Showdown Page 18

  Stevie Smither hadn’t seen nothin’ yet! They were going to teach that slime bucket what happened to anybody who messed with them.

  “Neat,” Peter said. A crooked grin twisted his face, and Claude thought maybe he shouldn’t have beat him so hard yesterday. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was still cracked with blood.

  But he’d had it coming, smashing the television like that.

  “Yeah, neat,” Roland said, looking up.

  Claude bent to the pile of axes at his feet, snatched up a large splitting ax, and handed his bottle to Peter.“Here, hold this. And don’t go drinking it all.”

  He swaggered up to one of the two wooden posts that supported the sign swaying in the wind thirty feet above.“Ready?”He gripped the ax with both hands. A strong gust of wind hit him and he staggered back a step.

  “Do it, Claude!” Chris said, still holding his right arm gingerly.

  Claude raised the ax and put every one of his 280 pounds into the swing. The blade buried itself in the post with a loud smack, and Peter let out a whoop.

  “Do it, Dad!”

  “Yeah, do it!” Roland mimicked.

  Claude tugged at the ax. It budged, but barely. He placed a foot on the pole for leverage. The blade came loose, and he tumbled to his rear end, cursing loudly. Chris howled with laughter.

  “Shut up, Chris! I’ll come over there and break your other arm!”

  That settled him a bit. Chris snickered as Claude struggled to his feet and lined the ax up for another swing.

  Smack!

  The watching evidently proved too much for Peter. He set the bottles of booze on the ground, snatched up a hatchet. In his eagerness, his right foot knocked Claude’s bottle over. The thirsty dust swallowed the amber liquid.

  Claude stared at the bottle, ax just raised for a third swing.

  Their eyes met—Claude’s glaring, Peter’s wide. “You’ll pay for that,” Claude rasped and swung angrily at the pole. Smack!

  “I’m sorry. I swear. Can’t Chris hold the bottles? He’s a lame duck anyway.”

  “Shut up, Peter,” Chris said. “Can’t you see I’m hurt here? You think I just want to be a lame duck? I can hardly move here, man!”

  “Shut up, Chris,” Claude said. “Peter’s right. Take the bottles.”

  Peter helped his dad hack at the large pole with his small hatchet. Roland joined him from the opposite side, swinging sporadically between Peter’s continuous warnings not to miss and hit him by mistake.

  It took the trio ten minutes of palm-blistering chops and nonstop bickering before the mighty sign at the south end of Paradise began to lean toward the street.

  “Watch out!” Chris yelled. “It’s coming down! It’s gonna hit the car!”

  Claude’s old blue 310 Datsun was parked on the shoulder fifteen feet from the sign. None of them had considered the sign’s trajectory. The sound of splintering wood rose above the wind, and the thirty-foot beacon began its descent.

  If Claude had parked his Datsun seven feet to the right, the two supporting poles would have straddled the car. Instead, the massive timber smashed onto the sedan’s canopy, crushing it into the driver’s seat. The huge Starlight sign slammed into the pavement beyond.

  Claude raised his ax above his head, spread his legs wide, tilted his head to the black clouds, and let out a roar of approval.

  Peter and Roland hopped up and down, ecstatic. Chris instinctively raised his broken arm in victory and then winced with pain. But the accomplishment was too great to be thwarted by a little pain, and he shouted anyway.

  The sign’s plastic casing lay shattered on the blacktop. The car sat buckled like a fortune cookie. Claude’s gang celebrated their first major feat of destruction.

  “I’ll drink to that!” Chris shouted.

  They slammed the bottles of Jack Daniels together in a toast. Unfortunately, Chris’s bottle proved to be a bit too brittle for his enthusiasm. It shattered on impact, spilling more amber liquid into the dust.

  It was the last bottle, and none of the others were in a sharing mood. He shuffled off toward the saloon for more, cursing.

  “What did I tell you?” Claude said, ignoring Chris. “Now was that a trip or was that a trip?”

  “That was a trip,” Peter answered.

  “Yeah, well, we’re gonna show this whole town how to trip. We’re gonna do this town, boys!”

  WHILE CLAUDE was busy plotting the trashing of Paradise by the Starlight Theater, Nancy was taking a screwdriver to the rear door of his store, All Right Convenience.

  Nancy shoved the flat end into the keyhole and pried to the left. She’d never actually broken a lock before, and she didn’t know what actually made them open other than a key. Perhaps a sledgehammer.

  She doubted a screwdriver was the right tool for breaking into the local convenience store. But it was the only tool she could readily find when she finally made the decision to brave the wind for some food.

  Her small indiscretion was Claude’s fault. If the fat pig would open his doors for business, she wouldn’t have to break in, now would she? The front doors had been locked for over forty-eight hours, and she was out of things to eat.

  To make matters worse, the father had called and told her he wasn’t coming back until Sunday morning, just in time for church. “I’ve got a message for the people,” he’d said. “And I think the impact would be most powerful if I just walked in while they were already assembled for Sunday morning service. It’s going to be powerful, Nancy. Powerful.”

  “Well, I hope people come,” she said.

  “What do you mean, come? They always come on Sunday.”

  “I don’t know, Father. I haven’t seen a soul all day. Are you going to a Sam’s Club?”

  “Why would I be going to a Sam’s Club? What do you mean you haven’t seen a soul all day? You mean in the church?”

  “If you went by a Sam’s Club, you could get me a large pack of those pastries I like so much. The cherry ones with glaze. Maybe a dozen packs, so we have them for church functions when we need them. And no, I don’t mean the church. I mean the town. It’s pretty quiet around here.”

  “But nothing’s wrong, right? As far as you can tell everything’s okay?”

  “Yes, Father. It’s just fine. Maybe you’d better get a couple dozen of those packs. They’re pretty cheap at Sam’s, you know?”

  “I’m not going to Sam’s,” he said. “You weigh enough as it is. The last thing you need are glazed pastries.”

  Now what was he so rankled about? That jab was entirely unnecessary. But one of the advantages of weighing enough was the pressure you could bring to bear on a lock if you leaned on it hard enough.

  The screwdriver bent as she brought her 270 pounds to bear. Something snapped, and she plowed into the white door frame, nose first. A warmth immediately ran down her lip.

  I’ve broken the screwdriver. She pulled back, wiped her face, and brought her forearm away bloody. Goodness. She reached out to test the doorknob. I’ve broken my nose too.

  The handle turned easily in her hand and the door swung away from her. What do you know? She stepped in, went straight to the bathroom, and flipped the lights on. The face staring at her in the mirror looked like an onion. An onion with two raisins for eyes and a red mustache.

  The blood flowed freely over her mouth and down her chin. The white blouse she wore was already wet with blood, so she thought that maybe she looked more like a red-breasted robin. Either way, she was intrigued by the fact that the blood did not bother her. I’m turning into a regular sinner.

  She grabbed some paper towels and wiped the blood from her chin, not bothering with the shirt for the moment. She had just broken into Claude’s store, for heaven’s sake. Getting out quickly wouldn’t be such a stupid idea.

  She snatched up some toilet paper and stuffed two little bullets of it into her nostrils. As long as the blood didn’t flood her nasal cavities and drown her, she would be fine. The two red spike
s sticking out of her nose didn’t look too glamorous, but she was here for food, not a beauty contest.

  Nancy hustled from the toilet and entered the store. The stocked shelves beckoned in the dim light. She smiled absently and scanned the goodies sitting faithfully in their little shiny wrappers.

  So much food, so little time. Saliva began to gather in her jowls and she swallowed.

  Nancy grabbed a bag from the counter and filled it with a single sweep of her arm. The paper sack tore and the goodies crashed to the floor. She swore and snatched up a plastic bag.

  Nancy filled six of the bags before reluctantly deciding to retreat to the church to sort through her spoil. It had been a good trip.

  She exited through the back without closing the door.

  A good trip indeed.

  WHILE NANCY was robbing Claude blind to feed her food lust, Katie waited impatiently in her beauty salon, fixing her hair, dreaming of a rendezvous with the preacher. No, not the preacher—for her it was Marsuvees. To others he may be the minister or the preacher, but she had stepped past that point, gaining access to the inner man.

  Marsuvees, darling, could you hand me my dress?

  She had this effect on most if not all men, of course. They all wanted her. And she never blamed a single one of them. If she’d been born male, she too would choose a woman with her body rather than one of those pudges like Paula.

  Now there was a case. Paula. She recalled an image of Claude sitting in the third pew once, ogling Paula as she gave her annual Sunday-school report. She knew he’d been ogling and not just looking because when she elbowed him he jerked his eyes from the woman—guilty as sin. At the time, she thought the whole incident was rather silly.

  But sometime between then and now, the memory had soured in her mind like week-old milk. Not that she cared much whether Claude eyed a woman or two now and then. But she just couldn’t believe that he found Paula sexy, of all women. She was the Sunday-school coordinator, for goodness’ sake, and you couldn’t play Sunday-school coordinator and strut your stuff up there while talking about how many kids were participating in the Easter play. Sunday school and sexy didn’t mix.

  Katie glanced at her watch. One thirty. Marsuvees said he would meet her here at one.

  Wanna trip like I do, Katie? Wanna trip with me?

  His words burned in her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, savoring the heat. The door opened and she jerked off the wall. She softened her look, cocked her head just a tad, and turned to the front.

  Paula stood in the door frame, frowning. Katie’s heart fell and she dropped the kiss-me look.

  “What in blazes are you doing here?” she demanded, surprised at the revulsion that ripped through her throat. The white strip in the pudge’s hair looked ridiculous!

  “What am I doing here? What are you yelling at me for?”

  “I’m not yelling at you. I’m just asking you what you’re doing here. Last time I checked this shop did have my name on it. What do you want?”

  Katie grabbed a pack of smokes from the counter and lit one up. Paula’s response was coming slow. Marsuvees could show up at any moment, and she certainly didn’t want Goody Two-shoes standing here looking so prissy when he walked in.

  She blew a smoke ring. “So?”

  Paula rested a hand on her waist and cocked her hips. “So I’ll be leaving, that’s what’s so. Have you seen Marsuvees?”

  Marsuvees? Not the preacher or the minister, but Marsuvees?

  Katie raised an eyebrow. “Marsuvees? We’re calling him Marsuvees now, are we?” She noticed Paula’s black skirt and wondered when Miss Pudge had taken up wearing tight, short skirts. Certainly not while planning Sunday-school lessons.

  “So what if I am?”

  Heat began to warm Katie’s face. A sickening heat, the kind that sometimes builds to fury. But there was no way Marsuvees and Paula were anything like her and Marsuvees. Not intimate and close and ready to take things to the moon.

  “You’re on a first-name basis with the preacher now? I’ll bet Steve would be tickled to hear that.”

  Katie said it casually, with the intent of dousing any misplaced flames licking at Paula’s heart, but she felt like jumping over there and sticking her cigarette into the woman’s eyes.

  Ordinarily the veiled threat would have earned a gasp of feigned disapproval. Maybe an about-face and a grand exit as an encore for good measure.

  Ordinarily.

  Things weren’t so ordinary in Paradise these days.

  Paula lowered her head like a cat intent on guarding her territory. “Stuff it, Katie! You think you’re such a hot number? I’ve got news for you, honey. You’re not the only one men find attractive around here. Just because Marsuvees has the hots for me doesn’t mean you have to play jealous bimbo, you slug!”

  Katie felt her jaw fall, as though someone had tied a ten-pound weight to her lower teeth and shoved it from her mouth. She was having difficulty understanding all of Paula’s words, but a few were crystal clear.

  Like slug.

  Paula was calling her a slug and claiming to be having something in the works with Marsuvees in the same breath. She was lying through her teeth, of course. Marsuvees would never lay a hand on that squat tub, not when he knew he could have Katie any time he wanted. She’d made that abundantly clear to him.

  “In your wildest fantasy. Marsuvees can’t keep his eyes off me. And you have the gall to come into my shop and talk about my man that way? I oughta rip your tongue from your throat, you Neanderthal!”

  She wanted nothing more than to do just that, maybe rip that head off while she was at it. She stuffed the cigarette between her lips and sucked hard.

  Paula’s face was turning beet red, and a thought dawned on Katie. She means it. She’s actually got something going with Black!

  “It may be your shop,” Paula said, “but Marsuvees told me to meet him here at one thirty.”

  “In your dreams!”

  “And it ain’t the first time we’ve met, honey doll.”

  Katie launched herself at Paula, who took the rush head-on. They met in the center of the tiny shop, fingernails extended. Both managed to draw blood on the first pass—Katie from Paula’s right shoulder, and Paula from Katie’s left cheek. They attacked again, yowling like cats in heat, flailing their arms.

  Within the space of thirty seconds both women looked like the victims of gang violence. The last thing Paula did was clamp her bony fist around a lock of Katie’s strawberry hair and yank it cleanly from her skull before running, screaming for the door, her prize flying from her hand like a captured flag.

  Katie jerked a hand to her head and pulled it down, wet with blood.

  “I’ll kill you, you witch! I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do!”

  She collapsed to the chair and grabbed her pack of smokes.

  What a trip.

  WHILE KATIE and Paula were fighting, Johnny was watching the marble on his dresser.

  Just watching.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE MONASTERY

  Saturday morning

  ACCORDING TO the rules of a debate, the official announcement detailing Billy’s debate with Christine could not be made until the same morning. It was simply posted on the announcement board in the breakfast hall:

  An Official Debate has been issued

  and will be heard at

  10:00 a.m. in the main lecture hall.

  All students must be present.

  The intention was to let the actual debate frame the challenge, rather than a string of endless debates that would surely erupt sooner if the announcement was posted. But it would have been virtually impossible to live in the monastery during the last twenty-four hours and not know what was afoot.

  The teachers wore worried looks, and the student’s questions about Billy, Darcy, and Paul were answered in oblique terms. Billy and Darcy weren’t so guarded, and Friday evening the halls echoed with soft whispers. Samuel huddl
ed with Tyler and Christine, twice in the library and once in Samuel’s bedroom, late at night.

  By morning, a strange silence had gripped Project Showdown.

  Now the students hurried to the Hall of Truth, as they called the main lecture hall, armed with the understanding that something profound was about to alter their lives.

  Samuel had questioned his father at length about the rules of debate, and the minute he stepped into the auditorium he saw they were being followed to the letter.

  The room sloped like a theater to a large platform, accommodating long wooden pews that faced the stage. A single aisle divided the seating into two sections of fifteen pews each. Behind the stage, long maroon curtains hung from a domed ceiling, where indirect lighting cast a yellow hue throughout the room. Seven golden lamp stands stood on the platform, set in a semicircle behind ten high-back chairs. The overseers had seated themselves in the chairs. Two wood podiums, slightly angled toward each other, waited for the debaters. A single large chair was centered behind the podiums. His father’s chair.

  Samuel scanned the auditorium and took a deep breath. The monastery was about to see its first debate. More important, his father was about to watch Billy openly refute him in an attempt to undermine his life’s aim. And by all Samuel could see, his father wasn’t taking it well.

  They spent an hour alone in his father’s study the previous evening. He could still see his father’s drawn face, often looking away, lost in deep thought.

  “Don’t worry, Father. Once Billy is brought to his senses, everything will change.”

  His father smiled. “You know, you and Billy used to play together often when you were young. Billy was the mischievous one. He would sneak up behind you and stick a thin blade of grass in your ear and then run away, squealing. You always overtook him, of course; no one could ever run like you. You would end up rolling around laughing on the grass with him.”

  “I’d forgotten,” Samuel said. “You’re right. We were always together, weren’t we? What happened?”