Read Online Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem by Jonathan Woods - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Woods
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dangerous.
Ray waits until the ranch hand disappears through the swing door to the pissoir . Then crosses from the end of the bar to Gillian’s booth in a single bound. A Colt pistol with a pearl handle appears from somewhere. At the distance of twelve inches, it’s hard to miss, especially when you pull the trigger five times. Blood spatters everywhere.
Dropping the gun, Ray turns and walks out of the bar. Rex nods again as he passes. No one moves to stop Ray’s exit.
When the shots ring out, the cowboy pisses himself in the shoe. He stays in the men’s room until a buddy gives him the all clear.
When he hears the Camry’s tires on the gravel driveway, Ray opens his eyes. It’s Gillian, back from town.
He’s sitting in an Adirondack chair facing the setting sun. The empty Old Crow bottle is at his feet, but hidden in shadow. He stands and raises a hand.
“Ray, honey, help me out with these groceries. Then I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
As he walks toward her, he notes there are no bloodstains on his khakis. Maybe I should lay off the hooch, he thinks.
Gillian kisses him on the mouth. Her body pushes into his. As his tongue chases hers, she shoves him away; then does a half-assed pirouette.
“Do you like my hair?”
“Looks about the same.”
“Ray, baby, how come you’re always such a fucking romantic?”
She sets her grocery bag on the table, shaking her head. Next she puts on the teakettle to boil.
“Personally, I need a pick-me-up.”
She waltzes into the dining room and comes back with a crystal tumbler half full of Cutty Sark, to which she adds ice. Gillian never has a drink , thinks Ray.
By now the teakettle is roiling and tooting. His stomach suddenly queasy, Ray chooses a mint teabag. An ill omen.
Ray sits at the table with its embroidered tablecloth made by some ancient relative of his or Gillian’s. Gillian sets the everyday teapot on the table. The scent of the mint steeping rises like a Levantine ghost. She sets a cup and saucer in front of him and a pitcher of cream.
“I baked this morning. A chocolate cherry cake. Your favorite.”
She puts the cake on the table. It’s fallen in the middle, like a subsidence above an old mineshaft. She cuts a huge piece and places it on a plate in front of Ray. Gillian never bakes , goes through his head, as he swallows the first bite. Gillian is staring at him. Waiting for something to happen.
He carves out another large hunk of cake onto his fork.
He knows, of course, that it’s spiked with a deadly poison that leaves no trace after five hours.
The things we do for love , he thinks, as he chomps on the second bite and goes for the third.
Drive By
The girl strolling past the Delta Omega Alpha house—from whence Earl Thigpen gazes out an upstairs window—is attractive in a bordello sort of way. Big chest, tight tank top, rayon miniskirt extra short. Secondary details obtrude: blonde, wide mouth framed in black cherry lip gloss, expensive handbag, long legs with a hint of five o’clock shadow, faux-panther Minolo Blahnik shoes. It’s enough to make you pant and loll your tongue down to your chin.
Thigpen imagines she’s on her way to her fancy sports car parked in the student garage.
“Y’all wanta get some lunch?” he calls out on a whim in his slow-as-molasses Mississippi drawl.
Her eyes roll vaguely in his direction.
“What did you have in mind?”
Holy cow! Thigpen thinks. A live one.
He leaps to his feet, leaning his barrel chest across the windowsill, his head thrust into a thicket of leaves from the live oaks shading the front yard of the fraternity. Behind him his flipped-over chair spins like a top on one leg; then crashes to the floor.
“Do you like French food?” he asks. Then: “Come in for a drink.”
The woman, or girl, throws back her shoulders, tosses her golden tresses and saunters up the front walk.
“I hope you have some ice-cold beer, cause it’s damn hot out,” she
Ray waits until the ranch hand disappears through the swing door to the pissoir . Then crosses from the end of the bar to Gillian’s booth in a single bound. A Colt pistol with a pearl handle appears from somewhere. At the distance of twelve inches, it’s hard to miss, especially when you pull the trigger five times. Blood spatters everywhere.
Dropping the gun, Ray turns and walks out of the bar. Rex nods again as he passes. No one moves to stop Ray’s exit.
When the shots ring out, the cowboy pisses himself in the shoe. He stays in the men’s room until a buddy gives him the all clear.
When he hears the Camry’s tires on the gravel driveway, Ray opens his eyes. It’s Gillian, back from town.
He’s sitting in an Adirondack chair facing the setting sun. The empty Old Crow bottle is at his feet, but hidden in shadow. He stands and raises a hand.
“Ray, honey, help me out with these groceries. Then I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
As he walks toward her, he notes there are no bloodstains on his khakis. Maybe I should lay off the hooch, he thinks.
Gillian kisses him on the mouth. Her body pushes into his. As his tongue chases hers, she shoves him away; then does a half-assed pirouette.
“Do you like my hair?”
“Looks about the same.”
“Ray, baby, how come you’re always such a fucking romantic?”
She sets her grocery bag on the table, shaking her head. Next she puts on the teakettle to boil.
“Personally, I need a pick-me-up.”
She waltzes into the dining room and comes back with a crystal tumbler half full of Cutty Sark, to which she adds ice. Gillian never has a drink , thinks Ray.
By now the teakettle is roiling and tooting. His stomach suddenly queasy, Ray chooses a mint teabag. An ill omen.
Ray sits at the table with its embroidered tablecloth made by some ancient relative of his or Gillian’s. Gillian sets the everyday teapot on the table. The scent of the mint steeping rises like a Levantine ghost. She sets a cup and saucer in front of him and a pitcher of cream.
“I baked this morning. A chocolate cherry cake. Your favorite.”
She puts the cake on the table. It’s fallen in the middle, like a subsidence above an old mineshaft. She cuts a huge piece and places it on a plate in front of Ray. Gillian never bakes , goes through his head, as he swallows the first bite. Gillian is staring at him. Waiting for something to happen.
He carves out another large hunk of cake onto his fork.
He knows, of course, that it’s spiked with a deadly poison that leaves no trace after five hours.
The things we do for love , he thinks, as he chomps on the second bite and goes for the third.
Drive By
The girl strolling past the Delta Omega Alpha house—from whence Earl Thigpen gazes out an upstairs window—is attractive in a bordello sort of way. Big chest, tight tank top, rayon miniskirt extra short. Secondary details obtrude: blonde, wide mouth framed in black cherry lip gloss, expensive handbag, long legs with a hint of five o’clock shadow, faux-panther Minolo Blahnik shoes. It’s enough to make you pant and loll your tongue down to your chin.
Thigpen imagines she’s on her way to her fancy sports car parked in the student garage.
“Y’all wanta get some lunch?” he calls out on a whim in his slow-as-molasses Mississippi drawl.
Her eyes roll vaguely in his direction.
“What did you have in mind?”
Holy cow! Thigpen thinks. A live one.
He leaps to his feet, leaning his barrel chest across the windowsill, his head thrust into a thicket of leaves from the live oaks shading the front yard of the fraternity. Behind him his flipped-over chair spins like a top on one leg; then crashes to the floor.
“Do you like French food?” he asks. Then: “Come in for a drink.”
The woman, or girl, throws back her shoulders, tosses her golden tresses and saunters up the front walk.
“I hope you have some ice-cold beer, cause it’s damn hot out,” she
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