Arch snorted. “You pulling my leg?”
“No, sir,” Fuller said. “I pray for his soul. I pray for you, too, Arch.”
“Jesus H. Christ, you’ve gone off your rocker.”
“I think those rocks set me straight. When I came to, I saw everything so much clearer. It was like being at the movies when the picture ain’t in focus and someone up in the booth sets it right. That’s the way I feel. I didn’t tell anyone about it till I told Georgia on Sunday. And she had me talk to the preacher. He brought me up front and placed his hands upon my head. All I can say is that I felt a change in me. I don’t see things like I used to. I’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb.”
“Goddamn.”
“Not in here.”
“What?”
“Don’t speak like that in my home.”
“You live in a garage, Bert.”
“I pray for you.”
“I don’t need prayer. I need you to pull your head out of your ass. I need for the goddamn Guard to leave town. Hell, I need a goddamn drink.”
“Georgia?” Fuller called out. And the woman came to him, giving a sour, skeptical look at Arch before sitting in a small chair by Bert Fuller’s side. “Get your Bible, darling. Mr. Ferrell is in some pain.”
“There is nothing wrong with me. You’ve lost your mind.”
“Mr. Arch,” Fuller said. “I’ve never been better in my life. Would you pray with us?”
Arch shook his head, and, as he reached the door, he heard Fuller and his whore girlfriend singing the first verses of “The Old Rugged Cross.”
IT WAS MIDNIGHT, AND JOHNNIE BENEFIELD RAN HIS HUDSON to the redline, taking hard turns on country roads for the hell of it, kicking up dust and grit and spinning tires. You couldn’t see far ahead, clouds covered up the moon that night and out in the country, the headlights sliced across the countryside like knives.
“That’s twin H-power under the hood, buddy. That 308 can press the sonofabitch to 170 horses. This little Hornet can fuckin’ fly. Listen to that buzz. Listen to that.”
Reuben sat in the front seat with his two-tone cowboy boot on the dash, nursing along a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, as he liked to do most nights. Moon sat in the backseat, a sullen child taking up most of the bench.
The fat man ate an ice-cream cone, working his leviathan tongue around the pink mass and slurping on the milk dripping down his hands, wiping his chin on his fatty arms.
Johnnie looked back in the rearview, taking the turns now with one hand on the wheel. “Jesus Christ, Moon. I believe you’d eat till you bust at the seams.”
Reuben took a hit of Jack. He passed it back to Moon, who washed down a big bite of ice cream with the whiskey. He handed it back, and Reuben wiped the mouth with the flat of his hand.
“I ever tell you about the night Big Nigger died?” Johnnie asked. “See, me and him was supposed to crack this safe in Newnan. It was a big job, one of those walk-in Wells Fargo numbers. We got word that this sonofabitch kept all his money in the back of his hardware store. We figured maybe a hundred grand in cash and guns and jewelry and all. But before we could get to it, a couple niggers robbed it on Halloween night. I mean
Reuben jostled a bit as Johnnie fishtailed out onto the paved road and went up and down some small hills on the outskirts of Phenix. He took another hit of Jack. He could smell Moon’s animal stench behind him, and that and the goddamn jitters made him want to puke.
“So ole Jim, Big Nigger, went over to where those boys lived and hopped on one and started choking the ever-living shit out of one of ’em, but he didn’t know the other was there hiding in the kitchen and, when he stood up, the sonofabitch jumped up behind him and blew the back of his head off.”
Reuben nodded, lulled by the long ribbon of blacktop.
“We took both those boys out to the river, shot them just like ole James was shot and kicked ’em right into the river.”
Reuben nodded again.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“This ain’t my idea.”
Johnnie laughed and drove with one hand while he punched the lighter on the Hudson’s dash. “No, it ain’t your idea, but you’ll sure as shit spend the money we’re about to get paid. Just sit tight and I’ll do all the work. We ain’t paid to think.”
“What if we get stopped?”
“Quit pissin’ your britches. Everything is copacetic.”
He turned down Summerville Road, and they coasted and twisted down the hill past a couple white-clapboard churches and little cottages strung along the road. Most of the lights were out, and they didn’t see a single jeep or roadblock. They soon turned into a little neighborhood on Twenty-eighth Street, and Johnnie took the big engine down to a little purr and killed the lights as they wound their way around the little ranch houses and cottages. Little postage-stamp pieces of lawns with nice mailboxes and short little driveways. Folks who worked in Columbus but lived in Phenix City because it was cheaper.
Soon Johnnie stopped and killed the big jet engine. The windows were down, and Reuben wiped his face with his hand. Moon had worked the ice-cream cone down to a nub and chomped in the backseat until Reuben looked back at him and he stopped.
The air smelled of the pink-and-red box roses planted outside the little houses and gardenias, all heated and freshly watered. They sat there until there was a light flecking on the windshield, the short patter of rain, and then more rain, and Johnnie sat there and smiled and smiled. And Reuben asked: “What’s so goddamn great?”
“This is good. This is better.”
“Will it still go in the rain?”
“It would work at the bottom of a fucking lake.”
Johnnie looked down at his wristwatch and wound the stem. Reuben took a deep, long breath and followed Johnnie out of the car. He popped the trunk and pulled out some paint cans packed with dynamite sticks and mud. They called them slug bombs.
He tossed Moon the keys and Moon moved up to the front seat, squeezing behind the steering wheel. He looked like a rat trying to escape into a small hole.
“We shouldn’t have taken your car,” Reuben said. “I coulda stole us something.”
“My car is the fastest car in the state of Alabama and ain’t no way nobody can catch us. My God, it’s got a jet engine, Reuben.”
Another car slowed at the end of Twenty-eighth Street and soon coasted to a stop behind them. Reuben’s heart was up in his throat as he shielded his eyes with his hand and watched as two large shadows stepped into the headlights.
It was the Youngblood brothers. Glenn and Ernest.
“Jesus,” Reuben said. “You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout this.”
Glenn, a big, buck-toothed boy with a wide squirrel’s nest of a pompadour, pulled the Jack from his hands and took a drink. He passed it to his slightly shorter, slightly fatter brother, who did the same, and passed it back to Reuben. The brothers worked a couple clubs out on Opelika Highway, the Hillbilly and the Bamboo, with B-girls and whores. They made some money on the side as muscle for Miss Fannie Belle, and two years ago had made the papers for beating some RBA members bloody on election day right in front of news cameras.
The RBA boys had complained that the Youngbloods were changing the ballots. And they had, on the direction of Bert Fuller, who spent the good part of the day casting votes for dead men and herding his whores up to the ballot box.
Ernest took a big swallow and then grinned a rotten row of upper teeth. He handed the bottle back to Reuben
