A Killing in the Hills

36


Chill had decided to consolidate all the mucus in his mouth. He wanted a big wad. Hardly worth the trouble to spit if you couldn’t come up with a monster loogie. Something that made any stranger who happened to be walking by mutter, ‘Gross,’ and then look away with a wince.

Chill was leaning on the piece-of-shit car, hipbone angled against the side panel that arched over the back wheel. The car was parked in front of a 7-Eleven in Harrodsville, a little town about twenty minutes south of Acker’s Gap. It was just after 6 A.M., Thursday. He’d bought a Slim Jim and a package of chocolate Dolly Madison Donut Gems. Salty and sweet.

Chill cradled the snacks tightly against his jacket. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he heard the crinkly rustle of the wrappers. Made him feel like a damned dog who starts drooling when somebody rattles the feed bag.

His cell rang. He had to spit quickly, before he answered it, and he damn near hit the toe of his boot. He had to shift the packages into one hand so he could flip open the cell.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey, Chill. This is Eddie Briscoe.’

Eddie was the guy whose party he’d gone to a while back, because there were supposed to be some kids there, high school kids, and Chill thought he could pick up some new customers. You never know. Opportunities are everywhere.

‘Dude,’ Eddie said. Eddie Briscoe was the only guy Chill knew who still said ‘dude.’ It was ridiculous, it sounded like some lame-ass TV show, but that was Eddie for you. He was all flash.

‘Dude, listen,’ Eddie went on. ‘This chick’s been asking about you.’

Chick. Dude. Chill rolled his eyes. Somebody really needed to unhook Eddie’s TiVo box for a week. Maybe a month. Make him get out of the damned house once in a while.

‘What the hell,’ Chill said, ‘are you talking about?’

Eddie didn’t have a clue about just how bad of a badass he really was. Or what he was really capable of. Eddie would’ve heard about the shooting up in Acker’s Gap, naturally – it was still all over the news and nobody watched more TV than Eddie Briscoe – but that didn’t matter. There were plenty of guys who could’ve done it. Too many, in fact. With most of the mines shut down and with a hiring freeze in place at the few that were still operational, with stores going out of business and people losing their houses and their cars right and left, there were men all across this valley who’d be capable of going crazy and shooting up a Salty Dawg. Just ’cause.

Hurting somebody else made you feel better. Wasn’t complicated. Making trouble and stirring up sorrow for other people could do wonders. It was like a math equation. Adding to somebody else’s woe was a good way to cancel out a big chunk of your own.

Anyway, Chill didn’t trust Eddie enough to tell him that he was the shooter. Not even just to brag. Eddie might get a weird bug up his ass and brag about it to the wrong people. Eddie was a loose cannon.

‘Like I said,’ Eddie went on, ‘this chick’s been asking around. Wanting to know if anybody knows your name. From the party, dude. That party at my place. Remember when them high school kids got there? Skinny chick. No tits on her, but pretty.’

‘Yeah. So?’

Chill tilted his head to the right, pinching the cell between his ear and his shoulder. With both hands now free again, he was able to open the little sleeve of mini-donuts. You had to be careful, though; if you split the seam too far, too quick, every last freakin’ donut would leap out of there and end up on the dirty blacktop. Chill knew that from bitter experience.

‘Well, so she’s asking about you.’

‘What’s she want?’

‘Can’t say. Just asking.’

‘The usual shit, maybe?’

‘I don’t know.’ Eddie’s voice was uncertain. ‘Could be, man, but it don’t seem like that. She don’t mention no pills or nothin’.’

‘What’s it seem like, then?’

‘Can’t say.’

Chill was getting impatient. Eddie Briscoe could drive you crazy if you let him. His brains’d been fried a long time ago.

‘So it ain’t pills she wants.’

‘Can’t say. Just feels kinda funny to me. The questions.’

‘Okay, well, I gotta go.’

‘Yeah,’ Eddie said. ‘But listen. Watch yourself.’

‘Sure. I’ll watch myself.’ Chill thumbed a donut into his mouth. The chocolate glaze was waxy and hard. Just the way he liked it.

Chill had known Eddie for several months now, since early summer. Eddie sold hot electronics, gear he got from all over the state, as well as stolen cars, and he also helped the boss sometimes. He had a second cousin named Lonnie – Lonnie something-or-other – who lived around Acker’s Gap, and it was Lonnie who had come to Eddie’s party with the high school kids. Fresh meat, Eddie called them. Lonnie and Eddie had a deal: Lonnie worked at a Jiffy Lube, and when somebody brought in an especially sweet car for their three-thousand-mile oil change, he’d mark down the address and then he’d pass it along to Eddie. If Eddie wanted to, he’d go after the car, swipe it right out of the guy’s driveway. It was sweet.

Chill had finished with all the donuts – he pushed them into his mouth the way you’d stick coins in a parking meter, pop pop pop – and now he was using his teeth to try to rip open the Slim Jim wrapper. What teeth he had left, that is.

All around him, the parking lot was filling up. Two or three cars waited for every freed-up spot. Vehicles were coming and going in a constant, livid churn. Exhaust fumes climbed into his eyes, making them sting. Most people didn’t bother to shut off their engines while they ran inside for their smokes or their six-packs or their cardboard cups of coffee or their lottery tickets, using a stretched-out leg to hold open the door for the next customer because their hands were full of the crap they’d just bought.

This was what morning in West Virginia really meant, Chill thought. Not the pictures they were always sticking on postcards – sunrise over the mountains, the scooped-out gorges, and all the wildflowers – but a traffic jam in a 7-Eleven parking lot, the dirty pickups and the cars with mufflers hoisted up and tied there with rope. Kids crammed in the backseats, looking out the side windows, and if you looked back at them, they gave you the finger. Don’t see that on any postcard. Hell, no.

Chill scraped a heel against the cold blacktop, just for something to do, just for a place to put his restlessness. He felt twitchy. He wasn’t getting enough exercise these days. Too much time spent in motel rooms. Or sitting in a compact car with his knees up around his ears.

‘Hey, Eddie,’ Chill said, ‘I got some things to do first, but remind me again how to get out to your place, okay?’