Killshot

“We have better days than this, when you can see the countryside. We have worse ones too.”

Wayne said, “There’s all that engine noise and vibration,” and was surprised he thought that; ironworking was way noisier. “Or else I’m too old to learn a new trade.”

“Ride down to New Orleans with me,” the captain said. “That town will make you feel young again.”

By the time they tied up at Waterfront Services, Wayne was out of his coveralls and had on his ironworker’s jacket. He picked up his overnight bag and followed the mate carrying his suitcase across barges to get ashore. They walked past the floodwall and through a decaying area where bums hung out, sat in discarded chairs and car seats around a fire that became a cloud of smudge rising in the damp air. Wayne said it looked like more rain was coming. The mate didn’t say or care. They walked a long block to the Skipper Lounge—Beer, Wine, Liquors & Pizza—that was maybe one notch above a skid-row bar. No cars in front, full of guys off boats.

They ordered bourbon and shells of beer, the mate looking around at the rivermen in here, nodding to some, Wayne looking at his watch. Ten to five. He’d have one and call his honey, tell her the good news, that he’d be home in the morning if not before. They tossed down the shots and ordered another one each.

“I have to see about a ride back,” Wayne said. “I was told it can be arranged. Here or down at Waterfront Services.”

The mate stood hunched, leaning on the bar. He looked past his shoulder at Wayne. “You had enough, huh?”

Wayne shrugged, sipped his beer.

“I could’ve told you.”

Wayne watched him straighten to drink his shot.

“You could’ve told me what?”

“You weren’t ever gonna cut it.”

The mate looked at the bartender for another shot, pointing a finger at his glass. Wayne looked at his watch. It was still ten to five.

“How’d you know that?”

“What?”

“You don’t think I can cut it.”

“You remind me of these college boys come along in the summer, looking for a trip on the river. They last about two days. But that’s longer’n you did—up there Mr. Big Shot in the pilothouse.” The mate tossed off his bourbon and got back down on the bar before he said to Wayne, peeking past his shoulder at him, “What I wondered was if the captain let you suck him off.”

Wayne’s overnight bag was sitting on the bar. He pushed it aside and leaned on his arms to get down closer. “You don’t know who I am, anything about me. Why would you say something like that?”

“Well, you’re a queer, aren’t you? Isn’t that what queers do?”

Wayne studied the man’s one-eyed face, his dumb mean expression, one of those nasty drunks Wayne could never understand, why booze turned them bitter, made them want to fight or tear up a place or drive their car into a tree. It had an opposite effect on Wayne, it made him feel warm and witty, able to abide even assholes and mime the tune “My Girl” the way the Temptations did it, with all the moves. But he wasn’t drunk now or anywhere near to feeling good. He said to the mate, “Which one’d you tell me was your glass eye?”

It caused the mate to stare, hesitate, but only a moment. “You don’t know shit, do you? Can’t tell a towboat from a coal hopper, a real eye from one that ain’t.”

“The clear one,” Wayne said, “that isn’t all bloodshot. You lose it in a bar?”

“Boy hit me with a bottle.”

“I can believe it, the kind of mouth you have. I’m surprised you aren’t dead by now.”

“We’re getting to it,” the mate said, “aren’t we?”

Wayne said, “No, we’re there.” He straightened and put his hand on the man’s bony shoulder. “And I’ll tell you where we’re at. You’re gonna quit mouthing off, okay? You don’t, I’ll pound that glass eye into you so hard you’ll be using it to peek out your asshole.” Wayne got a grip on the man’s coat, pulled him straight up and held him there one-handed looking into his good eye. “Is that what you want? Nod or shake your head, but be careful you don’t speak.”

The poor dumb one-eyed drunk seemed to shake his head. Or was that a nod? It didn’t matter— what was the question? The guy’s breath was so bad Wayne had to put him down. He saw the bartender coming over with a stern look.

“I’m okay, but give him one. Where’s your phone?”

The bartender was a big bald-headed guy in a plaid wool shirt. He hooked his thumb toward the back of the room.

Moving along the bar Wayne looked at his watch. Not yet five. He had hoped to call earlier and was anxious now, getting a quarter out of his pocket as he reached the phone booth, stepped inside and closed the door. He’d reverse the charge, no problem, Carmen would be home. He raised the quarter to drop it in the slot and an awful feeling came over him. It caused him to say out loud in the quiet confinement of the booth, “SHIT!”

He didn’t know the goddamn number.

It was in his mind last night when he was talking to Carmen, telling her how the operator wouldn’t help him —Write it down before you go to bed. He could remember telling himself that. And forgot to do it.

Wayne looked in his wallet. He had the number of Cape Barge Line. But they didn’t have his. He didn’t have a phone when he had filled out the job application. What he did have was the office number of the U.S. Marshals Service. They’d have his—if that moron Ferris wrote it down. It was almost five. Wayne could see the moron and his secretary leaving for the day, the door swings closed and the phone starts ringing. He had about five minutes. But first he’d have to get change at the bar. He couldn’t imagine Ferris accepting a collect call.

Carmen packed all the clothes her big canvas suitcase would hold and put it inside the pickup on the seat. She would have to come back sometime for the rest of her things, but wasn’t going to worry about that now. Her plan was to leave at five. If Wayne didn’t call by then she’d write a note and tape it to the refrigerator. Ferris could walk in and read it if he wanted, it wouldn’t matter, she’d be gone. She felt less edgy with the keys in her hand and her bag in the truck. She had enough money for gas. What else? She got her navy wool coat out of the closet, and a sweater she hadn’t packed and took them out to the pickup. Coming back into the house she heard the phone ringing and thought of Ferris.

“How’re you doing, honey?”

“Wayne?”

“I’m gone one day and you don’t know who I am. We were late getting in on account of fog. You run a bridge you have to see where you’re going.”

Carmen stood in the middle of the kitchen with the phone, looking into the living room.

“Where are you?”

“Cairo, but I’m coming home soon as I can catch a tow. Probably get back tomorrow morning, early.”

It surprised her and she was curious—even as she continued to stare at the front window.

“You said you’d be gone three days.”

“Well . . . I’ll tell you about it when I get back, but you know what the thing was that turned me off. Don’t laugh, but you have to wear a life preserver. I never wore a safety line on the job—you know I’m not gonna work someplace you have to wear a life preserver. These guys talk about falling overboard, shit, they don’t know what a fall is. It was okay, I had a pretty good time. Now I’m gonna go look for a ride.”

“Wayne, I won’t be here when you get back.” She said it fast. “Mom’s sick, I have to go take care of her.”

“Your mom? Your mom’s always sick. Jesus, what’s the matter now?”

“Her back, she can’t move.”

“That woman snaps her finger, you jump. Jesus Christ, don’t you know she’s using you?”

“Wayne, I’m going.”

There was a silence.

“All right, listen, I’ll leave right this minute. You can wait till tomorrow morning, can’t you?”

“I want to get out of here,” Carmen said, staring at that front window. “I waited all afternoon for you to call. I’m packed now, ready to go.”