SAFELY BURIED Chapter 22: A Rude Awakening

What the hell? Was I still dreaming? My head felt as tight as a rock. I kept a baseball bat under the bed, but it was on the side where he was standing. I rolled to the other side fast and got up. I was in my shorts. My shirt and pants hung on the doorknob. The clock said 1:44. “What the hell is this?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta talk to you about somethin’,” Martin said.

I yelled across the bed: “Are you drunk?” “What are you doing here? Get out. Go home and sleep it off.”

“As soon as we have a little powwow here.” His words were slurred.

“You must be crazy. How’d you get in here?”

“The door was open.”

“Like hell it was.”

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked. It ain’t safe.” He laughed at his own joke. “Take it easy, Phil. I just want a few minutes of your time. I got somethin’ to say to you. It’s for your own good.”

“Is that a threat, Chuck?”

“No, a course not, Phil. You an’ me—” He hiccupped so hard his head bucked backward. “You an’ me are old pals.”

“You’re soused. Get outta my bedroom.”

My throat felt dry, scratchy, raw. My eyes were tight. Beneath the gritty surface of things, I wondered what he planned to do. If he had wanted to cut my throat, he could have done it already. I needed better locks on the doors.

“What’d you do to your face?” he said.

I wondered if he already knew. Maybe he was the one who had tripped me. “I guess you didn’t understand me, Chuck,” I said. “What I meant was, get your ass out of my apartment. Now.”

He gave me a stupid grin.

The former sheriff was wearing a long-sleeved western shirt, chocolate brown with small white fringe. The ceiling light deepened the crevices in his ruggedly handsome face. His thick arms bulged in his shirt, and his midsection was as flat as mine, though I was less than half his age. His thick gray hair looked like sea waves in blue moonlight.

I went to the door for my clothes. He stiffened as if I was about to attack. Then he relaxed as he watched me pull on my pants. His large head seemed only half real, like a statue coming to life.

I brushed past him into the living room, where the lights were also on, thanks to the uninvited guest. I put on my shirt and left it unbuttoned as I opened the front door. “Good night, Chuck,” I said. “If you have something you want to talk to me about, call me in the morning.”

A cocky grin stayed on his face as he staggered across the room. I thought he was going to leave, but instead he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Phil, you are not very sociable.” With his free hand he grabbed the edge of the door and slammed it shut.

I yanked his hand off my shoulder and shoved him out of my face. He banged into the wall and held up his hands. “Whoa, I didn’t come here to get in a fight with you.” He hiccupped loudly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Phil.” Again the grin. Smug. Superior.

I reached for the door, but he did a quickstep and blocked it with his body. “You’re rude, Phil. You’re not our kind of folks.”

“I’m crushed.”

“I could crush you if I wanted to, but that’s not what I came for.” He laughed again, delighted with himself. “You got any coffee, Phil? I could use a cup of coffee.” He went on chuckling as he crossed the room to the sofa and sat down. Then he leaned forward with his hands folded between his legs. “You know, Phil,” he said, “I’m a guy that believes when somethin’ is botherin’ you, you shouldn’t let it fester. You oughta bring it to a head and lance it. Know what I mean? You ought to get it off your chest.”

“Very admirable.” I inspected the door for damage, but I didn’t find any. Maybe he had come in through the kitchen.

“That’s right,” he said. “Chuck Martin’s a straight shooter. He tells you exactly what he thinks. You always know where you stand with old Chuck.”

“He’ll even break into your house to tell you.”

His eyes began to close, and he tilted forward a few inches before he caught himself and sat up. “I’ve been hearin’ some bad things about you, Phil.” Staring down, he pressed his thumbs together above his interwoven fingers. “Things that could get you in trouble.” He looked up at me. “I’m gonna give you some friendly advice.”

“I don’t need your advice. Go home. Or go back to the bar you came from. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Oh. What are you gonna do if I don’t go, call your friend, Sheriff Eggemann?” The word Sheriff was laced with contempt. “Go ahead, call him. I’d like to put my fist down his goddamn throat.”

“Why don’t you drive over to the jail and check yourself into the drunk tank,” I said. “That’s where you belong.”

“I know you and him are like that.” He held up two fingers squeezed together. “You lick each other’s ass. Your fucken newspaper is what got him elected.” His mood had swung from inebriated glee to drunken rage.

“Gee, I wonder why the paper endorsed Carl Eggemann instead of Chuck Martin,” I said.

“Because your boss is a goddamn communist, that’s why. One a these days he’s gonna get himself tarred and feathered.”

“The Klan will ride again, huh?”

“We could use the Klan these days. That bastard Obama—”

“Oh shut up. I’ve had enough of your crap.”

I took two quick steps and grabbed his right arm. As I pulled him off the sofa, he rose on his own. I was expecting a punch or a kick or a bite, and he threw a wild left at my jaw. I ducked away from it, and his fist grazed my chin. I moved in and drove my fist into his midsection. For a moment he looked startled, confused. He began coughing or choking, and then the contents of his stomach spewed out and splattered the coffee table.

I watched the stinking mess drip onto the floor. I felt like rubbing his face in it.

“You prick,” he said, spitting the remnants of puke off his lips. “You sucker-punched me.”

I was pumped. My fist wanted to pop him again. “You threw the first punch, UpChuck,” I said, violating my own rule about not making puns out of people’s names. Now I had his vomit to clean up. It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have punched the drunk in the stomach.

I pulled him toward the door. I expected another punch to come at me, but none came. His face was white. He looked sleepy and sick. He seemed ready to barf again.

“Outside,” I said. “You did enough damage in here.”

“You’re gonna regret this, you little prick.”

“I don’t think so.” I shoved him out, and he nearly fell off the porch.

“You better watch your back. People are talkin’. They don’t like what you’re goin’ around sayin’ about the Good Shepherd Home.”

“Shut up. You’ll wake up the neighbors.”

“I know who you been talkin’ to—Paula Boofey. That’s what her real name is. It ain’t Paula Henry.”

“Did you figure that out for yourself, or did you read it in the Gleaner yesterday?”

He seemed confused. His eyes almost closed, and he tipped forward. I grabbed his arm and steered him toward the steps.

“You can’t believe a damn word she says,” he mumbled. “She’s a liar. She’s nothin’ but a lyin’ slut.”

“And you’re a drunken pig. Where’s your car?”

He yanked his arm away and teetered down the two steps. He got himself into his car and sat behind the wheel without starting the engine. For several minutes I watched from the porch. It occurred to me that I had never mentioned his name to Grace DeLong. If she had complained to him about me, it showed there was a connection between them and it tended to support Paula’s story about what they had done to her at the home.

When the car did not move, I figured he must have fallen asleep. I went inside to deal with the mess he had made.

A half hour later, while I was dipping a barf rag in the toilet, a rock the size of a softball came flying through the front window. The lumpy orange geode showered pieces of glass all over the living room. I ran out front and saw a car with its lights off speeding away under the trees.