And duct tape is designed to tear easily.
“River’s a rough fucker tonight,” a high-pitched, whiny voice said from the bow.
“Pretty, though,” came a more mellow, lower-pitched voice from nearer me, at the stern, working itself above the motor. “Nice clear night, for so choppy.”
This was the black guy, I’d venture. He had a soothing bass, with an Isaac Hayes vibe to it. The asshole at the bow was clearly white, probably the bearded head-butt artist with the beer belly.
“Wish to fuck I’d brought a jacket,” the white guy said.
“You got that right.”
“Is that why the river’s so empty? Too fuckin’ cold?”
“Yeah. Normally, this time of year, even this time of night? You’d have some assholes out drinkin’ and drownin’.”
“There was a few up nearer River Bluff.”
“Yeah. They’ll be more down Ft. Madison way.”
The river seemed to settle down a little. I wished they would start talking again. I’d thought the way my wrists were bound, I might be able to get my fingers down to where I could get enough purchase to do some judicious ripping. But that wasn’t happening. So now I was trying to explore the bottom of the boat, and find something sharp to work the duct tape on.
Two or three minutes went by before the white guy blurted: “Will you look at that full the fuck moon! Not a goddamned cloud in the sky. Look at them fuckin’ stars!..Ever wonder if anybody’s up there lookin’ back down at us?”
“What, like God, you mean?”
“Naw, not Jesus or nobody. I mean, outer-space-type aliens. You know, Star Trek shit. E.T. phone the fuck home?”
The black guy chuckled.“I don’t think so.”
“What, so then, like, we’re all alone down here? Whole great big universal galaxy, and it’s just us idjits? I mean, what are the fuckin’ odds? ”
“Odds, one hunnerd percent.”
“How you figure?”
“One hunnerd percent, fool. Ain’t no aliens on a star.”
“And why is that, smart-ass?”
“Because a star is a gaseous mass.”
The white guy made a farting sound with his lips. “ You’re a gaseous mass.”
“Maybe so. But I ain’t a ignorant redneck gaseous mass.”
That shut the white guy up.
I was enjoying the conversation-not because of its intellectual aspects, or its rustic American humor, but liking that these two stupid sons of bitches were distracting each other, while I was moving my hands down to where the metal hooks for a middle bench would’ve been, had it not been removed so the boat could be used for hauling contraband and dumping bodies and other fun and games.
I damn near laughed-the black guy on a bench at the stern, the bearded idiot on a bench at the bow, and me in the middle again. Didn’t take long at all, and made zero noise (at least any that registered), using the metal edge of that fastener to carve through the duct tape.
The white guy asked, “Where should we dump the cocksucker?”
“Let’s give it another ten miles or so.”
“ Before Ft. Madison, though.”
“Yeah. Before.”
“…You know, my brother’s in there.”
“Huh? Where?”
“Ft. Madison! The pen!”
“What’s he in for?”
“Killed a dude at a register, 7-Eleven.”
“That was stupid.”
“Well, the dude had a gun under there. That’s self-defense!”
The black guy had no comment.
I had removed the duct tape from my mouth, for comfort, not practicality, but had decided that I could not risk undoing the tape locking my ankles-that would likely create obvious movement under the tarp.
“Somethin’ about me,” the white guy was saying, as they spoke across my prone form, “might surprise your black ass.”
“Such as?”
“I like that soul music.”
“You do, huh?”
“I ain’t no redneck. That’s racial. You shouldn’t say that kind of racial shit.”
“Yeah. Sorry. So. What do you listen to? Otis? Wicked Pickett? Aretha maybe?”
“Who? No, no! I like them Blues Brothers.”
“…You gotta be fuckin’ shittin’ me…”
“What?”
“Them pasty white boys can’t sing that shit.”
“Hell they can’t!” Then he started singing “Soul Man,” which I thought was pretty funny, though I didn’t laugh, too busy taking a chance lifting the edge of the tarp near my head just enough to get a fix on where the black guy was…
The black guy, who told the white guy to shut the fuck up-which only made the bastard sing louder, intermingling it with laughter-was wearing gray running shoes. Big ones-size elevens, anyway, with some miles on them. I got a good look, because those stompers were about five inches from the edge of the tarp.
Then the white guy started singing “Rubber Biscuits,” and this the black guy found funny as hell, lightening up, and he was laughing right up until my hands gripped his ankles and brought him sliding down hard onto the floor of the boat, rocking the little craft.
I stood up, like a ghost waking, and flung the tarp off and at the bearded bouncer at the stern, getting a glimpse of the sawed-off, which wasn’t in his hands, rather down in the floor of the boat, a nice break for me.
The black bouncer, whose nine mil was still in his waistband, had let go of the stick guiding the motor (and the boat), which now ran sort of on automatic pilot. He was fumbling not for the gun but for something to push up on, so he could get on his feet and deal with me. He was also saying, “ Fuck! ” over and over again.
The guy was big all right, but right now he was just a bug on its back, and I didn’t have that much trouble shoving him over the side, rolling him off; he made a smaller splash than you’d think, and-on my knees on the metal floor-I grabbed for the stick and swung the boat hard left, sending the bearded guy, still tangled in the tarp, over the right side (the dope still had the amber sunglasses on-at night!), and a hand that had just got hold of the sawed-off lost its grip, leaving the weapon behind.
As the boat swung around, the triple rotors of the Evinrude 25 HP came in contact with the black guy, who was splashing around and treading water desperately. The blades sheared his face off and a noseless red mask remained; as his screaming split the night, I swung the boat around in a circle and the bearded fucker managed to swim just out of its path, but his scarlet-masked partner got another helping, hands coming up protectively and fingers flying like sausages. Somewhere along the line, a rotor blade must have caught his neck, because a geyser of red headed for the moon and didn’t make it.
The bearded guy was still swimming away from me-I had straightened the craft around-but he hadn’t got very far, not far enough to avoid the sawed-off’s blast, which exploded his head and those stupid goggles with it and left him with his neck making its own fountain, not that the moon was ever in any danger of stain.
Then they were both bobbing there, with the night nicely quiet, the river otherwise empty, the full moon giving the water an ivory sheen. The gaseous masses of the universal galaxy made reflections, except where the river had gone frothy with reddish foam.
I headed upstream. Never had much experience with motorboats, but I was getting the hang of it.
Chapter Eleven
On the trip upriver, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in the cold. Some dark clouds had started rolling in, smudging the moon, a wind kicking up, making the water even choppier. I was in a short-sleeve shirt and all I had to put over me was that fucking tarp, and that wasn’t going to happen. But it was good for my head, the chill, because I could think with more clarity.
I was missing my wallet, but that was no big deal-nothing in it but some fake John B. Gibson I.D., driver’s license, social security, a couple of credit cards. The money from the poker game that I’d woken up with on me was not an issue-I’d stowed it in my suitcase back at the motel, after leaving Candace’s mobile home and before going to see Cornell at the Paddlewheel. And speaking of the motel, I still had my room key, stuffed deep in my right front pocket.