Smirnoff’s—”Here’s to ya, friend”—and we were passing it back and forth, a pair of good slugs each, throats on fire.
“When Galen went to prison,” he gasped, “that left Jesse in my care. She was coming up on fifteen. Grown men was sniffing around her like coyotes on a yearling deer. I was by myself with it. I put down some sumbitch rules.”
“I hear you.”
“And that girl broke every one of them.”
Uncle Judith hoisted the half-gallon again. Vodka hit him in the face. “Shiticks.” He mopped himself with a bandana, pried out his snoose and flicked it into a trash can, tried to get himself organized.
“I’m sure you did your best.”
“You can see about how good I did.”
“You did all right.”
He skidded the jug across the counter. “What the sumbitch hell do you know?”
“Not that much.”
“Okay then.”
I swallowed a mouthful. “About those skinheads—”
“Dwayne Hood told me.”
“Who’s Dwayne Hood?”
“Buddy of mine. Used to be ranch boss for Tucker. Got himself fired over some fence that was too expensive.”
Suddenly, Uncle Judith was the Marcel Marceau of snoose. His mouth worked convincingly, but nothing was in there. He searched pockets for his Cope can.
“Dwayne Hood said Tucker has a whole new crew now, including a couple of little dirtbags from Spokane that was supposed to watch the fences, keep out fishermen.”
I nodded. Okay. So the skins did in fact work for Tucker. “Let me ask you something.”
But the jangling here produced a summer person—short pants, sandals, sunglasses—who took some care in selecting a ten-dollar six-pack of beer. Uncle Judith killed the time locating his snoose can, rapping it loudly and violently with his thumb, then one-handing the lid off and letting out a smell like wet bat guano. Now he was the Julia Child of snoose, taking a deep and critical sniff, then a short corroborative nip. He wrinkled his busted nose. He pronounced the can “rotten as a goddang Monday morning,” and then he foisted in a hefty pinch.
Ten-dollar six-pack paid with plastic and left us. “My question is delicate,” I went on.
“I look like I’m made of sumbitch piecrust?”
“I know you loved Jesse.”
We traded vodka punches. I was getting wobbly. Uncle Judith dabbed his eyes.
“So I wonder what you think about Sneed.”
“The colored boy? What about him?”
“You’ve seen a lot of Jesse’s men. I just wondered where he fit in the general outline of things.”
“That sumbitch,” Jesse’s guardian began. He squeezed back what looked like the impulse to cry. “I don’t care what anybody says. That sumbitching colored boy was the best thing that ever happened to Jess. Just the other day I said to Galen—” He broke off, squeezed harder. “I went up there. ‘What’s Jess up to,’ he says, ‘who’s she running with,’ and I can’t never lie to him so I told it. Then Galen got going on that subject and I said he ought to shut his goddamn—” Uncle Judith’s own mouth closed involuntarily. He shook some thought from his head, and his voice became scratchy and airless. “You mark my words, fella. I seen the other thing plenty of times. That colored boy loved Jess. And I suspect that’s why …”
He broke off into full-on tears, dripping and drooling like the Salvador Dali of snoose. I bit my lip and stared away toward the beer cooler. That Frangelico didn’t make sense, I was thinking suddenly. A syrupy hazelnut liqueur, on a hot summer day, between two avid beer drinkers?
As was my way, I let Uncle Judith cry out my ration too, let him honk around inside his bandana enough for both of us while I found Frangelico on the shelf behind the counter: the bottle was unmistakable, tall and shaped like a friar in a cowl, white cord around the waist, a price tag below that said
$44.95.
When Uncle Judith recovered, I asked him, “Who was Jesse’s last boyfriend? Before Sneed?”
He did not hesitate. He jerked his
“When Galen went to prison,” he gasped, “that left Jesse in my care. She was coming up on fifteen. Grown men was sniffing around her like coyotes on a yearling deer. I was by myself with it. I put down some sumbitch rules.”
“I hear you.”
“And that girl broke every one of them.”
Uncle Judith hoisted the half-gallon again. Vodka hit him in the face. “Shiticks.” He mopped himself with a bandana, pried out his snoose and flicked it into a trash can, tried to get himself organized.
“I’m sure you did your best.”
“You can see about how good I did.”
“You did all right.”
He skidded the jug across the counter. “What the sumbitch hell do you know?”
“Not that much.”
“Okay then.”
I swallowed a mouthful. “About those skinheads—”
“Dwayne Hood told me.”
“Who’s Dwayne Hood?”
“Buddy of mine. Used to be ranch boss for Tucker. Got himself fired over some fence that was too expensive.”
Suddenly, Uncle Judith was the Marcel Marceau of snoose. His mouth worked convincingly, but nothing was in there. He searched pockets for his Cope can.
“Dwayne Hood said Tucker has a whole new crew now, including a couple of little dirtbags from Spokane that was supposed to watch the fences, keep out fishermen.”
I nodded. Okay. So the skins did in fact work for Tucker. “Let me ask you something.”
But the jangling here produced a summer person—short pants, sandals, sunglasses—who took some care in selecting a ten-dollar six-pack of beer. Uncle Judith killed the time locating his snoose can, rapping it loudly and violently with his thumb, then one-handing the lid off and letting out a smell like wet bat guano. Now he was the Julia Child of snoose, taking a deep and critical sniff, then a short corroborative nip. He wrinkled his busted nose. He pronounced the can “rotten as a goddang Monday morning,” and then he foisted in a hefty pinch.
Ten-dollar six-pack paid with plastic and left us. “My question is delicate,” I went on.
“I look like I’m made of sumbitch piecrust?”
“I know you loved Jesse.”
We traded vodka punches. I was getting wobbly. Uncle Judith dabbed his eyes.
“So I wonder what you think about Sneed.”
“The colored boy? What about him?”
“You’ve seen a lot of Jesse’s men. I just wondered where he fit in the general outline of things.”
“That sumbitch,” Jesse’s guardian began. He squeezed back what looked like the impulse to cry. “I don’t care what anybody says. That sumbitching colored boy was the best thing that ever happened to Jess. Just the other day I said to Galen—” He broke off, squeezed harder. “I went up there. ‘What’s Jess up to,’ he says, ‘who’s she running with,’ and I can’t never lie to him so I told it. Then Galen got going on that subject and I said he ought to shut his goddamn—” Uncle Judith’s own mouth closed involuntarily. He shook some thought from his head, and his voice became scratchy and airless. “You mark my words, fella. I seen the other thing plenty of times. That colored boy loved Jess. And I suspect that’s why …”
He broke off into full-on tears, dripping and drooling like the Salvador Dali of snoose. I bit my lip and stared away toward the beer cooler. That Frangelico didn’t make sense, I was thinking suddenly. A syrupy hazelnut liqueur, on a hot summer day, between two avid beer drinkers?
As was my way, I let Uncle Judith cry out my ration too, let him honk around inside his bandana enough for both of us while I found Frangelico on the shelf behind the counter: the bottle was unmistakable, tall and shaped like a friar in a cowl, white cord around the waist, a price tag below that said
$44.95.
When Uncle Judith recovered, I asked him, “Who was Jesse’s last boyfriend? Before Sneed?”
He did not hesitate. He jerked his
Similar Books
