And lo and behold! Here’s the tin-knocker, so plowed I can’t figure how he made it past the doorman. But this is good, ’cause now I can give him a piece of my mind. I go up and grab him by the collar.
“Listen, buster!” I say. “If you think you can treat the old man any old way you please and get away with it you got another goddamn thing coming!”
“Who the hell are you?” the tin knocker says.
“Knut Lindqvist,” I say. “If that rings a bell. He was a good man, tried and true, and you got him all liquored up and then sent him on his way. And believe me, you’re gonna live to regret that!”
I get more and more furious by the moment. Tomorrow the old man is getting buried. And this no-good tin-knocker’s got so little respect that he’s out getting plastered the night before.
“A mouthful of my knuckles is what you got coming,” I tell him. But somebody’s right there, grabbing my arm before I can let it fly. And then a circle of gawkers closes in around us. Not that I mind. At least now they’ll know what sort of bastard the tin-knocker is. I spin around and there’s the deputy, brass badge pinned to his chest.
“We don’t want no trouble from you, Lindqvist,” he says, the meddling bastard. “Time for you to go home. You got a father to bury in the morning. Try not to forget.”
And I know just what to say back to him, the prick, but now Doughboy comes by with his arm around a woman, saying: “Come on, Knut-boy. Let’s get out of here. I got another eighth at home we can demolish.”
Another eighth!
He must really think I’m plastered, trying to feed me a line like that. Probably trying to save the tin-knocker’s ass. And now the goddamn deputy’s lecturing me for getting soused. What a crock of shit! If I was that gone I’d have jumped at Doughboy’s line. But this deputy’s a strong son of a bitch, old as he is, and now the tin-knocker’s flown the coop. Shitting bricks, I expect. Maybe he’s hiding outside, or hightailing it down the road. I’ll ask Doughboy to get the car and we can chase him down, and then we’ll see who has the last laugh. He’s a good fella, Doughboy, so he’ll do it, I’m sure.
I’m more than happy to leave of my own free will, though the deputy is right behind me giving me his two cents worth. Don’t know who died and made him dictator, for Christ’s sake.
“Can think of some newspapers that would be interested in this situation,” I say to Doughboy and his girl.
“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Doughboy says, like it’s all I been talking about.
Can’t get me out of there fast enough because the goddamn deputy keeps pushing me in the back.
“Let’s go, Lindqvist,” he says, pushing me along.
“That’s spelt with a ‘qv,’ — you just remember that!” I say, in case he thinks he can treat me like trash. The doorman’s eyes open wide as I walk back through the turnstile. Probably thinks he’s seeing things, the dimwit.
“Just wait till newspapers get hold of this story,” I say to him, and I’d say he looks pretty nervous. The thought of getting exposed in the papers — that’ll put the fear of God in these hicks every time.
There’s that goddamn hole again! Now Doughboy’s sweetheart is gonna think I’m drunk. She’s a pretty little thing, that one. I’m walking behind them, giving her the odd pinch here and there. And Doughboy, he tells me to keep my goddamn paws to myself. That’s the problem with him. Can’t handle his liquor. Otherwise he’s OK. He gets into his car with the girl climbing in right after him. Then I squeeze in the front seat right next to her. They probably thought I’d get in the back, but why the hell would I do that? It’s fun to crowd in next to a woman. Who would pass up a chance like that?
Now Doughboy’s looking to show off a bit. He eases out into the road nice and slow and turns the headlights on. But then he starts picking up some real speed, and the girl can’t help bouncing a bit on the seat. She’s a beauty, this one. I’d say it’s still up for grabs who’s gonna bed her tonight. Not like I’m a womanizer, but getting girls is something that’s always come kind of easy to me.
“Eight long months I was stuck in that goddamn Lappland shithole,” I start to tell her, and she just grins.
“Yeah, okay,” Doughboy snaps, cutting me off in the middle. “Okay, okay,” he says again, like it’s the only thing I’ve been talking about all night.
It’s stuffy all of a sudden here inside the car, and the sweat starts running off me in sheets. The noise of the engine is blocking up my ears. I can taste the whiskey making its way back up my throat. Must be something wrong with the exhaust, fumes coming into the car. But Doughboy, he don’t say a word, and the girl just sits there caressing his chin. Each and every second it gets stuffier and hotter, and it feels like someone or something in my gut is pumping whiskey right up into my throat, along with that goddamn pudding I had at home earlier. And the road, it begins to bend and roll around, the wind catching and crumpling it, the roadside fences jerking and heaving. I’m feeling seasick. I try to roll down the window, but I grab the wrong handle and the door flies open instead.
“What the hell?” Doughboy yells and slows down. No need to yell. Don’t know what makes him think I’ll let myself get treated like garbage by the likes of him, a goddamn nobody with a pile of found money that don’t even know how to honor his debts. The fresh air’s nice anyway, and the whiskey bubble in my throat goes away. I can see we’re almost at the nurse’s place, where Doughboy come up behind the old man in his car. I should thank him for that. He did right by the old man. The tin-knocker, on the other hand, I wish we’d see him along this road. I’d tell Doughboy to run him over. But now he’s slowing way down, and I better close the door before he gets furious. I really should thank him, ’cause here it is. This is the place.
“Doughboy—” I say, but then it all comes back up in my throat again. Must be the exhaust fumes.
“Get out, you son of a bitch!” Doughboy screams.
The door is open, so that’s easy enough. All of a sudden, I’m laying in the road, and I can hear Doughboy yelling his head off.
“Puking in my car, you fucking pig! In my car!”
The girl pulls the door shut and then they’re gone.
I don’t feel right, laying here like this. Not like I broke anything. And the sickness is gone now. But when I try to get up my legs feel like clay, so I lay back down flat on my back and reach out my hand to grab hold of the hedge. It’s Jacob’s hedge. And I wonder how long it would take for my body to go cold. ’Cause it’s dark at the nurse’s place and it’s dark on the road. Not a goddamn star in the sky. And I can’t help thinking: You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. Remember at Mamma’s funeral how everybody kept their distance and wouldn’t look direct at you. Your whole life you’ve been alone like that. The old man was the only one that treated you like a regular person. And now he’s gone. And here you lay on the same spot where the old man took his last fall, and if a car come along now who’s to say if it could stop in time. So no wonder you’re sobbing. And you’re cold. And now it’s starting to rain, so you can just as well lay here and let yourself get soaked through and through.