Cold in July

5

After Ann left for work, I let Jordan watch a few minutes of cartoons while I had a last cup of coffee, then I drove him to his day school at the Baptist church and took myself to work.

I parked behind my frame shop and got out. It was only eight-thirty and the air was already sticky. July in East Texas is like that. The trees hold the heat and smother you with it. Sometimes it’s so bad the humidity seems to have weight, and walking through it is like trying to wade through gelatin.

I stood by my car and breathed in the warm, small-town air. In spite of the heat, it was times like this that I was glad I lived in a town of forty thousand (counting ten thousand transient college students) instead of a place like Houston. Ann and I had lived there briefly when we were newly married, and we hated it. It was ugly, hurried and depressing. And there was all that crime.

Crime. That was a hoot. Even a small town like LaBorde wasn’t free of that. Just ask me, the burglar killer.

I got my key and went in the back and started coffee. At eight-forty-five the hired help showed. Valerie and James.

Valerie is a bright, attractive woman and a good frame builder, if a little impatient with customers. James, on the other hand, is a so-so frame builder, and a master at knowing what the customer really wants. But he hasn’t figured out what Valerie wants. She snubs him. He spends a lot of his time with his eyes stuck to her ass, like a mountain climber mooning over a cherished but unattainable summit.

I hoped plenty of work would come in today so I could stay busy, and maybe not have to talk too much. I knew if I talked very long about anything, I’d talk about last night, and I didn’t want to do that. Word would get around soon enough without my help. There hadn’t been any reporters last night, but it would certainly make the paper, if only in the abbreviated crime report section of the LaBorde Daily, which is as close to being a real newspaper as a water hose is to being a snake.

While Valerie and James poured themselves cups of coffee, I went up front, turned the Closed sign around to Open and unlocked the door.

· · ·

About nine-thirty Ann called during her break at the high school.

“Just a minute,” I said. I glanced at James and Valerie in the back of the shop. Valerie was working on a frame. She was bent over the table giving James a nice view of her buns; the red dress she wore was stretched over them tight as a bongo skin. James was gesticulating wildly, giving her a line of prattle between flashes of his teeth and puffs of his cigarette. I was somehow reminded of The Little Engine That Could. “Go ahead,” I said.

“You doing okay?” Ann asked.

“I’m not in the mood for a parade or anything. But yeah, I guess I’m all right. How about you?”

“I’m getting off next period to go talk to the police. Richard, it’s all over school. I don’t know how, but it is. Some of the teachers have asked me about it. I tried to talk to them, but I c N="1em"0emouldn’t communicate too well. Even some of the kids have asked.”

“Shit. Maybe you should go home.”

“Got to deal with it sometime, and I guess now is as good a time as any… You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” I lied.

“All right. I got to go, baby. Love you.”

“You too.”

· · ·

About ten-thirty Jack Crow, the mailman, showed up. He came in out of the July heat and it seemed to follow him, hung in the doorway like warm dog breath for a full fifteen seconds.

Jack is one of those big men who thinks his size, rugged face and disregard for intellectuals makes him a man. He can’t just deliver the mail and say hello, he’s got to spend a few minutes each morning making catty remarks to Valerie about how he likes redheads, and how she’s a looker, all the usual routines men like Jack think are charming. He also likes to talk about his hunting, fishing and war experiences. To hear him tell it, Hemingway was a perch fisher and Audie Murphy was a windup soldier. And he’s the real thing.

“Man, that air-conditioning feels good,” he said. “Cushy job you got here, folks. But tell you, wouldn’t trade. Mine keeps me in shape.” He slapped his stomach. “Course,” he said looking at Valerie, “you look in shape.”

“TV dinners,” she said.

He laughed. It sounded like something strangling. Well, one could hope.

He came over to the counter and leaned on it and looked me square in the eyes, like we were secret comrades, but said loudly, “I hear you got you one last night.”

The bottom fell out of my stomach. I knew it had to happen, but the fact that the first person who brought it up to me was Macho Jack seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. I didn’t know what to say back so I didn’t say anything. Jack was doing all the talking anyway.

“Mack over at the newspaper told me. Said you shot that sonofabitch right in the eye, killed him deader than an anvil. Was it a nigger? Wetback?”

Valerie and James stopped working and came over to the desk.

“What’s all this?” James asked.

“Dick got him one last night,” Jack said.

First of all, I hated being called Dick. It’s the nickname for a man’s sexual equipment, and as far as I’m concerned you might as well call me Prick. And I sure didn’t like Jack calling me that; I wouldn’t want that bastard to call me to dinner.

“He shot the bastard right through the head,” Jack said, not waiting for me to answer. “Killed his ass.”

“That’s enough,” I said.

“No need to be modest, Dicky.” Dicky? “Hell, I’d be proud. Sonofabitch breaks into my house he better sure be ready to pick his teeth out of his asshole. I keep a pump 12-gauge right under the bed, and if-”

“Drop it, Jack,” I said. “Just drop it.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jack said. “If it were me-”

“It wasn’t you. It was me. And I’m not ashamed of it, just not proud of it either. You got some mail for me, leave it. If not, get out.”

Jack’s face turned red and his mouth went slack. “You kill some asshole, and you get to talking pretty damn tough. Think you’re fucking Clint Eastwood.”

“Just leave,” I said.

“All right, cowboy.” Jack reached into his bag and tossed a handful of letters on the counter. They slid off and fell on the floor. “Enjoy your fucking mail, Dicky.”

He gave me a parting glare and stomped out, holding the door open long enough to let in some of July. “Hope your fucking air conditioner goes out,” he said.

“And I hope a rabid dog chews off your nuts,” Valerie said.

James and I both jerked our heads toward her. Valerie?

Jack stood in the doorway, shocked. “That’s not very ladylike,” he managed.

“You got it,” Valerie said.

Jack swallowed, let go of the door, and walked away. He looked back through the showcase window just before he was out of sight, and Valerie shot him the finger.

Valerie looked at us and blushed redder than her dress. “Well,” she said, “I just don’t like him.”