Moondogs - Alexander Yates [139]
IGNACIO AND LITTLEBOY come for him early the next morning. They tie him at the wrists and stand him up. Ignacio switches off the television, and it looms silently in a way that feels very final.
Sweating, fidgeting, grinning, they lead him out of the apartment, into the pre-dawn dark. The residential street is empty save a truck idling by the curb, cab light on and driver’s seat empty. Through Howard’s crusty lens he sees a big advertisement for chicken feed painted across the truck. A cartoon rooster with boxing gloves on his wingtips poses beside an enormous sack of grain, while all around delirious hens with lipstick on their beaks bustle to get his autograph. Bubble letters below the rooster’s feet read: Feed Your Champion Like a Champion!
Ignacio and Littleboy open the back of the truck and heave Howard inside. It’s no bigger than a small moving van, about ten feet deep by six wide in the rear box, and empty save a layer of dry grain spread evenly over the bed. Howard sits up and looks out the open back. He sees Ignacio’s wife standing in the doorway to the apartment. She waves at him, and he waves back, because why not?
Then he sees Kelog. The green bird hops fatly down the steps, its metal spur scraping on the concrete. Ignacio picks it up, coos to it and places it gingerly beside Howard like some kind of fucked-up prison guard. Howard tenses and pulls away, expecting some immediate confrontation. But Kelog ignores him and pecks at the feed spread evenly across the metal bed. It’s just a chicken, after all.
Ignacio pulls the rear door down, sealing Howard and Kelog inside. Moments later the engine starts and the truck bed vibrates, making the grain hop like popcorn. The truck lurches forward. Howard knows they can only be going one of two places. Either Ignacio and Littleboy have given up on their plan—who would blame them?—and are taking him to the countryside to cut his throat and bury him, or they’ve actually found someone to sell him to. Either way, if he’s going to save himself, it’s got to be now.
“I know what you’re doing, and it’s a stupid move,” he says when the rear door opens again, about a half hour later. The sun still isn’t up. He briefly registers the sound of waves, but keeps his eyes fixed on Ignacio.
“Stupid for who?” Ignacio asks, a nervous half-grin still smeared above his chin. He produces a pack of cigarettes and lights one. He offers one to Howard.
“It’s stupid for everybody. Listen,” Howard sits up, his bound wrists before him in a gesture resembling prayer, and accepts the cigarette. “I get how you’re looking at this. You want to sell me. That’s simple. That’s fine. That happens all the time. I’ve done stuff like that. But listen. From a rational perspective, from a purely financial outlook, it’s stone dumb. It’s dangerous for everybody. Like I said, I’ve got money. I’ve got cash. You really want to sell me? That’s fine. But leave the bidding open. Let me buy me.”
“Nope,” Ignacio says.
“Nope?” Howard shakes a little. The simple ridiculousness of it is maddening. “I’m offering you a guaranteed payday, more than any fucking fisherman can give you, and all you say to me is nope?”
“Yup.” Ignacio lowers his cigarette so Kelog can puff. He strokes the rooster’s green feathers with his free hand and says nothing more. Howard briefly indulges in a fantasy wherein he’s rescued and arranges to have Ignacio killed in prison. Tortured, and killed.
“Easy, boy,” Ignacio says. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you look angry.”
“I’ve been hiding it,” Howard says.
“Can’t see why.” Ignaco