Read Online Dark End of the Street - v4 by Ace Atkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ace Atkins
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my knees.
Man knew how to fight.
But he was older and slower and I punched him in the ear, took hold of his arms, and threw him into the sweet potatoes. Cook rolled out onto the other side of the bins where plums dropped to the floor in heavy thuds.
A man in a green vest, who looked to be the manager, ran out and starting yelling that he’d called the police.
Cook didn’t seem to hear him. He ran toward me, his eyes squinted and his fists face-high. He jabbed again, connecting once with my rib. I could feel the air rush from me as I made a jab to the left and punched Cook hard in the mouth.
“He’s alive,” I said, gasping for air. “He’s alive and you’re protecting him.”
Cook made a grunt, his face turning purple, and made another run. He tackled me again at the waist, but this time he didn’t have the energy to push me back.
I grabbed him at the scruff of his leathery neck and tossed him five yards away, his butt skidding on the floor covered in mushed tomatoes and muscodines.
The Muzak still played overhead through the odd silence that buzzed in my right ear. The manager held up a mop in his hand like it was a sword and he was fending off a pair of wild lions.
“Y’all stay right where you are,” the manager said, his swooped comb-over sticking up like a rooster’s.
Cook staggered to his feet, walked over to the man, and pulled out his wallet. He counted out four bills and jogged away. With my ear still ringing and my breath labored, I followed.
The parking lot shone with a patch of sunlight striking the pavement, steam rising in a low fog. I pulled a piece of tomato off my shirt and looked through the lot for the Cadillac.
I caught a quick glimpse of the hood as it fishtailed out to Madison, the tires squealing on wet asphalt.
I wanted to get back in my Bronco and haul ass back to the Peabody. I could just hear Randy’s voice when he heard one of his professors had been arrested for a scuffle at a damned Piggly Wiggly.
But instead, I walked back up the stairs to the hidden cemetery and sat on the crooked grave of Daniel Harklecade. I smoked a Marlboro, studied the piles of garbage and makeshift beds, and watched a couple of homeless men as they ate cans of beans in the far corner of the lot.
I didn’t hear a siren as the dark storm clouds swirled by in broken patterns. A slab of yellow light still beamed on the store.
The men didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe I was so silent, so lithe, that they didn’t feel my presence.
“Hey, cap’n,” a craggy white man in a plaid hat finally yelled. His teeth were the color of old coffee. Beans dripped down off his chin.
“Sir?” I called back.
“Me and my buddy was wonderin’ if you gonna sleep here? ’Cause if you is, it’s gonna mean that we’s maybe have to move on. You don’t look real friendly.”
I started another cigarette and peered back down on the lot, a stiff fall wind scattering oak leaves on the graves.
“Cap’n?”
“Yes?” I said, watching the cigarette burn between my fingers and feeling my labored breathing.
“You want some beans?”
“No, thanks.”
“We ain’t shittin’ on your relatives or nothin’,” the other man said, pulling off an old brogan and smelling it.
“Nope.” I took a few breaths and pulled some tomatoes off my boot. “Hey man, you guys don’t happen to know a man named Clyde James?”
“Yeah, we know a Clyde. Sleep here sometime.”
“He’ll be back?”
“Prolly down with Wordie,” one said.
“Who’s Wordie?”
“Some woman who kiss his ass,” the man said, smelling his shoe again.
I took a final puff of the cigarette and pulled some soggy peach off my jacket. The man kept muttering, “She only like him ’cause she think he used to be somebody famous.”
I smiled.
“You know where she lives?”
“Down in Dixie somewhere. You know, Dixie Homes. Where the po’ folks stay.”
Chapter 10
WHEN ABBY WAS eight years old, she used to sneak into the woods
Man knew how to fight.
But he was older and slower and I punched him in the ear, took hold of his arms, and threw him into the sweet potatoes. Cook rolled out onto the other side of the bins where plums dropped to the floor in heavy thuds.
A man in a green vest, who looked to be the manager, ran out and starting yelling that he’d called the police.
Cook didn’t seem to hear him. He ran toward me, his eyes squinted and his fists face-high. He jabbed again, connecting once with my rib. I could feel the air rush from me as I made a jab to the left and punched Cook hard in the mouth.
“He’s alive,” I said, gasping for air. “He’s alive and you’re protecting him.”
Cook made a grunt, his face turning purple, and made another run. He tackled me again at the waist, but this time he didn’t have the energy to push me back.
I grabbed him at the scruff of his leathery neck and tossed him five yards away, his butt skidding on the floor covered in mushed tomatoes and muscodines.
The Muzak still played overhead through the odd silence that buzzed in my right ear. The manager held up a mop in his hand like it was a sword and he was fending off a pair of wild lions.
“Y’all stay right where you are,” the manager said, his swooped comb-over sticking up like a rooster’s.
Cook staggered to his feet, walked over to the man, and pulled out his wallet. He counted out four bills and jogged away. With my ear still ringing and my breath labored, I followed.
The parking lot shone with a patch of sunlight striking the pavement, steam rising in a low fog. I pulled a piece of tomato off my shirt and looked through the lot for the Cadillac.
I caught a quick glimpse of the hood as it fishtailed out to Madison, the tires squealing on wet asphalt.
I wanted to get back in my Bronco and haul ass back to the Peabody. I could just hear Randy’s voice when he heard one of his professors had been arrested for a scuffle at a damned Piggly Wiggly.
But instead, I walked back up the stairs to the hidden cemetery and sat on the crooked grave of Daniel Harklecade. I smoked a Marlboro, studied the piles of garbage and makeshift beds, and watched a couple of homeless men as they ate cans of beans in the far corner of the lot.
I didn’t hear a siren as the dark storm clouds swirled by in broken patterns. A slab of yellow light still beamed on the store.
The men didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe I was so silent, so lithe, that they didn’t feel my presence.
“Hey, cap’n,” a craggy white man in a plaid hat finally yelled. His teeth were the color of old coffee. Beans dripped down off his chin.
“Sir?” I called back.
“Me and my buddy was wonderin’ if you gonna sleep here? ’Cause if you is, it’s gonna mean that we’s maybe have to move on. You don’t look real friendly.”
I started another cigarette and peered back down on the lot, a stiff fall wind scattering oak leaves on the graves.
“Cap’n?”
“Yes?” I said, watching the cigarette burn between my fingers and feeling my labored breathing.
“You want some beans?”
“No, thanks.”
“We ain’t shittin’ on your relatives or nothin’,” the other man said, pulling off an old brogan and smelling it.
“Nope.” I took a few breaths and pulled some tomatoes off my boot. “Hey man, you guys don’t happen to know a man named Clyde James?”
“Yeah, we know a Clyde. Sleep here sometime.”
“He’ll be back?”
“Prolly down with Wordie,” one said.
“Who’s Wordie?”
“Some woman who kiss his ass,” the man said, smelling his shoe again.
I took a final puff of the cigarette and pulled some soggy peach off my jacket. The man kept muttering, “She only like him ’cause she think he used to be somebody famous.”
I smiled.
“You know where she lives?”
“Down in Dixie somewhere. You know, Dixie Homes. Where the po’ folks stay.”
Chapter 10
WHEN ABBY WAS eight years old, she used to sneak into the woods
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