“I bet we don’t have no bug spray,” said Danny Pogue.
Bud Schwartz pointed at the house. “On the count of three, make a run for it.”
Danny Pogue remarked that the old place was dark. “She saving on the electricity, or what? I bet she’s not even home. I bet she was hoping we got caught, so she wouldn’t have to pay us.”
“You got no faith,” said Bud Schwartz. “You’re the most negative fucking person I ever met. That’s why your skin’s broke out all the time—all those negative thoughts is like a poison in your bloodstream.”
“Wait a minute, now. Everybody gets pimples.”
Bud Schwartz said, “You’re thirty-one years old. Tell me that’s normal.”
“Do we got bug spray or not?”
“No.” Bud Schwartz unlocked his door. “Now let’s go—one, two, three!”
They burst out of the pickup and bolted for the house, flailing at mosquitoes as they ran. When they got inside the screened porch, the two men took turns swatting the insects off each other. A light came on, and Molly McNamara poked out of the door. Her white hair was up in curlers, her cheeks were slathered in oily yellow cream and her broad, pointy-shouldered frame was draped in a blue terry-cloth bathrobe.
“Get inside,” she said to the two men.
Immediately Bud Schwartz noticed how grim the woman looked. The curlers, cream and bathrobe didn’t help.
The house was all mustiness and shadows, made darker and damper by the ubiquitous wood paneling. The living room smelled of jasmine, or some other old-woman scent. It reminded Bud Schwartz of his grandmother’s sewing room.
Molly McNamara sat down in a rocker. Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue just stood there like the hired help they were.
“Where are they?” Molly demanded. “Where’s the box?”
Danny Pogue looked at Bud Schwartz, who said, “They got away.”
Molly folded her hands across her lap. She said, “You’re lying to me.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
Before Bud Schwartz could stop him, Danny Pogue said, “There was holes in the box. That’s how they got out.”
Molly McNamara’s right hand slipped beneath her bathrobe and came out holding a small black pistol. Without saying a word she shot Danny Pogue twice in the left foot. He fell down, screaming, on the smooth pine floor. Bud Schwartz couldn’t believe it; he tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.
“You boys are lying,” Molly said. She got up from the rocker and left the room. She came back with a towel, chipped ice, bandages and a roll of medical adhesive tape. She told Bud Schwartz to patch up his partner before the blood got all over everything. Bud Schwartz knelt on the floor next to Danny Pogue and tried to calm him. Molly sat down and started rocking.
“The towel is for his mouth,” she said, “so I don’t have to listen to all that yammering.”
And it was true, Danny Pogue’s wailing was unbearable, even allowing for the pain. It reminded Bud Schwartz of the way his first wife had sounded during the thrashings of childbirth.
Molly said, “It’s been all over the news, so at least I know that you went ahead and did it. I suppose I’m obliged to pay up.”
Bud Schwartz was greatly relieved; she wouldn’t pay somebody she was about to kill. The thought of being murdered by a seventy-year-old woman in pink curlers was harrowing on many levels.
“Tell me if I’m wrong,” Molly said. “Curiosity got the best of you, right? You opened the box, the animals escaped.”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Bud Schwartz, wrapping a bandage around Danny Pogue’s foot. He had removed the sneaker and the sock, and examined the wounds. Miraculously (or maybe by design) both bullets had missed the bones, so Danny Pogue was able to wiggle all his toes. When he stopped whimpering, Bud Schwartz removed the towel from his mouth.
“So you think they’re still alive,” Molly said.
“Why not? Who’d be mean enough to hurt ’em?”
“This is important,” said Molly. The pistol lay loose on her lap, looking as harmless as a macrame.
Danny Pogue said, “We didn’t kill them things, I swear to God. They just scooted out of the damn truck.”