Alligator (18 page)

The savage song caught Maurice up. Its primitiveness made him tense and fearful, yet at the same time more relaxed than he had ever been. "What is that?" he asked Sam, after he had listened for a while.

"It's called 'the hollers,'" Sam answered.

"I've never heard anything like it in my life."

"It's not likely that you will again," said Sam. "It's a dying art. At one time, men in the swamps lived so far from one another, it was the only way they could talk. Sort of a swamp telephone."

"It sounds lonely to me," said Maurice.

"Just the opposite," answered Sam. "The sound of a human voice must have been damned welcome to a man living out here alone."

"I don't understand why anyone wanted to live out here," Maurice said, looking out into the black night.

Sam laughed. "They didn't have much choice. Most of the people who came out here were running away from something, usually the law. There's a lot of room to get lost out here. It's bad country, and it's hard on a man, but that's what makes it so safe. Out here, the only law was kill or get killed. Still is, for that matter."

At the other fire, Rye let out a huge horse laugh and slowly peeled over his cards to reveal a flush. "Well, well, well," he said, gloating, "what have we here?"

"Jesus Christ," whimpered Marris, "have a heart."

"Looks to me like I got three of 'em."

"The night is young, Whitman," warned Ben, "so don't go gettin' too cocky."

"I ain't cocky. Just realistic. Rye Whitman don't lose. Ain't that right, John?"

"Never," said John. There was an edge of anger in his voice.

"You heard the man," said Rye. He was wreathed in smiles, but he'd caught the tone of John's voice. He looked around the circle of men for his bottle, and discovered it at Ben's mouth. He yelled, "Stop suckin' on that bottle, Ben. What d'ya think it is, a tit?"

"One more drink and God help me if that ain't what it'll turn into." Ben took another drink. He was feeling good. Even if he was down close to fifty dollars, it was worth it. He'd spent more on a lot less fun than this. He loved being out in the woods, no women around, just drinking and swearing and carrying on. There was a comfortable feeling you just couldn't get when a woman was there. When a woman was around, no matter what age she was, there was always that whole sex thing; there was always a sense of mystery and fear.

Rye swiped the bottle from Ben and took a long pull. Ben watched, fascinated. Rye let the booze spill down his throat in a long, heavy stream, like water being flushed down a toilet. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a cork floating in the water.

As Rye was running out of breath, he noticed that Lee held his own bottle to his mouth and was matching Rye gulp for gulp. Rye was sure he was doing it on purpose. Actually, Lee hadn't seen Rye at all.

"Deal around me," Rye said, and stood up.

Marris chuckled. "You about to teach that boy a lesson, Rye?"

"Well, now, I just might do that." Rye picked up a new bottle and walked over to Lee.

Rye sat down on a rock next to Lee, he grunted and said, "I see you like your booze."

Lee shrugged but didn't answer. He kept his eyes on Rye. He didn't know what Rye was up to, but he would put odds on it being no good.

Rye uncapped his bottle and put it in the dirt between them. Lee looked at the bottle but didn't reach for it. He was doing a little fast thinking. It could be seen one of two ways, he thought: Rye was offering either an apology or a challenge. Lee considered the source for a moment and decided the latter was the more probable. Lee was tempted to take him up on his challenge. Rye was the kind of man who thought he could tell the size of a man's cock by the amount of liquor he could drink. Lee could drink a lot, and he would enjoy showing him up on his terms.

Lee took the bottle with a smile and tipped it back, letting the burning liquor run down his throat in a thick stream. When he had polished off close to a quarter of the bottle, he handed it back to Rye, with a look that said: Don't think you can outdrink me. Rye took an equally long pull and handed the bottle back to Lee, his eyes answering the challenge. The men drank in silence for a while, neither of them winning, but neither of them losing, either.

When they had finished it off, Rye flashed a manipulative smile and said, "I suppose you're pissed off about this afternoon."

"You want to get yourself killed, it's all right by me, but leave the others out of it."

"I didn't force none of them to race me." Rye's voice was filled with outraged innocence.

"You didn't have to," Lee answered. "They'd follow you anywhere."

"That ain't my fault."

"Maybe. But it's your responsibility."

Rye chuckled. "Ain't we the mother hen. Hell, I was just teachin' them men a little about livin'."

"Looked to me like you were teachin' them just the opposite."

"Livin', dyin', it's all one and the same," said Rye. "You can't know one without the other. Far as I can see, the only time a man really knows he's alive is when there's a chance he's gonna die."

Lee laughed. It was a superior, condescending laugh, and Rye was meant to see it as such. Lee had met Rye's type before. They were the ones who raced cars and fought bulls. Some people might call them heroes. Lee called them jerks.

"What the hell is so funny?" snapped Rye.

"You. You city people are all alike. You have to stand at the edge of a cliff and look down to make your bowels work. Even that red-eyed beetle over there knows he's alive—he don't have to stand on no cliffs to prove it."

"Men are different from red-eyed beetles, Boone, in case you didn't know."

"Different, but not better," said Lee.

"Horseshit! I ain't never seen no red-eyed beetle build a road or put up a town. I ain't never seen it do nothin' but eat and sleep. No, sir, red-eyed beetle's only good for one thing, and that's steppin' on."

"I've been out in your world, Mr. Whitman. Men like you don't know what it means to eat because you're hungry or drink because you're thirsty. Pretty soon you'll even forget how to love a woman."

Rye pointed a gnarled finger at Lee and warned, "You got a big mouth, boy. I'd be careful it don't get you into trouble."

"I bargained to carry you, but there ain't no law in the world says I gotta do anything else."

Rye stood up quickly. Suddenly he realized he was drunk. His legs felt mushy and weak. The top of his body didn't feel anything at all; it was blown away. He had the vague impression he was swaying. He curled his toes and tried to get a grip on the ground. The last thing he wanted was for Lee to know he was drunk.

"Sometime you and me ought to have a little chat," Rye growled, and, turning a little too carefully, he staggered away.

Lee watched him walk away and muttered to himself, "Ain't nothin' you got to tell me that I don't already know." Then he got up and staggered into his tent. The liquor hadn't been wasted on him either.

Rye was preoccupied when he walked back to the poker game. Maurice, who had taken his place, offered it back to him, but Rye refused. It was clear he didn't feel like playing any more.

Something dark had passed over Rye, and it lay heavy on his chest. There was something between him and Lee, an anger, an almost primitive hatred, that was much stronger than anything he had ever felt before. For the first time it occurred to Rye that Lizbeth might have told Lee about him, but that still didn't explain it. Lee didn't seem like the type who would carry the sword of vengeance for his mother, and even if he were, why take him on this hunt? Why not just fight it out in town? Even if Lee had discovered the trick he had pulled with Randy and Clete, the same held true.

None of it made sense to Rye. But he didn't doubt that the feeling was real.

Five miles back from where the hunting party was camped, two men were crouched by a sputtering fire. Behind them, a badly put up tent sagged groundward. It looked as if it would never make it through the night. The men drank from a large bottle of bourbon and chewed hungrily on a chicken they had just roasted. It was still bloody inside, but they couldn't wait any longer.

Randy and Clete had left the Everglades only four hours after the hunting party, but they figured that was enough. In the beginning they knew they were going in the same direction as the other men because all along the river they had seen the oil slicks, empty beer cans, and cigarette packages that were signs that civilization had passed, but by late afternoon the debris had become less.

"Only one thing worries me," said Clete, as he cracked open a drumstick with his teeth and ran his tongue along it to gather up the marrow. "How can we be sure we're going right?"

"Just leave it to me," answered Randy. "I figured out where the den is, so all we got to do is follow our map and shoot straight."

"What if the others get there first?"

"We kill 'em off beforehand."

Clete looked at his father, unsure whether he was pulling his leg or was serious. Knowing his father, either could be true.

"They won't get there first," said Randy, disgruntled. It always disappointed him when he couldn't get a rise out of Clete. "We got the advantage—we're traveling alone. Their party's too big, it's bound to slow them up."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Still, they've got one advantage over us."

"What's that?"

"If anything happens to one of them, there are the others to help him out. Us, we're all alone."

Randy pounced. "Ya scared?" he chided.

"Of course not." Clete felt along the ground until his hand touched the smooth, cool metal of his rifle.

"There isn't anything to be scared of, except maybe bears or ghosts." Randy drew out the word "ghosts," mocking Clete.

"Very funny," said Clete. Randy was beginning to get a rise out of him, but he tried not to show it. It seemed to Clete that he and Randy spent every moment they were together playing the same game, Randy trying to get him angry and succeeding at it. He had done the same thing with Clete's mother, too. Only she hadn't taken it: She'd walked out. Clete had always felt that Randy had driven her away.

Randy laughed. "When you were a kid, you used to believe in ghosts. You were the most chickenshit kid I ever saw. I used to accuse your mother of having slept with the milkman, because I could see even then you were milky. You didn't have my genes. I knew it from the moment you were born. I can remember standing at the maternity window and looking at that bald shiny head of yours and thinking, 'Four F.'"

"That isn't funny." Clete could hear himself whining. It got him even more angry.

"You're telling me it isn't funny," Randy sneered.

"You know I have a bad back." Clete felt like he was drowning.

"That only goes to prove what I've been saying. You think any kid of mine would have a bad back? Look at my back. Go on, look, does it look bad to you?"

"You're an asshole," Clete muttered.

"What's that? Did I hear you correctly, or is it wax in my ears?" Randy lifted up his arm and slapped Clete across the face. "Don't you backtalk to me," he snarled.

Clete heard a loud cracking noise of his teeth shattering and his fillings loosening. It resounded through his head and jarred his thoughts into fragments.

"Goddamn you!" Clete screamed. "Goddamn you to hell!" The blood was starting to pulse hot and sticky into his mouth. He could feel it run down his throat.

"That does it," said Randy. He stood up and imposed the shadow of his huge frame over Clete. He knew that if he let Clete get away with that kind of talk this time, he'd never hear the end of it. Besides, he felt a bit drunk, and he always got mean when he was drunk. He figured it was his right. "Take down your pants. I haven't given you a licking since you were a kid, which was a big mistake. But now you're gonna get it."

"No!" Clete's bleeding lips were quivering, but he hardly noticed it. Something in his head went hard and cold, like the touch of his rifle, and the quivering part of himself belonged to another person.

Randy sensed he was losing control over Clete. It made him bite down on his words even harder. "You heard me, boy, down with your pants."

Clete didn't move. He stared up at his father with a hatred that was somehow detached.

Randy grabbed Clete by the arm and wrenched him from the ground, but instead of cowering, Clete looked his father directly in the eye. For the first time, Clete realized they were the same size. He had always thought of his father as so immense.

"I heard ya," Clete said. His voice was soft but knife-edged.

Randy had never heard Clete speak like that before. It sliced right through him, and he became afraid.

Clete sensed his father's weakness, and it fed his strength. "You've been making fun of me too long!" he yelled. "But I don't have to take it no more!"

Randy cringed. He tried to fight back the fear, and yelled back, "Now cut this foolishness out, boy!" But his voice was unsure.

A powerful, warm thrill went through Clete's body and into his loins. He had never seen his father cringe before.

Clete slowly raised his arm. "You don't think I've got the guts to do it, do you?"

Randy didn't answer. Fear choked off his words. The electricity of Clete's hatred overwhelmed him.

Clete smiled. "Well, you're wrong." He smashed Randy across the face with the back of his hand.

Randy let out a cry and crumpled to the ground. "Oh my God," he whispered.

"You're not such a hero now, are you?" Clete could feel himself smile, but it was far removed from him, as if he were watching himself. All those years of fear had made his hatred so powerful that, once unleashed, it swept him away. A spreading warmth radiated through his body, making him feel very alive.

Randy crawled backward. He didn't dare move too fast, for Clete was looking at him. He could feel Clete's eyes burning into his flesh, beating him down. He heard Clete saying, "You didn't think I had the guts, did you?"

Randy lay like a piece of refuse on the ground. He looked shrunken and helpless. Tears of shame and rage welled up in Randy's eyes. Clete stood over him, stonefaced; he wasn't thinking anything; he wasn't feeling anything; he was merely watching. Finally he went back to the tent, finished off the bourbon, and fell asleep. It was a sound sleep, without any dreams.