Free Three Sides of the Tracks by Mike Addington Page B

night,” Chuck said.
    “Oh, y’all are real bad asses now, huh?” Jason said, with a look at the
others to let them know they weren’t as tough as him.
    He smashed the beer can against his forehead, bending it in half. “Let’s
see you do that, Rickey.”
    “No, thanks. I know I can’t do it.”
    “How ‘bout you, Chuck, Tim?”
    Chuck took a couple of swallows to finish the beer and slammed the beer
can against his forehead. It bent a little, which drew laughter from Jason.
Chuck smashed it harder, cutting his head in the process, but the can did bend
all the way.
    “That’s the way, brother. You’re getting there, dude,” Jason said, reached
down and popped another beer.
    “Hey. Here comes another car now,” Jason said and chugged the beer.
    “Get ready, Chuck.”
    Chuck grabbed the flashlight, and they all crouched low as the car glided
a quarter way around the loop and stopped.
    “They can’t see you from that same grave. You’ll have to work your way
around to another one,” Jason said.
    “No problem,” Chuck replied confidently.
    “There’s a cut tree close to the car. I’ll take that one, and you and Tim
take these other two. When they take off, y’all let go. We’ll give them a
reeeeal scare,” Jason said and chuckled.
    Chuck once again ducked low and crept across the dirt road. He worked
through the tree line and underbrush, found the grave they’d dug out and scooted
in.
    He waited a few minutes, then began moaning. “Hoooooooooo,
hoooooooooooo.”
Thirty seconds passed, and Chuck called out in a haunting wail, “Whooooo’s
therrrrrrrre, hoooooooooooooooooo?”
    Chuck turned the flashlight on and slowly raised his torso, cupping the
flashlight so that the light shined dimly from chin to forehead, making his
features appear grotesque.
    As soon as Chuck began moaning the second time, Jason let go of his tree.
Instead of crashing in front of the car, it crashed on the hood.
    The car’s headlights came on, and the driver’s door opened. A tall man
with a strong angular face and jet-black hair combed straight back stepped out.
Jason recognized the broad-shouldered, slim willowy body at once. Nobody else
in the Benton area was built quite like this man, and, when he walked, he moved
in a smooth motion as if he were wearing skates. People called him “Slink.”
    The beer in Jason’s stomach now felt like a rock. His hands were the
first to tremble, then his entire body shook.
    The man pushed the tree off his car and straightened the bent radio
antennae, which hung precariously over the hood. He took a deep drag on his
cigarette, leaned against the car, and crossed his legs. The black tee shirt
and blue jeans contrasted with the red paint of the immaculately restored 1966
Plymouth Barracuda. He smoked casually on the cigarette for a few moments then
opened the car door and took the keys from the ignition, walked to the trunk
and unlocked it. He leaned into the trunk and pulled out a blanket-wrapped bundle
then closed the lid.
    Slink walked back to the side of the car, and the blanket dropped.
    Boom, boom, boom shattered the quiet of the night air as the sawed-off
shotgun blasted the pine grove with buckshot, Slink pumping the shells into the
chamber in practiced motion that took less than three seconds. Tree limbs
crashed through the grove, ripped apart by the balls of lead.
    “Y’all come on out from there, or I’ll come in after you,” he said in a
loud voice but not shouting.
    The night seemed suddenly still.
    “Not gonna tell ya’ again.”
    “Slink,” a voice called out from the grove, quivering so much it was hard
to discern the simple word.
    “We didn’t know it was you, I swear,” the quivering voice managed to say.
    “Please don’t shoot us, p l e a s e. I’ll fix it. I’ll paint it if the
paint’s scratched. I’ll wash it even,” the voice pleaded.
    The latter plea brought a little smile to Slink’s lips.
    “Git your asses out here; all of ya’,” he said.