Where the dead lay

TWO

The spare was out and leaning against the rear quarter panel even though none of the tires were flat. Bobby Brodax stood by the Gran Fury parked on the side of South White River Parkway and smoked. He had a. 45 ACP in his hand and tucked under his crossed arms inside his sport jacket. If a passing motorist even slowed, it was coming out.

He looked down the slope toward the railroad tracks and the curve of the White River and beyond. Tino and Petey were taking their sweet fucking time. It seemed that way at least. Brodax checked his watch. It had only been ten minutes, he saw, and they did have a hell of a heavy load.

Brodax’s thoughts drifted to his employers. These Indy boys were not pros; they’d made a pretty decent mess a few weeks back, and that had led to him getting the call this time, but they were sitting on a real good thing, and they could afford to hire pros. Which is better? Brodax had to ask himself. Being one or being able to hire one?

Brodax could still taste last night’s bourbon. It had taken a lot to finally catch those fancy black-shoed suckers speccing out their lie. But he’d done it, and that was that.

Tino and Petey humped and dragged along the riverside. They could feel their quads burning, and sweat was running down the sides of their faces, matting their hair.

“This fucking mud’s trying to pull my shoes off,” Tino said.

“Don’t lose a shoe. You lose one, stop and find it,” Pete answered.

“I just said it was trying. I didn’t lose my fucking shoe.” The bags were heavy, the plastic stretching and cutting against their fingers, which were already raw from the shovel handles. They tried switching hands, but the bags were fairly equal in weight. There was no respite. And the heat, even though it was the crack of dawn, was beating down thick and meaty. Sometimes the summer sucked.

“Those guys said the reeds past where it gets marshy, right?” Tino asked.

“They said the marsh. Where it’s reedy.” Pete sounded sure. The fact was, the tall grass they were slogging through stretched for a few hundred yards, and then there was some even taller grass ahead. Tino let the bags drop, straightened, and pulled up for a blow.

Pete heard the wheezing and also stopped for a breather, looking back.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Tino asked. Pete shrugged, looked around, and started for some thick growth in the shadow of the berm under the train tracks.

“Over here,” Pete said.

“I goddamn love working with you, Petey,” Tino said and hoisted his load for the last time.

• • •

If we leave about now, we’ll be on I-70 over to 65 north and back in Chicago by the morning rush, Brodax thought. But at least we’ll be back, and rid of the car by noon. He flicked away a second cigarette when he saw them coming. Sweating like barnyard hogs, the two of them. Especially Tino. Their shoes, and their pants up to their calves, were smeared in red-yellow clay like they’d waded through sick baby shit.

“Done, Bob B.!” Tino wheezed, climbing up onto the road surface, pushing a hand down on Pete’s shoulder to get a leg over the guardrail. Pete’s lips pressing together in effort was his only protest. They reached the car. Brodax looked to Pete, who slapped his hands together like he was dusting off crumbs.

“Good,” Brodax said. He pulled a garbage-can liner out of his pocket, snapped it open, and in went their muddy shoes.