He crawled into the front seat, far out of Smudge’s view, and dug inside his knapsack for the pearls on black string. He stuffed them into a pocket. He slipped out his Colt Anaconda.44. It was not his gun of choice for the night. But Bubba had nothing left. The rest had been stolen. He slid the monster revolver into a Bianchi on-belt HuSH nylon holster beneath his long, full coat.
‘We all set?’ Smudge asked.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Bubba replied bravely.
They let their dogs out of the pens and both began howling and baying, tails wagging as Bubba and Smudge restrained them with heavy nylon leashes.
‘Good girl,’ Bubba said as he kneaded Half Shell behind her long silky ears.
Bubba loved his dog, no matter her deficits. She looked like a long-legged, sleek Beagle with surprisingly soft fur. She loved to lick Bubba’s hand and face. Bubba was reluctant to let her go crashing through those woods. If she got snake-bit or a coon tore her up, Bubba couldn’t live with it.
Smudge had out the stopwatch. Bubba was petting Half Shell and encouraging her to find a coon this time.
‘Go!’ he said before Bubba was ready.
Weed ran through the dark along Cumberland Street until he neared I-195’s Cherry Street overpass. Banking either side of it were thick growths of trees and shrubs closed in by a high chain-link fence.
He walked over a grassy bank, furtively looking left and right as he reached the fence, which he could not see through because the foliage was too dense. He almost didn’t care what was on the other side. So what if he fell fifteen feet into rushing traffic? What was left in life but for Smoke to find him?
Weed climbed the fence and pushed branches away from his face as he worked his way down the other side. He held his breath as his feet touched ground and blindly pushed his way through tall grass and shrubs, holding his arm in front of his face to protect his eyes. He found himself in a clearing where he could just make out a small camp and a figure sitting in the middle of it, the tip of a cigarette glowing. Weed’s heart flipped.
‘Who’s there?’ an unfriendly voice sounded. ‘Don’t try anything. I can see in the dark and I know you’re puny and don’t got a gun.’
Weed didn’t know what to say. He had no place to run unless he tried to get back over the fence or decided to jump the wall and land on the expressway.
‘What’s the matter, kitty got your tongue?’ the man asked.
‘No, sir,’ Weed said politely. ‘I didn’t know nobody was here. I’ll be glad to leave.’
‘No place to go. That’s why you’re here, now ain’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can stop all that yes sir shit. My name’s Pigeon.’
That ain’t your real name.’ Weed ventured a little closer.
‘I don’t remember my real one anymore.’
‘How come they call you that?’
‘Because I eat ’em. When I can, that is.’
Weed’s stomach flopped.
‘What’s your name, and why don’t you come a little closer so I can get a good look at you.’
‘Weed.’
‘That ain’t your real name,” Pigeon mimicked him.
‘Yes, it is, too.’
Weed was hungry and thirsty, and the constant thunder of traffic frightened him. A chill had settled over the night and he was cold in his baggy jeans and Bulls jersey. Pigeon lit another cigarette and Weed caught a glimpse of Pigeon’s face in the spurt of flame.
‘You’re pretty old,’ Weed said.
‘Older than you, that’s for damn sure.’ He inhaled deeply and held it.
Weed stepped closer. Pigeon smelled as if he were rotting alive.
‘Once you been in here awhile, your eyes start seeing again. Notice? I think all those lights from the cars below us have something to do with it,’ Pigeon said. ‘You don’t look like you’re much older than ten.’
‘Fourteen,’ Weed replied indignantly.
Pigeon dug in a trash bag and pulled out part of a submarine sandwich. Weed’s mouth watered but he felt kind of sick, too. Pigeon dug in the bag again and set down a two-liter bottle of Pepsi that was half empty. He flicked the cigarette butt into the night.