobble in little jumps as I pulled him along by his necktie. He fell up against my back once and got sweat on my shirt. Creepy.
I parked him against a rock next to the remains of the Honorable P. William Gourd.
There wasn’t much left of old Gourdsey. The vultures had shredded his clothes in their frenzy to get at him. Then the maggots had moved in, followed by the beetles. The dinner table pecking order. The ants came last. They were like the vacuum cleaner that took care of the crumbs on the floor. They were still pouring in and out of his eye sockets.
All that was left of P. William Gourd was a skeleton with some black crud all over it. His final judicial robe.
Weasley was eyeballing it. Not at all comforted by the hints it was giving him that the wings had fallen off his airplane.
I noticed a gold chain hanging from the spinal column where Gourd’s neck had been. There was a key dangling at the end of it, down inside his rib cage. I lifted the chain over his skull and put it in my pocket.
“Meet your new neighbor,” I said to Weasley.
“Who’s that?” Weasley asked.
“Your old crooked lawyering buddy. Judge P. William Gourd. You may have read about his disappearance. They’ll be talking about yours next.”
“You killed him?”
“I sure did.”
“Good God! Why?”
“You remember the chicken?”
“Chicken?”
“Yeah. The one who crossed the road.”
“What road? What chicken?”
“The road the chicken had to get to the other side of.”
“Oh. That chicken. What about him?”
“Her. It was a chicken, not a rooster.”
“Fine. What about him?”
“Nothing. You didn’t remember. I had to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why the chicken crossed the road.”
“To get to the other side.”
“Correct. Gourd needed a little push. He didn’t want to cross the road.”
“I’m talking to a lunatic.”
“Perhaps. Enjoy it, though. This will be your last conversation.”
“You’re going to kill me too? What in hell is wrong with you?”
“Good reference. Give my regards to the devil when you get there.”
“This can’t be happening.”
He shook his head around like a gum machine globe that had taken his penny and not delivered the gum ball. It’s America, Weasley. Wise up.
He stared up at me. Mouth open. Dazed eyes.
“Quite a pickle you’re in, Weaser.”
I sat down on the rock I’d sat on when Gourd was here. It hadn’t moved while I was gone. Old faithful.
“Please don’t kill me. I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. Just name it.”
“You should have paid me when you were the Receiver.”
“I couldn’t. There wasn’t enough money.”
“There was enough for you and Tweed. Why not me?”
“Blame Gourd. I had to pay myself and I had to pay Tweed. You only got paid afterward.”
“That wasn’t what Gourd’s order said.”
“Yes it did.”
“No it didn’t.”
“Yes it did.”
I walked over and slapped him across the face. Two slaps. One forward, one backhand. Then I sat back down.
“No it didn’t,” I said again. He seemed to perceive my message.
“That’s what I thought it said,” he corrected himself.
“That’s what you made it say, you slime headed asshole.”
He glowered at me and closed his mouth tight, like he had decided he wasn’t going to talk any more.
It was a brutally hot day. Over a hundred in the shade. But there wasn’t any. Except in my armpits, which were throwing off sweat like a leaky air conditioner.
Gourd hadn’t even bothered to move or try to escape. Just sat there and gave up. Waited for the end. I figured as much. He was probably dead before the bugs heard the dinner bell.
I wonder if he’d said any prayers. I’d given him plenty of time for it. Throw up a last defense of his life. Closing arguments to St. Peter. Plead insanity. Take the fifth. Throw himself on the mercy of Jesus. With Jesus, there was always hope. He had a rep for forgiveness.
But there was a catch with Jesus. You had to be sorry. Did old Gourd have it in him to be sorry? Did Weasley? Would I?
“You believe in Jesus, Weasley?”
“Of course. I’m a Presbyterian.”
“Ah. One of those Calvin lovers. Predestined elitist. Nice philosophy. Can’t go wrong with that one. Makes it easier for me, too.”
“Easier? What do you mean easier?”
“Easier for me to kill you. Easy for you because you’re already saved. And getting whacked in the desert is what was preordained for you to experience. Easier for me, too. I’m just the predestined fickle finger of God’s fate for you. I’m carrying out His plan for you. I’m getting goose bumps.”
“You’re getting death row, you fool.”
“I suppose so. If I was smart, I wouldn’t be doing this. My anger’s out of control, I guess.”
“See a counselor.”
“A little late for that, Weasler. How’s your belief system holding up?”
“Screw you.”
“Hey, don’t be snippy. This is your big moment. Your big, predestined heroic moment. Taking it like a man. Brave to the end. Righteous in the Lord.”
“You can’t scare me. I have peace of mind.”
“Shit. You’re taking all the fun out of this. Aren’t you even going to whimper a little?”
“You wish.”
“I wish you’d paid me my money. That wasn’t nice.”
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
“You smiled there. You must have been thinking how much fun your wife will have spending all your money. All those ill-gotten gains.”
The smile faded. It was replaced by a far off look. Way off out there in moneysville heaven. All those Hawaiian coins slipping though his fingers. Down into his wife’s purse. Bulging it up to overflowing. Coins cascading everywhere. Spilling into the street. Out of his hands. Gone. Lost.
“All that money, Wease-butt. Every dime. You should have quit a few years ago and spent some of it. Too late now.”
He didn’t respond. Just lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“Poor old Weaser. Sold out his whole life for nothing. Wife get’s it all. What hurts more? Dying or losing your stash?”
“I love my wife.”
“Good. She’ll be real happy now. All that money and no you. Ecstasy.”
“She loves me, too. You’re crazy. And wrong.”
“Am I? Don’t forget, I saw you guys eat dinner.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“You’re lying.”
“Nope. Last night. Through the French doors. She was stabbing at your little bits. Pushing them around on her plate. Picking through them. The look of an assassin. Cold. Plotting. Slicing the knife through her steak like it was your neck.”
“You’re lying. I was right there with her. We just had dinner like usual.”
“Precisely. You were only giving her one hand of your time. You know what happens to one handed husbands, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Death by shriveling.”
“You’re crazy. I didn’t sell out. I’ve had a successful life. A meaningful life. You’re a nobody. You’ll always be a nobody.”
“That’s exactly what Gourd said. You guys all think alike.”
“You’re a loser, Monona. Pure and simple.”
“Not today, Weasey boy. Today I’m flushing a turd down the big toilet of life. Successful life? I scoff on your sleeve. Sure went fast didn’t it? What’s it worth now? Now that it’s passed on by. Now that it’s over. Now that there is no more. Now that later has arrived.”
“Later? Later what?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Lunatic. That’s what you are. A lunatic.”
“A loser, a nobody, and a lunatic. You’re wearing out your compliments. I’m also the one who isn’t taped up and dressed for my funeral.”
Weasley didn’t respond. He looked around at all the nothingness, just like Gourd had. I wondered what he saw. Was it the same thing Gourd saw? Or did the desert have views of itself that were personal. The face of death. Teresa had seen it. Someday so would I.
“I’ll tell you what you are, Wease-hole. Nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Remember? That’s what you are. It’s all you are ever going to be.”
“Shut up and get it over with.”
“Take a look at Gourd, Wease. Take a good long look.”
“Fuck you.”
“Whoa. The attorney man knows how to use bad words. My, my, my. On that note, I think it’s time to mosey on down the road.”
I stood up and looked down at him. He squinched his eyes shut, waiting for the death blow. Just like Gourd.
“Relax, Weasley. I’m not going to kill you. I’m just the chauffeur.”
His eyes flew open. The fear had come.
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“I guess so.”
It was time for my famous last words. I hadn’t thought up Tweed’s yet. It would come to me when it was time. Gourd got Robert Frost. Weasley got Abraham Lincoln. Sort of.
“So long, jerk. The world will little note nor long remember your passing.”
I extracted a paperback from my hip pocket and placed it on his lap. It was one of those bathroom reading books with nine hundred and ninety-nine jokes in it.
“For your amusement,” I said. “Joke number one thousand is on you.”
I walked to the car and got in. He started begging. I rolled down the window and listened. He was slobbering and blathering it up pretty good.
It was true what they said. After the first one, the rest were easy. Leaving Weaslely to die didn’t bother me at all. It was sick. I was not a good person any more. Not a good boy at all.
I rolled the window back up and turned on the air conditioning and drove away.
Two down. One to go. The hardest one. By far. The one that remained. Arthur Asshole Tweed.
To be continued . . .
