Twilight Eyes (12 page)

“You expecting trouble?” I asked.

“Kelsko takes the sugar, never presses for too much,” Jelly said, “but sometimes he likes to give us a warning.”

“What kind of warning?” I asked.

“Likes to have a few of his men pound on us a little.”

“Are you . . . talking about a beating?” I asked uneasily.

“You absolutely got it, kid.”

“How regular does this happen?”

“We been coming here nine years since Kelsko was made chief of police, and it's happened six out of the nine.”

Luke Bendingo took one big-knuckled hand from the steering wheel and pointed to an inch-long white scar that curved down from the corner of his right eye.

I said, “You got that in a fight with Kelsko's men?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “The rotten b-b-b-bastards.”

“You say they're warning us?” I asked. “Warning us? What kind of crap is that?”

Jelly said, “Kelsko wants us to understand that he takes our bribes but that he can't be pushed around.”

“So why doesn't he just
tell us
?”

Jelly scowled and shook his head. “Kid, this here is coal-mining country, even though they don't take much out of the ground anymore, and it always will be coal-mining country because the people who worked the mines are still here, and those people never change. Never. Damned if they do. Mining is a hard and dangerous life, and it breeds hard and dangerous men, sullen and stubborn types. To go down in the mines, you have to be either desperate, stupid, or so damned macho that you got to prove you're meaner than the mines themselves. Even those who never set foot in a mine shaft . . . well, they got their tough-guy attitudes from their old men. People up in these hills purely love a fight, just for the absolute fun of it. If Kelsko just chewed us out, just gave us a
verbal
warning, then he'd miss out on his fun.”

It was probably my imagination, fed by fears of billy clubs and weighted saps and rubber hoses, but as we rose into more mountainous country, the day seemed to become less bright, less warm, less promising than it had been when we started out. The trees seemed considerably less beautiful than the pines and firs and spruces that I so well remembered from Oregon, and the ramparts of these Eastern mountains, geologically more ancient than the Siskiyous, gave an impression of dark and graceless age, decadence, malevolence born of weariness. I was aware that I was letting my emotions color what I saw. This part of the world had a beauty unique unto it, as did Oregon. I knew it was irrational to attribute human feelings and intentions to a landscape, yet I could not shake the feeling that the encroaching mountains were watching our passage and meant to swallow us forever.

“But if Kelsko's men jump us,” I said, “we can't fight back. Not against cops. Not in a police station, for God's sake. We'll wind up in jail on charges of assault and battery.”

From the backseat, Jelly said, “Oh, it ain't going to happen in the station house. Not anywhere around the courthouse, either, where we got to go to fill the pockets of the county councilmen. Not even within the city limits. Absolutely not. Absolutely guarantee it. And though it's always Kelsko's so-called lawmen, they won't be wearing uniforms. He sends them off duty, in street clothes. They wait for us as we're coming out of town, block our way on a quiet stretch of road. Three times they even run us off the pavement to make us stop.”

“And fight?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And you fight back?”

“Damn right,” Jelly said.

Luke said, “One year J-J-Jelly b-broke a g-g-guy's arm.”

“I shouldn't've done it,” Jelly said. “That was going too far, see. Asking for trouble.”

Turning in my seat and regarding the fat man from a new and more respectful point of view, I said, “But if you're permitted to fight back, if it's not just a police beating, then why don't you bring along some of the really
big
carnies and crush the bastards? Why guys like me and Luke?”

“Oh,” Jelly said, “they wouldn't like that. They want to beat on us a little, and they want to take a few licks of their own because that proves it was a
real
fight, see. They want to prove to themselves that they're hardheaded, iron-assed, coal-country boys, just like their daddies, but they don't actually want to risk getting the shit beat out of them. If I come in here with somebody like Barney Quadlow or Deke Feeny, the strong-man in Tom Catshank's sideshow . . . why, Kelsko's boys would back off fast, wouldn't fight at all.”

“What's wrong with that? You don't
like
these fights?”

“Hell, no!” Jelly said, and Luke echoed that sentiment. And Jelly said, “But, see, if they don't get their fight, if they don't get to deliver Kelsko's warning, then they'll make trouble for us once we get the midway set up.”

“Once you endure the fight,” I said, “then they let you go about your business unhampered.”

“You got it now.”

“It's like . . . the fight is tribute you got to pay to get in.”

“Sorta, yeah.”

“It's crazy,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“Juvenile.”

“Like I told you, this here's coal country.”

We rode in silence for a minute or two.

I wondered if
this
was the danger that was bearing down on Jelly. Maybe the fight would get out of hand this year. Maybe one of Kelsko's men would be a closet psychopath who would not be able to control himself once he started beating on Jelly, and maybe he would be so strong that none of us could pull him off until it was too late.

I was scared.

I breathed deeply and attempted to reach into the stream of psychic energies that always flowed over and through me, seeking confirmation of my worst fears, seeking some indication, no matter how slight, that Jelly Jordan's rendezvous with Death would be in Yontsdown. I could sense nothing useful; maybe that was good. If this
was
where Jelly's crisis would arise, then surely I would pick up at least a hint of it. Surely.

Sighing, I said, “I guess I'm just the kind of bodyguard you need. Big enough to keep myself from being hurt too bad . . . but not so big that I come out of it unbloodied.”

“They got to see some blood,” Jelly agreed. “That's what satisfies them.”

“Jesus.”

“I warned you yesterday,” Jelly said.

“I know.”

“I told you that you ought to hear what the job was.”

“I know.”

“But you were so grateful for work that you leaped before you looked. Hell, you leaped before you even knew what you was leaping over, and now halfway through the jump you look down and see a Tiger that wants to reach up and bite off your balls!”

Luke Bendingo laughed.

“I guess I've learned a valuable lesson here,” I said.

“Absolutely,” Jelly said. “In fact, it's such a
damned
valuable lesson, I'm half persuaded that giving you cash pay for this job is just too deplorably generous of me.”

The sky had begun to cloud over.

On both sides of the highway, pine-studded slopes shouldered closer. Mixed among the pines were twisted oaks with gnarled black trunks, some burdened with large, lumpy, cancerous mounds of ligneous fungus.

We passed a long abandoned mine head, set back a hundred yards from the road, and a half-demolished tipple beside a weed-choked railroad spur, both crusted with black grime, and then several houses, gray and peeling, in need of paint. Rusting hulks of automobiles, set up on concrete blocks, were so prevalent that you might have thought they were a preferred lawn decoration, like birdbaths and plaster flamingos in certain other neighborhoods.

“What you ought to do next year,” I said, “is bring Joel Tuck with you and march him right in to Kelsko's office.”

“Wouldn't
that
b-b-be s-something!” Luke said, and slapped the dashboard with one hand.

I said, “You just have Joel stand there beside you, never saying anything, mind you, never making any threats or unfriendly gestures, even
smiling
, smiling real friendly, just fixing Kelsko with that third eye, that blank orange eye, and I'll bet nobody would be waiting for you when you left town.”

“Well, of course, they wouldn't!” Jelly said. “They'd all be back at the station house, cleaning the poop out of their pants.”

We laughed, and some of the tension went out of us, but our spirits did not soar all the way back to where they had been because, a few minutes later, we crossed the city limits of Yontsdown.

In spite of its twentieth-century industry—the steel mill from which gray smoke and white steam plumed up in the distance, the busy rail yards—Yontsdown looked and felt medieval. Under a summer sky that was swiftly plating over with iron-colored clouds, we drove on narrow streets, a couple of which were actually cobblestoned. Even with the empty mountains all around and much land available, the houses were crowded together, each looming over the other, most half mummified with a funereal skin of grayish-yellow dust, at least a third of them in need of paint or new roofs or new floorboards for their sagging front porches. The shops, grocery stores, and offices all had an air of bleakness, and there were few, if any, signs of prosperity. A black, Depression-era iron bridge linked the shores of the muddy river that split the town in two, and the Cadillac's tires sang a somber, mournful, one-note tune as we drove across that metal-floored span. The few tall buildings were no higher than six or eight stories, brick and granite structures that contributed to the medieval atmosphere because, to me at least, they resembled small-scale castles: blank windows that seemed as defensively narrow as arrow loops; recessed doorways with massive granite lintels of unnecessary size for the modest weight they had to carry, doorways so guarded and unwelcoming in appearance that I would not have been surprised to see the pointed tips of a raised portcullis above one of them; here and there the flat roofs had crenelated brows quite like a castle's battlements.

I did not like the place.

We passed a rambling, two-story brick building, one wing of which had been gutted by fire. Portions of the slate roof had caved in, and most of the windows had been blown out by the heat, and the brick—long ago discolored by years of accumulated pollutants from the mill, mines, and rail yards—was marked by anthracite fans of soot above each of the gaping windows. Restoration had begun, and construction workers were on the site when we drove by.

“That there's the only elementary school in town,” Jelly said from the backseat. “Was a big explosion in the heating-oil tank last April, even though it was a warm day and the furnace was turned off. Don't know if they ever did figure out what went wrong. Terrible thing. I read about it in the papers. It was national news. Seven little kids burned to death, horrible thing, but it would've been a whole lot worse if there hadn't been a couple of heroes among the teachers. It's an absolute miracle they didn't lose forty or fifty kids, even a hundred.”

“J-J-J-Jesus, th-that's awful,” Luke Bendingo said. “Little k-k-kids.” He shook his head. “S-sometimes it's a hard w-w-w-world.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Jelly said.

I turned to look back at the school after we had passed it. I was getting very bad vibrations from that burned-out structure, and I had the unshakable feeling that more tragedy lay in its future.

We stopped at a red traffic light, beside a coffee shop, in front of which stood a newspaper vending machine. From the car I could read the headline on the
Yontsdown Register
: BOTULISM KILLS FOUR AT CHURCH PICNIC.

Jelly must have seen the headline, too, for he said, “This sorry, damned town needs a carnival even more than usual.”

We drove two more blocks, parked in the lot behind the municipal building, near several black-and-white patrol cars, and got out of the Cadillac. That four-story pile of sandstone and granite, which housed both the city government and police headquarters, was the most medieval building of them all. Iron bars shielded its narrow, deeply recessed windows. Its flat roof was encircled by a low wall that looked even more like a castle's battlements than anything I had seen thus far, complete with regularly spaced embrasures and squared-off merlons; the merlons—which were the high segments of the stone crenelations that alternated with the open embrasures—boasted arrow loops and putlog holes, and they were even topped with pointed stone finials.

The Yontsdown Municipal Building was not merely architecturally forbidding; there was, as well, a feeling of malevolent
life
in the structure. I had the disquieting notion that this agglomeration of stone and mortar and steel had somehow acquired consciousness, that it was watching us as we got out of the car, and that going inside would be like blithely walking between the teeth and into the gaping mouth of a dragon.

I did not know if this somber impression was psychic in nature or whether my imagination was galloping away with me; sometimes it is not easy to be sure which is the case. Perhaps I was experiencing a seizure of paranoia. Perhaps I was seeing danger, pain, and death where they did not really exist. I am subject to spells of paranoia. I admit it. You would be paranoid, too, if you could see the things that I see, the unhuman creatures that walk disguised among us. . . .

“Slim?” Jelly said. “What's wrong?”

“Uh . . . nothing.”

“You look kinda pasty.”

“I'm okay.”

“They won't jump us here.”

“I'm not worried about that,” I said.