Blowing across her coffee cup-absolutely superfluous, since the coffee was at best lukewarm-Val tracked a young woman's progress down the line. An elaborate tattoo scored the nape of her neck. She wore studded boots and sniffed at everything she took from narrow, glass-shuttered shelves. Most of it, she set back.
"These guys have the longest memories of all," Val said. "They've got wars that have been going on for centuries. Sooner or later, they don't hear from their scout, they'll figure out it went wrong."
"We could send them his head."
Having reached the register, the tattooed young woman stood beaming at the cashier as he spoke, waited, and spoke again. Then the smile went away and she came back into motion.
"Just kidding," I said. "You're right. They'll wait a while, but they'll be back. Someone will."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That night around eleven I got a call. Mabel had routed it through to me at home. I could barely hear the speaker over the jukebox and roar of voices behind.
"This the sheriff?"
"Deputy."
"Good enough. Reckon you better get on out here."
"Where's here?"
"The Shack. State Road Forty-one, mile past the old cotton gin."
I told him I was on my way and hung up.
"Where's Eldon playing these days?" I asked Val.
"Place called The Shack. Why?"
"Thought so. They've got trouble."
"He okay?"
"I don't know. You be here when I get back?"
"I have a home day tomorrow, and some briefs I need to get started on tonight. Call me?"
I said I would, and asked her to leave a note for J. T. in case she woke while I was gone. Clipped the holster on my belt and headed for the Chariot.
The Shack was surprisingly well constructed, built of wood and recently repainted, dark green with lighter highlights. Shells paved the parking lot, crunching as I walked across. Specimens of every insect native to the county swarmed in dense clouds around the yellow lights at the door.
The bar took up the wall just inside and to the right, allowing the bartender to keep an eye on everything. The ceiling was low, bar lit by a single overhead light that filled the shelves with shadows.
The bandstand, little more than a pallet extending a foot or so above the floor, occupied the corner opposite the bar. Most of the patrons were gathered there. Upon hearing the heavy door, they looked around. How they heard it, I don't know, what with the war sounds coming from the jukebox.
"Turn that thing off."
The bartender reached under the bar. A saxophone solo died in mid-honk, like a shot goose.
The crowd drew back as I approached. Eldon sat on the edge of the bandstand. One eye was swollen almost shut; blood, black in the half-light, black like his face, blotched the front of his shirt. His guitar lay in pieces before him. The bass player stood backed against the wall, hugging his Fender. The drummer, still seated, twirled a stick in each hand. "Come on, you son'va'bitch! Stand up and fight like a goddamn man!" This from a stocky guy with his back to me.
I put a hand gently on his shoulder and he came around swinging, then grunted as I tucked one fist in his armpit, grabbed his wrist with the other, pulled hard against the latter and leaned hard into the former. When he brought the other hand around to strike, I gave his wrist a twist. What must have been a buddy of his started towards me, saying "Hey man, you can't-" only to have a drumstick strike him squarely between the eyes. He staggered back. The drummer, who'd thrown the stick like a knife, wagged a finger in warning.
"You okay, Eldon?"
"Yeah."
"How about you?" I asked the stocky guy. "You cooled down?"
He nodded, and I let go, backing off. Watching his eyes. I saw it there first, then in the shift of his feet. Stamped hard on his instep, and when that knee buckled, I kicked the other foot out from under him.
"Don't get up till you're ready to behave." Then to Eldon: "What's this all about?"
"Who knows? Guy starts hanging around the bandstand, has something to say every minute or two, I just smile and nod and ignore him. So he starts getting louder. Tries to get up onstage at one point and spills a beer on my amp. So then he stumbles getting down and starts yelling that I pushed him. Next thing I know, he's grabbed my guitar and smashed it."
"You want me to take him in?"
"Hell no, Turner. Not like I ain't been through this before. Just get his buddy there to take him the fuck home and let him sleep it off."
I helped the man up.
"Your lucky day," I told him. "Give me your billfold." I took the driver's license out. "You come pick this up tomorrow and we'll have a talk. Now get the hell out of here."
I waited at the bar while Eldon borrowed a towel from the bartender and went in the bathroom to clean up. He came back looking not much better.
"Shirt kinda makes me homesick for tie-dye. Buy you a drink?"
"Tomato juice."
"And a draft for me," I told the bartender.
The jukebox came back on. I looked hard at the bartender and the volume went down about half.
"He wanted you to fight him."
"Sure did."
"But you didn't."
Eldon looked off at the bandstand, where drummer and bassist were packing up.
"Must be about six, seven years ago now. Club down in Beaumont. I's out back on a break and this guy comes up talkin' 'bout You shore can play that thing, boy. Gets up in my face like a gnat and won't go away."
He finished off his juice.
"I damn near killed him. Vowed that day I'd never take another drink and I'd never fight another man. You ever killed anyone, Turner?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I have."
"Then you know."
I nodded.
The bass player had scooped up what was left of Eldon's guitar and put it in the case. He brought the case over and set it at Eldon's feet.
"Talk to you tomorrow," Eldon said.
"Don't call too early." An old joke: they both grinned.
Out on the floor, four or five couples were boot-scooting to Merle Haggard's "Lonesome Fugitive."
"Back when I played R amp;B, I always had half a dozen or more electric guitars," Eldon said. "Have me a Gibson solid-body, a Gretsch, one of those Nationals shaped like a map, a Telecaster or a Strat. Ain't had but this old Guild Starfire for years now. When I bought it, place called Charlie's Guitars in Dallas, it had the finish torn off right above the pickup, where this bluesman had had his initials glued on. Guess he slapped it on his next guitar. And guess I'll be heading up to Memphis in the morning to do some shopping."
Val hadn't gone home after all. She lay on the couch with one bent leg balanced across the other forming a perfect figure 4. Miss Emily was asleep on the armrest by her head. I tucked a quilt around Val, then went out to the kitchen and poured myself a solid dose of bourbon.
I'd made pasta earlier, and the kitchen still smelled of garlic. The back door was open. A moth with a body the size of my thumb kept worrying at the screen door. Frogs and night birds called from the lake.
J. T. had all but fallen asleep at the dinner table. Used to being busy, she said. Not being wears me out, plus there's the shift thing. She insisted on cleaning up, then the minute it was done went off to bed. That the bed was hers was something I'd insisted on, despite voluble protests, when she came to stay with me. I'd taken the couch. And now the couch had been retaken, by Val. And Emily. The house was filling up fast.
"Is Eldon okay?"
Wrapped in the quilt, Val stood in the doorway. Miss Emily bustled around her to go check on the kids.
"A little the worse for wear-but aren't we all." I told her what had happened. "Thought you were going home."
She sat across from me, reached for my glass and helped herself to a healthy swallow.
"So did I. But the more I thought…"