Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011

Pawns by Janet E. Irvin

Willie shifted the bag of bones from one shoulder to the other and stepped across the threshold of the Out Back Bar. The tavern, empty of all but thin slants of afternoon light, yawned at him, indifferent to his need. Flush with anger at the sting of Dixon’s last words, Willie flexed his free hand and thought about smashing it into Dix’s pale, crafty face.

“You’re fired!” Dix’s words rattled like nails in a can. Even if he had cause, and Willie admitted that there might be cause, Dix shouldn’t have called him out in front of the carny crew. In front of Queenie.

Rubbing his thumb over his lips, Willie scanned the booths and small, square tables crowding the faded green linoleum flooring. He stretched one arm, changed his grip on the bones, and straightened the other, considering the game his theft had set in play. Then he shuffled forward, the bag balanced like a giant fist on his back. He clambered up the barstool farthest from the street entrance, heaved his burden forward, and settled it on the ring-stained bar. Splaying his thick hands upon the counter, he leaned toward the row of bottles lining the shelf and sniffed the boozy air. Inside the sack, the bones sighed.

“Bartender!”

Beyond a row of hanging beads that served as a partition, a door creaked. Willie saw the man’s back first, then the bald spot on top of his head, and finally his pockmarked face. The man staggered to the right a few steps, then to the left. Muscles straining, he grunted, hefted a small keg onto the counter, and wiped his hands on a towel.

“What’ll it be then, little man?” he said.

“Watch your mouth, Gargantua.” Willie knelt on the stool. Balancing his weight on his elbows, he eyed the array of taps behind the bar. Bud. Bud Lite. Some damn microbrew. Harp.

The bartender balled his hands on his hips and nodded at the bag. “Got a pot of gold in there?”

“I’m not a leprechaun, you dope.” Willie jingled the coins in his pocket against the cell phone nesting there. He wondered if Queenie had read his text message yet.

“Could have fooled me.” The man stared at Willie’s gold- and green-striped vest, the green knee pants, the square black felt hat. He’d left without changing his costume. One more thing Dix wouldn’t be happy about. Willie took off the hat and set it on the bag.

“Just bring me a friggin’ beer,” he said.

“Cops’ll be around about seven.” The bartender slapped at the bones with his towel. “What’s in the bag, mate?”

Willie sighed. He had an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before he’d have to find a place to spend the night. Some spot where no one would ask him about the pygmy skeleton, the carnival’s best drawing card, a genuine archeological specimen from the land down under. Willie patted the heavy blue denim laundry bag and thought about leverage. He smiled. “Let’s just say this bag is my get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Well, may the luck of the Irish be with you.” Hiccuping with laughter, the bartender polished a shot glass and held it up to the light.

“Screw you,” Willie replied, draining his mug and fingering the rest of the change stacked in front of him. “Set me up again.”

Dixon Stout topped off the tank of his truck, hung up the nozzle, and counted the vehicles in the caravan, each one bearing the red-and-white-checked name AJEDREZ. He nodded at the carnies gathered in small knots, smoking and joking as they threw furtive glances his way. Everyone accounted for minus one. Good riddance to that big-headed, flat-faced, lying, thieving dwarf, Willie Stamford Connelly. “He’s run his last con in my show,” Dix muttered, shaking off the squeegee and scraping it over the windshield as he side-stepped around the truck hood. “Passing himself off as a professional actor when anyone could see he was only a dwarf and no Hervé Villechaize shouting “De plane, de plane” to Mr. Roark on Fantasy Island.”

“What’d you say, honey?” Dix’s wife leaned out the driver’s side window.

“Nothing, Queenie. Get me some money, will you?” Dix said. “And make sure King Kardu’s resting comfortable. They’re expecting a genuine unblemished skeleton for the Aboriginal exhibit at that church camp in Nashville.”

Queenie swung her long legs free and slid out of the driver’s seat. Freeing a key from the chain around her neck, she marched to the camper coupled behind the truck and unlocked the door. Inside, a small fan running on generator power whirred as it sprayed cool air across the crowded interior. Using the key, she tapped on the cages holding her collection of exotic snakes. The Burmese python ignored her, but the hooded cobra rose up hissing. Queenie made soothing noises. She paused at the largest box to lift out Verde, her favorite boa constrictor, and ran her hands over his skin. Verde stopped the show every night. She couldn’t afford to lose him. Satisfied that her precious reptiles were safe, Queenie bent over and rustled among the storage boxes, searching for the laundry bag. Then she noticed the door of the safe slightly ajar. When her phone jingled, she sat down next to the box holding the Aussie taipan, Matey, and punched up the incoming message.

Dixon had almost reached the Gas Mart when he heard her shout his name.

“Hey, Dix! Hold up, Dixon, stop!” Queenie caught up to him, one tattooed hand clutching at her breasts to keep them from bouncing, the other covering her mouth, trying to take back the truth. “They’re gone!”

Dixon put out his hands to stop her from falling. “You lost your snakes?” he said.

“Not the snakes, you numbskull,” Queenie said, recovering her balance and her superiority in one breath. “The money. The bones. King Kardu’s bones are gone!”

“Damn that Willie Connelly!” Dixon said, pushing Queenie aside. He headed for the crowd of roustabouts, his right hand curling into a fist. “I’ll wring his felonious neck.”

The wind tossed up grit from the road construction zone along Salem Avenue, scouring Willie’s face and neck when he stepped out of the bar. He blinked and shielded his eyes with his hand. Darting between passing cars, the bag bouncing and swaying in their backwash, Willie scanned the sidewalk for familiar faces. He didn’t see anyone he knew.

“Hey, leprechaun!” The bartender’s shout arrested his steps. A silver Cadillac pealed around Willie’s frozen form, the driver showing him the finger as he sped on. Willie jumped to safety in the gutter and looked over his shoulder.

“Forgot something,” the man called, holding the black hat above his head.

Willie waved him off. “Keep it as a souvenir,” he called back, his words swallowed by the traffic sounds. He did a little jig. Just one more thing to piss off Dix. Patting the money folded into the pocket of his vest, he barreled along the sidewalk. The shuttered storefronts, barred with iron grates and wrought-iron fencing, offered no shelter. Checking behind him once more for pursuit, Willie headed for Riverplace, a section of parkland dotted with benches, statues, and grassy areas that stretched along the Miami River from the downtown business district to the support pillars for the interstate that divided the city into east and west. The sloped ground beneath the concrete overpass offered safety and concealment, while the river running below sealed off the northern approach. He could sleep unmolested there. The bones, shy but cunning, clacked like a lobster’s claw as he stumbled forward.

Dixon nursed his third cup of coffee while Queenie spoke to the crew. He kept circling the problem in his mind. The loss of last week’s receipts and the pygmy skeleton meant the carnival, already teetering on the cliff of financial insolvency, couldn’t meet payroll or their promise to anchor the festival in Tennessee with a spectacular freak show. Queenie’s snakes alone wouldn’t draw enough interest to sell out. And the bank expected a payment at the end of the week or Ajedrez would move into receivership. Four days. That’s all they had. Dixon cursed Willie again.

“Dix!”

Queenie’s shout brought him back to the the task of finding Willie. She waved off the waitress, slid into the leather booth, and leaned across the table.

“Pull yourself together,” she said.

“How am I going to get the troupe to Nashville?” Dix scrubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the headache that pulsed at his temples.

“Relax,” Queenie said. She lifted one hand and stared at her nails, then wiggled them at Dixon. “I paid for the trip out of the emergency funds.”

“What emergency funds?” Dixon looked up and caught Queenie scowling at him.

“Need to know, Dix, need to know. And you don’t.” She slapped a piece of paper on the table and tapped it with one long crimson fingernail. “Your job is to find Willie.”

“What’s this?” Dixon set down his cup. A splash of undiluted joe slopped over the number Queenie had written on the paper.

“Police sergeant in charge of missing persons. Address and phone number. You’re going to file a complaint.” She brushed her fingers over her chest and waist, rearranging the scarlet brocade shawl that hugged her figure. “Tell the cops Willie suffers from blackouts. Tell them he’s your favorite cousin. Tell them you and the dwarf are lovers. Whatever works. Just do not tell them he stole anything.”

“What’re you going to do?” Dix asked.

“I’m coming with you.” Queenie paused, staring at the concave reflection of her pinched, painted face in a tarnished teaspoon. “Connelly’s on my shit list now.”

Dixon swallowed the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth. He picked at his napkin, avoiding Queenie’s eyes. “All right, but we’ll have to leave the camper here,” he said, already calculating time and distance and parking fees. He eyed his wife, her fingers tapping out a contingency plan on the cracked, red polyurethane surface, and sighed. “And, Queenie, no snakes.”

“Dix!” Queenie’s outburst caused the other patrons of the diner to swivel in their direction.

“No snakes, Queenie, none. Not even a little one.”

Pursing her lips, Queenie cut her eyes at Dix. She reached into her bag and rummaged among the contents, searching for her lipstick.

“You know,” Dix said, “I used to like that son of a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Queenie said, touching her temple with one ringed hand. “So did I.”

Willie stomped down the straggling bunches of thistle and crabgrass covering the sloping ground. He checked left and right. Only a few of the regular homeless had drifted into the shaded area, their blankets spread out at the opposite end from where Willie stood. Farther down the riverbank, he spotted a thin bald guy tracing figure eights on the lawn. The man’s voice gusted toward Willie, his curses and shouts interspersed with accusations of conspiracy. Shaking off a shiver of premonition, Willie scraped a shallow trench to mark off his space and settled in for the evening. He slid the denim bag under his shoulders, leaned back and closed his eyes. Beneath his head, the bones muttered. Mum-mum-de-mum-onakul.

The odor of urine woke him before the sickle moon had fled the sky. He checked the time on his cell phone. Two twenty-five. No message. Crapola! Willie shifted to a sitting position and scanned the collection of ragtag blankets and garbage bags. He listened for the snores of exhausted men and women, but the acrid smell overpowered his senses. Sniffing, he leaned to his right. The light reflecting from the highway above outlined the shape of a man urinating against the concrete support wall, barely three feet from Willie’s head.

“Hey, pisser,” he said, pitching his words too low for anyone but the intruder to hear. “Go pee somewhere else.”

The man stuffed himself together and turned toward Willie. “They’re coming,” he whispered. He pointed one bony arm in Willie’s direction and repeated his warning. “They’re gonna find you. And him.” Shuffling closer, the vagrant stared at the shadow behind Willie’s head. “He knows.”

Shoving the bones farther behind him, Willie stood up and clenched his fists. He stared at the dark figure wavering before him. The man knew nothing, yet his words shook Willie. Could Dixon find him? Would Queenie come? Shivering, Willie stepped toward the man.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said.

The man backpedaled a few feet, twisted his ankle on a slurry of small stones, and fell hard. Rolling several feet down the slope, he raised up on his hands and knees and crawled closer to Willie.

“Make him stop,” he begged, covering his ears with his hands. “I can’t take it anymore. Make him shut up.” He flung his arms toward the bag once more. Then, raising himself to a stand, he shuffled away.

Willie watched him go, afraid to turn his back, fearful of what might happen if he closed his eyes. The man paused every two steps to check over his shoulder and mutter, his curses a susurrus of fear sliding toward Willie along night’s dark street. When the man disappeared into shadow, Willie lay down again, juggling the man’s absurd pronouncements and the realization that Dixon and Queenie would indeed be looking for him. But he had control of the board, didn’t he? Willie’s sense of righteous anger flared. Instead of giving Willie a better job, Dix had let him go. Instead of sharing herself, Queenie had given him one night and then turned her back. And they’d both lied about wanting him to help run Ajedrez. Willie watched his expectations dissolve in a swirl of feints and false moves. Nothing left of hope but broken promises. If he gave the money and the bones back, they had to reciprocate, didn’t they? The questions circled his head like vultures. Uneasy and conflicted, Willie stayed awake long into the night. Just before dawn, he slept. When he startled awake around seven, the bones were gone.

Dixon and Queenie sat in the truck, rehearsing Dixon’s story. The parking meter posted a two-hour limit, but the meter flag had slipped closer to zero. Dix got out and slid two more quarters in the slot. That should buy them enough time.

“You sure, Queenie?” He leaned back in the seat and studied his wife’s hunched shoulders and exposed cleavage. “You think this’ll work?”

Queenie raised her head from the cell phone keypad. Her dark eyes glared at him, her full, red-limned mouth set in a taut line. “Just follow the plan, Dix, and don’t let on that you’re angry. Okay? I’m going to flush him out with an offer.”

She smiled but Dix didn’t think it would melt anyone’s heart. Her glance reminded him of that Australian reptile, the taipan she kept in a cage beside their bed. Sometimes in the night, he’d wake to the sound of her reading from the Gospel of Mark, They shall take up serpents, while the snakes shifted and hissed around her. Queenie’s Pentecostal roots served them well among the small hill towns of Appalachia, but Dix wasn’t certain how well they’d go over in the big city. He was tired of playing backwater fairs and rural carnivals. It was time to move up to bigger things, and Nashville could be the first step. He rested his hand on the back of her neck. “I just want what’s fair, babe.”

“Oh, you’ll get more than fair, Dixon, I promise.” The way she said it made Dixon’s stomach contract.

They watched the precinct shift change at three o’clock and waited until Queenie’s contact tipped his cap and hurried inside the building.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have fired him,” Queenie said, snapping the lid on the phone and tapping her foot.

“You think that’s as bad as what you did?” Dixon allowed only the merest trace of sarcasm to tinge his words. Queenie, enraged, was a beast he preferred not to confront. “You should have known he’d want more.”

Queenie allowed a smirk. “I just wanted to see what it’d be like is all. With a little guy.” She reached over to smooth Dixon’s collar. “You know there’s no one else but you in my heart.”

“I don’t care who’s in your heart, Queen, it’s your wallet that concerns me.” Dixon swallowed the lie and shot out of the car. Slamming the door, he circled the truck and took the steps two at a time. From the passenger side, Queenie watched him go, her dark eyes slitted, her rouged face a study of sly indifference.

The night people shuffled off around him, heading for coffee shops or that Daybreak place that handed out breakfast and false hope. Willie raced from one side of the underpass to the other, searching for the bag. It took him fifteen minutes. When he spotted the crazy pisser from last night standing at the river, he thought he’d hyperventilate. The man held his arms out over the water, making the sign of the cross at the bag that floated, bobbing and weaving, across the slow current. Willie decided against murder. Blood pounding in his ears, he raced up the pedestrian stairs and hurried across the footbridge. By the time he reached the other side, a boy holding a skateboard had lifted the bag out of the water.

“Hey!” Willie yelled, gasping as he used the handrail to pull himself along. “That’s mine.”

The boy looked up and shrugged. Clutching Kardu’s bones in one hand, he watched as Willie worked his way down the steps. He had almost reached the bottom when the boy flipped on a ball cap, dropped his board to the pavement, and shoved off. Willie bent over to catch his breath and started off again. His short legs and heavy torso refused to obey his command for more speed. He huffed his way to Monument Avenue, clutching at his aching thighs, until he spied a bus labeled Wayne-Wilmington. Struggling along the sidewalk, he reached the stop just as the bus doors closed. Willie used his fists to beat on the glass. The RTA driver, his expression one of pained effort, opened them and let Willie in.

Trying to balance his weight against the bob of the wheels, Willie threw coins in the collection box until the meter said paid and hurried to a side seat. Ahead, weaving in and out of lanes, the boy headed south. The bus lumbered forward, lurching to a stop at every second corner. They passed the Schuster Performing Arts Center and the old County Courthouse. Off to the right, Willie noticed a building with a police precinct sign and a familiar truck parked at the curb. He ducked below the wide bus window until they passed the station. Then he leaned his head against the glass and listened for the bones. They’d been talking to him all night. No reason to think they’d abandon him now.

The parking meter flag flipped to red. Queenie debated whether to feed it again. She had just opened the door when Dix burst out of the precinct and hurried toward her, his face aflame with anger and resentment.

“Get in,” he said, shoving her down and closing the door. He pulled away and searched for a pay lot. “Your guy’s going to call as soon as they hear anything.”

Queenie fumbled with the radio knob, seeking a country station. “What’s wrong, Dix?” she said.

Dixon knocked her hand off the dial.

“We find him, Queenie, I swear I’m going to kill him.” Dixon jammed his foot on the brake and faced her while the traffic signal flashed from yellow to red.

“Not the wisest move, Dixon,” Queenie said, running her fingers along the curve of his neck. She waited for his color to fade from fuschia to pink. “Let’s just concentrate on recovering our property. Willie, well, Willie will be on his own again, just like he was before we took him in.”

Dixon pulled into a lot with a sign reading special events parking $5.00. He held his palm open and waited for Queenie to pass him a bill. The attendant, looking strained and tired, nodded at the next to last space facing Ludlow. Dixon turned off the ignition and watched the theater-goers flooding out of their cars, heading for the Victoria and The Phantom of the Opera.

“How long we been together, Queenie?” Dixon removed his cap and patted his graying hair. “How long have I overlooked your adventures? But this time, you fixed us good.”

“So, we’re back to that?” Queenie scowled and slapped his shoulder again. “Get over it, Dix. You got twenty-five years on me. I have needs.” She studied her nails. “Promising Willie and me we could both help run the show wasn’t a smart move.”

Dixon punched the steering wheel. He slid his seat back, slouched down, and closed his eyes. When he heard the hissing, he opened one eye and glared at Queenie. “I told you. No snakes.”

“Hush, Dix,” Queenie said, cooing at the thick mesh wrap lying coiled and uneasy at the bottom of her purse, “I just want a little insurance.”

Dixon sat up and pushed at her chest. “Against what? Willie? Me? I swear—”

Queenie cut off his reply. Snapping her bag closed, she reached forward with both hands and pinned Dixon’s arms to his chest. Her fingernails dug against his skin.

“Swear what, Dix? What’s yours is mine? Willie’s a dead man? Puhlease.” Leaning her face closer, Queenie frowned at him. “Pardon me if I take my own precautions.”

Caught in her stare, with the specter of losing his life’s work hovering beyond her and the claws of jealousy tearing at his soul, Dixon clenched his jaw and nodded. I am going to kill him, he thought, and then, Queenie, I’m going to kill you. He tried not to think about her snakes.

Up Wayne Avenue Hill the bus swayed from lane to lane, dodging traffic and cyclists commuting from home to work. Although he could no longer see the boy, Willie could hear King Kardu humming, the notes a trail winding from the bag to Willie’s ears. Ha-haha-ha-hum. Willie got off at South Park.

The intersection of the once-thriving Victorian-era neighborhood had gone to seed, its signature triangle building on the northeast corner now boarded and mute. The gas station across from the bus stop could use a new sign. The old one, damaged by some random wind, hung crooked and sagging. On the west side where Willie stood, only a seedy tavern and an old grocery store remained. Down the block, the aging houses were claimed for mixed use by yuppies, baby boomers, crack dealers, and whores. Willie shaded his eyes from the sun. The boy had gone there, to the first large, white painted lady. Willie spotted the skateboard lying discarded in the small square of weedy lawn. He listened. The boy’s voice carried eastward like a sail.

“Danny, come see what I found.” A screen door banged. The boy and the bones faded into silence.

Anxious and determined, Willie eased along the street. He noted the number of occupied dwellings, the placement of garages, and the occasional signs warning of home security alarms. The house where the boy lived lifted above a sprawl of steps that opened onto a wraparound porch. Below the porch, latticework screened an area big enough to store garden tools or conceal a man. Nodding at the possibilities, Willie changed direction.

At the corner grocery, he purchased a poncho, two quart bottles of water, and a handful of candy bars. He squatted behind a tall hedge of forsythia opposite the boy’s house and unwrapped one of the bars. Convenience over substance. He had to recover those bones.

When the sun went down, the family who lived in the house settled down to dinner. Willie heard the scraping of utensils on plates and the excited chatter of boys with a secret. Their voices triggered a memory of that first night Dixon and Queenie took him in. They had served lasagna and made small talk, welcoming him at their table but screening him from their hearts. Swallowing hard to combat the ache of loss and longing, Willie rested against a light pole as traffic dwindled. When the porch light snapped off, he moved. Gritting his teeth against the possibility of spiders and rats, he crossed the lawn and crawled under the porch. He wrestled the poncho under him and wiggled around until he’d made a comfortable depression in the lumpy earth. The first moment the house sat empty, he vowed, he’d step in and take what belonged to him. Engrossed in his planning, alert to every noise that creaked above his head, he missed the chime signaling Queenie’s text, her words a backlit sprawl in the night.

The first night it rained, water cascading in heavy sheets down the spouting to pool in the dirt edges of Willie’s hiding place. Raindrops slithered through the cracks in the porch flooring and dripped down his back. Images of Queenie and snakes and Dixon’s angry face traded places in his restless sleep. Damp and shivering, Willie woke early, his stomach a constant grumble that matched the skeleton’s complaints. Num-num-num-num-NUM. After the parents left for work, Willie caught the echoes of the boys’ chatter as he and Danny, probably the older brother, examined the skeleton.

“Where’d you say you found this?” Danny’s voice waxed and waned as he moved around the porch above Willie’s head. “Who followed you?”

The boy evaded his brother’s questions, his excitement spilling outward with the bones as he pulled them from the bag.

Willie unwrapped another candy bar and munched away, wishing the boys would leave so he could grab the skeleton and go, but the wet weather kept them all housebound. Willie dozed, his plan drifting on the murmur of Kardu’s song. By midafternoon he felt feverish. His stomach had given up growling, but hunger nagged at him. He couldn’t think how to leave before it grew dark enough to hide his escape. Rereading Queenie’s message, he weighed the pros and cons of surrendering to desire. He ached to see her. Could she be trusted?

Later that night, after a midnight run to the all-night grocery, Willie dreamed of holding Queenie, of rejoining the carnival as her partner and her spouse. But King Kardu’s mumbling woke him. Hum-da-hum. Lal-lal-lal. The thrum of the bones pounded inside Willie’s head. Caught up in his anxious thoughts, Willie forgot about the boys, until Danny leaned his head against the lattice and yelled.

The squad car arrived just after seven a.m. Willie inched away from the officer’s outstretched hand, but he knew if he didn’t come out, they’d just come in and get him. Crawling forward, he scrambled to his feet, brushing off the mud and sand that clung to his pants and feet.

“Mind telling me,” the officer said, pointing out the candy wrappers that littered the ground, “what you’re doing here?”

Willie shrugged off the cop’s restraining hand and looked up at the four faces staring down at him from behind the porch railing. He pointed at the boy.

“He stole my bag,” Willie said.

“That right?” the cop asked. The boy shuffled closer to his brother and nodded. Frowning, the police officer grabbed Willie by the collar and shoved him forward to the bottom of the steps.

“Go get it,” the father ordered, exasperation coloring his command.

The boy came out carrying the blue laundry bag as if it contained Queenie’s taipan instead of the ancient bones of an Aboriginal witch doctor.

“This yours?” the cop asked. Willie nodded. “All right, folks, we’ll take it from here.”

The cop grabbed the bag and Willie’s arm and headed for the squad car. He settled Willie in the back and contacted the precinct. Willie eased closer to the bones. He ran a hand over his dirty hair and groaned as the officer spoke.

“Jenks,” he said, “tell Sarge we found that missing person.”

The gray walls and plain table and chairs of the interrogation room offered Willie no comfort. At his feet Kardu rested, his bones silent for now. Exhausted, Willie placed his head on the table, cushioned it with his arms, and slept.

“Willie!” Dixon Stout’s boom of greeting roused him. The bones jittered. Dixon lifted Willie from the chair and hugged him, his whisper unheard by the policeman who watched from the doorway. “Save it until we get you out of here.”

“This your missing person?” the cop said.

Dixon emphasized his response with a second hug and a clap on Willie’s back. “This is our Willie.” He smoothed Willie’s tangled hair back from his forehead. “We sure were worried about you, son. Glad you’re safe.”

A rustle of warning and Queenie stood there, staring at Willie’s matted curls and mud-splashed clothes, her face a careful blend of joy and sadness. “Poor Willie,” she murmured.

Embarrassed, Willie shrugged out of Dixon’s embrace and slid into the chair. He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Perhaps,” the cop said, picking up the bag and opening the drawstring to display the contents, “you folks can explain this.” He gestured at the skeleton folded inside.

“Of course, Officer.” Dixon moved away from Willie. He pulled a bill of sale out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I own a carnival, and Kardu here is our star attraction. See.” Dixon tapped his finger on the signature at the bottom, at the date, at the description of the artifact.

“Huh,” the cop said, handing the receipt back to Dixon. Queenie popped her gum. “Strange thing to be hauling around.”

No one spoke. They all waited, their eyes shifting from walls to ceiling. Willie stamped his feet. Finally, the cop nodded. “All right. But I think it best you all head on to that church camp — in Tennessee, was it?” He ushered them out of the room.

With Dixon on one side and Queenie on the other, Willie carried the bag to the truck.

“Get in,” Queenie said, placing her hand on his elbow and propelling him into the back seat of the cab. Her purse swung down between them, the contents shifting in a slow slip and a hiss. “Here, wipe your face.”

She handed him one of Dix’s handkerchiefs wrapped around a thin hard object. Willie pretended to fumble with the seat belt while Dixon started the truck. He unfolded the cloth Queenie had given him. A switchblade impressed with the name Billabong slithered out and fell into his lap. Hiding the knife next to the money in his vest, Willie wrapped the monogrammed linen around his neck. He stared at Dixon’s back, resisting the urge to plunge the blade between Dix’s angry shoulders.

Dixon drove two blocks, turned left, turned left again and parked at the mouth of an alley. A For Sale sign sneered down from the warehouse guarding the entrance. Graffiti sprayed along the wall warned that the end was near.

“Get out,” Dix said. He tapped on Queenie’s shoulder with one knuckle. “You, stay here.”

Willie picked up the bones and followed Dixon into the shadows.

A brisk wind swayed the awnings jutting out over the alley. Willie, defiant and out of options, straddled the bag holding Kardu’s bones. In his left hand he waved the knife Queenie had slipped him. Three feet away Dixon raised a pistol and pointed it at Willie’s chest.

“I gave you a chance, Willie, to be something more than a sideshow freak. Instead of making that work, you put a move on my wife, help yourself to my savings, and steal the most valuable showcase I’ve ever owned.” Dixon’s eyes swept over Willie’s disheveled form and settled on the bag. The blue denim jiggled and swayed.

“I thought Queenie was your most valuable possession,” Willie said.

Dixon pressed forward. He held out one hand. “Queenie’s a pleasant distraction. The bones, now, are my upward mobility, my chance to win favor in the world of freaks. Once, I thought you’d serve that purpose. I was wrong.”

“You sell out everyone around you.” At Willie’s feet the bag swayed. Kardu’s humming coursed upward through his body like a train. “You really are a jerk.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m the jerk holding the gun,” Dixon said. “Give them back. Now.”

“You can’t bully me anymore,” Willie shouted, poking the knife at Dixon’s waist.

“You got no moves left, little man,” Dixon said. He squeezed halfway down on the trigger. “Checkmate.”

Willie swore. Behind him, he heard the staccato of high heels clicking on the asphalt paving. Dixon looked up and winced.

“Nobody owns me,” Queenie said, her voice muffled by the garbage bins lined up at the alley’s entrance.

Willie listened to the flapping of discarded papers down the gutter, the rattle-crack of loose shutters. He thought about Queenie, moving him and Dixon around like pawns on a chessboard. He thought about his own need and his greed and the feel of Queenie’s body in his hands. By his feet, the bones shifted. A sound like laughter escaped from the bag. Willie sighed. Dix had it figured right after all. He had no moves left. Mum-mum-mum-nal, the bones jabbered. Willie scrubbed at his nose, trying to figure it all out. His lips and tongue tasted like salt. Dixon moved another half step closer and struck at him with the gun.

Willie staggered back, righted himself and stabbed at Dixon. The knife caught Dix under one arm, leaving a long tear in his sleeve. A slim worm of blood tracked its way down Willie’s hand. Willie stabbed again. This time he caught Dix below his rib cage.

Dixon stumbled, righted himself, and lifted the gun with both hands. One foot caught in the drawstring of the laundry bag, twisting his stance, and the first shot angled to the right of Willie’s head. Dixon pulled the trigger again.

Shaking his head, holding his hands over his ears, Willie fell to his knees. Pulled forward by the blade in his gut, Dixon stumbled, coughing, and collapsed next to Willie. The bag, kicked forward in the struggle, opened. The bones spilled free.

One of Kardu’s fingers sprang loose and gouged itself into Dixon’s eye. The skeleton’s skull rolled over to nestle close to Willie’s broad nose. Humming, cajoling, demanding, the skeleton’s inarticulate chant claimed kinship, obligation, and command, but Willie had moved beyond the bones’ influence, the dwarf’s wide blue eyes gazing up at the crow-black sky.

Queenie stepped out from behind one of the dumpsters. A drumroll of raindrops pelted her head. She brushed them off, then lifted the taipan out of her purse, the snake’s restless length still encased in its binding. Humming her notes in tune with the wordless song leaching from Kardu’s skeleton, she waited. Dixon looked up. His lips moved.

“Queenie,” he said, struggling to raise his shoulders.

Debating the wisdom of introducing venom into Dixon’s bloodstream, Queenie circled the fallen men. The storm-driven wind blew harder, ruffling the fringe on her shawl. Before she made up her mind, Dixon stopped moving.

“Well,” she shrugged, staring at Matey, “guess Dix was right about one thing. No need for snakes.”

Bending, she removed the skeleton finger from Dix’s eye. She layered Kardu’s bones back inside the bag and stuffed the taipan in with them. Twisting the handkerchief free of Willie’s neck, Queenie wrapped it around the money inside Willie’s vest and dropped the wadded bills in her purse. Checking for shoe prints below and faces above in the few windows that overlooked the alley, Queenie moved off, trailed by the rustle of the taipan and the muffled lament of the bones in the bag.

Copyright © 2011 Janet E. Irvin