Read Online Dark End of the Street - v4 by Ace Atkins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ace Atkins
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scanned the uneven ground again, unsure what I wanted to find. I backed out of the cemetery surrounded by concertina wire and gang graffiti and walked into the Piggly Wiggly searching for Cook.
I found him in the fruits-and-vegetables section feeling up a softball-sized tomato and admiring his reflection in a long silver mirror that wrapped a far wall. The air was cold against my wet face. I stood next to him and picked up another tomato.
“You might need two,” I said. “Yours looks a little small.”
Cook looked over at me with lazy eyes, his wet gray hair metallic and false in the harsh fluorescent light. His jaw muscles twitched and I could see his hand wrap tighter around the tomato.
“Look, man, just help me out,” I said.
Cook nodded and walked over to a huge pyramid of rattlesnake watermelons. He was trying to be cool, ignore me as if I were of no more importance than an unwanted itch. He even whistled along to some Muzak version of “LaBamba.” I followed him, my hands in my Levi’s jacket, and smiled.
“You tell me where he died and when and I’ll leave.”
Cook pulled out his pair of yuppie glasses and slipped them over his nose. He inspected a fat green watermelon and tucked it under his left arm. He was quiet for a moment and then ushered me close with a head movement.
I moved closer. He smelled like a wet dog. His breath of dead fish.
He whispered, “If you don’t get the fuck out of my face in five seconds, I’m going to make a fuckin’ hat out of your ass.”
I smiled back.
“My ass would make a terrible hat.”
“Then I’d get the fuck out of here.”
“What’s your problem?” I asked. “I told you, I’m a friend of Loretta Jackson. I’m sure you fucked her out of plenty of money back then, too, so why don’t you—?”
“I treated her with respect, you little shit. Don’t you even mention her name to me.”
“She’s my friend.”
Cook snorted out a laugh.
“Clyde isn’t dead. Is he?”
“Hell, yes, he’s dead.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Cook shoved the watermelon at my stomach like a medicine ball and tried to hook me with his left fist. As the watermelon splattered in a red mess on the floor, I ducked the punch and gripped the front of Cook’s shirt, tossing him into a table piled high with okra. The okra scattered and an old woman with blue hair shrieked. A black woman with two kids pushed her cart away like she was escaping a nasty plague and an elderly man with no teeth wearing checked pants and a Bart Simpson T-shirt yelled, “Fight. It’s a fight! Fight.”
Cook, his feet dangling to the linoleum floor, grinned at me and for a moment I thought it was over, but he lunged, tackling me at the waist and driving me toward a pile of Georgia peaches. I felt my back smoosh into the pile and could smell the broken sweetness across it.
I quickly grabbed Cook into a headlock. Mother was strong, I thought, and I held his head tight in the crook of my arm before Cook punched me between the legs.
I fell to my knees, pain shooting through my entire body. I felt like I might vomit right there. Cook was laughing and walking away as I gathered my strength and rushed him and wrapped my right arm across his throat. I pushed Cook facefirst into a mound of tomatoes. The wet red mess covered his face and T-shirt like blood.
But damn if he wasn’t smiling with red teeth as he picked up a handful of red goop, walked over to me, and rubbed it down the front of my white T-shirt.
I smiled over at the old man in the cartoon T-shirt and took a step back to grab a handful of muscadines.
I gripped the back of Cook’s neck and force-fed him a mouthful.
That’s when the shitstorm really started.
Cook punched me hard in the ear. I could hear a pop and the air went suddenly electric around me as I connected my two knuckles with Cook’s nose. Blood squirted over his shirt and oozed down his lip. He made several jabs to my head and tried to kick out
I found him in the fruits-and-vegetables section feeling up a softball-sized tomato and admiring his reflection in a long silver mirror that wrapped a far wall. The air was cold against my wet face. I stood next to him and picked up another tomato.
“You might need two,” I said. “Yours looks a little small.”
Cook looked over at me with lazy eyes, his wet gray hair metallic and false in the harsh fluorescent light. His jaw muscles twitched and I could see his hand wrap tighter around the tomato.
“Look, man, just help me out,” I said.
Cook nodded and walked over to a huge pyramid of rattlesnake watermelons. He was trying to be cool, ignore me as if I were of no more importance than an unwanted itch. He even whistled along to some Muzak version of “LaBamba.” I followed him, my hands in my Levi’s jacket, and smiled.
“You tell me where he died and when and I’ll leave.”
Cook pulled out his pair of yuppie glasses and slipped them over his nose. He inspected a fat green watermelon and tucked it under his left arm. He was quiet for a moment and then ushered me close with a head movement.
I moved closer. He smelled like a wet dog. His breath of dead fish.
He whispered, “If you don’t get the fuck out of my face in five seconds, I’m going to make a fuckin’ hat out of your ass.”
I smiled back.
“My ass would make a terrible hat.”
“Then I’d get the fuck out of here.”
“What’s your problem?” I asked. “I told you, I’m a friend of Loretta Jackson. I’m sure you fucked her out of plenty of money back then, too, so why don’t you—?”
“I treated her with respect, you little shit. Don’t you even mention her name to me.”
“She’s my friend.”
Cook snorted out a laugh.
“Clyde isn’t dead. Is he?”
“Hell, yes, he’s dead.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Cook shoved the watermelon at my stomach like a medicine ball and tried to hook me with his left fist. As the watermelon splattered in a red mess on the floor, I ducked the punch and gripped the front of Cook’s shirt, tossing him into a table piled high with okra. The okra scattered and an old woman with blue hair shrieked. A black woman with two kids pushed her cart away like she was escaping a nasty plague and an elderly man with no teeth wearing checked pants and a Bart Simpson T-shirt yelled, “Fight. It’s a fight! Fight.”
Cook, his feet dangling to the linoleum floor, grinned at me and for a moment I thought it was over, but he lunged, tackling me at the waist and driving me toward a pile of Georgia peaches. I felt my back smoosh into the pile and could smell the broken sweetness across it.
I quickly grabbed Cook into a headlock. Mother was strong, I thought, and I held his head tight in the crook of my arm before Cook punched me between the legs.
I fell to my knees, pain shooting through my entire body. I felt like I might vomit right there. Cook was laughing and walking away as I gathered my strength and rushed him and wrapped my right arm across his throat. I pushed Cook facefirst into a mound of tomatoes. The wet red mess covered his face and T-shirt like blood.
But damn if he wasn’t smiling with red teeth as he picked up a handful of red goop, walked over to me, and rubbed it down the front of my white T-shirt.
I smiled over at the old man in the cartoon T-shirt and took a step back to grab a handful of muscadines.
I gripped the back of Cook’s neck and force-fed him a mouthful.
That’s when the shitstorm really started.
Cook punched me hard in the ear. I could hear a pop and the air went suddenly electric around me as I connected my two knuckles with Cook’s nose. Blood squirted over his shirt and oozed down his lip. He made several jabs to my head and tried to kick out
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