a light pole then popped back in line behind them.
The White Tree boys couldn’t make the corner in the station wagon and they didn’t even try. They screeched into a car lot down a piece, turned around and came back. By that time the tail lights of the Impala were moving away from them rapidly, looking like two inflamed hemorrhoids in a dark asshole.
“Take the next right coming up,” Scott said, “then you’ll see a little road off to the left. Kill your lights and take that.”
Leonard hated taking orders from Scott on the field, but this was worse. Insulting. Still, Scott called good plays on the field, and the habit of following instructions from the quarterback died hard. Leonard made the right and Rex made it with them after taking a dip in a water-filled bar ditch.
Leonard saw the little road and killed his lights and took it. It carried them down between several rows of large tin storage buildings, and Leonard pulled between two of them and drove down a little alley lined with more. He stopped the car and they waited and listened. After about five minutes, Farto said, “I think we skunked those father rapers.”
“Ain’t we a team?” Scott said.
In spite of himself, Leonard felt good. It was like when the nigger called a play that worked and they were all patting each other on the ass and not minding what color the other was because they were just creatures in football suits.
“Let’s have a drink,” Leonard said.
Farto got a paper cup off the floorboard for Scott and poured him up some warm Coke and whiskey. Last time they had gone to Longview, he had peed in that paper cup so they wouldn’t have to stop, but that had long since been poured out, and besides, it was for a nigger. He poured Leonard and himself drinks in their same cups.
Scott took a sip and said, “Shit, man, that tastes kind of rank.”
“Like piss,” Farto said.
Leonard held up his cup. “To the Mud Creek Wildcats and fuck them White Tree boys.”
“You fuck ‘em,” Scott said. They touched their cups, and at that moment the car filled with light.
Cups upraised, the Three Musketeers turned blinking toward it. The light was coming from an open storage- building door and there was a fat man standing in the center of the glow like a bloated fly on a lemon wedge. Behind him was a big screen made of a sheet and there was some kind of movie playing on it. And though the light was bright and fading out the movie, Leonard, who was in the best position to see, got a look at it. What he could make out looked like a gal down on her knees sucking this fat guy’s dick (the man was visible only from the belly down) and the guy had a short, black revolver pressed to her forehead. She pulled her mouth off of him for an instant and the man came in her face then fired the revolver. The woman’s head snapped out of frame and the sheet seemed to drip blood, like dark condensation on a window pane. Then Leonard couldn’t see anymore because another man had appeared in the doorway, and like the first he was fat. Both looked like huge bowling balls that had been set on top of shoes. More men appeared behind these two, but one of the fat men turned and held up his hand and the others moved out of sight. The two fat guys stepped outside and one pulled the door almost shut, except for a thin band of light that fell across the front seat of the Impala.
Fat Man Number One went over to the car and opened Farto’s door and said, “You fucks and the nigger get out.” It was the voice of doom. They had only thought the White Tree boys were dangerous. They realized now they had been kidding themselves. This was the real article. This guy would have eaten the hammer handle and shit a two-by-four.
They got out of the car and the fat man waved them around and lined them up on Farto’s side and looked at them. The boys still had their drinks in their hands, and sparing that, they looked like cons in a lineup.
Fat Man Number Two came over and looked at the trio and smiled. It was obvious the fatties were twins. They had the same bad features in the same fat faces. They wore Hawaiian shirts that varied only in profiles and color of parrots and had on white socks and too-short black slacks and black, shiny, Italian shoes with toes sharp enough to thread needles.
Fat Man Number One took the cup away from Scott and sniffed it. “A nigger with liquor,” he said. “That’s like a cunt with brains. It don’t go together.
Guess you was getting tanked up so you could put the old black snake to some chocolate pudding after a while. Or maybe you was wantin’ some vanilla and these boys were gonna set it up.”
“I’m not wanting anything but to go home,” Scott said. Fat Man Number Two looked at Fat Man Number One and said, “So he can fuck his mother.”
The fatties looked at Scott to see what he’d say but he didn’t say anything. They could say he screwed dogs and that was all right with him. Hell, bring one on and he’d fuck it now if they’d let him go afterwards.
Fat Man Number One said, “You boys running around with a jungle bunny makes me sick.”
“He’s just a nigger from school,” Farto said. “We don’t like him none. We just picked him up because some White Tree boys were beating on him and we didn’t want him to get wrecked on account of he’s our quarterback.”
“Ah,” Fat Man Number One said, “I see. Personally, me and Vinnie don’t cotton to niggers in sports. They start taking showers with white boys the next thing they want is to take white girls to bed. It’s just one step from one to the other.”
“We don’t have nothing to do with him playing,” Leonard said. “We didn’t integrate the schools.”
“No,” Fat Man Number One said, “that was ole Big Ears Johnson, but you’re running around with him and drinking with him.”
“His cup’s been peed in,” Farto said. “That was kind of a joke on him, you see. He ain’t our friend, I swear it. He’s just a nigger that plays football.”
“Peed in his cup, huh?” said the one called Vinnie. “I like that, Pork, don’t you? Peed in his fucking cup.”
Pork dropped Scott’s cup on the ground and smiled at him. “Come here, nigger. I got something to tell you.”
Scott looked at Farto and Leonard. No help there. They had suddenly become interested in the toes of their shoes; they examined them as if they were true marvels of the world.
Scott moved toward Pork, and Pork, still smiling, put his arm around Scott’s shoulders and walked him toward the big storage building. Scott said, “What are we doing?”
Pork turned Scott around so they were facing Leonard and Farto who still stood holding their drinks and contemplating their shoes. “I didn’t want to get it on the new gravel drive,” Pork said and pulled Scott’s head in close to his own and with his free hand reached back and under his Hawaiian shirt and brought out a short, black revolver and put it to Scott’s temple and pulled the trigger.
There was a snap like a bad knee going out and Scott’s feet lifted in unison and went to the side and something dark squirted from his head and his feet swung back toward Pork and his shoes shuffled, snapped, and twisted on the concrete in front of the building.
“Ain’t that somethin’,” Pork said as Scott went limp and dangled from the thick crook of his arm. “The rhythm is the last thing to go.”
Leonard couldn’t make a sound. His guts were in his throat. He wanted to melt and run under the car. Scott was dead and the brains that had made plays twisted as fishing worms and commanded his feet on down the football field were scrambled like breakfast eggs.
Farto said, “Holy shit.”
Pork let go of Scott and Scott’s legs split and he sat down and his head went forward and clapped on the cement between his knees. A dark pool formed under his face.
“He’s better off, boys,” Vinnie said. “Nigger was begat by Cain and the ape and he ain’t quite monkey and he ain’t quite man. He’s got no place in this world ‘cept as a beast of burden. You start trying to train them to do things like drive cars and run with footballs it ain’t nothing but grief to them and the whites too. Get any on your shirt, Pork?”
“Nary a drop.”
Vinnie went inside the building and said something to the men there that could be heard but not understood, then he came back with some crumpled newspapers. He went over to Scott and wrapped them around the bloody head and let it drop back on the cement. “You try hosing down that shit when it’s dried, Pork, and you wouldn’t worry none about that gravel. The gravel ain’t nothing.”
Then Vinnie said to Farto, “Open the back door of that car.” Farto nearly twisted an ankle doing it. Vinnie
