CHAPTER TWO (p.1)
CHAPTER TWO
They took her to the cemet'ry
In a big ol' Cadillac They took her to the cemet'ry
But they did not bring her back.
—OLD SONG
I have taken the liberty,” said Mr. Wednesday, washing his hands in the men's room of Jack's Crocodile Bar, “of ordering food for myself, to be delivered to your table. We have much to discuss, after all.”
“I don't think so,” said Shadow. He dried his own hands on a paper towel and crumpled it, and dropped it into the bin.
“You need a job,” said Wednesday. “People don't hire ex-cons. You folk make them uncomfortable.”
“I have a job waiting. A good job.”
“Would that be the job at the Muscle Farm?”
“Maybe,” said Shadow.
“Nope. You don't. Robbie Burton's dead. Without him the Muscle Farm's dead too.”
“You're a liar.”
“Of course. And a good one. The best you will ever meet. But, I'm afraid, I'm not lying to you about this.” He reached into his pocket, produced a newspaper, much folded, and handed it to Shadow. “Page seven,” he said. “Come on back to the bar. You can read it at the table.” Shadow pushed open the door, back into the bar. The air was blue with smoke, and the Dixie Cups were on the jukebox singing “Iko Iko.” Shadow smiled, slightly, in recognition of the old children's song.
The barman pointed to a table in the corner. There was a bowl of chili and a burger at one side of the table, a rare steak and a bowl of fries laid in the place across from it.
Look at my King all dressed in Red,
Iko Iko all day,
I bet you five dollars he'll kill you dead,
Jockamo-feena-nay
Shadow took his seat at the table. He put the newspaper down. “I got out of prison this morning,” he said. “This is my first meal as a free man. You won't object if I wait until after I've eaten to read your page seven?”
“Not in the slightest bit.”
Shadow ate his hamburger. It was better than prison hamburgers. The chili was good but, he decided, after a couple of mouthfuls, not the best in the state.
Laura made a great chili. She used lean-cut meat, dark kidney beans, carrots cut small, a bottle or so of dark beer, and freshly sliced hot peppers. She would let the chili cook for a while, then add red wine, lemon juice, and a pinch of fresh dill, and, finally, measure out and add her chili powders. On more than one occasion Shadow had tried to get her to show him how she made it: he would watch everything she did, from slicing the onions and dropping them into the olive oil at the bottom of the pot on. He had even written down the sequence of events, ingredient by ingredient, and he had once made Laura's chili for himself on a weekend when she had been out of town. It had tasted okay—it was certainly edible, and he ate it, but it had not been Laura's chili.
The news item on page seven was the first account of his wife's death that Shadow had read. It felt strange, as if he were reading about someone in a story: how Laura Moon, whose age was given in the article as twenty-seven, and Robbie Burton, thirty-nine, were in Robbie's car on the interstate, when they swerved into the path of a thirty-two wheeler, which sideswiped them as it tried to change lanes and avoid them. The truck brushed Robbie's car and sent it spinning off the side of the road, where the car had hit a road sign, hard, and stopped spinning.
Rescue crews were on the scene in minutes. They pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.
Shadow folded the newspaper up once more, and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.
“Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.
Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura's face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow's mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie—shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over…
…the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies, dead or soon-to-die, being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.
“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his steak, sliced and devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.
“You're right,” said Shadow. “I don't have a job.”
Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand to give it a wobble that made it look as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand.
“Call,” he said.
“Why?” asked Wednesday.
“I don't want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. Call.”
“Heads,” said Mr. Wednesday.
“Sorry,” said Shadow, revealing the coin without even bothering to glance at it. “It was tails. I rigged the toss.”
“Rigged games are the easiest ones to beat,” said Wednesday, wagging a square finger at Shadow. “Take another look at the quarter.”
Shadow glanced down at it. The head was face-up.
“I must have fumbled the toss,” he said, puzzled.
“You do yourself a disservice,” said Wednesday, and he grinned. “I'm just a lucky, lucky guy.” Then he looked up. “Well I never. Mad Sweeney. Will you have a drink with us?”
“Southern Comfort and Coke, straight up,” said a voice from behind Shadow.
“I'll go and talk to the barman,” said Wednesday. He stood up, and began to make his way toward the bar.
“Aren't you going to ask what I'm drinking?” called Shadow.
“I already know what you're drinking,” said Wednesday, and then he was standing by the bar. Patsy Cline started to sing “Walkin' after Midnight” on the jukebox again. The man who had ordered Southern Comfort and Coke sat down beside Shadow. He had a short ginger-colored beard. He wore a denim jacket covered with bright sew-on patches, and under the jacket a stained white T-shirt. On the T-shirt was printed:
IF YOU CAN'T EAT IT, DRINK IT, SMOKE IT OR SNORT IT…THEN F*CK IT!
He wore a baseball cap, on which was printed:
THE ONLY WOMAN I HAVE EVER LOVED WAS ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE…MY MOTHER!
He opened a soft pack of Lucky Strikes with a dirty thumbnail, took a cigarette, offered one to Shadow. Shadow was about to take one, automatically—he did not smoke, but a cigarette makes good barter material—when he realized that he was no longer inside. You could buy cigarettes here whenever you wanted. He shook his head.
“You working for our man then?” asked the bearded man. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk.
“It looks that way,” said Shadow.
The bearded man lit his cigarette. “I'm a leprechaun,” he said.
Shadow did not smile. “Really?” he said. “Shouldn't you be drinking Guinness?”
“Stereotypes. You have to learn to think outside the box,” said the bearded man. “There's a lot more to Ireland than Guinness.”
“You don't have an Irish accent.”
“I've been over here too fucken long.”
“So you are originally from Ireland?”
“I told you. I'm a leprechaun. We don't come from fucken Moscow.”
“I guess not.”
Wednesday returned to the table, three drinks held easily in his paw-like hands. “Southern Comfort and Coke for you, Mad Sweeney, m'man, and a Jack Daniel's for me. And this is for you, Shadow.”
“What is it?”
“Taste it.”