More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

Sloan thanked him and went into the kitchen. He made his call. As soon as he stepped back into the living room, Bill and the younger man, who’d been talking, fell silent fast.

Sloan looked at Bill and said, “They’ll tow it to Hatfield. The truck should be here in twenty minutes. I can wait outside.”

“No,” Agnes said. Then seemed to decide she’d been too forceful and glanced at the tattooed man with a squint, almost as if she was afraid of being hit.

“Too hot outside,” Bill said.

“No hotter’n in here,” the tattooed man replied caustically, with that grin back. His lips were bulbous and the top one was beaded with sweat — an image that made Sloan itch.

“Set yourself down,” Bill said cautiously. Sloan looked around and found the only unoccupied piece of furniture, an uncomfortable couch, covered in pink and green chintz, flowers everywhere. The gaudy pattern, combined with the still heat in the room and the nervous fidgeting of the large tattooed man, set him on edge.

“Can I get you anything?” the woman asked.

“Maybe some water if it’s not too much trouble.” Sloan wiped his face with his hand.

The woman rose.

“Notice,” the tattooed man said coolly, “they didn’t introduce me.”

“Well, I didn’t mean—” Bill began.

The man waved him silent.

“My name’s Greg.” Another hesitation. “I’m their nephew. Just stopped by for a visit. Right, Bill? Aren’t we having a high old time?”

Bill nodded, looking down at the frayed carpet. “High old time.”

Sloan was suddenly aware of something — a curious noise. A scraping. A faint bang. No one else seemed to hear it. He looked up as Agnes returned. She handed Sloan the glass and he drank half of it down immediately.

She said, “I was thinking, maybe you could look at Mr. Sloan’s car, Bill. Why don’t you and Greg go take a look at it?”

“Dave,” Sloan said, “Please. Call me Dave.”

“Maybe save Dave some money.”

“Sure—” Bill began.

Greg said, “Naw, we don’t wanna do that. Too much work in this heat. ’Sides, Dave looks like he can afford a proper mechanic. He looks like he’s rollin’ in dough. How ’bout it, Dave? Whatta you do?”

“Sales.”

“Whatcha sell?”

“Computers. Hardware and software.”

“I don’t trust computers. Bet I’m the only person in the country without email.”

“No, a good eighty million people don’t have it, I heard,” Dave told him.

Bill piped up. “Children, for instance.”

“Like me, huh? Me and the kiddies? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, no,” Bill said quickly. “I just was talking. Didn’t mean any offense.”

“How about you, Greg?” Sloan asked. “What line’re you in?”

He considered for a minute. “I work with my hands…. Wantto know what Bill does?”

A dark look crossed Bill’s face then it vanished. “I was in insurance. I’m between jobs right now.”

“He’ll be working someday soon, though, won’t you, Bill?”

“I hope to be.”

“I’m sure you will,” Agnes said.

“We’re all sure he will. Hey, Sloan, you think Bill could sell computers?”

“I don’t know. All I know is I enjoy what I do.”

“You good at it?”

“Oh, I’m very good at it.”

“Why computers?”

“Because there’s a market for what my company makes right now. But it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll can sell anything. Maybe next year it’ll be radiators or a new kind of medical laser. If I can make money at it, I’ll sell it.”

“Why don’t you tell us about your computers?” Greg asked.

Sloan shrugged dismissively. “It’s real technical. You’d be bored.”

“Well, we don’t want to bore anybody now, especially us kiddies. Not if we’re having such an enjoyable party, the family all together… family.” Greg thumped the arm of the chair with his massive hands. “Don’t you think family’s important? I do. You have family, Dave?”

“They’re dead. My immediate family, that is.”

“All of ’em?” Greg asked curiously.

“My parents and sister.”

“How’d they die?”

Agnes stirred at this blunt question. But Sloan didn’t mind. “An accident.”

“Accident?” Greg nodded. “My folks’re gone too,” he added emotionlessly.

Which meant that, because he was their nephew, Bill and Agnes had lost a sibling too. But Greg didn’t acknowledge their portion of the loss.

The sound of the air conditioner seemed to vanish as the silence of three mute human beings filled the tiny, stifling room. Then Sloan heard a faint thumping. It seemed to come from behind a closed door off the hallway. No one else noticed. He heard it again then the sound ceased.

Greg rose and walked to a thermometer tacked up on the wall. A silver wire ran through a hole sloppily drilled through the window jamb. He tapped the circular dial with his finger. “Busted,” he announced. Then he turned back to the threesome. “I heard the news? Before? And they said that it was ninety-eight degrees at sunset. That’s a record ’round here, the newscaster said. I got to thinking. Ninety-eight point six — that’s the temperature of a human body. And you know what occurred to me?”

Sloan examined the man’s eerie, amused eyes. He said nothing. Neither did Bill or Agnes.

Greg continued, “I realized that there’s no difference between life and death. Not a bit. Whatta you think about that?”

“No difference? I don’t get it.” Sloan shook his head.

“See, take a bad person. What sort of person should we use, Bill? Maybe a person who doesn’t pay his debts. How’s that? Okay, now what I’m saying is that it’s not his body, it’s his soul that’s a welsher. When he dies, what hangs around? A welsher’s soul. Same thing with a good man. There’s a good soul hanging around after a good body goes. Or a murderer, for instance. When they execute a murderer, there’s a killer’s soul still walking around.”

“That’s an interesting thought, Greg.”

“The way I see it,” the intense man continued, “a body is just a soul warmed to ninety-eight point six degrees.”

“I’d have to think about it.”

“Okay, our folks are dead, yours and mine,” Greg continued.

“True,” Sloan replied.

“But even when they’re gone,” Greg said philosophically, “you can still have trouble because of them, right?” He sat back in the slick, stained chair and crossed his legs. He wore no socks and Sloan got a look at another tattoo — one that started on his ankle and went north. Sloan knew that tattoos on the ankle were among the most painful on the body, since the needle had to hit bone. A tattoo there was more than body painting; it was a defiant reminder that pain was nothing to the wearer.

“Trouble?”

“Your parents can cause you grief after they’re dead.”

Any psychiatrist’d tell you that, Sloan thought, but decided that this was a bit too clever for Greg.

The young man rubbed his massive hand over his glistening crew cut. That was quite a scar he had. Another one was on his opposite arm. “There was this thing happened a few years ago.”

“What was that?” Bill asked.