Vernon God Little

Whatever. I rip the gown off and stuff it into a box under the table, then I run crouched alongside the railroad tracks toward the green end of Liberty Drive. Preacher Gibbons's voice echoes down the line behind me. 'Speaking of refrigerators, did y'all hear the one about the rabbit?'

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Mom run crying to the rest-rooms behind the New Life Center. But I can't afford any waves. I have to grab my bike and fly to Keeter's. Strangers mill around Liberty Drive corner, next to a new sign erected in front of the Hearts of Mercy Hospice. 'Coming Soon!' it reads. 'La Elegancia Convention Center.' A real ole man scowls from the hospice porch. I pull my head in and start to cross the street, but a stranger calls out to me.

'Little!' I speed up, but he calls again. 'Little, it's not about you!' The dude must be a reporter. He breaks from a group of roaming media, and steps up to me. 'The red van that used to park next to your house—you seen it around?'

'Yeah, it's at Willard Down's lot.'

'I mean the guy that used to drive it …'

'Eulalio, from CNN?'

'Yeah, the guy from Nacogdoches—you seen him?'

'Uh—Nacogdoches?'

'Uh-huh, this guy here—the repairman.' He pulls a crumpled business card from his shirt pocket. 'Eulalio Ledesma Gutierrez,' it reads, 'President & Service Technician-In-Chief, Care Media Nacogdoches.,'

The stranger shakes his head. 'Bastard owes me money.'

'O Eulalio, yo! Lalio, yo! Lalio, share this fucken challenge now.' That's what I sing on the ride out to Keeter's. I feel Jesus with me in the breeze, happier than usual, not so deathly, maybe because I finally got a fucken break. I'm going to call the number on this card, and get the slimy lowdown on Yoo-hoo-lalio. Then, when that reporter turns up at home later, for his cash, everybody will discover the fucken truth. It means I can leave town knowing my ole lady's okay. This business card is all the artillery I need. What I learned in court is you need artillery.

Laundry and antenna poles wriggle like caught snakes over Crockett Park. This is a neighborhood where underwear sags low. For instance, ole Mr Deutschman lives up here, who used to be upstanding and decent. This is where you live if you used to be less worse. Folks who beat up on each other, and clean their own carburetors, live up here. It's different from where I live, closer to town, where everything gets all bottled the fuck up. Just bottled the fuck up till it fucken explodes, so you spend the whole time waiting to see who's going to pop next. I guess a kind of smelly honesty is what you find at Crockett's. A smelly honesty, and clean carburetors.

The last payphone in town stands next to a corrugated metal fence on Keeter's corner, the remotest edge of town. If you live in Crockett's, this is your personal phone. Empty land stretches away behind it into the folds of the Balcones Escarpment, as far as you can imagine. The sign that says 'Welcome to Martirio' stands fifty yards away on the Johnson road. Somebody has crossed out the population number, and written 'Watch this space' over it. That's fucken Crockett's for you. Smelly honesty, and a sense of humor.

I lean my bike against the fence and step up to the phone. It's twenty-nine minutes after two. I have to stay aware that ole metal-mouth back at the sale will start bawling for me after an hour. I wipe the phone mouthpiece on my pants leg, a thing you learn to do up this end of town, and call up CMN in Nacogdoches. CMN—CNN–Get it? Fucken Lally, boy. New York my fucken wiener.

The number rings. A real ole lady answers. 'He-llo?'

'Uh, hello—I'm wondering if Eulalio Ledesma works there?'

You hear the ole gal catch her breath. 'Who is this?'

'This is, uh—Bradley Pritchard, in Martirio.'

'Well, I only have what's left in my purse …' Coins clatter onto a tabletop at her end. You sense it ain't going to be a quick call.

'Ma'am, I'm not calling for anything, I just wanted …'

'Seven dollars and thirty cents—no—around eight dollars is all I have, for groceries.'

'I didn't mean to trouble you, ma'am—I thought this was a business number.'

'That's right—"Care" – I had cards printed for Lalo, "Care Media Nacogdoches," that's the name he chose. You tell Jeannie Wyler this was never a tinpot operation—we moved my bed into the hallway to make space for his office, to help him get started.'

Mixed feelings I get. Like Lally falling off a cliff chained to my nana. 'Ma'am, I'm sorry I troubled you.'

'Well, the president isn't here right now.'

'I know, he's down here—you must've seen him on TV these days?'

'That's in very poor taste young man. Why, I've been blind for thirty years.'

'I'm real sorry, ma'am.'

'Have you seen him? Have you seen my Lalo?'

'As a matter of fact, he's staying at my—uh—friend's house.'

'Oh heavens, let me find a pen …'

Another bunch of stuff clatters down the line. I stand here and wonder how you read and write when you're blind. I guess you etch lines that you can feel with your fingers, like in clay or something. Or cheese, carry cheese around all the time.

'I know it's here somewhere,' she says. 'You tell Lalo the finance company took everything, they wouldn't wait another second for payment on the van, and now the Wylers are suing over their video camera. Imagine that!—and I was the one who talked them into repairing it in the first place. Those cameras don't fix themselves overnight you know, that's what I told her. I just wish everything wasn't in my name …'

She finds the cheese, and I give her my phone number. My early joy has melted now, with the serious reality of things. I say goodbye to the lady and ride away towards the escarpment, to find the gun. Jesus rides with me in spirit. He stays silent. I've changed the course of Fate, and it weighs on me heavy.

Bushes on Keeter's trail are bizarre, all spiky and gnarled, with just enough clearing between them so the unknown is never more than fifteen yards away. Not many creatures come this far into Keeter's. Me and Jesus are the only ones I know. Last time I saw him alive at Keeter's, he was in the far distance.

Ole man Keeter owns this empty slab of land, miles of it probably, outside town. He put a wrecking shop by the ole Johnson road, Keeter's Spares & Repairs–just a mess of junk in the dirt, really. He doesn't even run it anymore. When we say Keeter's around here, we usually mean the land, not the auto shop. You might see some steers on it, or deer; but mostly just bleached beer cans and shit. The edge of the universe of town. Martirio boys suck their first taste of guns, girls and beer out here. You never forget the blade of wind that cuts across Keeter's.

In the thick of the property lies a depression in the ground, sixty-one yards across, with wire and bushes matted around it. At the steepest end is an ole mine shaft. The den, we call it. We rigged up a door with some sheets of tin, and put a padlock on it and all. It was our headquarters, during those carefree years. That's where I took a shit the other day, the day of the tragedy, if you need to know. That's where the rifle is stashed.

It's two thirty-eight in the afternoon. Hot and sticky, with fast-moving clouds bunched low across the sky. I get to within two hundred yards of the den and hear a hammer-blow. Something moves in the bushes up ahead. It's ole Tyrie Lasseen, who runs Spares & Repairs, sinking markers into the ground. He's dressed in a suit and tie. He jackrabbits before I can hide.

'Okay, son?' he calls. 'Don't be touchin nothin, could be dangerous.'

'Sure, Mr Lasseen, I'm just cruising …'

'I wouldn't recommend you cruise around here, maybe you better head back to the road.'

Tyrie is the kind of Texan who takes his time telling you to fuck off. He shuffles three steps towards me, and wipes some sweat from the top of his head. His eyes crinkle like barbed wire snagged with horsehair, and his mouth hangs open a little. Ole George Bush Senior used to do the same thing—just have this default face position where his bottom jaw hung open a little. Like these guys listen through their mouths or something.