Read Online PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay by Neal Barrett Jr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neal Barrett Jr
Tags: General Fiction
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her, which would show her how he felt, was he'd stay there at Piggs. Even if Cat half killed him, he wouldn't run off, he wouldn't go away. If she'd have him, if they'd go out now and then for pie, if she'd let love try and have its way, he'd put up with anything else. He thought that'd do it. If that didn't work, then nothing else would.
Out of the Yak, then, onto the ground. Stretched for a minute to get the kinks out. Started for the ladder—stopped, hesitated. Made himself try again.
Halfway there, and he heard a branch snap, heard it real close, froze in his tracks behind a tree.
The sound came again. A cough, then another. Someone else was in the woods, someone close by. Someone–
Cecil! Oh Jesus, Cecil hasn't left, he's coming back now!
Jack drew a breath, caught a blur of motion to his right. Five, six yards off in the trees. Past the red fighter without a tail. He turned his head slowly, an inch at a time. The figure moved again. Out in the open, away from the trees.
Jack stared. It wasn't Cecil, it was somebody else. It was that big Mex, fucking Ricky Chavez, with the solid gold buckle on his belt. Standing there with a dozen wilted roses, looking up sadly at Gloria's tree.
"Godamn it," Jack said to himself, "these people got to stop, I cannot keep putting up with this..."
I t was way past seven when he drove Ortega's car back and parked beneath the live oak tree. Cecil's car was back in Cecil's spot, in the alley next to Piggs. They were all asleep, then. Cecil up there in his room, Cat on his cot behind the stairs. Jack knew for sure that he slept with his eyes wide open, a sight fairly frightening to see. Conscious, or in a deep coma–either state was fine with him.
Jack settled down in the back room at Wan's, back behind cartons of toilet paper, soy sauce, chilés, and great tins of MSG. It was too late to try and go to bed. He could lie down and rest, though, make sure he didn't go to sleep.
For some peculiar reason, he felt unusually calm, almost at ease, and wondered just how that could be. In a couple of hours, someone would hurt him real bad. Cecil wouldn't let Cat kill him. Help was too hard to get in Mexican Wells. Almost anyone could do a lot better than Piggs. Cat wouldn't kill him, then–but whatever he did, it wouldn't feel good.
"Jhack, what the fock you doin' here, mahn? I t'ink you are gone, I never be seein' you again."
"Well I'm here," Jack said, "if that's all right with you."
"Hey, is aw'right wi' me, hah? I am t'inking, though, you pretty crazy in the head, Jhack. I t'ink you smarter than dat."
"Well I'm not, so just shut up about it, okay?"
"Hokay, Jhack."
"Hokay your fuckin' self. Just leave me alone, I gotta get some rest."
Ahmed was in the far corner somewhere, behind the sacks of rice. Rice felt a lot like sand, he'd told Jack, it even felt better sometimes.
"Why you be comin' back, mahn? These not a good idea, I know dat..."
"I love it here, okay? How could you ask for a better place than this? Good bed, good pay. Some asshole from overseas talking all the time. All the Chink food you can eat. What else could a guy want besides that?"
"Hokay, Jhack."
"Shut up, you said that. Don't go saying it again."
"Hey, Jhack."
"What?"
"I know thees guy one time, he has got a place sout' of Baghdad? Wat these guy is doin, he is tired of t'inkin' all da time. All the time he gotta t'ink of ever t'ing hisself. So wat he do, he say, 'Allah, you do the t'inkin' I am no t'inkin' anymore.' So he don', hokay? He start off walkin', run into a wall. Get up, start walkin' somewhere else. Maybe a fruit or somet'in fall outa tree, he gonna eat dat. Maybe it rain sometime, he gonna get a drink. He walk into a shop, right through da glass, knock ever' t'ing down. Someone hit thees guy, knock him in da head. He don' care, he
Out of the Yak, then, onto the ground. Stretched for a minute to get the kinks out. Started for the ladder—stopped, hesitated. Made himself try again.
Halfway there, and he heard a branch snap, heard it real close, froze in his tracks behind a tree.
The sound came again. A cough, then another. Someone else was in the woods, someone close by. Someone–
Cecil! Oh Jesus, Cecil hasn't left, he's coming back now!
Jack drew a breath, caught a blur of motion to his right. Five, six yards off in the trees. Past the red fighter without a tail. He turned his head slowly, an inch at a time. The figure moved again. Out in the open, away from the trees.
Jack stared. It wasn't Cecil, it was somebody else. It was that big Mex, fucking Ricky Chavez, with the solid gold buckle on his belt. Standing there with a dozen wilted roses, looking up sadly at Gloria's tree.
"Godamn it," Jack said to himself, "these people got to stop, I cannot keep putting up with this..."
I t was way past seven when he drove Ortega's car back and parked beneath the live oak tree. Cecil's car was back in Cecil's spot, in the alley next to Piggs. They were all asleep, then. Cecil up there in his room, Cat on his cot behind the stairs. Jack knew for sure that he slept with his eyes wide open, a sight fairly frightening to see. Conscious, or in a deep coma–either state was fine with him.
Jack settled down in the back room at Wan's, back behind cartons of toilet paper, soy sauce, chilés, and great tins of MSG. It was too late to try and go to bed. He could lie down and rest, though, make sure he didn't go to sleep.
For some peculiar reason, he felt unusually calm, almost at ease, and wondered just how that could be. In a couple of hours, someone would hurt him real bad. Cecil wouldn't let Cat kill him. Help was too hard to get in Mexican Wells. Almost anyone could do a lot better than Piggs. Cat wouldn't kill him, then–but whatever he did, it wouldn't feel good.
"Jhack, what the fock you doin' here, mahn? I t'ink you are gone, I never be seein' you again."
"Well I'm here," Jack said, "if that's all right with you."
"Hey, is aw'right wi' me, hah? I am t'inking, though, you pretty crazy in the head, Jhack. I t'ink you smarter than dat."
"Well I'm not, so just shut up about it, okay?"
"Hokay, Jhack."
"Hokay your fuckin' self. Just leave me alone, I gotta get some rest."
Ahmed was in the far corner somewhere, behind the sacks of rice. Rice felt a lot like sand, he'd told Jack, it even felt better sometimes.
"Why you be comin' back, mahn? These not a good idea, I know dat..."
"I love it here, okay? How could you ask for a better place than this? Good bed, good pay. Some asshole from overseas talking all the time. All the Chink food you can eat. What else could a guy want besides that?"
"Hokay, Jhack."
"Shut up, you said that. Don't go saying it again."
"Hey, Jhack."
"What?"
"I know thees guy one time, he has got a place sout' of Baghdad? Wat these guy is doin, he is tired of t'inkin' all da time. All the time he gotta t'ink of ever t'ing hisself. So wat he do, he say, 'Allah, you do the t'inkin' I am no t'inkin' anymore.' So he don', hokay? He start off walkin', run into a wall. Get up, start walkin' somewhere else. Maybe a fruit or somet'in fall outa tree, he gonna eat dat. Maybe it rain sometime, he gonna get a drink. He walk into a shop, right through da glass, knock ever' t'ing down. Someone hit thees guy, knock him in da head. He don' care, he
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