The Miniature Wife: and Other Stories

Cash to a Killing

We had spent the past hour burying the body and were on our way to grab a hamburger. I had been worried at first that the body would be too difficult to lift. I’d only had Roger with me, and he’d never done this sort of thing before; usually I’ve got two other guys, big guys, for the heavy lifting. I’m not a big guy and neither is Roger, and I’ve heard that deadweight is really heavy. When Roger moved, then, to the midsection of the body, wrapped his arms around the guy’s waist, I told him, No way, man, you’ve got to pick him up from one of the ends, head end or foot end, not the middle, but Roger’s always been good at ignoring whatever he doesn’t want to hear, and so, when he continued with his flawed plan, straddling the body, wrapping his arms around the waist before changing his mind and grabbing the guy by his belt loops, then bending his knees — he had a bad back from when he worked at an ice-cream shop — and heaved, I expected him to topple forward, maybe land inappropriately, but humorously, on top of the guy, in a lover’s embrace, you might say, or at least flip over and land flat on his back on the ground. But either Roger had been working out and was much stronger than he looked, or dead bodies are a lot lighter than everybody says they are, because Roger pulled the guy right between his legs and flipped him up over his shoulder before turning to me and asking, So, where are we going to put this guy?

I wish I could say that killing the guy was an accident, and maybe if you were to take the long view of the situation, take into account the events of his life, those of my life, of Roger’s, the arbitrary successes and failures that befell the three of us, or, even further back, befell our parents and grandparents, great grands, back to our oldest ancestors, and determined that it was some accident of fate that he ended up who he was and I ended up who I am, and Roger ended up as Roger, you might say it was an accident. But taking the short view of things, we killed him deliberately and for a specific purpose. And despite Roger’s argument, just because we killed the wrong guy doesn’t change, for me, the fact of the matter. He was the guy we intended to kill, we killed him, end of story.

What pissed me off more than the wasted time — staking him out, waiting in hiding, killing the guy, and then burying him — was the fact that now I’d not only killed the wrong guy, but that I still had to kill the right guy, as well as the guy who gave me the bogus information about the guy I just killed. That’s three guys, when I’d only planned on one, at most two, depending on how I decided to handle Roger after it was all said and done, effectively tripling my work, which was all I could think about as we walked back to the van, that and how hungry I was, which is why I suggested we grab a burger, maybe a soft serve, too, on the way back home.

It was about the time that Roger pulled into the Whataburger that he realized he’d dropped his wallet. Uh-oh, he said. Uh-oh what? I said. No wallet, he said. Don’t sweat it, I said. I’ll cover you. No, he said. That’s not what I mean.

I’m not sure why the jerk brought his wallet to a killing in the first place, as it seems common sense to me: Bring cash to a killing. No credit cards, no license, no ID, unless it’s fake and it’s got a bogus picture on it. But your entire wallet? Roger’s always been a nice guy, but was never much for common sense. So we drove back to where we buried the body, hunted around for Roger’s wallet for about twenty minutes, until he comes to the conclusion that he must have dropped it into the hole. Into the hole, I said. You’re positive? I’ll go get the shovels, he said, instead of answering my question. After another hour of slow digging, slow because we didn’t want to accidentally dig up and throw back Roger’s wallet with the dirt and muck, we hit the body, only for me to then realize that it was the wrong body, entirely the wrong body, at which point, so we didn’t keep digging pointlessly and so Roger wouldn’t hop into the hole himself, I said, This ain’t him.

What? Are you kidding me? Roger said. How many bodies you think are out here? he said, not really believing me, hopping down into the hole to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake, which I hadn’t, or, rather, I had.

The thing is, the entire field’s on a grid system, the entire plot of land, my great grandfather’s, all laid out on this grid, not written down, of course, but kept in my head, with the locations of all the different guys, each buried in his own logical way — it’s a mathematical system, foolproof — but I must have been flustered, pissed as I was, and hungry, and so I must have transposed a couple of the locations, which, fine, no big deal, just refigure it out, cover this guy up, go find the right guy, and there you have it, right? Sure. But for the monstrously fucked-up fact that the wrong guy we dug up was Roger’s brother, Roger not knowing he was dead and buried in my grandfather’s land, thinking, in fact, that he’d skipped off to Vegas to become a blackjack dealer, due in part to the forged letter I’d left for him that said I’ve skipped off to Vegas to become a blackjack dealer.

It ain’t him, I said again, a bit more urgently. Come on, I said. We have to cover him back up and go find the right guy, not to mention your damn wallet. But it was too late, and I could tell it was too late by the way Roger’s body went stiff, and by the way his throat started churning out this wicked snarl. I brained him with the shovel, right there and then, before things could get out of hand, but my heart must not have been in it, or maybe I just didn’t have good footing on the loose earth, and I only grazed his shoulder, knocked him back a bit. Then he just about jumped straight out of the hole and came rushing at me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I started babbling on about how it was an accident, a mistake, but I knew I was lying and what was worse, so did Roger, though I like to comfort myself with the thought that he probably didn’t even hear me.

I’d heard that if you hit a man in the nose hard enough, you can kill him instantly, and so I tried that first off because I like Roger and didn’t want him to suffer. I’ll tell you now that it doesn’t work or I wasn’t doing it right, but as fast as he was coming and as much as my hand hurt afterward, I figure I hit him damn hard enough. He hardly flinched, though, mad as he was, and knocked me flat on my back, lunging right after me, as if to jump on top of me, maybe to gouge my eyes out or strangle me, but I rolled out of the way, figuring Roger, in his anger, had forgotten the gun in his jacket, figuring, too, that trying to strangle the life out of me would be his next logical move, and when he landed on his face in the dirt, I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the shovel and hit him good this time.

Of course, two weeks later, washing the van, vacuuming the seats and such, I found Roger’s wallet wedged between the driver’s seat and the cup holder. All I can say is, goddamn jerk. Goddamn fucking asshole.