Cruddy - Lynda Barry [13]
The trooper bounced a look off of me and then back at the father like he should know better than to talk about something like that in front of a little girl.
He said, “Your license said Rohbeson.”
“That’s right.”
“Rohbeson’s Slaughterhouse?”
The father nodded.
“My daddy drove across two counties to get to your place. Said you couldn’t beat Rohbeson’s. Took his deer there every year. Your outfit turned out the best venison sausage I ever tasted. I’m real sorry about your old man.”
“Yeah, well.” The father looked down. “Chicago and all. We couldn’t compete. That’s progress.”
“Your whole operation’s shutting down then?” said the trooper.
“It’s shut down. My old man had it mortgaged to the gizzards.”
“It’s a shame.”
The father nodded. “It is.”
“All right then,” said the trooper. “I don’t need to tell you not to pick up any hitchhikers.”
“Hell no,” said the father, feathering the gas pedal. “I wouldn’t dream.” He waved out a half salute and eased up the clutch. When we curved the next corner he snatched the pop out of my hand and whipped it out the window. His forehead was sweating. He was trying to get a fresh pack of cigs unwrapped but he couldn’t do it. “Help me out here, Clyde.” He tossed the pack to me. “Have one yourself if you want. You earned it. We just about got caught by our short and curlies. Reach under the seat and pull out my medicine. Take a pull. It will put you righter than RC any day. Whooooooo! Son-of-a-BITCH! I about crapped my pants when I saw you back there. Take a pull off that bottle. Go on. Hold your nose when you do it and you won’t taste it so bad. It burns like hell but what comes after is a true reward. I am sure goddamned glad to see you, son.”
And I will admit I was glad to see him too. And I was feeling pretty good with the radio on loud, lighting his cigarettes for him and watching the bugs splat against the windshield while the father raced down the black back roads, singing.
And then in the middle of nowhere on that nowhere road, a woman stepped out of the darkness holding a suitcase. A large woman wearing a head scarf and a bathrobe, setting a suitcase down and waving both of her big hands in the air. The father slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed her way and slowed to stop and then at the last second the father floored it. He floored it right into her. There was a sick crunching and a thumping and a moment of flesh pressing against the windshield in front of me. A smashed face hitting the glass with horrible features flattened, and then thumps sounding over my head and then nothing. Just silence and a weird weightless feeling all around. A feeling like when you stand up too fast and the spots of light swim around your eyes. The father checked the rearview mirror. He looked at me. “Think I hit her?” He was smiling. He threw the car into reverse and ran over her again. He drove back and forth several times and then jumped out, grabbed the suitcase, and held it up.
“Not a scratch on it, Clyde! It’s a Samsonite! We could do a goddamned commercial!”
Chapter 8
OOOOOOOOO!” THE sound made Vicky jump and mess up my mascara.
“Hooooooooo!”
“What’s that?” she whispered. She grabbed my arm.
“Hooooooooo!” A chill went straight up my back. It was a person for sure and for a second I thought it was someone it could not possibly be unless the dead do truly walk.
“Hoooooo did you killlll?” said the voice.
Vicky’s eyes locked on mine.
“Hooooooooo!” It was coming from behind a stack of targets. Vicky shoved me. “Go see,” she whispered. “Go look.”
I crawled forward a little and poked my head around for a second and then whipped it back. “It’s a guy,” I whispered.
“What kind of guy?”
“I think it’s a hippie.”
Vicky stood up and took a few creeping steps around the stacked bales. I saw her yellow boot swing back and deliver a hard kick.
“OWwwwww!” said the hippie.
“I hate spies,” said Vicky Talluso. “Roberta,” she said.