Fat Ernst had his back to me, and as he was drawing his leg back for another kick, he suddenly pivoted in place and stared at me. I felt my insides shrinking up and I knew I was going to be the one who got kicked next. But Fat Ernst didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, thick lips pulled back in a snarl, breathing through clenched teeth. I swallowed, fighting the urge to flee. He twisted back around, spat out “FUCKER!” and kicked Heck in the stomach one more time. Blood erupted out of Heck’s mouth in a wet little cloud.
Then Fat Ernst stepped back, still breathing heavily. He stared down at the sprawled corpse and spoke without looking at me. “You get all that shit cleaned up?”
“Yeah, except for the little bit in the kitchen and out here,” I answered.
Fat Ernst looked at the sky. The clouds, black and pregnant with rain, filled the sky from horizon to horizon. “What time is it?” he asked finally.
“Uh, around three or four, I think,” I said.
“Give me a hand here.” Fat Ernst went down to one knee at the edge of the loading dock and flipped open the lid to the Dumpster. It crashed against the metal side with an abrupt, clanging sound that made me wince. Fat Ernst straightened with some effort and took two steps sideways. He bent over and pulled a key ring out of Heck’s front pocket, then rolled him on his side and plucked a wallet out of one of Heck’s back pockets. Fat Ernst slid the wallet into his own pocket like it belonged to him, then sidled down to Heck’s feet. “Grab his arms there, and help me dump him.”
I knew it was wrong. Knew I should have called somebody. Knew I should have left. But it didn’t matter. I grabbed Heck’s bloody arms anyway. I couldn’t look at his ruined face. We both lifted, and Heck simply folded in half. Fat Ernst shuffled sideways to the edge, and dropped Heck’s legs into the empty Dumpster. It was already starting to fill with rainwater. The rest of Heck’s torso slid in, and his arms slipped easily out of my grasp. He hit the bottom of the Dumpster with all the grace of a canvas sack of rotten potatoes falling off a table.
I wasn’t sure if Fat Ernst was going to leave Heck in there until the garbage guys came next Wednesday, or if he was going to haul the body out later that night, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. Fat Ernst turned his face up to the falling rain for a moment, then wiped his forehead and muttered, “I just can’t understand why it is so goddamn hard for a man to make a decent living on his own these days.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
After a few seconds, Fat Ernst turned and forced his bulk through the back door. He hollered over his shoulder, “Hurry and finish cleaning up. Then you and me are gonna go for a ride. I’m gonna close up early today. We got a lot of work to do before morning rolls around.”
CHAPTER 19
Fat Ernst had a huge old Cadillac, with fins and everything, a fat white whale wallowing in a sea of mud. The inside was the color of pomegranates that have been left in the sun too long. Everything was this deep dark red, and I mean everything. The carpet, the seats, the dashboard—even the steering wheel. Only the slivery glints of the metal knobs broke the monotony. I sat down on the edge of the impossibly long bench seat, feeling like a frightened toddler placed upon a pew in some musty old church for the first time. And just like I was in church, I prayed. I prayed there wasn’t too much mud on Grandpa’s boots to soil the pomegranate carpet. I prayed Grandma was okay. I prayed we weren’t going back to Slim’s pit.
And I prayed that someday I would forget how Heck’s ruined face looked as he landed in the bottom of the Dumpster.
Fat Ernst dropped into the driver’s seat like a bomb going off in slow motion. Waves of flesh rolled down, then rippled back up his arms and under his shirt. The car’s suspension gave a short shriek of pain, then gave up. Fat Ernst twisted the key and we were off. He didn’t say anything and neither did I.
The Cadillac followed the highway up into the foothills by the lake. I thanked God that we were headed in the opposite direction from Slim’s ranch, but I still got a bad feeling when Fat Ernst stopped the car in front of Heck’s store. A rusted gas pump stood outside the store like a stubborn sentry who refused to leave his post. A wooden sandwich board had been propped up near the door and loudly proclaimed LIVE BAIT—FRESH WORMS.
Fat Ernst ignored the “Gone Fishin’, Be Back Later” sign hanging behind the glass front door and opened the door using Heck’s keys. I decided to stay outside, by the gas pump. Heck was dead, and I didn’t need to be inside his store, going through his stuff, looking for God knows what. Behind the store, off to the west, the clouds were churning across the sky, hanging low and fat. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started again, flat-out serious this time.
Fat Ernst reappeared, carrying a chunk of cast iron about the size of a basketball. It was bulbous and heavy, with three stubby legs protruding out of what I thought was the bottom. A thick plastic hose grew out of the top and looped over Fat Ernst’s shoulder. He carried it to the car, breath coming in short, quick bursts.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sump pump,” Fat Ernst replied, as if that explained everything. He opened the trunk and dropped the thing inside. “See boy, that’s how you make it in this world. You gotta always be thinking ahead.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but figured it wasn’t the time to ask, because Fat Ernst was settling in behind the wheel. I hopped back into the car and Fat Ernst pulled out in a wide U-turn, heading back down into the valley. Before long, I realized that we were headed down Road E, down the narrow road to the gravel track and out to the Sawyers’ ranch.
The road didn’t improve much in the faint daylight that was still left. It just illuminated the dead trees, broken fences, and scattered litter of tossed beer cans, cigarette packs, fast-food wrappers, and junkthat didn’t have any logical explanation. A La-Z-Boy recliner, lying on its side. A shopping cart. Broken sawhorses. A pile of microwaves. An old dishwasher, still swathed in fiberglass insulation. Much later, I found out all this was actually dumped by people from town who couldn’t be bothered to take their junk to the dump and pay the fee. Instead, they drove out here when they knew the brothers were gone and unloaded their trash.
The Cadillac crested the small hill and rolled down into the hollow filled with deep shadows. As we got closer to the house I could hear the incessant, skin-crawling buzz of the wasps, even through the thick windows. I kept checking and rechecking the passenger window to make sure it was rolled all the way up.
Fat Ernst killed the headlights as he got close to the edge of the house. “Don’t want to spook ’em,” he said. “Heard they started shooting at a UPS truck that got lost once.” After a moment of consideration, he shut the engine off too. We sat quietly in the Cadillac, parked about fifteen yards from the house. Two of the downstairs windows had light spilling out of them onto the tangled grass. But the front door stayed shut. Then Fat Ernst looked over at me. “Why don’t you go say hello.” Then he told me what to say.