Wigford Rememberies. Kyp Harness
one day Lou comes in,” says Frank, throwing up his hands, “pulls out a twenty-two-gauge shotgun, and blows their heads off.”
“Je—sus CHRIST!” cries Roy, wincing. Gus sits looking at Frank out of the corner of his eye, puffing at his pipe, his head cocked.
“Yep, well you know the power of them twenty-two-gauge shotguns,” says Frank.
“Jesus, yes,” says Roy. “I got one I take up north for the deers—the POWER of them things.”
“Yeah, well you can imagine at point-blank range—blew their heads clean off—and then, the weirdest thing, the guy didn’t just stop there. ’Parently he reloaded and cocked the thing again and again—and you know how long it takes to reload one a them things—blastin’ away at ’em over and over, I mean, after he must’ve known they MUST’ve been dead already. I mean, I say he blew their heads off but there weren’t hardly enough to bury, really.”
“Good Christ!” cries Roy. “You wonder what in hell would possess a man.”
“Well, after that he went down into the cellar where he knew they had a bunch of cash stashed in an old fruit jar, I mean somethin’ like twenty thousand dollars,” says Frank.
“Ah, so that’s it,” muses Roy, nodding his head grimly.
“Sure. Lou goes down, takes out the loot and nobody sees him no more. Police had a devil of a time trackin’ him down—till finally musta been a week later, up in Birkston, they hear the guy’s a regular at some tavern and he’s the life of the party, dressed in a brand new, sharp suit with a brand spankin’ new car outside stayin’ at some fancy hotel up there. Been up there all week I guess, buyin’ everybody drinks and bein’ everybody’s pal. I mean, after all a those years walkin’ ’round here like a ghost, ya wouldn’t hardly believe it.
“Well, they surrounded the place, tryin’ to get him to give himself up peaceful-like. Everybody else came runnin’ outta that place as if all the devils in hell was chasin’ ’em. All the Birkston cops was standin’ outside armed to the teeth—I mean, for all they knew he was armed and dangerous.”
“Sure, sure,” says Roy, blinking with deep interest, his mouth slightly open.
“Yep,” agrees the other man. “So like I say, he’s in the bar all alone, everybody, even the waiters and what all hauled their asses outta there pronto—if he was everybody’s best buddy just a few minutes ago, he sure as hell wasn’t now. And the place is surrounded by cops with their guns out and aimed at the doors and they’re callin’ out askin’ him to come out and surrender peacefully when all of a sudden he comes runnin’ outta there crazy.
“He ain’t armed, no gun, he jes’ comes runnin’ out as if he actually believes he’s got a chance to get past all those cops standin’ in a circle round the entire building. Well of course they don’t know he wasn’t armed, what the hell, so they shot ’im. Funny thing though, after they shoot ’im he falls down, and while he’s dyin’ his legs are still movin’ around on the ground like he’s still runnin’.”
“Hmph,” says Roy.
For a moment the three men sit in silence, considering the table.
“Jesus! Hell of a thing!” remarks Roy with a sigh, shaking his head.
“Well, you can bet one thing,” says Gus, stabbing his finger at the newspaper. “When they catch THIS guy it ain’t gonna be no pretty sight either.”
“Damn right,” says Roy. “Some no-good lowdown sonofabitch that’d do somethin’ like that.”
“Well I was talkin’ to Hank down at the station, and he says they don’t have much of a lead yet,” says Frank. “Best they can say now is they think it musta been someone outta the area—least they’re hopin’ that—who just came round here to stash the body.”
“Jesus, let’s hope so. Some rotten bastard like that who’d cut up someone’s body like that—hangin’ ain’t fit for ’im,” remonstrates Roy.
“I don’t suspect it would be,” drawls Gus. “Not unless ye hung him up by one ball and waited for the rest of ’im to come fallin’ down.”
“Huh! Some asshole like that oughta be shot with a ball of his own shit!” says Roy scornfully, baring his teeth in anger.
“Well, what I’d do with some no-good sonofabitch like that…” volunteers Gus, taking time to relight his pipe afresh and drawing on it, “…is take ’im out into the bush behind my property, sit ’im down on a log, nail ’is balls to it, then push ’im over backwards and leave ’im there.”
“Fuckin’ right, fuckin’ right, Gus!” Roy exclaims as Frank, with his watery, weary eyes, nods his agreement.
Happy Henry at this time has settled himself on a stool at the counter with a cup of tea. From the pocket of his overcoat he has taken a bible and laid it before him on the counter, resting his hands on either side of it, and his head at the end of his long thin neck dances back and forth towards and away from the bible as he studies it, every so often pausing in his concentration to gaze hurriedly about the coffee shop then returning again to the bible, the fingers of his hands clenching and unclenching, the upper area of his body swaying from side to side on the stool.
At this point a massive transport truck pulls off the highway and comes to a slow lumbering whissshhing steaming stop in the parking lot outside the window—the cab opens and a compact little man clambers out, the bottom of his boots slapping the pavement as he slams the door and trudges up to the coffee shop, his arms at each side held at a considerable distance from his torso with elbows bent as he walks briskly in through the door, an angry frown fixed on his granite face as he steps up to the counter.
“Coffee! Regular!” he commands, and stands shaking his leg impatiently as he waits for it. He’s wearing grease-stained blue jeans and a T-shirt with a jacket over it, the zipper half down. He strides with his coffee past the group of men who glance up at him as he passes. He rewards them with an angry glare and drops with a thud into a nearby chair, his hands clasped around the coffee cup, staring stoically before him with a sort of abstract, floating, all-encompassing hostility—the lower half of his face covered with a rash of black prickly whiskers. He perspires heavily from beneath the cap clamped tightly down on his head, the visor of it shadowing his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
Happy Henry swivels on his stool and looks shyly over at the man. Feeling his gaze, the man turns to Henry and stares balefully at him, like a bear through the bars of a cage. His eyes widen as Henry smiles, lifts himself from the stool and comes hobbling over to his table. The man’s mouth falls half-open in outraged surprise as he looks up at Henry and Henry says, “Some reading material? For free…” while placing a pamphlet gently on the table before the man, bowing slightly and smiling.
The man’s eyes slowly tear themselves from Henry and take in the pamphlet—ETERNITY IS FOREVER. He stares sullenly down at the words—HAVE YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE?—and then cranes his head slowly up to Henry again. His mouth hardens into a compressed, furious sneer and his dark eyes beam at Henry, smouldering with hatred.
Henry smiles and nods, licking his lips. “You’ve accepted Lord Jesus as your own personal saviour?” he asks pleasantly.
The man parts his lips slightly, revealing the tiny tightly clenched white teeth. His eyebrows arch and his eyes widen and his glistening, sweating face shudders with rage—the coffee in his cup quivering and splashing up over the side.
Henry looks down at the man and a faint doubt causes his smile to falter. “You… you’ve been cleansed in the blood of the…” he begins, but the man leans forward and a deep guttural sound, something like a growl, burbles up from his throat behind his clenched teeth, causing Happy Henry to step away hurriedly, blank faced, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickle up in a