peeked over the top of the newspaper at
Oyster who was mumbling under his breath. Early grinned and elbowed
Oliver in the ribs, then pointed to Oyster. Oliver grinned too.
“You lost too, Oyster,” Early said again.
“Like hell. I didn't bet on that man's
outcome.”
“You sure?”
“I'm damn sure. One thing I'm not is senile.
You say he got ten to twenty?”
“That's what the paper says. He got off on
account of it being a crime of passion.” Before Early could utter
another syllable, Bell went off.
“Ever heard the sound of an M-79 rocket
launcher! Do I have to draw a picture for you? We are all like
lambs in a field, disporting ourselves in the eye of the butcher
who chooses one, then another, for his prey.”
Oliver kept his nose in the sports section of
the newspaper; his concentration countered the uneasiness he felt
while Bell was reliving his past.
“Ain't it the truth, Bell?” Peabo said, as
insouciant as a wink.
“I'm not saying I shouldn't have come to jail
for doing what I did,” said Oyster. “That's not what I'm saying.
I'm saying a crime of passion's not first degree murder and mine
was a crime of passion. Mr. Priddy.”
“Oliver.”
“Okay. Oliver. How do you define first degree
murder?”
“I don't know much about the law,” Oliver
said, “but I know that first degree murder has to do with
premeditation.”
“Exactly! And I didn't plan a damn thing! I
came home from work and found what I found and then I snapped. It
was a crime of passion. You tell me how that's first degree murder,
Mr. Oliver, and I'll never say another word about my case as long
as I live:
“I remember it was a Friday 'cause we got
paid that morning and the boss sent us home early that afternoon on
account of there wasn't any work in the shop. When I got home there
was a note taped to the back door from my wife Shirley. See,
Shirley wasn't counting on me being home until around 5:30. That's
when I usually came in from work. She was planning on stepping out
early that night and didn't plan on being home when I got there.
'Oyster,' the note said. 'Your good-for-nothing monkey shit on my
sofa for the last time. His brains are in the kitchen sink. You may
want to eat them so you can have some of your own. Love, Shirley
Bey.' Boy, I swear she was the most sarcastic woman I ever
knew.
“Anyway, I opened the back door and stepped
into the kitchen and sure enough there was my marmoset, Duke,
laying in the sink with the top of his head cut off. His brains
were floating in a Tupperware bowl. Shirley's electric carving
knife was still plugged in and sitting on the counter. Blood and
bones were splattered all over the walls, the cabinets, the
ceiling. I had to clear my head so I sat down at the table. I
wasn't crying or nothing, I was just shocked out of my mind. It
wasn't like losing a dog that was loyal and loving for a lot of
years and then up and dies. It wasn't like that at all. I'd won the
damn thing in a card game and was looking to get rid of it anyway,
only I was counting on turning a profit. So, I was sitting there
thinking about what could have made her lose her mind and that's
when I heard what sounded like a blues record playing in the back
bedroom. I didn't know if it was Shirley or a burglar, so I took
out my little .38 and tip-toed down the hall. My bedroom door was
ajar when I got there and it only took one look to see it wasn't no
burglar or blues record I was hearing. It was Shirley Bey singing
and moaning under the high-yellow Blue Sheen Cosmetics lady. I
stood there for a minute as frozen as a lawn jockey watching the
two of them writhing and moaning all over my king-sized bed. The
police said I fired all six rounds; I don't remember firing one.
All I remember is standing there blinking and squinting, you know
the way you do when you're coming out of a bad dream? Only this
wasn't no dream. One of the bullets passed right through Shirley's
left eye. That yellow bitch was hit twice, but she lived to
Oyster who was mumbling under his breath. Early grinned and elbowed
Oliver in the ribs, then pointed to Oyster. Oliver grinned too.
“You lost too, Oyster,” Early said again.
“Like hell. I didn't bet on that man's
outcome.”
“You sure?”
“I'm damn sure. One thing I'm not is senile.
You say he got ten to twenty?”
“That's what the paper says. He got off on
account of it being a crime of passion.” Before Early could utter
another syllable, Bell went off.
“Ever heard the sound of an M-79 rocket
launcher! Do I have to draw a picture for you? We are all like
lambs in a field, disporting ourselves in the eye of the butcher
who chooses one, then another, for his prey.”
Oliver kept his nose in the sports section of
the newspaper; his concentration countered the uneasiness he felt
while Bell was reliving his past.
“Ain't it the truth, Bell?” Peabo said, as
insouciant as a wink.
“I'm not saying I shouldn't have come to jail
for doing what I did,” said Oyster. “That's not what I'm saying.
I'm saying a crime of passion's not first degree murder and mine
was a crime of passion. Mr. Priddy.”
“Oliver.”
“Okay. Oliver. How do you define first degree
murder?”
“I don't know much about the law,” Oliver
said, “but I know that first degree murder has to do with
premeditation.”
“Exactly! And I didn't plan a damn thing! I
came home from work and found what I found and then I snapped. It
was a crime of passion. You tell me how that's first degree murder,
Mr. Oliver, and I'll never say another word about my case as long
as I live:
“I remember it was a Friday 'cause we got
paid that morning and the boss sent us home early that afternoon on
account of there wasn't any work in the shop. When I got home there
was a note taped to the back door from my wife Shirley. See,
Shirley wasn't counting on me being home until around 5:30. That's
when I usually came in from work. She was planning on stepping out
early that night and didn't plan on being home when I got there.
'Oyster,' the note said. 'Your good-for-nothing monkey shit on my
sofa for the last time. His brains are in the kitchen sink. You may
want to eat them so you can have some of your own. Love, Shirley
Bey.' Boy, I swear she was the most sarcastic woman I ever
knew.
“Anyway, I opened the back door and stepped
into the kitchen and sure enough there was my marmoset, Duke,
laying in the sink with the top of his head cut off. His brains
were floating in a Tupperware bowl. Shirley's electric carving
knife was still plugged in and sitting on the counter. Blood and
bones were splattered all over the walls, the cabinets, the
ceiling. I had to clear my head so I sat down at the table. I
wasn't crying or nothing, I was just shocked out of my mind. It
wasn't like losing a dog that was loyal and loving for a lot of
years and then up and dies. It wasn't like that at all. I'd won the
damn thing in a card game and was looking to get rid of it anyway,
only I was counting on turning a profit. So, I was sitting there
thinking about what could have made her lose her mind and that's
when I heard what sounded like a blues record playing in the back
bedroom. I didn't know if it was Shirley or a burglar, so I took
out my little .38 and tip-toed down the hall. My bedroom door was
ajar when I got there and it only took one look to see it wasn't no
burglar or blues record I was hearing. It was Shirley Bey singing
and moaning under the high-yellow Blue Sheen Cosmetics lady. I
stood there for a minute as frozen as a lawn jockey watching the
two of them writhing and moaning all over my king-sized bed. The
police said I fired all six rounds; I don't remember firing one.
All I remember is standing there blinking and squinting, you know
the way you do when you're coming out of a bad dream? Only this
wasn't no dream. One of the bullets passed right through Shirley's
left eye. That yellow bitch was hit twice, but she lived to
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