Loraine’s was a favorite hangout for coon hunters, although not as busy in chasing season as it was in killing season, which was fine with Myrtle, the cashier. She supposed she could understand killing coons years back when pelts were going for twenty dollars apiece. But no one bothered once the price dropped to eight dollars. Whatever the boys shot usually stayed in the woods.
Myrtle was always happy to see Smudge and Bubba. They hunted for the joy of putting their dogs through their paces, it seemed. They only killed coons when it was important to rev up the dogs again, make them believe if they treed a coon, maybe they’d get to kill it. Myrtle couldn’t count all the times coon hunters came into the restaurant dressed in Delta Wings camouflage covered with blood. The guys smoked and chewed. They ordered lots of hot coffee and All-U-Can-Eat fried oysters and shrimp, Captain’s Platters and meat loaf.
Tables were plastic-covered and designated with bingo numbers. Bubba and Smudge chose B4, with its cheery message, ‘Come Back Real Soon.’ Bubba started digging in the little wicker basket of A-l, Worcestershire, sugar, Tabasco, and packets of jellies to see if there were any captain’s wafers hiding in there. A ceiling fan turned slowly. Smudge and Bubba looked at the specials on the board, next to a sign that read ‘We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.’
‘Let’s put it all out on the table, Bubba,’ Smudge said, taking off his Ducks Unlimited cap. ‘How much?’
‘How much you want?’ Bubba tried to sound macho and confident, but inside he was Jell-O.
‘Five hundred,’ Smudge said, studying Bubba carefully to see his reaction.
‘I’ll raise it to a thousand,’ Bubba said as his gut turned to ice.
‘You on the map, good buddy? Or just mud flapping.’
‘I got it in my pocket,’ Bubba said.
Smudge shook his head. ‘That old hound of yours has treed a chicken on top of a chicken pen and a goat on top of a stump. Closest it got to a coon was treeing one on top of a telephone pole. She won’t go across water, just barks at it when she’s not hanging around your feet. Half Shell ain’t worth the lead to shoot her, Bubba.’
‘We’ll see,’ Bubba said as Myrtle came up to the table, notepad in hand.
‘You boys decided yet?’
‘Iced tea, fried shrimp and oysters,’ Bubba said.
‘One-time plate or all-u-can-eat?’
‘Lay it on me,’ Bubba said.
Myrtle laughed, chewing gum. ‘And Smudge?’
‘The same.’
‘You boys sure are easy,’ she said, brushing crumbs off their table and walking back to the kitchen.
‘Where we headed?’ Bubba asked.
‘Gonna start out at the intersection of 620 and 460 right over there.’ Smudge pointed. ‘And head left way up in the middle of nowhere. Just muddy roads, forest and creeks. I did some checking into the Dismal Swamp and you definitely don’t want that right now. Apparently when it’s warm during the day, snakes are balled up like earthworms, there’s so many of ’em. When it cools off at night, you run over ’em like sticks on the road.’
Bubba was having a hard time breathing.
‘You all right, good buddy?’ Smudge said.
‘Allergies. I forgot to bring my Sudafed.’
‘Chances are where we’re going the snakes aren’t going to be near that bad,’ Smudge went on. ‘And if we see a snake, just let it be. They’re more scared of us than we are of them.’
‘Who says?’ Bubba blurted out. ‘Did a snake actually tell someone that? It’s like saying dogs have no sense of time. Did someone ask Half Shell if it’s true? I’ve heard tales of a snake going up somebody’s pants leg. So how scared is that?’
‘Good point,’ Smudge replied thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard the same thing. I must admit I’ve also heard of snakes chasing people and cobras spitting you in the eye, although I can’t say whether it’s true.’
Divinity tried to calm Smoke and get him out of his dangerous mood. But when he got like this, there was no point ranting and raving about something unless she wanted to get the treatment.