Snowmobile Stick-up

Buzzing: Four hooded heads, four snowmobiles. Snow drifting down, heavy and thick.

Three Ski-doos and an Arctic Cat were screaming full bore down an empty and colorless country road en route to a ribbon of orange tape Eddie tied to a tree branch a month ago. Eddie knew it was coming up soon. Then they’d disappear into the forest before the cops even got shoveled out.

We’re going to make it; we pulled it off, Eddie thought with pride. So much white stuff on the roads you need a snow machine to get anywhere—and Johnny Law doesn’t own any. Eddie knew this little gig would change that glitch in law enforcement’s armor forever.

After the Snowmobile Stick Up of ’77, every cop shop in the North would have at least one motorized snow sled.

But it was really a miracle the whole deal went off at all. So many factors had to be right for it to work, it was amazing how it all came together. When he proposed his plan last March, Eddie never really believed they’d get past the bullshitting. He was feverish, cabin feverish. Crazy from being stuck too long around too many dullards. But he always believed it was a good plan. And now he’d proved it. Here they were, zipping through the snow with bags full of cash.

But this job was a lot different from the one he’d pulled back in Louisiana. He wasn’t so confident this time, since the gods were no longer speaking to him. Bastards silent for a coon’s age now.

That first job was like some grand vision quest. Like a spirit was guiding him. Eddie was young then and ripping off his employer for a hundred and fifty-five grand was like pennies from heaven. But this time around reality had forced its way into things. Now it was business—just business.

Eddie was drunk when he told the other three of his plan. Afterwards they hugged and shook hands, bonding over his little scheme. He’d kissed Sandy, and after over a year apart, it was strange. Strange to kiss someone you thought you were sick of and have it feel good.

Mickey Garity didn’t suspect anything was fishy as he squeezed the seat cushion of the snow machine with the heels of his motorcycle boots. He grinned beneath the green ski mask at the tumbling white puffs, his brown eyes darting at the dark tree trunks flashing by. Now and then he felt all warm inside, thinking about someone smart like Eddie being nice to him like this, letting him in on this gig as a full partner. That thought and the hit of crank he’d snorted on the way to the bank, were keeping him nice and toasty.

He felt no animosity toward Eddie Bovee anymore. In fact, he looked up to him now. Their fight was a long time gone. And because of his little pal Bovee, Mickey was rich. They were both lucky to be free from Sandy’s clutches, anyway. She just plain talked too much. Christ, everyone knew that. Shit, give her a snort of fresh cat and she’d drive you up the wall with her prattling on. It was real nice stickin’ it to her back then, but hell, lately, she was getting fat.

Eddie Bovee saw the tape on the tree and raised his white-clad arm into the gray air. The buzzing pack slowed briefly. Eddie pointed a white-gloved hand at the marked tree, made a hard left turn, bounced over the ditch, scooted under a snow covered parasol of pine boughs and disappeared into the darkness of the deep woods. The other three sleds followed, the thickly falling flakes and the heavy carpet of soft white absorbing all but the slightest whine of the engines as the snow machines faded into the dark and drifting forest.

Sounds like electric shavers, Eddie thought, allowing himself a smirk beneath his ski mask. And then looking to the west saw the very slightest hint of pink mixed in with the blue-black sky.

Following Eddie’s lead, the bank robbers whipped their machines to the edge of a riverbank and then followed the meandering curves deeper into the darkness.

Twenty minutes later, putting slowly up a gentle rise, Eddie raised his arm again and stopped, got off his machine and sunk to his knees in the thick white. He spoke through the small oval in his blue ski mask: “We made it so far, we’re doing good. Only got a little ways to go. We stay up high here for a bit then, ah—when we come to a big swamp on the left, we’re almost there. Everybody be careful along this bank and pretty soon we’ll be partying down like you’ve never done before.” Eddie looked around the forest as if in awe. “Now let’s go,” he snapped, as close to authoritative as he could get. Then he climbed back up on the Ski-doo and buzzed off, leaving a swirl of blue smoke behind.

Bruce was content to bring up the rear; he knew the way. Only him and Ed knew exactly where they were going so he could lie back a little, stay out of Sandy’s snow spray. Those other three were kinda nuts anyway, always getting too excited about stuff or getting mad for no good reason. Only thing Bruce ever got mad about was if you tried to take his whisky—then you’d see mad. He really wanted a drink right now. But he’d have to wait until they got to his Grandpa’s old hunting shack; there was plenty of liquor there.

It was getting hard to see in here, the pine trees dark and drooping with snow. Storm was slowing but still coming down good, flakes smaller now with more space in between them.

Sandy was a mess inside, scared shitless. She regretted ever knowing these lowlifes, let alone going along on this bank robbery bullshit. But she feared going to prison for her speed bust more than anything else. This job was a chance to escape everything, the whole goddamn fiasco. No prison for her. She couldn’t stand being closed up. Never again. Not for this girl. She had to run. That’s all there was to it. Just couldn’t stand being closed in. It was so bad she’d start to sweat sometimes in the bathroom with the door closed. When she was little, her mother used to lock her in the closet for hours at a time. No way would she end up like Daddy—miserable wretch stuck down in that little room in the basement like a caged animal.

Her share was enough to escape the North. Maybe slide down into Mexico and find a stud Latino, stay loaded for a month.

Jesus, the bouncing of the goddamn snow machine was going to burst her bladder. And thinking about Eddie and Mickey, the way they’d come charging into that little bank—sawed-off twelve-gauges blasting, white hoods and ski masks scaring the shit out of everybody—made her want to let it all go, relieve some of the throbbing down there. How good it was going to feel to get off of this crotch bumping, buzzing bladder buster and get something to take the edge off.

Shit, why can’t those guys be more careful, she thought. Mickey almost went over into the river—freeze to death in a hurry if he did.

Sandy got revenge on her mother at age thirteen. Whacked the old bag across the back of the head with a bed slat and put Mama in the hospital for a week. After the court hearing, little Sandy had to go to the psyche ward of that same hospital for thirty days. Lack of impulse control and possible psychotic break, they’d said. Only way she made it through was the drugs. She always wanted more drugs. Her frequent “night visitors” gave her extra pills to keep her mouth shut. Kind of them, wasn’t it.

You might say that her mother and the hospital got her started on drugs. Once she got going, though, she took care of it just fine on her own, thankyouverymuch. But at least her mother never messed with her again, took it all out on the old man after that.

Eddie Bovee slowed his machine at the bottom of a hollow. The snow was stacked up in mounds of varying sizes, shaped by the swirling wind. He pointed to his left, and as if on cue, the wind died down. Now tiny white dots were dropping straight down and slow. Eddie shrugged, twisted the throttle and rocketed out of the hollow across a frozen peat bog, Mickey and Sandy following close behind, Bruce about forty yards back.

Passing scrawny, gnarled scrub pines at the edge of the bog, they popped into a meadow and ran wide open uphill for about a quarter mile, four headlights bouncing across the drifting white like speed-freak ghosts. On the left side of the meadow sat a charcoal ruin of a hunting cabin, a pillow of white frosting on the caved-in roof. On the other side, darkness and wiry underbrush grabbed out at the spindly trunks of birch and popple trees.

Eddie stayed tight along the tree line while Garity tried to make his snowmobile fly over the bumps in the meadow. Sandy tried to avoid Garity. Bruce was thinking how good that whisky was going to burn and how good that fire in the wood stove was going to feel.

This was the best part; Eddie had to admit. He was about as happy as he could get, which wasn’t all that much. Joy was a distant memory for him or maybe just his imagination. Planning was his thing these days. He planned this whole goddamn deal. Every detail, including the snow camouflage suits and the ski masks he’d bought at a surplus store in Duluth. He was the one customized the machines. He clipped off the shotgun barrels with a pipe cutter so they’d be nice and smooth. He knew what days the payroll money from both the lumber company and the mine would be in the bank waiting to be snatched. Best of all, Eddie knew how a snowmobile getaway during a blizzard, would be unstoppable.

He was pissed he had to have these other bozos along. But he needed somebody like Mickey Garity to get the juices flowing, with his drunken Irish capacity for physical aggression. And the others were necessary too, somehow. He’d try and remember why.

Eddie needed big dumb Bruce for the secret little cabin in the woods. And Bruce kept Garity in line. Eddie had really dug it that time when Bruce damn near popped Mickey’s eyeballs out with one of his bear hugs. Kind of a warning hug from the big Indian sonofabitch.

Sandy was along simply because she had delivered some cat to Bovee’s house one night, and, upon Mickey Garity’s invitation, stayed on to party with her old friends. That was the night Eddie got so wired up he blabbed the whole deal to all of them, and Sandy was so fucked up she said she wanted in. Once you were in, you were in.

These days Eddie got his kicks from outsmarting the dumbfucks. Also got a rush from guns and fear and violence. Man, when Mickey kicked that bank manager in the balls, Eddie almost got his nut right there in his pants, just like the time Jesse Lidoux gave him a handie during a movie in eighth grade history class.

Eddie brought his machine to a stop, peered around slowly like a weasel on the lookout and then made a right turn between two giant spruce trees, a portal into another world of white and shadow. Reaching the crest of a small hill, Eddie gazed down at a gray patchwork shack nestled inside a circle of dark pines. Behind the shack, tight to the surrounding underbrush and second growth timber, was a forward leaning, single stall outhouse with a loaf of snow on the sagging roof. To the right and slightly in front of the biffy, stood a lean-to of dark boards and thin timbers, a shelter for firewood that was well stocked.

Three machines putted slowly down the slope, eased across the yard and came to a halt under the least collapsed section of the lean-to. Bruce was still on top of the hill, off his machine and having a piss.

Mickey Garity climbed off his Arctic Cat, pulled back his hood and lifted off his snow mask, revealing a grin a mile wide. He had long, curly black hair like a pop star’s. and a thin mustache. “Goddamn that was sweet,” he said. “You see the looks on those asshole’s faces when we came busting in there? Thought I smelled shit, like they was letting go in their drawers.” Smiling now, turning, eyes twinkling: “Or was that you, Sandy?”

Sandy was behind Mickey and struggling through snow above her knees. She shot Mickey a brief sneer and kept on plowing past him toward the shack. “I should blow your nuts off, Garity,” she said, staring straight ahead. “And do the world one sweet favor.”

Mickey collapsed into the snow and rolled onto his back, laughing uncontrollably—adrenaline stoked, circuit overload.

Eddie popped the padlock on the cabin and Sandy followed him in. They both dropped white canvas bags full of cash on the bunk by the door.

Sandy pulled back her hood, lifted off her red ski mask, reached behind her head and tugged at the rubber band that held together her hennaed ponytail. The released hair brushed against the tops of her shoulders. She clicked small clumps of watery snow from her white boots onto the ragged rug by the door. She was still attractive but feeling slightly worn. Just around thirty—kind of flirty. Men liked her and she knew it. And if they weren’t always that certain type of man, maybe things would have turned out differently for her.

Outside, Bruce was hovering above Garity. Mickey was still on his back in the powdery white, flapping his arms, making a snow angel. Bruce’s hair was black and long and slicked back. His eyes were big and kind and hurt-filled. He watched intently as Mickey sucked in huge breaths, huffed them back out into the rapidly cooling air and tried to grab the drifting, gray clouds of moisture.

“Don’t be getting too excited and acting crazy, Mickey,” Bruce said. “You can have fun, but this is a polite place. My grandfather is buried around here and I don’t want you disturbing him.”

“Okay, okay, Bruce. I’ll try not to fart too loud when I’m pissing. Now hows about you and me go inside and have ourselves a drink. I bet you could use one about now, eh, big fella? Just in case you wanta know, I’ve got some of that white stuff that keeps your eyes open and your dick in a vice, right here in my pocket.” He poked at his chest

“Suit yourself, Brucie boy. Pickle that oversize gourd of yours with firewater if you must. Suit yourself.” Then Garity sprung forward on his hands and knees and began zig-zagging through the heavy powder, snorting like a rooting hog, Bruce following disapprovingly behind him.

Mickey went inside the cabin, went to the bunks near the barrel stove and peeled off his white duds. Underneath, he was the anti-white: black jeans and black Travolta shirt (Saturday Night Fever, not Grease) and black motorcycle boots, the kind with the metal ring on the side. A hunting knife, its deer horn handle sticking out the top of a black leather sheath, hung from his black leather belt that had a silver oval for a buckle.

Popping a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and a plain silver Zippo from his jeans, Mickey gripped the lighter between the fingers and thumb of his dragon-tattooed left hand and snapped it open with a quick jerk of the wrist. He fired up, took two quick, deep drags and blew out smoke in a rush. Next hit he blew some smoke rings. “Whattaya say, big fellow?” he said, grinning at Bruce. “Come on, big man, give me a hug,” making a mock sweet face and opening his arms, grin a mile wide.

“Lay off, Garity,” Bruce said, before turning and trudging back outside. He waded over to a woodpile on the side of the cabin, brushed off the new powder, grabbed an armload of split wood and started back to the shack.

Eddie Bovee was standing alongside a circular wooden table in the middle of the cabin. He fired up a stick match and soon the flame of a kerosene lamp shimmied yellow in the stale air. In the pale light, Eddie and Sandy took the short shotguns from their shoulders, walked to the bunk beds against the wall and slowly removed their white gear, hanging the baggie pants and parkas on chairs and bedposts.

Puddles formed on the warped wooden floor as snow dripped from leather boots. Shadows on the walls wavered and shook. Bruce came in with an arm-full of firewood as Mickey mockingly held the door open. Bruce put the wood down in front of a blackened metal barrel stove and slid a cardboard box filled with newspaper and kindling out from under a rickety gray table pressed against the wall. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Bruce stood up to his full six feet three. “Start the fire will you please, Mickey?” he said, “while I get the booze. Think you can handle it?”

“Hey you guys, lighten up,” Eddie said, stepping back into the glow of the lamp. “We made it, goddamn it. Time to fuckin’ celebrate.” He rubbed at his sunken chin with a greasy hand. “Where’s the goddamn dope?” He ran his fingers through his wiry thatch of wavy red hair and picked at the buttons of his blue flannel shirt, squinting like a varmint as he surveyed the cabin’s interior.

Bruce was across the way pulling open a door on a brown plywood cabinet above the sink. The big man lifted out a three-quarters full bottle of Smirnov and a brown half-gallon jug of Windsor Canadian. Sandy sat down at the round table in the middle of the room and lit a cigarette with a stick match. Mickey had the wood and paper crackling now, wisps of smoke seeping into the room.

Bovee started pacing, grinning like he was about to make a speech. He stubbed his waning Marlboro in a plastic ashtray on the table, plucked another one from the box in his shirt pocket and lit it with a windproof, military-style lighter.

“Got any ice, Brucie?” Mickey said, standing by the stove with his palms spread out over the top, catching heat.

“Yeah, Garity, I do. At the bottom of the outhouse. There oughta be a few cubes there for you.”

“Ooh, ouch. Bruce is trying to be funny. How cute. I guess I’ll just have to do some of this here cat to take away my pain.” He pulled a knotted-up corner of a baggie from his shirt pocket, yellowish-white powder inside, and waggled it tauntingly at Bruce.

“Mickey, stop being such an asshole,” Sandy said. “Just think about all the cash you have and leave Bruce alone. This is his place, man. Try and be polite. Then give me some of that shit. Last one’s wearing off.”

Mickey jammed the baggie back in his pocket, sneered and strutted to the beds. He whipped his sawed-off off the bunk and spun it in a circle in front of him like a macho majorette. Then he went parading around the room with his gun held high, gleefully shouting: “WHOO YAA. WHOO YAA. We robbed a fuckin’ bank. WHOO YAA. Did you see those fuckers? See how scared they were? WHO YAAA. I showed those assholes, goddamnit. I haven’t felt this good since I was cutting off gook ears in Nam.”

Eddie, facing Garity now, said, “Come on Mickey, man, cut the shit. Let’s take care of business,”

“Fuck you—business. I’m gonna feel the rush, maestro. What you think I do this kind of shit for? It’s the rush, Bovee, the fuckin’ rush, man. Life is a drag without the rushes. Feel it pounding inside you—ride with it, brother. You are dying with every breath you take. Even if you’re paranoid all the fuckin’ time, scared of getting caught—at least you feel alive. Not like the square-johns, man—Mr. and Mrs. Graylife—they’re just walking around half asleep praying they don’t wake up and see how horseshit everything is. This is our time to fly, Eddie my boy, so lift your dick to the lords of darkness.”

Mickey set the shotgun on the table and started dancing and shadow boxing around the room. Shots of air hissed from his lips with each snapping punch. But once around the shack’s interior—punches thrown at every window and every top bunk—was enough for him. Then he was tired and needing a little pick-me-up. He bounced over to the cabinet to the left of the sink and pulled out a brown plastic dinner plate, which he put on the table, laying out lines of powder on it. He snorted one, pinched off his nose and wheezed. Yowzaa.

Eddie was smiling now, a nervous light in his eyes. He moved close to the table, filled a glass with whisky and lifted it up to make a toast: “To the Fearsome Foursome, the best goddamn bank robbers in the whole fuckin’ country.”

They all filled containers and drank. Sandy coughed. Mickey wiped his forehead, pumping his legs to some hidden beat, as he huffed in another row of noxious powder. Bruce smiled slightly, tasting the liquor and thinking about the next drink.

Eddie took a seat in one of the wooden chairs and sniffed in the burning dust with a cut straw, pursing his lips. After rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, he said, “We should count and split the money first. Before we get too fucked up. We can stay here until tomorrow night and then sneak back to our houses before anyone knows we were even gone. Nobody’s going anywhere in this storm. But when the roads do get cleared, the pigs’ll be crawling all over like cockroaches.”

Bruce stood up and went over to the bunk beds near the door, plucked three satchels off the bottom bunk and lumbered back across the black, uneven floorboards. He plopped the white canvas bags on the table.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bovee,” Garity said, grinning and dancing around again, throwing combinations at the air. “You sure are business-like, Edward. Don’t you ever get off? How the hell can you do shit like this, if you don’t get a buzz, man? You don’t even get off. You’re cold like a stone or somethin’. You should be happy here—now....”

“Gimme a break,” Eddie said. “I just want to take care of business first. That’s all.”

Then Garity said, “Okay, maybe we should split the money first and everything. No problem. Before we get too fucked up and shit, you know...” He winked at Eddie.

Eddie opened the bags and counted out the money, putting little five-thousand-dollar piles on the table. Final tally: $363, 778. Eddie said it was $90,945 for each member of the Whiteout Gang, Eddie’s newly coined name for the group.

Eddie’s head was like a calculator, but the others all wanted to see it on paper.

“You can check it if you want; I know I’m right,” Eddie said. He had always been good with numbers. Had some odd recessive gene from the DNA stew of his truck driving, Elvis loving father, John, or perhaps his obese, cheap-wine-loving mother, Louisa. But he didn’t have to be good with numbers to know that his share of the take just wasn’t going to cut it. Hell, he had more with him back in 1970 when he rolled into Wisconsin for the first time. Had a hundred and forty-five thousand good American dollars in a brown paper bag underneath some dirty laundry in the back of his Chevy van. Cash was still warm from his first heist: the Bayou Armored Truck Service of Metarie, Louisiana—Eddie’s first employer. Louisa’s “good little boy” had left the driver and the station attendant tied up in the bathroom of a combination convenience store and service station where the armored truck made daily stops so the drivers could get slurpees. Newspapers said Eddie got away with a hundred and seventy thousand, but nobody around Metarie believed snotty little Eddie “the Bayou Booger” Betancourt could have hit it that big. And they were right; it was only a hundred and fifty-five grand. But still a lot of money in 1969, and plenty enough to disappear on.

Eddie had lived in his farmhouse outside of Mintoc, Wisconsin for over five years, when the gods ceased altogether their whispering in his oversize, freckled ears. He felt abandoned, the fickle deities giving him the brush off. And sometimes at night he got panicky, started feeling so alone, and back came that oppressive dread of the same faces and same places—the same things over and over again every day after every day. Kicked up his desire to pull one over on all the fools. And shit, besides all that, his money was getting uncomfortably close to gone. Drugs can get expensive. His small-engine repair business was unsatisfying—both financially and philosophically—and his love life had recently taken a severe turn for the worse. Everything had looked extremely bleak until the bank robbery plan began to take shape in his head,

“Well I’m not gonna count it,” Mickey Garity said from his spot at the table. Then he brought out the baggie of cat again, his hands shaking. “I know my little buddy Eddie is a math whiz.”

The cabin was getting warm from the stove. Eddie and Mickey and Sandy took turns snorting the speed with hundred dollar bills extracted from the booty. The cabin got warmer. The Smirnov bottle was drained in sixty minutes time. Bruce started fiddling with a gray plastic portable radio on the shelf by the window where you could see the outhouse if it was still light out. A scratchy station came through.

“Why don’t you bring it over here on the table, Brucie?” Garity said, his tone mocking.

Bruce did. And out poured rock and roll, Led Zeppelin style, springing something wild from its eternal prison: Mickey played air bass to Eddie’s air guitar. Sandy handled lead vocals, doing a passable Robert Plant impression. Behind Sandy’s back, Mickey danced and made humping motions, Eddie joining him, the pair flicking their tongues rapid fire and laughing. Alien cunnilingus. But every time the singer turned and looked behind her, the boys acted innocent, cute. This went on. The Zeppelin clones screaming themselves hoarse while Bruce sat and watched and laughed.

Now and then Bruce would catch himself and cover his mouth with his hand, embarrassed about the missing teeth.

When the song ended, the participants wobbled back to their chairs at the table.

Bruce slid the bottle over. They all refilled. The radio station faded briefly then came back. A commercial came on, ad for a finance company, HFC. Then a local DJ.

“Hey, all you snowbound North woods rockers, this is Will Scarlett coming to you from W. O. L. F., Hurley, Wisconsin, right here in the heart of Big Snow Country. We’re rockin’ with the flakes tonight and playing your requests. Here’s one going out to Mintoc with a special dedication: For Sandy, from Eddie B. Here’s Gordon Lightfoot doing ‘Sundown,’

Garity said, “Jesus Christ, Eddie, how’d you pull that one off? Fuckin’ great alibi, man,” Then he rose from the chair and bounced around the room, bent over like an ape, arms hanging down nearly to the floor.

“I’ve called in requests there, before,” Eddie said, giving Garity a wary squint. “I know how long it takes them to get to your tunes. Hard to believe the timing was this good, though—must be a sign from the gods.”

Garity laughed and stumbled back to the table, sinking down in the chair and clasping his hands between his thighs. He stared slack jawed at the floor.

Sandy’s face brightened ever so slightly as she leaned back against her creaking wooden chair and gazed across at Eddie. Bruce studied her, tension flickering in the man’s soft brown eyes like aurora borealis. Then the radio reception returned and a throaty, melancholy voice floated into the room.

I can see her lying back in her satin dress/In a room where you do what you don’t confess.

I can picture every move that a man can make/Getting lost in her lovin’ is your first mistake.

The sound was breaking up, Gordon Lightfoot’s gravelly tones weaving in and out of the white noise.

Sundown, you better take care/If I find you been creepin’ round my back stair.

Sandy stared at the sterling silver skull bracelet on her left wrist, tapping her fingers to the beat. Four large rings—one on the pinky and one on the ring finger of each hand—rose and fell. As the song Eddie dedicated to her reached its conclusion, she stretched out her arms to the side until the black turtleneck sleeves showed under her faded denim shirt. Her wrists were thin and white. She stuck her hands into her jeans’ pockets and smiled like it was Christmas and Daddy had just come home.

“Thanks, Eddie,” she said, as the radio crackled. “Nobody ever dedicated a song to me before.”

Garity coughed, grinning wide. “You fuckin’ idiot, Sandy, those aren’t nice things the man’s saying.”

“They ain’t all bad, either, Mickey, honey,” Sandy said. “Least the man shows a little respect.”

“Respect?” Mickey sneered. “You are nuts. Man’s afraid of the bitch. Probably keeps his gun loaded in case she comes creeping around his back stairs. Fuckin’ listen to what he’s sayin’ for the chrissakes.”

“That’s enough respect for this woman, Mickey. And screw you, man; only song anyone’d ever dedicate to you is ‘The Asshole from El Paso.’ Or maybe “I’m a Loser.”

Everyone cracked up except Mickey; he just stared at his fingernails and bobbed his head, eyes turned kind of inward.

Then Eddie said, “I always pay tribute to my former lovers—in some form or fashion,” his eyes darting off into space like he was watching a falling star.

Eddie had mixed thoughts about Sandy Blue. Mixed thoughts, because he wasn’t sure if he had feelings anymore for anything or anybody in the world. He and Sandy had it good there for a while—three and a half years, man. Shit, she was only the third girl he’d ever slept with. Third after sweet Melissa back in high school and that scrawny hippie skank in Frisco gave him the clap in ‘69. With Sandy, he’d felt things he’d never felt before. And somewhere deep inside he might indeed miss her, he wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to think about it. Made him twist inside.

With the music lost to static, the happy group talked real fast and real forgettable about the shit they’d be able to buy with their money. At times they stared into space and said nothing. Other times they smoked and drank and paced around the shack. They went outside and pissed on the snow. Sandy used the outhouse, bringing out a ragged dishtowel to wipe off the seat.

After ten minutes of staring and teeth grinding, Garity said, “Brucie boy, the way you gave up on that booze so easily, I know you got some more shit around here, somewhere. Big lush like you—always got a stash.”

Bruce grimaced, pushed himself out of the chair and stepped over past the stove. Crouching down on one knee, he pried up a loose floorboard and reached down into the resulting hole. Out came a half-gallon of Windsor. Bruce held it up like a prize.

“More Windsor, Bruce?” Mickey croaked, sarcasm dripping like sewage. “I didn’t know you Indians had such high falutin’ tastes. You’re a hell of a guy, Brucie, and I just didn’t know it. Just didn’t fuckin’ know it, man.”

“Lay off of Bruce, Mickey,” Sandy said, “or I’ll tell everyone how small your dick is.” She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, nodding at Garity and mocking with her dark eyes.

“Biggest one you ever had,” Mickey said, “unless you been fucking niggers—which wouldn’t surprise me. Shit, as floppy as your pussy is, you probably fucked a horse somewhere along the line.” He stood up, whinnying and snorting. “Shit, more than once, probably. I’d bet money on it”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Sandy screamed, jumping up and starting toward her shotgun on the bunk bed.

Eddie stopped her, grabbing her around the waist. “All right you two lovebirds, no more kiss and tell.” His jaw was set and his eyes stern. “We need to get along here for a while longer.”

Bruce said, “Yeah, Mickey, I told you to be polite at my grandfather’s cabin.”

“Before you go, man,” Eddie said, “I think we should all empty our shotguns and put the shells in a pile—away from the guns. Just in case, you know.”

The sound of racking pumps chinked the smoky air, the shells making a sharp click when they hit the floor. The bank robbers stood the unloaded fire sticks in the corner by the door, and Eddie gathered up the shells and put them on the white Hudson’s Bay blanket on top of the big bed at the back of the cabin.

Sandy stopped drinking and began pacing around the room like a trapped polecat, smoking constantly, puffing furiously. Bruce was in the little corner that served as a kitchen, leaning on the sink edge with a tin cup of whisky in his hand and staring out the frosty window at the blackness. Off to the north, stars were popping out. Garity was at the poker table playing rapid-fire solitaire with one of the many sticky, worn decks he’d found in a woven basket on a shelf above the dining table. Occasionally he’d get up to throw some logs in the barrel stove. Eddie spent his time at the back bunk, Camel pinched between his lips, arranging and rearranging his bags and his money, over and over again.

Mickey had shown him how to make cat, a particularly strong and legendary amphetamine product found only in a small region of the north woods, and some of the best and cheapest crank Eddie had ever done. Amazing how you could make something so powerful inside a Clorox bottle while you drove down country roads toking badboys, shit just sloshing around in the backseat. Irish fuck Garity learned how to make it from his chemistry-major cousin. Michigan Tech geek trying to turn on the whole Upper Peninsula to cat in an effort to bypass the criminal element involved in the cocaine trade. Dude thinking he was doing the locals a favor.

So stupid Mickey Garity knew how to make the shit and that’s why Eddie decided to take him under his wing. There was no cooking, no explosions, no sweat. Big profit margin and a lot cheaper than coke. And now take a look at Garity over there, the Irish dick playing solitaire like a goddamn college kid. At least the prick could say something once in a while, like how great Eddy’s plan was or something. Would it hurt him to show some appreciation?

Truth was, Eddie was scared of Mickey. The two of ’em used to be buddies before Sandy came in between. Then, last year, Mickey punched Eddie for slurring Sandy’s rep in public, a cruel irony if there ever was one. Later they patched things up—even hugged one drunken night in the Stray Dog—but Eddie Bovee never forgave anyone anything, sometimes he just forgot for a little while. Someday Eddie would outsmart the ham-fisted Irishman and pay him back in spades for that broken nose.

“I’m getting fuckin’ bored as hell, here,” Garity said, slapping down the cards on the table. “Fuckin’ cabin fever, cha cha cha. I gotta do something.”

“Nah, not poker,” Mickey said. “Maybe I’ll just drink some more.” He grabbed the Windsor off the table, got up and started pacing and tilting back the jug.

Sandy wanted to talk about her speed bust, couldn’t get it off her mind. How the Feds were such assholes. How if she’d done this thing or that thing or not done this thing or that thing or thought of this thing or that thing, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten popped. And how that weird Steve Nelson must have been the snitch. She always had a funny feeling about him. That night in the bar she was watching him, and the way he was twitching and looking around, all nervous and shit, going to the phone all the time—she’d known something was wrong. Of course it could’ve been someone else, but about certain people you just know, you can just tell what they’re about. Like this cousin of hers down in Rhinelander, always telling her fibs when they were kids and expecting Sandy to believe them. But Sandy knew the real shit. Even at that young of an age she was able to see right through silly Amy. Sandy always had this something special, not easy to explain—but she knew things, y’know? Like this one time—this one reminded her of Steve Nelson, too—she was on a visit to Milwaukee, her aunt and uncle’s place in West Allis, and you just wouldn’t believe what happened.

Then Garity farted behind her and she lost her train of thought. She turned her head and shot eye daggers at the offending asshole.

Sandy’s trial was coming up in April. She didn’t plan on attending. Back in July the Feds came down on her for amphetamine possession with intent to distribute, Closed down her bar—The Stray Dog—and put signs in the window saying WARNING: This property has been confiscated by Federal Marshals. They put up this big red, white and blue stick-on badge that said United States Marshal—NO Trespassing.

Eddie was watching her, thinking he almost cared about her, the more he thought about it. Sandy hadn’t ratted him out so she was good people. She hadn’t given up Garity and his clandestine cat manufacturing, either—what the pigs had really wanted—and that’s why Eddie let her in on this deal. So now Eddie figured she might be good for screwing again, since Mickey had dumped her.

Now there was a new vibe in the shack. It was quiet but you could cut the tension with a knife. Eddie was at the table. He was the first one to speak: “How about that poker game, people? Let’s love one another.”

From his spot across the table Garity said, “Jesus Christ, Bovee, you fuckin’ serious? Let’s love one another? You mixing smarm with the Windsor, man? Tell you what, Eddie, I’ll play if Sandy promises to shut the fuck up about whatever stupid shit comes into her mind.”

Sandy had moved her chair against the back wall, next to a small window. “That’s fuckin’ it, goddamn it,” she snarled, rising. “Now I’m going to talk a blue streak about whatever I fuckin’ feel like. Maybe I should tell the story of my love life, such as it is this far along in my tortured existence. Or maybe I’ll just gossip about my friends and former lovers.”

A dark light flickered in Mickey’s eye, “You mean like the time I ate your pussy for three hours and you just lay there like a dead carp? Tasted like it, too?”

“More like three seconds,” Sandy said, looking down at the floor. Then she sprinted across the room and tossed the contents of her cup in Garity’s face. Gasping and sputtering, Mickey dove across the table at her, knocking cups and ashtrays to the floor before grabbing the backs of her thighs with both hands and jerking her crotch to his face. He grunted and snorted as she pummeled his back with closed fists and screamed obscenities. Then Bruce shot across the cabin floor from his spot on a bunk against the west wall, and grabbed Mickey by the arms, muscling him away from Sandy and back into the chair.

Garity didn’t resist much; he was laughing too hard. Laughing so hard he fell onto the floor and lay there in a state near convulsion.

Chuckling strangely, Garity sat up on the floor, his head lolling down towards his chest.

Then it got quiet again. Moods rose and fell like the tides. After a while the tension began to dissipate. These people hung out together all the time; they were used to each other. Used to each other being drunk and disorderly, obnoxious and cruel. Most of the time you forgot everything by the next morning. The way it was around here.

Sensing the moment was right Eddie went out to his snow machine and removed a small leather satchel from the custom saddlebags. Returning to the cabin seemingly refreshed, he watched Mickey Garity stumble around the room, the Irish prick mumbling and flashing between anger and wild-eyed laughter. Bruce stood in the middle of the floor with his arms folded in front of him like a statue. Sandy was back in her chair against the wall, lighting a smoke.

“Y’all need to lighten up in here folks,” Eddie said. “We need to stay a little while longer. We’re safe here. We just need to mellow out, that’s all, get in a groove. The Man must think we skedaddled out of the state by now. Or at least out of the goddamn snowbelt. I got some reds here for y’all—us all. And some great coke that I’ve been saving since my last trip to Madison. We’ll do the reds first, then the toot. Can you get anything decent on that fuckin’ radio, Sandy? Maybe try licking the ends of the batteries or something, the silence in here is starting to get loud.”

They swallowed some reds—at least Sandy and Mickey did. Eddie only pretended to take his, laying one behind his lower lip for a while, like a hunk of chaw, and then when no one was taking notice, spitting the whole mess softly down the inside of his white porcelain cup. Later skulking over to the sink and dumping the liquid down the drain, where below, fated nightcrawlers and centipedes would soon soak up their ticket to the Big Sleep.

Bruce passed on the reds, said they did funny things to him. He’d found that out one night up in Hurley a few years back. Got in this bar fight up there with a bunch of drunken white guys and the cops came. It took six cops to hold him down while the paramedics gave him a hypo of heavy downers and wrestled him into a straightjacket. They put him in the back of the ambulance. Half an hour later he ripped apart the straightjacket and kicked the living hell out of the back of that ambulance. While he was doing his sixty days in the Hurley jail, which was a damn, stinking cesspool, the doctor told him about his rare (less than one percent) reaction to barbiturates: Instead of slowing him down, they sped him up, kicked in his adrenal glands.

Soon the foul foursome became subdued in an ugly, owl-eyed, emotionally drained sort of way. They sat around the table staring at each other. Smoking, drinking and snorting white powder. More white powder then more again, thick as the snow outside. White snow, white powder, white trash. Now and then one or another or three out of four (never all four) would lie down on a bunk and close their eyes while the depressants got a temporary leg-up on the stimulants. Sedatives served as referee. Adrenaline, fear and alcohol laid back and watched the struggle, not too patiently waiting for their time to perform. Smoke from tobacco, pot and firewood saturated the air. Outside the stars were clear and bright in the coal-black sky.

Now there was sound on the radio. In between static-laden songs, they listened to the news about the daring bank robbery of the Mellon State Bank. The robbers were feared to have escaped the area undercover of the storm, the newsman said.

Back in the world, the cops drank coffee, chewed their fingernails and waited for the plows to do their work. Sheriff Dennis Bennington was busy. Busy taking calls from reporters, cops and crackpots, and listening to a lot of goddamn hysterical bullshit. At the moment Bennington was on the line with the National Guard and having a difficult time finding anyone with the authority he needed.

In the hazy yellow glow inside the cramped cabin, Eddie sat at the poker table shuffling cards. He liked the sound they made when you thumbed ’em and flipped ’em real fast. Looking up at his partners in crime, all of them stretched out on bunks now, he said, “What about that poker game, y’all? In a few hours it’ll be sun-up, then we can crash out, take a few more reds. Pigs must think we’re in Missouri by now.”

The other three crawled off the bunks like reptiles cracking through eggs and slithered to the table. Sandy’s eyes stared downward, sunken in a death mask. Garity was pale-faced, gaunt and grim, twitching and laughing with a metallic, artificial sound that reminded Eddie of one of those dolls where you pulled a string and got a voice. Bruce was stoic and slit-eyed.

Eddie knew Sandy was starting to break. Her cheeks had no color and her eyes were big and round with little frightened pupils. “Look you guys, I gotta tell you something,” she said, hugging herself and holding on tight. “I’m gonna leave town as soon as I can. I gotta get outta here, this whole fuckin’ place... I won’t let them put me back in there.” She stood up, facing down the other three. “I know we’re supposed to go back to our lives and act like nothing’s happened, but I just can’t do that. Please understand.” Voice trembling, hands wringing in front of her. “I’m going back to my place just before dawn. I’ve got my shit packed. I just gotta go, dudes—that’s all there is to it. I just gotta leave. That’s all, no big thing.”

“You can’t do that, you fuckin’ bitch,” Mickey Garity hissed, snapping out of his slouch. “The deal was, we stay around and act like nothin’ happened, like you said. And now you tell us you’re thinking about fuckin’ leaving?” Turning to Bovee. “Cops’ll track her ass down, won’t they Eddie. She’s a fuckin’ bitch. For sure she’ll talk if they catch her. She’ll—”

Sandy was pacing around the room now, hands jammed in her pockets. “Listen, you dumb fuckin’ redneck...” turning toward Garity, her voice scratchy. “I’ll speak slowly so you can understand. I have a court date in April for a speed bust, duh, remember?” Bellowing now: “DON’T YOU THINK THAT’S A GOOD ENOUGH REASON TO LEAVE TOWN?” She sighed and leaned toward Garity, stared piercingly into his eyes and spoke with the calm of a frozen lake. “Or are you planning on being my fuckin’ lawyer? If that’s the case, I’ll stay around for sure.” Then she put her hands on her hips as her torso jerked like a run-over cat, her eyes tilting back in the sockets.

Eddie said, “Mickey has a point, there, Sandy.” Calmly rubbing his chin, he went on: “What if they chase you? Bail bondsman will be hauling after your ass, y’know. You stay around Mintoc, you can probably beat that ol’ drug rap thing. You got bucks now to grease yourself a solicitor—I think you should reconsider, honey.”

“Reconsider, honey, my ass. What am I supposed to pay the lawyer with, stolen fucking bills from these goddamn bags? I can just fuckin’ see it: Here you go sir, have a handful of twenties. Oh, you prefer hundreds? Just wait a minute while I go to my underwear drawer. I’ve got a shoebox full of hundreds in there. Just have a seat and wait, it won’t take a minute.” Her eyes were narrowed, red where they should have been white. Dried dots of saliva clung to the corners of her mouth. Hysteria and bowels-of-hell anger swam inside her voice: “You assholes don’t UNDERSTAND. I CAN’T STAND BEING LOCKED UP. MY MOTHER USED TO LOCK ME IN THE FUCKIN’ CLOSET—IN THE DARK. I’D SIT IN THERE AND SNIFF MOTHBALLS UNTIL SHE LET ME OUT. SOMETIMES IT WAS HOURS. UNTIL I WAS TOTALLY FUCKIN’ CRAZY. YOU THINK THEY’LL HAVE MOTHBALLS FOR ME IN JAIL? YOU THINK SO?” Gesturing wildly now, hands making random arcing slashes at the sweat-stinking air. “HOW MANY MOTHBALLS DO YOU NEED THIS WEEK MS. BLUE? THREE BOXES? OH. WE’LL GET THEM RIGHT AWAY.” She took a deep breath and straightened herself, her face showing the strain. “YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARDS, I CAN’T BE LOCKED UP. I CAN’T LET THEM—I CAN’T.” Then she collapsed into a chair at the poker table, sobbing, face in hands, fingernails clawing at her hairline.

“Lawyers don’t care where the money comes from, dear,” Garity said. “Shit, a good one could probably arrange for all the mothballs you could huff. You play your cards right—give him some of your famous naked hospitality—he’ll come around.”

“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Eddie said, scratching the top of his head. He forced a thoughtful look, trying to act relaxed, when in fact his neck and shoulders were like steel bands. “Maybe they wouldn’t chase after you for the small amount of shit they found at your bar, honey, but you can bet they’d try and tie you to this job if you got caught on the run. Be a lock, if you vacated the area with the intent of avoid’n adjudication.”

“What the hell you mean, Bovee?” Garity snapped. “You fuckin’ little worm, you’re starting to talk funny. Just look at her.” Pointing his thick, bent-up index finger. “She’s a sniveling fuckin’ mess. Cops pressure her at all she’ll break like window glass.”

Bruce, looking grim but not drunk, said, “You forget, Mickey, that she didn’t rat you out when she got busted. And everyone in town knew the feds were really after you.”

“What fuckin’ town is that, Brucie?” Mickey said. “Kickapoo fuckin’ town? Out where liquor is king and CLEAN is a dirty word?”

“Calm down, Mickey, will you?” Eddie said. “We don’t need no more dissension. Show some respect for the Native Americans, why don’t you.”

“How can I respect something I’m always seein’ when I look down to take a piss?”

“You got dysentery mouth, Mickey,” Bruce said, frowning and turning his head away from the group. “You should listen to what Eddie says.”

Mickey stared at Bruce with wide, wild eyes. ”What is he now, Bruce, your fuckin’ new father? I mean, since your real old man is always shit-faced and sniffing after drunken white pussy, Eddie must be your new father figure. Let me tell you something, big fellow—he’s not old enough. And I’ll tell you right now, you’ve had better daddies in the past—even I know that. Maybe you should go drag your old man out of the bar and tell him that Eddie Bovee is his latest replacement. Don’t think Pop would consider the man a good influence on you—least after today.”

Bruce was silent and tense, his blood boiling. With eyes like black ice, he turned and leveled a death stare at Garity.

Then Sandy said, “Didn’t you tell me your mother was a lush, Mickey?” Sandy was composed now and rubbing her eyes with a red bandana, smearing mascara and sniffling. “You remember that time we did acid out at my place and you started crying for your mommy? You remember now, don’t you? Time you sucked your thumb and cried on my breasts.... A real Irish rose, I think you called her. And I think I remember you saying that she’d bring Indian men home to your trailer when you were little, how you hated hearing them in bed. Might’ve heard you wrong, though—you were crying so much. Jesus, I wonder if Bruce’s old man ever fucked your old lady? Could’ve happened you know....”

“Shut the fuck up you cunt,” Mickey growled, his body coiling. “I’ll cut off your tits and feed ’em to my dogs. You don’t know a fuckin’ thing about my mother. I’ll cut out your fuckin’ tongue and piss on it, you bitch.” He jerked to his feet.

Quicker than anyone could believe, Bruce lunged across the table and slapped Garity in the face. Mickey nearly tumbled over backwards but came out of it and danced across the room to the wall, where he collapsed in a heap on the floor, laughing hysterically.

“Jesus Christ, you guys,” Eddie said, “this is bullshit. Y’all need to calm down, people. And Sandy, honey child, you shouldn’t a dragged ol’ Mickey’s bedroom secrets out like that. Not in front of us men. That just ain’t right. No decent woman’d ever drag a man’s secrets out into the light like that in front of his men friends. Just ain’t right. A woman does that ain’t no damn good for anyone, you hear.” Eddie paused and looked around the room, his jaw muscles working overtime. “Everybody chill out and get into a groove,” he said, hands patting the air in front of him. “Just a little while longer and everything’s gonna be alright. I got a big ol’ bottle of special hootch stashed away, shit the rich peckers drink. Now that we’re all rich, I guess we should enjoy some a that quality sauce. Whattay’all say? Things ’re gonna be heavy when the sun comes up, I promise you that.”

“Just wait a fuckin’ minute, Eddie,” Garity said, suddenly lucid and upright. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell the bitch she’s not leaving here until we do.”

Sandy was pacing again, wagging her finger at Garity. “If I’m stuck here with you, Mr. Limpdick, I won’t be home if the sheriff decides to make a check on my house, now will I? What registers in that hayfield you call a head about that little slice of reality?”

“What’s Bennington gonna think, Sandy?” Mickey said, sliding into a chair and glancing sideways at Bruce, the big man sipping from his cup and glowering. “That you’re out here in the woods bouncing your ass on the big totem-pole here?” Jerking his thumb toward Bruce. “Sheriff don’t know about this place does he Brucie? Mean old sheriff Benny ain’t gonna find us here, is he?”

“No, Mickey, he ain‘t,” Bruce said. “But he might find you all beaten up some day if you don’t knock off the ethnic bullshit.”

Sandy said, “Oh, I do love the strong, silent man. Everyone knows I’ve always had a crush on Bruce, deep down in my heart.”

“Deep down in your black, fuckin’ empty heart, you got a crush on him?” Mickey snorted. “More likely down in the vast catacombs of your bottomless snatch.”

Sandy was no longer anything but defiant. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry, Mickey, you know, if I was never good enough for you. You know what I mean, don’t you? You know what I’m talking about: That night you were sobbing and sobbing for her to come home—remember now? I wasn’t enough for you then was I honey? I can only wish things turned out different. But nothing I ever did was good enough for you.” She started screaming, hysteria twisting her face into a grotesque mask of pain, anger, and rejection, the results of years of hurt at the hands of too many. Sobbing, she picked the ashtray off the table with a jerk of her arm and flung it awkwardly. The black plastic receptacle hit Garity—the man sitting there white-faced and stunned—flush in the chest, sending butts and ashes cascading down the front of Mickey’s black shirt as a powdery, gray mist rose up around his face.

Mickey didn’t move. His eyes glowed deep and black for a few seconds, like a treed badger. Then he laughed a hyena laugh. “Shit, Sandy,” he said. “Everyone here, including you, knows you’re just trying to get even with me.” He smirked. “Nobody here believes that shit. Everybody knows you’re the town punch, the jack pine blowjob queen. We’ve all heard that story about you at that biker party out at Sunset Lake. Bein’ on your knees, and the waiting line and everything—everyone’s heard that story. You’re fuckin’ famous around here, Sandy.”

Sandy pressed her elbows to her sides and squeezed in furiously, teeth clenching together and eyes bulging out, her head tilting up to the ceiling. Out came a noise like a choked-off scream, so primal and so anguished you’d think she just watched her only child murdered. Wrenching sobs shook her and snot ran from her nose. Tears poured from wild, red beams. She hobbled like a wounded cat over to the corner, leaned her back against the wall and crumbled slowly down to the floor. Sitting there for a moment slack jawed, sobbing softly, kind of blubbering, she rubbed her nose with her sleeve. A funny thing, though, the longer she sat there, the calmer she got. After a time the resolve came back in her eyes. She took out that bandana and wiped off her face once more.

Mickey was pacing around the room now, peeking at and studying everyone, but pretending he wasn’t. Eddie was still at the table but off in some special place of his own, chewing on his knuckle. Bruce was pacing around the room nervously, looking tired as the world itself. Silently, Sandy rose up from the floor, dry eyed and tight jawed. “You guys,” she said. “You guys are really something else. The only one who’s nice to me is the only one I haven’t fucked. Let that be a lesson for women everywhere.”

“The only reason Bruce is being so nice to you,” Mickey said, “is exactly that. He’s never had the dubious pleasure of boning you. Don’t you see it? He’d love to bury his Chippewa love sausage in your humungous wigwam.”

Bruce stood, plucked the empty Windsor bottle from the table and cocked it behind his ear, ready for a christening: “I’m gonna fuck you up, Garity.”

But Sandy couldn’t let it ride. She came to the middle of the room and put the pedal to the metal: “Being nice to you guys was my big mistake. You ain’t never had a woman be nice to you before, have you? Any of you. You don’t know how to act. I bet now you think I’m fakin’ this or something. Shit, Eddie, what harm did I ever do to you? I was a good lover. It was good between us. You were as soft and sweet as a woman, but twice as hard. I loved it between you and me. All I ever did was what you guys wanted. I even let Mickey call me momma when he came. Don’t you deny it, Garity. You said lots of stuff that night. Want to hear more?”

Mickey went ballistic: “Shut up you filthy whore. I’ll kill you and feed your rotten ovaries to the dogs.” Then he whipped out the hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt, held it down low, his arm cocked back, and charged across the floor toward Sandy.

Bruce made a fast move to intercept but Bovee kicked a chair out from under the table that raked across th4 big man’s legs and sent him crashing hard to the floor. Sandy ran back to the rear wall, screaming then dodged to the side as Mickey lunged at her with the knife. Garity buried the knife an inch deep in a log and turned to look back at Eddie, Mickey grinning devilishly and gasping for breath.

Sandy pulled something out of her jeans’ pocket. Mace. She let fly and Mickey fell to the floor, coughing and spitting, rubbing his eyes. “Bitch—cunt,” he gasped and choked.

Bruce was sitting up on the floor and watching intently, his shoulders sagging, as Sandy walked purposely over and picked the Windsor bottle from the table. She was just about to crown the writhing Mickey the Prince of Shitholes when Eddie reached under his shirt and lifted out his little secret.

Bullet hit the ceiling above Garity. Chips of wood sprayed the floor and a sulfurous smell spread across the room.

“That’s enough of this scufflin’, folks,” Eddie said. “I ain’t gonna put up with this shit no more. Sandy, you sit down and shut up. This talkin’ like a trashy whore is causing us all pain and suffering. You gotta keep a civil tongue in your head, girl. That ain’t no way for a woman to act. Can’t you see the trouble you’re causin’, here? Sometimes I think you’re what the lord was talking about. I—”

“The lord was talking about me, Eddie?” Sandy’s eyes rolled and her head lolled on her thin neck like an old wino nodding off. She dropped the bottle. It hit the floor with a hollow thud. She kicked at it listlessly, sending it spinning across the floor. “What did the man upstairs say about me, Eddie, I’m anxious to hear? Just can’t wait, don’t ya know,” voice like a foghorn.

“You know—not to pick up fallen women. Leave them lyeth—something like that.”

Garity was convulsing now. Not from the mace but from laughter. He kept mumbling “sleeping dogs,” as he wriggled around on the floor like a lunatic.

But Eddie stayed the course, holding the gun tightly and smiling thinly. “I think y’all need to sleep,” he said. “I’ve got just the thing to send us off to dreamland. Just what we need to get us back on the track. Bruce, hows about you grab that special bottle I left here just for the occasion. Maybe that’ll soothe the ol’ savage beast. Garity, you get back to the table where I can keep an eye on you.” He waved the gun at Mickey.

Bruce stood up and moved slowly into the kitchen area, glancing briefly at the shotguns on the bunk. Mickey straightened himself but didn’t move from the floor. Sandy slumped into a chair at the poker table, any semblance of control gone up the chimney, her head tilting and jerking as her jaw jutted in and out to a manic, spastic rhythm, eyeballs twitching in sync with her head. She was making a sound, pathetic and scary—an incoherent rasp that seemed a thousand years old. At first the rumblings were gruff and inaudible but soon they became clearer:

“He wants the whore to go to sleep, does he? He knows I’ve gotta leave. Can’t stay here... Oooooh no, can’t stay here. But they want me to stay... I never did anything, I didn’t. I can’t stay; he knows it. Everybody knows it. Why can’t I leave? I’m the whore. I’m the slut. I’m the bitch. I’m the cunt. What’d I ever do? Just fucked ’em, that’s all. Just gave ’em what they wanted. Shouldn’t have— noooo... shouldn’t have. But I can’t stay... noooo... gotta go. Really gotta go, Eddie. Love to stay, you know, ha ha. He thinks I’m crazy... Ooooh, yes—me. Ha... ha... me. Oooh no, you can’t do that—can’t do that here, oooh nooo... heh, heh... he thinks I’ll tell his secrets, doesn’t he? Spill the beans—yes—spill the beans all over. Noooo, not me... I’m a good little girl. I won’t tell, I—”

Garity warmed up to this like a snake on a hot rock: “Tell what secrets, Sandy? You can tell ol’ uncle Mickey, baby. It’s okay now. Come on, baby, spill the beans to your old pal Mick.”

“Fuck off, Bovee, you little prick.”

Then Bruce returned to the table and grimly set down a bottle.

Sandy rolled on: “Ha, ha... me. Yes, me. Nooo, not me—couldn’t be. Heh. heh, not me. Huh? What? Who is that? Eddie? No, I won’t tell darling. You can bite me as hard as you want.... Really, it’s okay. You can wear my underwear again, too. I don’t care... I won’t tell. It’s all right, baby—

Eddie lifted the snub-nose and shot her three times in the chest, blowing holes in the blue denim. The chair fell backward and Sandy flopped twitching on the floor like a rag doll torn apart by an angry child. Pools of dark blood seeped from her back and pooled in her hair.

Bruce knelt down and bent over her body, as her last breath jerked out. Muttering, “Jesus, Jesus,” he touched her forehead and closed her eyelids,

Mickey was sitting up straight and whistling softly, eyes alive, head bobbing to a private rhythm.

Eddie stood up and looked at the gun in his hand. Then down at the body. “What the hell,” he shrugged, ears ringing. “She was just a bitch. You know? Mickey... Bruce... shit, now we got an extra share to divide. It’ll be cool, you’ll see....”

“You fuckin’ killed her, you pantywaist faggot,” Garity screamed, swaying side-to-side and rising up like a cobra from a basket. “How could you fuckin’ kill her? I never would have fuckin’ killed her. I was just playing. Goddamnit, Eddie. How could you fuckin’ kill her?”

Eddie yelled, “FUCK YOU, GARITY,” and put a bullet through the middle of the tough guy’s forehead.

Surprise on his face and his brains in the air, Mickey toppled backward and hit the floor with his arms spread out like Jesus on the cross. Then Eddie turned the gun on Bruce, who was kneeling over Sandy, stunned. “Now it’s just you and me, Bruce. I don’t want to kill you but you can bet I will if I have to. If only everyone had drunk from my Mickey Finn booze when I wanted, this wouldn’t have happened. Those pricks just weren’t smart enough. They should have known better—and now they’re dead and their bread is my bread. And I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take yours, too, ol’ buddy. I’ve got needs, you know? If you’ll just swig from this ol’ bottle, every thing will be sweet dreams for a while and I can get on down the road, or river, as it were. I don’t want to shoot you, but I ain’t gonna have you walking around conscious, either. Your choice.”

“Sure, I’ll drink your crapola liquor, Betancourt.” Bruce said with a grim face. “You win.”

“Well, Booger, I was rummaging through your desk at the garage one night. I was there helping you work on an engine for one of the snow machines, remember? You said you wanted me to roll a joint and I was looking for the dope and I found those clippings you keep in that little folder of yours. I guess you forgot where you left it. That’s why I went along on this job. Thought you knew what you were doing, being experienced. That Louisiana job sounded real sweet.”

Eddie was snapping the fingers of his non-gun hand. “And I did know what I was doing, didn’t I? Now I got all the cash and I’m going to dash,”

“Cause you’re white trash,” Bruce said, staying in rhythm and chuckling softly.

Eddie pointed the snub-nose at Bruce with an extended arm, walking slowly toward the cognac bottle and keeping the dark pistol trained on the large man’s chest. It was a special bottle, enough flunitrazepam in it (a tasteless, odorless drug ten times stronger than Valium) to buckle the knees of a herd of elephants. But pachyderms were not Eddie’s concern. Only one large Indian and the approaching daylight troubled him now. He had to get out of here soon, run the Wolf River down to where he had hidden his Wagoneer on a forest road south of Woodruff, just out of the snowbelt. Had to go before sun up, because when the daylight hit the endless fields of snow, a cop in an airplane or a helicopter would spot their snowmobile tracks as plain as Mississippi mud on your mama’s kitchen floor. Follow them right to the cabin about as easy as pie. It just hadn’t snowed enough after the robbery to cover the tracks completely; and the wind had died down a long time ago.

Bruce grabbed the bottle, took a chair at the table and twisted off the top. He drank heavily from the drugged dew.

Eddie said, “Take another hit, Bruce, another one of your kind of swallows. How do you like it so far, big guy?”

“Tastes good, like Courvasier.”

“I ’magine.”

Twenty minutes later Bruce’s head fell forward onto the table, thudding heavily.

Stuffing bundles of banknotes into a sun-bleached canvas satchel, Eddie kept his eyes on Bruce. When the task was completed, Eddie bolted out the door to the snow machines, a touch of blue-gray showing in the eastern sky. The air was crisp and clean and cold. Eddie cranked up the Ski-doo and putted slowly out of the lean-to garage.

And was greeted by the shattering blast of a shotgun, slug smashing through the cowling of the sled and silencing the buzzing engine. Echoe faded in the distance as Bruce moved steadily through the snow toward him.

“Bruce, man, what the hell, you should be dead to the world? Was enough shit in there to—” A look of total bewilderment was spreading on Eddie’s face like a storm cloud across the sun.

“Yeah, Eddie, I should,” Bruce said, approaching the wounded snowmobile, shotgun pointed and ready. “But you can see me—take a good look. Right now, man, I could chop a cord of wood, non-stop—no sweat. I could kick a sixty-yard field goal in a snowstorm. Did I ever tell you I used to be a kicker? No? I could kick it a long way, back when I was in high school—straight on—like Lew Groza. I was good, man. Tried out for the Packers one year, back before you came to town,” He sucked in a deep breath and let his chest expand. “Your downer shit didn’t work on me, Booger. That kinda stuff is a tonic for me, man, something for you to think about after I’m gone. One of life’s sweet mysteries for you to ponder. Where am I going? I’m sure you’re wondering. But that will just have to be my little secret. And I thought you might be thirsty, so I brought you the rest of your fancy booze.”

Whimpering in protest, Eddie choked down the dosed-up liquor. Soon he was sprawled face down and drooling across the seat of the Ski-doo, his boots crow-footed in the snow.

Then Bruce LaFave—soon to be someone else—rode off on the Arctic Cat, singing softly to himself. He’d always wanted to see Arizona and now he had the cash to open up a souvenir shop, sell some turquoise and silver trinkets and check out the roadrunners and the cactus and shit. Maybe start wearing a Navaho blanket.

Got the morning after blues/ from my head down to my shoes/ Carefree highway... gonna slip away on you/ Slip away on you...