“Well, you go on back then. But he's in a black mood, as usual.”
“Has he been—”
“Of course. You can't take that man's bottle from him, but he don't get bad until around four.”
Bud walked back into a dark little room and found C.D.
sitting under a pyramid of cigarette smoke, his bourbon bottle, and a paper cup before him. He was watching a soap opera through squinty eyes, his face all knit up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On a shelf to the left stood a brass army of pistol marksmanship awards.
“Howdy, there,” said Bud.
“Bud, goddamn,” the old man leaped up, "nice of you to drop by.”
“Well, damn, just wanted to know how you's doing?”
“Oh, it's okay. Gits a little draggy toward the end of day, that's all.”
“You need anything?”
“No sir, not a thing. I ain't quite as drunk as I was last time I saw you. Need a drink yourself, son?”
“No, lieutenant. I just wanted to drop by to say so long.”
“Well, you're the only one of ’em man enough to do that. Close to fifty years, and nobody even come by. How 'bout a sandwich? Bud, you want a sandwich? Honey! Can you git Bud a sandwich?”
“No, it's all right. Lieutenant, I already ate.”
“Sure, Bud. Say, that was good work on O’Dell. Pity you couldn't have gotten Lamar, too.”
“I was one bullet shy, goddamn his luck.”
“Now, Bud,” Henderson said, "I'll be the only one of ’em who tells you the flat-out truth. You shouldn't have fired so much without aiming.
Been in seven gunfights, won ’em all, only twice was I even hit. You got to aim, Bud. You can't spray and pray. That's what old Jelly Bryce taught me and no man was better with a gun than he was.”
“You're right. Lieutenant, I just couldn't think fast enough.”
“Another thing Jelly Bryce taught me, a man comes at you again, soaking up lead like that, you got to stay cool and break his pelvis with a big bore bullet. Break his pelvis, down he goes. Hit him three inches inside the hip. Puts him down every damn time. Under them circumstances, even a head shot is ifiy; hell, you can blow out the top half of a man's brain and his heart, and he can still go for fifteen seconds on instinct.”
“I'll remember that.”
He took a drink from his glass. The soap opera whined onward. Bud could smell the liquor and the smoke. All of a sudden, he just wanted to get the hell out.
“Listen, Lieutenant, I do have to poke along. I just wanted to say I's sorry how it ended for you and I didn't want no hard feelings. Some are saying I found Lamar and you didn't, but we both know that's not how it was.”
“No, Bud, that is how it was. You did find Lamar and I did not. Bud, you going to bring those boys over? I'd surely like to meet those boys of yours. They sound like a damned fine set of boys.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
“Let's set a date. Bud. I'll get my calendar out. Maybe we could take ’em fishing. Let's pick a weekend in July, we could go on up to the Wichitas, or no, no, out to Lake Texoma. Used to own a nice piece of land there. I know where the damn fish are hiding, that I can tell you!”
“Lieutenant,” Bud said, "I'll have to check with them.
Jeff's got Legion Ball and I don't know when exactly Russ has to go East. I'll have to call you back on that.”
“Sure, Bud. Now, you positive you don't want no drink?”
“Lieutenant, I have to go.”
“Okay, Bud.”
“Anyways, I'm sorry—”
“Well, I's sorry too, Bud. I wanted that Lamar and by God if I'd gotten another break or so, you can bet I'd have nailed him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir,” said the old man, less to Bud than to himself, "yes sir, I'd have nailed him. Just couldn't get that last damned break.”
When Bud finally got back to his truck, the full force of the day's heat lay upon him. He checked his watch: Dammit, he'd spent close to half an hour with the pitiful old goat, when he'd only meant to spend ten minutes. He shook his head at what had become of the mighty Lieutenant Henderson. He still felt a little woozy from the smoke and the dark claustrophobia of the place, or maybe it was the force of his sexual anticipation. Anyway, he got in and drove to Holly's, feeling he'd earned it.
It took him twenty extra minutes to find the place, and he'd have to come up with an excuse to account for the time, he knew. But by the time he got there, he wasn't thinking about such things. He thought he'd burst.
He pulled up, nodded at a black kid on a yellow plastic trike on the sidewalk, and bounded to the porch.
“Well, damn my soul,” she said.
“The hero himself.”
Bud looked around theatrically.
“Oh yeah? There's a hero here? Always wanted to meet one of them boys, shake his hand.”
“Git you in here. Bud Pewtie, this very instant. You can tell me how much you like my house and how sorry you are I had to move in by myself… later.”
She pulled him in and began to grope with him, immediately coming upon his guns.
“Oh, my, well sir, maybe we ought not to do a thing, so as you don't have to readjust all your equipment.”
“I'd gladly dump ’em in the trash, darling', for a few minutes with you.”
“Well I hope it's longer than a few minutes.”
And it was. Bud was in fine form today, released of all his inhibitions, driven forward by the peculiar intensity of his wants. His pains vanished; his legs were young again, his lungs full of stamina. The games started in the living room on a sofa, moved up the stairs, though pausing there for several minutes owing to the possibilities of the steep upward rake of the steps, then continued in her upstairs bedroom, where things got immensely tangled and complicated until at last the moment itself arrived, exploded, and then departed.
“Whooee, wasn't that a time?” Bud said.
“You should do more of this man-killing. Bud. It does wonders for you.”
“Wasn't I the boy, though?” he said.
“You certainly were.”
He laid around in her bed for another half an hour and then the mood came across him again. Squealing delightedly, she accommodated him; she was smooth and slippery as an eel.
And when that one was done, he said, "Well, I think we broke in the new house right nice.”
“Would say so. Want to see it?”
Bud knew he shouldn't. Too much time, he was late already; but she was so proud of the damn thing.
“Sure,” he said.
They dressed, and she lugged him around, room to room. Bud tried hard to keep his enthusiasm up, but he knew he was doing a poor job. And, there really wasn't much to see:
her trailer furniture, spread throughout a six-room house, looked sparse. And for some reason, the house looked grayer and dirtier than he had remembered it looking.
Could he live here? It wasn't nearly as nice as his wonderful and comfortable old place.
“It's a great little place, honey,” he said.
“You'll help me paint it?”
Bud hated painting.
“Of course.”
“Oh, Bud, we'll be so happy here. I know we will.”
“Yes ma'am, I know we will. Now, uh, I've—”
“I know. Bud. And you don't want to do any talking at all. Okay, Bud. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course you will,” he said.
“By god, of course you will.”
* * if Bud drove home, thinking of lies, or rather expansions on the truth.
Old CD.” now I had to go see him. It ain't right what they done to him and what they're saying about him.
And you know how that man can talk (she didn't, of course). He just jaws onward and onward and you can't slow him down any. And he's so bitter I didn't want to insult him any further. Plus, he had to hear the story of my famous shootout. And of course he had a lot of comments and constructive criticism. The time just flew away on me.