“Yeah, I can tell you’ve really fell on hard times here, Artie. How in the world you gonna keep up your fantastic wardrobe?” Buddy Lee said.
“You can joke me all you want, Jenkins, but if I don’t have full payment tomorrow, which includes the lot fee and the rent for the trailer, I’ll—” Artie said, but Buddy Lee stepped down onto the first cinder block. Artie hadn’t expected the move. He took an awkward step backward and nearly tumbled to the ground.
“You’ll what? What you gonna do? Call the cops? Go down to the courthouse and get a warrant to kick me out of this broke-down-ass trailer? Lord have mercy, what in the world will I do without this fucking mansion that got a toilet that ain’t flushed right since ’ninety-four?”
“Ain’t no free ride here Buddy Lee! This ain’t one of them Section 8 setups. You want that, you can go over to Wyndam Hills and hang out with the other welfare cases. I knew I should’ve never rented to no ex-con. My wife told me but I didn’t listen. Every time I try to give somebody a break they screw me,” Artie said. Spittle sparked from his lips.
“Well, somebody gotta screw you since your wife gave up on getting you to take a bath more than once month,” Buddy Lee said. Artie flinched like he’d been slapped.
“Fuck you, Buddy Lee; I got a glandular condition. You know, you ain’t nothing but trash. Been trash just like all them Jenkins. That’s why your son was a—” Artie didn’t get to finish the statement. Buddy Lee had closed the distance between them in one and a half steps. A jackknife, its brown wooden handle smooth and slick from years of use, was pressed blade first against Artie’s belly. Buddy Lee balled up a wad of Artie’s T-shirt and put his mouth close to the shorter man’s ear.
“That’s why my son was a what? Go on. Say it. Say it so I can slit you from nuts to neck. Split you open like a killing hog and let your guts fall out like we cooking chitterlings for Sunday dinner,” Buddy Lee said.
“I … I … just want the rent,” Artie wheezed.
“What you want is to come over here while my boy ain’t even cold in the ground and swing your dick around like you the cock of the walk. All the time I been here I done let you talk your shit because I didn’t want no trouble. But I buried my boy today and now I ain’t really got a goddamn thing to lose, So, go ahead. Say it. SAY IT!” Buddy Lee said. His chest heaved as his breath came in rapid bursts.
“I’m sorry about Derek. Jesus Christ, I’m so fucking sorry. Please let me go. I’m so damn sorry,” Artie said. From his armpits a fetid odor wafted up that made Buddy Lee’s eyes water. At least that’s what he told himself. With the mention of his boy’s name, the rattlesnake in his heart that Artie had poked slithered back down into its hole. The fight flowed out of him like water pouring through a sieve. Artie was a mean-spirited, unhygienic son of a bitch but he didn’t kill Derek. He was just another asshole that didn’t understand who or what Derek was. That was something he and Buddy Lee had in common.
“Go back to your fucking house, Artie,” Buddy Lee said. He let go of the man’s shirt and put his knife back in his pocket. Artie scuttled backward and sideways. When he felt there was enough distance between him and Buddy Lee, he stopped and flicked him off.
“That’s your ass, Jenkins! I’m calling the cops. You ain’t gonna have to worry about the rent now. You gonna be sleeping in a jail cell tonight.”
“Go away, Artie,” Buddy Lee said. It came out flat and listless, all the bravado gone. Artie blinked hard. The sudden de-escalation confused him. Buddy Lee turned his back on him and went into his trailer. The AC hadn’t so much conditioned the air as suggested it might want to cool down.
He sprawled across his sofa. The duct tape on the armrest snagged a few of the hairs on his forearm. He fished around in his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. Behind his driver license was a small wrinkled photo. Buddy Lee pulled the photo out by the corner using his thumb and forefinger. It was a picture of him and a one-year-old Derek. He held the boy in the crook of his arm as they sat in an aluminum lawn chair. Buddy Lee was shirtless in the picture. His hair was down to his shoulders and black as an ace of spades. Derek was wearing a Superman shirt and a diaper.
Buddy Lee wondered what the young fella in the picture would think of the old man he’d become. That fella was full of gunpowder and gasoline. If he looked really close, he could see a small mouse under his right eye. A souvenir he’d acquired collecting a debt for Chuly Pettigrew. The man in that picture was wild and dangerous. Always down for a fight and up to no good. If Artie had spoken ill of Derek in front of that man, he would have waited until dark and then cut his throat for him. Watched him bleed out all over the gravel before taking him somewhere dark and desolate. Knocked out his teeth and cut off his hands and buried him in a shallow grave covered in about fifty pounds of pulverized lime. Then the man in that picture would have gone home, made love to his woman, and not lost a minute’s sleep.