I could practically see the machinery in his brain working as he recognized who I was and what happened last time we met. He seemed to have a pretty good buzz on. There were jugs and pitchers on a long table and everyone held a glass of something.
“Which one of you is the mayor?” Wayne said.
“That would be me,” I said.
“Since when.”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Well, if they had a got-damn newspaper around here, maybe some of us hillbillies would know what the hell is going on,” Wayne said, before turning to Loren. “That’d make you the other one, I suppose.”
“Right, I’m the constable.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I know you. You’re the preacher down there to the Grove, right.”
“I’m the minister of First Congregational.”
“Since when you church types become law enforcement types?”
“It’s the new thing,” Loren said.
“You don’t say? Like a fad?”
“Just around here.”
“Oh? Well, come on in and take a load off your damn minds. Mi casa es su casa. Bodie! Tiffany! Let these fellas sit down. Come on! Move your asses. In fact, all you all git. The shooting gallery is temporarily closed. Go on, git.”
The others downed their drinks, picked themselves up resentfully, and left, except the woman with the topknot.
“Brenda, why don’t you give that chicken a turn and offer these boys something to drink?”
We declined.
“Aw for shit’s sake, you must be thirsty,” Wayne said. “It’s a four-mile walk from the Grove, ain’t it?”
“We got whiskey, cider, and beer,” Brenda said, like a waitress in an old-time roadhouse.
“You want to shoot the shit with me,” Wayne said, “you better be prepared to drink with me. Go on, sit down. I didn’t pitch all that riffraff out for nothing.”
Loren surprised me and asked for whiskey. I said I’d have a cider. We sat down.
“You know, I’m kind of getting to like it with the electric off,” Wayne said expansively “We seen every got-damn DVD in the county and there ain’t no more cable anyways, whether the ’lectric’s on or off. I do miss my music, though. How are you all getting on down in town?”
“Mostly pretty well,” Loren said. “Except when we get breakins and crimes and stuff.”
“We don’t have any crime problem here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I rule with an iron got-damn fist,” Wayne said, and then brayed energetically at his own joke.
Loren took some papers out of his shoulder bag. “I’ve got some warrants here.”
“You don’t say.”
“I think this chicken’s done,” Brenda said.
“It ain’t done until I say it’s done.”
“Come have a look at it.”
“Just leave it and shut the fuck up.”
Brenda now left the patio area in a bit of a huff.
“Lemme see those things,” Wayne said. Loren got up and gave him the warrants. “Well, I got to hand it to Mr. Bullock in the penmanship department-no pun intended. Look at those Ws and Gs. These are as pretty as the got-damn Declaration of Independence. And the wax seal there, that’s a nice touch. Almost enough for me to take seriously.”
Wayne picked his slingshot off the slate floor and let fly at a crow perched on a cornstalk. To the amazement of us all, including Wayne, I think, the crow folded with the impact of the stone at the same time it emitted a particularly harsh and plaintive death cry and fell off its perch into the shadows.
“Score that Wayne one, crows zero,” Wayne said. “Mind refreshing my glass? I’d ask Brenda, but she’s not here.”
“I think your chicken’s getting away from you,” I said.
“Well, don’t just sit there. Get up and turn it.”
I was nearest to the grill, so I got up and turned the chicken while Loren poured Wayne another whiskey-and another for himself.
“You fellas are good guests,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come back some night with your wives. And you,” he said, meaning me, “you bring your damn fiddle. We’ll have ourselves a time.”
“What do you say about the warrants,” Loren said.
“I admire them. They have the right look and all. Can I keep them? They’d make nice silveneers.”
“Are you going to let us search for stolen goods?” Loren said.
“Of course not.”
“Are you going to surrender and come on in with us?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Are you going to turn over Bunny Willman.”
“Hell no.”
“Then your position is that you’re above the law?” Loren said.
“That ain’t my position, it’s my reality. How are you going to enforce this got-damn nonsense?”
“You’ll be surprised,” I said.
“Tell me. I really want to know.”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it.”
“Got me on that one,” Wayne said. He pointed my way and made a show of cracking up. “Well, as I see it, we got nothing further to discuss. But you did a nice job on the chicken there, Fiddler. If you want to run out into the corn and fetch that crow, I’d throw it on the grill for you.”
“No thanks.”
“Then I’ll take over from here.”
Wayne finally lifted himself out of the lounge chair and, in his catlike way, slunk over to relieve me of the grilling tongs.
“Oh, one other thing before you leave,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Have another stiff drink on me for the road. Night’s falling and you’re going to need it.”
Fifty-eight
We hadn’t gone a quarter mile down the road when we heard the footfalls behind us. Wayne’s men captured us effortlessly. The gang of six he’d sent down included Bunny Willman. We didn’t try to run. They tied our hands behind us, hobbled our ankles, and marched us back to Karptown-not without quite a few kicks in our asses along the way. Night had gathered by then. Stars blazed above the candlelit village and the moon was rising. The amphitheater on the village square was crowded with bodies. The same guitar player was still at it onstage, furiously scrubbing his strings, now in the glow of a dozen tin candle lamps arrayed around the lip of the stage.
A couple of wooden armchairs were set up at both extremes of the stage. They put Loren in the one on the left and me in the one on the right and bound us into them so we couldn’t move. The haze of marijuana was so thick that I might have gotten high myself if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed with dread. The audience was passing jugs around. They evinced the same chatty excitement that crowds always do before a public spectacle, whether it’s a musical or a comedy show or a hanging. Of course, I worried about what part we were going to play in the evening’s entertainment. Eventually Wayne emerged from the front door of his compound, along with several cohorts, and made his way down an aisle to the stage. He hopped up fluidly with a clipboard under his arm like the recreational director on a cruise ship. The guitar player stopped bashing his strings and ambled off stage. A hush fell over the audience as Wayne began to speak.
“Let’s give Woody a big hand for putting out so much positive energy. Woody always brings a smile,” he said, presumably referring to the guitar player. The crowd responded with some feeble clapping.
“As you can see-hey, pipe down out there-as you can see, we got some special guests for the main part of tonight’s show.” This provoked a mix of cheers, jeers, catcalls, whistles, and raspberries from the crowd. Someone threw a hunk of something-corn bread perhaps -at Loren. It bounced off his temple harmlessly. “Hey, watch out there, Mojo,” Wayne said, wagging a finger. “It ain’t up to you to start in on that.” The audience laughed knowingly. “Before we get underway with the feature presentation, we have a couple of warmup acts I hope you’ll all enjoy, including our special guests.” Wayne glanced at his clipboard. “First, we got Ricky Z, Potato, Tracy Ballard, Jesse, Pinky, and Little Eric doing highlights from episode sixty-six of The Sopranos, starring Potato as Tony. “Won’t you please give them a big hand.”