seasoned and thinned with meal and there were scoops of coleslaw on top.
J-Bone had come up with a bottle from under the booth and was pouring whiskey over the ice, holding the glass in his lap and looking about cunningly. He slid the bottle partly from the sweatwrinkled bag that held it and checked the level of the contents and slid it back.
We're on that good stuff now, Sut. Here. Have a little drink.
Suttree shook his head, his mouth full of hamburger.
Go on.
No thanks.
J-Bone was looking at him crazily. He leaned a little, as if to lift one leg. His eyes wandered in his head. An enormous fart ripped through the lunchroom, stilling the muted noontime clink of cutlery and cup clatter, stunning the patrons, rattling the cafe to silence. Boneyard rose instantly and took a stool at the counter, looking back wildly. The Greek at his steamtable tottered backwards, one hand to his forehead. Hoghead staggered into the aisle, strangling, his face a mask of anguish and the lady in the next booth rose and looked down at them with a drained face and made her way to the cash register.
Hee, crooned J-Bone into cupped hands.
Goddamn, said Suttree, rising with his plate and glass.
Hurt yourself Jim? called Boneyard past the back of his hand.
Whew, said Hoghead, sitting at the counter. I believe somethin's crawled up in you and died.
The Greek was glaring toward the rear of the cafe. J-Bone, in the booth alone, wrinkled his face. After a minute he climbed out into the aisle. Lordy, he said. I dont believe I can stand it my ownself.
Get away from here.
I'm trying to eat, Jim.
Lord, said J-Bone. I believe it's settled in my hair.
Let's get out of here, said Boneyard.
Suttree looked at the grinning faces. Just a minute and let me finish this, he said.
The interior of the Huddle was cool and dark, the door ajar. They came down the steep street and turned in two by two.
Dont bring no whiskey in here, said Mr Hatmaker, pointing.
J-Bone turned and went out and took the near empty bottle from under his shirt and drained it and threw it across the street where it exploded against the wall of the hotel. A few faces appeared at the windows and J-Bone waved to them and went in again.
The light from the door fell upon the long mahogany bar. A pedestal fan rocked in its cage and huge flies droned back and forth beneath the plumbing hung from the ceiling. Whores lounged in a near booth and light in dim smoked palings sloped in through the dusty windowpanes. Blind Richard was sitting at the corner of the bar with a mug of beer before him and the wet duck end of a cigarette smoldering in his thin lips, his blownout eyeballs shifting behind squint lids, his head tilted for news of these arrivals. J-Bone walloped him on the back.
What say, Richard.
Richard unleashed his wet green teeth in the semidark. Hey Jim. I been lookin for you.
J-Bone pinched his sad dry cheek. You sly rascal, you found me, he said.
Suttree tapped him on the elbow. You want a fishbowl? Give us three, Mr Hatmaker.
At a table in the rear a group of dubious gender watched them with soulful eyes. They tucked their elbows and their hands hung from the upturned stems of their wrists like broken lilies. They stirred and subsided with enormous lassitude. Suttree looked away from their hot eyes. Mr Hatmaker was drawing off beer into frozen bowls. Suttree handed back the first of them beaded and dripping and dolloped with thick foam. Richard's nose twitched.
How are you, Richard?
Richard smiled and fondled the facets of his empty mug. He said that he was only fair.
Well, said Suttree, give us one more. Mr Hatmaker.
Watch old Suttree spring, said Hoghead.
You want a Coca-Cola?
What for? Jim drank all the whiskey didnt he?
Ask Jim.
Here you go Richard.
Looky here, said Jim.
What?
Look what's loose.
They turned. Billy Ray Callahan was standing in the door smiling. Hey Hatmaker, he said.
Mr Hatmaker raised his head, whitehaired and venerable.
Is Worm
J-Bone had come up with a bottle from under the booth and was pouring whiskey over the ice, holding the glass in his lap and looking about cunningly. He slid the bottle partly from the sweatwrinkled bag that held it and checked the level of the contents and slid it back.
We're on that good stuff now, Sut. Here. Have a little drink.
Suttree shook his head, his mouth full of hamburger.
Go on.
No thanks.
J-Bone was looking at him crazily. He leaned a little, as if to lift one leg. His eyes wandered in his head. An enormous fart ripped through the lunchroom, stilling the muted noontime clink of cutlery and cup clatter, stunning the patrons, rattling the cafe to silence. Boneyard rose instantly and took a stool at the counter, looking back wildly. The Greek at his steamtable tottered backwards, one hand to his forehead. Hoghead staggered into the aisle, strangling, his face a mask of anguish and the lady in the next booth rose and looked down at them with a drained face and made her way to the cash register.
Hee, crooned J-Bone into cupped hands.
Goddamn, said Suttree, rising with his plate and glass.
Hurt yourself Jim? called Boneyard past the back of his hand.
Whew, said Hoghead, sitting at the counter. I believe somethin's crawled up in you and died.
The Greek was glaring toward the rear of the cafe. J-Bone, in the booth alone, wrinkled his face. After a minute he climbed out into the aisle. Lordy, he said. I dont believe I can stand it my ownself.
Get away from here.
I'm trying to eat, Jim.
Lord, said J-Bone. I believe it's settled in my hair.
Let's get out of here, said Boneyard.
Suttree looked at the grinning faces. Just a minute and let me finish this, he said.
The interior of the Huddle was cool and dark, the door ajar. They came down the steep street and turned in two by two.
Dont bring no whiskey in here, said Mr Hatmaker, pointing.
J-Bone turned and went out and took the near empty bottle from under his shirt and drained it and threw it across the street where it exploded against the wall of the hotel. A few faces appeared at the windows and J-Bone waved to them and went in again.
The light from the door fell upon the long mahogany bar. A pedestal fan rocked in its cage and huge flies droned back and forth beneath the plumbing hung from the ceiling. Whores lounged in a near booth and light in dim smoked palings sloped in through the dusty windowpanes. Blind Richard was sitting at the corner of the bar with a mug of beer before him and the wet duck end of a cigarette smoldering in his thin lips, his blownout eyeballs shifting behind squint lids, his head tilted for news of these arrivals. J-Bone walloped him on the back.
What say, Richard.
Richard unleashed his wet green teeth in the semidark. Hey Jim. I been lookin for you.
J-Bone pinched his sad dry cheek. You sly rascal, you found me, he said.
Suttree tapped him on the elbow. You want a fishbowl? Give us three, Mr Hatmaker.
At a table in the rear a group of dubious gender watched them with soulful eyes. They tucked their elbows and their hands hung from the upturned stems of their wrists like broken lilies. They stirred and subsided with enormous lassitude. Suttree looked away from their hot eyes. Mr Hatmaker was drawing off beer into frozen bowls. Suttree handed back the first of them beaded and dripping and dolloped with thick foam. Richard's nose twitched.
How are you, Richard?
Richard smiled and fondled the facets of his empty mug. He said that he was only fair.
Well, said Suttree, give us one more. Mr Hatmaker.
Watch old Suttree spring, said Hoghead.
You want a Coca-Cola?
What for? Jim drank all the whiskey didnt he?
Ask Jim.
Here you go Richard.
Looky here, said Jim.
What?
Look what's loose.
They turned. Billy Ray Callahan was standing in the door smiling. Hey Hatmaker, he said.
Mr Hatmaker raised his head, whitehaired and venerable.
Is Worm
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