Wormfood, page 13
“Drag him over here,” Fat Ernst snarled.
I grasped Heck’s wrist, trying to ignore the warm, sticky blood that coated his arm. I lifted it and tugged gently, pulling his body away from the toilet. Heck’s limp form slumped against my leg as I bent over and grabbed his other hand. He still didn’t move, and this time I was afraid he really was dead.
I dragged him out of the stall and Fat Ernst took a deep breath and bent over, reaching for Heck’s legs. He seized an ankle in each hand as if he were grabbing the handles of a wheelbarrow filled with firewood. He jiggled all three chins toward the door. “Move, dumbshit. Let’s go.”
I caught the edge of the door with my toe and swung it open. Heck’s head rolled over and hung limply between his outstretched arms. I shuffled backward, and we half carried, half dragged him out of the restroom and into the restaurant. We left a shining trail of blood behind us nearly two feet wide on the rough wood floor. I know I should have been worrying about Heck, but all I could think about at that second was that it was going to be a bitch mopping all that blood up if I didn’t get to it before it dried.
“Hurry it up, goddamnit,” Fat Ernst hissed from between clenched teeth. “This ain’t exactly healthy for business.”
We were halfway down the bar when Heck starting shrieking again. His body twitched and convulsed; as he jerked, I lost my grip on his right hand and his head and shoulder slammed to the floor. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whimpered, reaching down to pick him up again.
Ray walked in the front door.
CHAPTER 18
We all froze, except for Heck, who was shaking his head violently from side to side, spattering more blood all over the floor like a weak sprinkler on a dead lawn.
Ray swallowed, eyes wide. It was obvious he didn’t know what to say. A toneless “Howdy, Ernst,” tumbled out of his mouth. As if he were almost ashamed of not being sociable or something, he quickly added, “How’s business?”
Fat Ernst dropped Heck’s legs. They hit the floor and stayed there. Didn’t bounce, nothing. He stared at Ray. “Business? Business couldn’t be fucking better.”
Ray nodded as if that made perfect sense. He looked down at Heck. “Heck been drinking paint thinner again?”
“Shit. What do you think? Looks like it, don’t it?” Fat Ernst said quickly, words stumbling over each other.
“I don’t think—,” I started to say before I could stop myself.
“Shut. Your. Hole,” Fat Ernst said. “I ain’t paying you to think.”
Ray adjusted his hat and ambled over to Heck’s body. “Looks serious. Maybe I better take a look.” He knelt down and nudged Heck. “What’s wrong?”
Heck gasped once, and bubbles of blood erupted around his mouth and nose. Each muscle began to slacken, releasing its tension as one by one, the bubbles popped. Then he lay still.
“Is he dead?” I whispered.
Ray watched Heck’s face for a moment, then nodded soberly. “Yep. I declare this man officially dead.”
“Can’t you do something?” I asked.
Ray looked up at me and shrugged. “You want to give him CPR? Go right ahead.”
I looked at Heck’s open mouth, filled with blood, and didn’t say anything.
“Wonder what killed him,” Ray said.
“Hell, he’s been dying for years.” Fat Ernst proclaimed. “If his liver didn’t explode ‘cause of the booze, then it was the cancer that got him. Or the paint thinner.”
“Heck had cancer?” Ray asked.
“What the hell else do you think happened?”
“Maybe it was something he ate,” I suggested and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say.
“Maybe you oughta shut your fucking hole and get to cleaning that goddamn bathroom.” Fat Ernst glanced down at Ray. “Grab his arms there. We’ll drag him out the back door. Lay him out the loading dock for now. There’s a tarp under the sink in the kitchen, roll him up in that.”
“Just … just hold on a minute here,” Ray said, standing and holding up his hand as if he was directing traffic. “As an official of the law, I can’t just leave Heck here. I’m gonna have to write up some kinda report on this, you know.”
Fat Ernst spoke in a low, firm voice. “There ain’t nothing we can do. He’s dead and that’s tough, but I ain’t gonna call anybody just yet. We’re going to take care of this quiet. The last fucking thing I need isfor this to get out. Business is shitty enough as it is. I don’t need some stupid goddamn thing like a dead body to keep customers away.” He hitched up his jeans and narrowed his eyes. “You got that, Ray?”
Ray pulled in his chin until it was nearly touching his swollen Adam’s apple. “I dunno, Ernst. I mean, this ain’t the kind of thing I can just ignore …”
Fat Ernst glared at Ray for a moment, then stepped over Heck and shoved me into the restroom. “Be right back, Ray,” he said over his shoulder. He slammed the restroom door behind him.
I tried not to step in any more of the blood, but it was too late. Fat Ernst stood with his back to the door, hands on his hips. He looked at the floor and didn’t say anything. Finally, he pursed his lips and said, “I need that fifty bucks.” My first instinct was to reach into my pocket and grab the money. But I didn’t. I held back and crossed my arms in front of my chest in a gesture of defiance instead. Fat Ernst still didn’t look at me. “I know it ain’t right. You earned it.”
You’re goddamn right I earned it, I thought.
Fat Ernst said, “I got nothing right now. Nothing, you understand?” He raised his eyes, found mine. “And unless I pay off that asshole,” he said, jerking his head in Ray’s direction, “he’s gonna screw this place. If he calls this little incident in, then that’s it. They’ll shut me down. So I need help. I need that fifty bucks to help him look the other way. He’s got me over a barrel here and he knows it. Now.” Fat Ernst folded his arms. “You can either hand over the cash and keep your job, or I can just take it and you can get the hell out of here. Either way, I’m walking out of this bathroom with the money.”
I didn’t think about it long. I reached into my pocket, handed over the money. Fat Ernst accepted it almost delicately with one of his swollen, sausagelike fists. He said quietly, “Stick with me, boy. I got a plan. You’ll double your money.” With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the narrow hallway. “You still work here, so get busy.” He waddled off, saying, “Ray, let’s talk. But first, let’s get this stinking sonofabitch out back before he leaks any more blood on the floor.”
I grabbed my trusty mop and surveyed the scene. The bathroom was a mess. The smell attacked my eyes and lungs. I didn’t know where to start. I slapped the mop against the walls of the stall to let the water wash down. I had to scrape the mop back and forth to get the blood to flake off. As I worked, my mind started wandering. I figured I’d never see that fifty bucks again. Fat Ernst had a plan. Plan, my ass.
I flushed the toilet with the toe of my boot and watched as the blood swirled away. At the last second, I saw something white at the bottom of the bowl. I tensed, holding the mop above the toilet like a spear. Then it was gone, swallowed by the surging water. More worms? If it was another worm, then …
I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. But I couldn’t help myself. If there were more worms in the toilet … that meant that all that meat, the meat from the steer that I had pulled out of the pit, the steer that was stuffed with those goddamn worms … that meant that Fat Ernst hadn’t sold the meat for dog food at all. He’d just used it for the restaurant. And I had helped him.
Fresh water began dribbling slowly into the bowl, washing some of the blood away. I caught sight of the pale shape again as the bowl filled with clear water. Little blocks of white, arranged in a half circle. Then I figured it out. It was Heck’s dentures. They must have landed in the toilet when he was puking. I took a deep breath and held it, thanking God it wasn’t the worms.
Still, as much as I hated to think about it, I had to admit that it made a certain kind of sense. It explained Heck getting sick, for one thing. And when had Fat Ernst found the time to take the meat to God knows where for dog food, gotten paid, and then gone and bought more meat from God knows where, all before eight o’clock in the morning? The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. And as I kept thinking about the whole thing, a creeping sense of guilt filled my chest. It felt heavy and hot, like boiling lead. So in the end, I just didn’tthink about it, and concentrated on cleaning up the blood instead. It was easier that way. But I made a promise to myself to check out the rest of the meat in the refrigerator as soon as I got the chance.
I wouldn’t want to eat off the toilet like Fat Ernst had instructed, but it wasn’t too bad. I managed to mop up just about all of the blood in the bathroom, except for a few reddish brown stains on the grouting between the tiles in a few places. I dumped the water in my bucket into the toilet and filled it back up with some hot water in the sink.
I carried it out into the restaurant, hoping that the blood hadn’t had a chance to dry yet. The place was empty except for the trail of blood that led from the bathroom, widened into a smeared pool near the middle of the bar, and kept going until disappearing under the kitchen doors. I checked the windows; Ray’s squad car was gone. I wondered if the bribe had worked. I thrust the mop into the bucket of hot water and then slapped it on the floor. I didn’t bother squeezing the excess water out of the mop because I was going to need all the help I could getting that blood off the floor. The stuff was like glue, sticky and congealed. But eventually, with enough hot water and scraping, I managed to wipe the trail clean all through the restaurant and into the kitchen.
It was time for more water. I dumped the bucket in the sink and was about to twist the hot water handle when I heard something outside. A hissed, guttural exclamation, then a hollow thud. I left the bucket in the sink and crept over to the back door. Another exclamation; I could make out the words this time. “Piss brained bag of dogshit.” The last word came out as a forced pop of air, and then another dull thud. I recognized Fat Ernst’s voice.
I slowly twisted the door handle, trying to think of excuses for opening the door. Nothing came to me, but I pulled it slightly open, just a crack, anyway.
Fat Ernst stood in the rain on the loading dock, chest heaving, fists clenched. Heck’s body lay at his feet, just at the edge of the dock. The dock was a square wooden deck, nearly ten feet across, empty except fora stack of rotting pallets next to the door. Beyond the dock was nothing but oceans of cornfields. Fat Ernst kept swearing through clenched teeth. “You sonofabitch. I should’ve…” He trailed off for a second, then came back with a basic “Fuck!” and gave Heck a good solid kick, right in the rib cage. Heck’s body jerked and trembled from the blow, but other than that, he didn’t move. Fat Ernst stomped on Heck’s right hand for good measure. “Cocksucking son of a whore.” Another kick, to Heck’s head this time, shattering Heck’s nose, a dry, snapping sound that reminded me of stepping on a dead, brittle leaf.
Fat Ernst had his back to me, and as he was drawing his leg back for another kick, he suddenly pivoted in place and stared at me. I felt my insides shrinking up and I knew I was going to be the one who got kicked next. But Fat Ernst didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, thick lips pulled back in a snarl, breathing through clenched teeth. I swallowed, fighting the urge to flee. He twisted back around, spat out “FUCKER!” and kicked Heck in the stomach one more time. Blood erupted out of Heck’s mouth in a wet little cloud.
Then Fat Ernst stepped back, still breathing heavily. He stared down at the sprawled corpse and spoke without looking at me. “You get all that shit cleaned up?”
“Yeah, except for the little bit in the kitchen and out here,” I answered.
Fat Ernst looked at the sky. The clouds, black and pregnant with rain, filled the sky from horizon to horizon. “What time is it?” he asked finally.
“Uh, around three or four, I think,” I said.
“Give me a hand here.” Fat Ernst went down to one knee at the edge of the loading dock and flipped open the lid to the Dumpster. It crashed against the metal side with an abrupt, clanging sound that made me wince. Fat Ernst straightened with some effort and took two steps sideways. He bent over and pulled a key ring out of Heck’s front pocket, then rolled him on his side and plucked a wallet out of one of Heck’s back pockets. Fat Ernst slid the wallet into his own pocket like it belonged to him, then sidled down to Heck’s feet. “Grab his arms there, and help me dump him.”
I knew it was wrong. Knew I should have called somebody. Knew I should have left. But it didn’t matter. I grabbed Heck’s bloody arms anyway. I couldn’t look at his ruined face. We both lifted, and Heck simply folded in half. Fat Ernst shuffled sideways to the edge, and dropped Heck’s legs into the empty Dumpster. It was already starting to fill with rainwater. The rest of Heck’s torso slid in, and his arms slipped easily out of my grasp. He hit the bottom of the Dumpster with all the grace of a canvas sack of rotten potatoes falling off a table.
I wasn’t sure if Fat Ernst was going to leave Heck in there until the garbage guys came next Wednesday, or if he was going to haul the body out later that night, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. Fat Ernst turned his face up to the falling rain for a moment, then wiped his forehead and muttered, “I just can’t understand why it is so goddamn hard for a man to make a decent living on his own these days.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
After a few seconds, Fat Ernst turned and forced his bulk through the back door. He hollered over his shoulder, “Hurry and finish cleaning up. Then you and me are gonna go for a ride. I’m gonna close up early today. We got a lot of work to do before morning rolls around.”
CHAPTER 19
Fat Ernst had a huge old Cadillac, with fins and everything, a fat white whale wallowing in a sea of mud. The inside was the color of pomegranates that have been left in the sun too long. Everything was this deep dark red, and I mean everything. The carpet, the seats, the dashboard—even the steering wheel. Only the slivery glints of the metal knobs broke the monotony. I sat down on the edge of the impossibly long bench seat, feeling like a frightened toddler placed upon a pew in some musty old church for the first time. And just like I was in church, I prayed. I prayed there wasn’t too much mud on Grandpa’s boots to soil the pomegranate carpet. I prayed Grandma was okay. I prayed we weren’t going back to Slim’s pit.
And I prayed that someday I would forget how Heck’s ruined face looked as he landed in the bottom of the Dumpster.
Fat Ernst dropped into the driver’s seat like a bomb going off in slow motion. Waves of flesh rolled down, then rippled back up his arms and under his shirt. The car’s suspension gave a short shriek of pain, then gave up. Fat Ernst twisted the key and we were off. He didn’t say anything and neither did I.
The Cadillac followed the highway up into the foothills by the lake. I thanked God that we were headed in the opposite direction from Slim’s ranch, but I still got a bad feeling when Fat Ernst stopped the car in front of Heck’s store. A rusted gas pump stood outside the store like a stubborn sentry who refused to leave his post. A wooden sandwich board had been propped up near the door and loudly proclaimed LIVE BAIT—FRESH WORMS.
Fat Ernst ignored the “Gone Fishin’, Be Back Later” sign hanging behind the glass front door and opened the door using Heck’s keys. I decided to stay outside, by the gas pump. Heck was dead, and I didn’t need to be inside his store, going through his stuff, looking for God knows what. Behind the store, off to the west, the clouds were churning across the sky, hanging low and fat. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started again, flat-out serious this time.
Fat Ernst reappeared, carrying a chunk of cast iron about the size of a basketball. It was bulbous and heavy, with three stubby legs protruding out of what I thought was the bottom. A thick plastic hose grew out of the top and looped over Fat Ernst’s shoulder. He carried it to the car, breath coming in short, quick bursts.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sump pump,” Fat Ernst replied, as if that explained everything. He opened the trunk and dropped the thing inside. “See boy, that’s how you make it in this world. You gotta always be thinking ahead.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but figured it wasn’t the time to ask, because Fat Ernst was settling in behind the wheel. I hopped back into the car and Fat Ernst pulled out in a wide U-turn, heading back down into the valley. Before long, I realized that we were headed down Road E, down the narrow road to the gravel track and out to the Sawyers’ ranch.
The road didn’t improve much in the faint daylight that was still left. It just illuminated the dead trees, broken fences, and scattered litter of tossed beer cans, cigarette packs, fast-food wrappers, and junkthat didn’t have any logical explanation. A La-Z-Boy recliner, lying on its side. A shopping cart. Broken sawhorses. A pile of microwaves. An old dishwasher, still swathed in fiberglass insulation. Much later, I found out all this was actually dumped by people from town who couldn’t be bothered to take their junk to the dump and pay the fee. Instead, they drove out here when they knew the brothers were gone and unloaded their trash.
The Cadillac crested the small hill and rolled down into the hollow filled with deep shadows. As we got closer to the house I could hear the incessant, skin-crawling buzz of the wasps, even through the thick windows. I kept checking and rechecking the passenger window to make sure it was rolled all the way up.
Fat Ernst killed the headlights as he got close to the edge of the house. “Don’t want to spook ’em,” he said. “Heard they started shooting at a UPS truck that got lost once.” After a moment of consideration, he shut the engine off too. We sat quietly in the Cadillac, parked about fifteen yards from the house. Two of the downstairs windows had light spilling out of them onto the tangled grass. But the front door stayed shut. Then Fat Ernst looked over at me. “Why don’t you go say hello.” Then he told me what to say.
