“Well, what’choo waitin’ fer, Jake?” said the kid with the knot on his head. “She gonna die of old age ‘fore you get up there.”
The kid was pissing him off; Jake didn’t like that wiseass, busted-tooth grin, and he had a mind to slap it right off his fucked up face. Of course, that wouldn’t be such a hot idea, not back in these parts. Hill folk looked after their own, and—
Jake caught something funky “Hold on a sec,” he said. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, we’se know all about’cha, Jake Rhodes.” The kid thumbed his overall straps, leaning back against his rusted fender. “If we didn’t, then you can bet yer ass you wouldn’t be here.”
What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Jake thought. And why did he sense the kid was mocking him? Crickets trilled during the impasse. Then Jake blew it off. These inbreds are weird, that’s all. How can they not be, fucked up as they are? And the kid said they’d heard of him—they, no doubt, meaning Cody Natter. Maybe Natter had an interest in Jake’s “enterprises.” Maybe this was his way of suggesting they get together to do some business.
Now there’s a thought, Jake considered.
“I’se just funnin’ with ya, Jake,” the kid told him, grinning away. The knot on his head looked as big as a baseball, and when he scratched his belly, Jake noticed he had two thumbs on his hand. “Just mosey on up and go right in, she’ll be waitin’ fer ya. She cain’t talk much, but she’ll suck yer dick so hard yer asshole’ll inhale. Best head in the county, and a good tumble, too.” The kid chuckled, a high-pitched titter. “Just don’t ‘spect no rousin’ conversation.”
I ain’t interested in talking, Jake reminded himself. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll be done in a spell.”
“Take yer time, Jake. Have fun.”
Jake left the kid at the old pickup and followed the short, rutted drive. He didn’t see any other cars or trucks around, and no people either. The moon hung just over the trees behind him, and up ahead he could see the big house sunk back in the woods against the clearing. Faint amber light glowed softly in the shuttered, lower-level windows. The steady chorus of crickets and spring peepers rushed in his ears like gentle ocean waves breaking on a beach.
As Jake climbed the wood steps to the porch, he thought, Aw, yeah, for at the same time the stripper appeared in the entry and held open the screen door. She’d changed into a frilly white robelike sort of thing sashed at the waist. It was so sheer she practically looked naked standing there, the outline of her body cut sharp as a freshly stropped blade against the lamplight behind her. But when Jake came into the parlor, he saw that the light came from several old oil lanterns. They ain’t even got electricity in the joint, he thought. The parlor was stuffy with old furniture, old framed paintings, and old avocado wallpaper that was peeling at the seams. An enormous oval throw rug covered the hardwood floor.
“All right, hon, let’s get to it.”
The screen door flapped shut. Then the girl turned abruptly, took one of the lanterns, and padded barefoot down the hall. Jake followed.
Christ, it’s hot, he realized, but that’s the way Jake “The Snake” Rhodes liked it: hot, humid, the air thick in its own heat. A hot night for some hot fucking. They called him the Snake because he was as mean as one, and he needed to be. Nice guys didn’t last in Jake’s business. When someone ripped you off, you had to get rough. And when new guys tried to move on your turf, well… You had to do what you had to do. Jake had knocked off more than his share of cowboys—that was the only way to keep the word out that he wasn’t one to fuck with. Every now and then his distro people got greedy and thought they’d make a few quick extra bucks by stepping on his raw product with turpentine. Jake didn’t need his customers dying, so sometimes he’d have to break a few bones or pop a few kneecaps. That got the message across loud and clear: Don’t pull shit on Jake Rhodes.
And chicks? Shit, it’s easier this way. What did he need a steady squeeze for? He’d never met a woman in his life he could trust. They all turned on you eventually; they all sold you out when they thought they could get a better deal somewhere else. He remembered one splittail he kept around a few years back, fucked him anytime he wanted and seemed straight up. Then Jake started losing some of his point distributors, and he found out it was the chick selling his points to some cowboy from Tylersville. Well, Jake had set the guy’s trailer on fire—with the guy still inside, of course, conveniently gagged and handcuffed to the drainpipe under his bathroom sink. And he had a good old time cutting up his squeeze with the stainless steel Seymour machete.
He followed the Creeker girl into a cramped room off to the right. Here several more lanterns glowed, and their dancing flames made the drab wallpaper look alive with pulsing swirls of light; the room seemed to breathe. No bed, just a big old scarlet scroll couch and a highback armchair with cracked upholstery. “How about gettin’ that shit off,” Jake said, and sat down in the chair. “Lemme have a look at ya.”
The girl paused and blinked, then falteringly stripped herself of the veil-like robe. She just stood there, blinking stupidly out of her pale nakedness.
“Now how’s about layin’ down on the couch and playin’ with yerself awhiles, like you were doin’ at the club?”
She stared a moment, then mumbled something that sounded like “lay-ply-self? Ah.” But evidently she got the gist because then she lounged back on the couch and began to run her hands up and down her sides and inside her legs, and Jake noted that her right hand was much smaller than the other, like a toddler’s, while her left was as big as his own. And then he noticed something else: when her flat, thin-lipped face inclined to look at him, he saw that the color of her eyes very nearly matched the dark strawberry-red of the velvet couch.
“Thlyke thisssss?” she asked.
“Yeah, baby, just like that.”
Jake pulled out a roach; he saw no harm in taking a hit of his own stuff every now and then. What he did, like most, was spray the raw dust in liquid form on mats of Old Bugler tobacco, then roll it up into joints. Just a nip. His lighter flashed, and he took a quick snatch down his throat and held it. The sharp, edgy buzz hit him quick, unpleasant at first, but then it smoothed out in his head and left him gritting his teeth in a tight grin. Jake wasn’t into nice gentle lovemaking; he wanted a nasty, down and dirty fuck, and a good toke of his own product got him in the mood right quick. He tamped the roach out with his fingers and went on watching the girl through the hard, glitterish buzz.
“That’s it, you little mushmouth. Rub up on them funny tits of yours awhile.”
Jake had chosen this one for just that. Her breasts. Small, like cupcakes, but fascinating in their imperfection. Two dark pink nipples sprouted out from the center of each breast, large as the end of Jake’s thumb. I’ll be biting on those big suckers real hard, he thought. But first…
Jake stood up and walked to the couch. “Get’cher face right on up here, retard. Yer brother outside says you give some good head—or is he yer father?” Jake cut a laugh. “Guess he’s probably both, huh?” Then he grabbed the girl by a rough handful of her shiny black hair—the tiniest shrill leaked out of her throat—and lifted her to a sitting position. Then he dropped his jeans.
“Go on, uglypuss. You know what to do. Bet you been sucking yer relatives’ cocks since you was in kindergarten,” and then he laughed again. “‘Course I guess you never went to kindergarten ’cos I don’t imagine they take Creeker retards like you into kindergarten.”