and climbed aboard. He fired up the old machine and sat there momentarily. Then he climbed down and walked back to Eugene.
“You son of a bitch,” he said in a quiet voice that roared like a train. “You swore on everything you held sacred that you would never talk about that. You’re a lying son of a bitch.”
“No, I’m not,” Eugene said. “I just don’t hold anything sacred anymore.” He sounded as if he might cry.
A.J. headed for the dozer. Without another word, he left the clearing.
CHAPTER 5
Your coffee killed me.
—Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to
Hoghead Crab, restaurateur
A.J. WAS HAVING A BAD WEEK. EUGENE HAD INITIATED the process on Saturday by reminding him of an incident he had tried to forget. The human mind was a devious organ, however, and it chiseled in stone that which would be best left unrecalled. In fairness to Eugene, he had not dredged a memory that had been successfully entombed. It was always with A.J., coming to him in the quiet moments. Still, Eugene had sworn never to mention it, but mention it he had. In this regard he had proven faithless, and his breach of trust had upset A.J. For Eugene possessed the truth. Of the two of them, one was a killer. Of the two of them, one had beaten two men to death with the Louisville Slugger and had shot a third. Of the two of them, A.J. owned the bat.
Most people never foresee their dates with destiny, and A.J. was no exception on that fateful day years past. He and Eugene had decided to try their luck at a trout stream that ran on the mountain to the north of Sequoyah. Their wives were both out of town, and Eugene and A.J. had decided on a fishing trip to while away the afternoon. Actually, Eugene had proposed another plan, a scenic tour of some of the finer topless clubs of Atlanta. But A.J. vetoed the idea, although it had been touch and go for a moment when Eugene described the Panther Club, a bistro that featured nude interactive water volleyball.
They met early in the day. It was a fine morning, and the air held a hint of summer. They left their vehicles and began the long hike to the trout stream. Eugene carried the rods and a large tackle box. A.J. ferried his bat and a backpack loaded with food and a six-pack of beer. They walked briskly, exchanging easy conversation.
“I can’t believe it,” Eugene said. “We could be chest deep in wet, naked women right now. But no, you want to go on a fishing trip. I can’t believe it.” He sounded disgusted.
“You’re married,” A.J. responded. “If you want wet, naked women, take a shower with Diane.” He swatted the bat at a movement in the leaves beside the trail.
“This is different,” Eugene explained. “A little variety in wet, naked women never hurt anybody. These are nice girls. Girls just working their way through college. Girls helping their sick mamas. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch deal. If you touch, some big guy breaks off your hands and throws you in a dumpster.” He had a patient, instructive tone.
“So we drive to Atlanta,” A.J. recapped, “pay a twenty-five dollar cover charge, rent a bathing suit for another twenty-five, and get in a pool with naked but pure college girls with sick mamas who want to play volleyball?”
“There! Now you’ve got the idea!” Eugene seemed excited.
“Send Diane to college, and then take a shower with her,” A.J. suggested. “Her mama’s already sick.”
“I don’t know why I even try,” Eugene said, disgusted again. “You’re hopeless. Saint fucking A.J. I don’t know why I even try.” He shook his head.
“I’ll take off my shirt while we fish,” A.J. said, “but that’s as far as it goes. If you touch me, I’ll have to break off your hands.”
They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a
“You son of a bitch,” he said in a quiet voice that roared like a train. “You swore on everything you held sacred that you would never talk about that. You’re a lying son of a bitch.”
“No, I’m not,” Eugene said. “I just don’t hold anything sacred anymore.” He sounded as if he might cry.
A.J. headed for the dozer. Without another word, he left the clearing.
CHAPTER 5
Your coffee killed me.
—Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to
Hoghead Crab, restaurateur
A.J. WAS HAVING A BAD WEEK. EUGENE HAD INITIATED the process on Saturday by reminding him of an incident he had tried to forget. The human mind was a devious organ, however, and it chiseled in stone that which would be best left unrecalled. In fairness to Eugene, he had not dredged a memory that had been successfully entombed. It was always with A.J., coming to him in the quiet moments. Still, Eugene had sworn never to mention it, but mention it he had. In this regard he had proven faithless, and his breach of trust had upset A.J. For Eugene possessed the truth. Of the two of them, one was a killer. Of the two of them, one had beaten two men to death with the Louisville Slugger and had shot a third. Of the two of them, A.J. owned the bat.
Most people never foresee their dates with destiny, and A.J. was no exception on that fateful day years past. He and Eugene had decided to try their luck at a trout stream that ran on the mountain to the north of Sequoyah. Their wives were both out of town, and Eugene and A.J. had decided on a fishing trip to while away the afternoon. Actually, Eugene had proposed another plan, a scenic tour of some of the finer topless clubs of Atlanta. But A.J. vetoed the idea, although it had been touch and go for a moment when Eugene described the Panther Club, a bistro that featured nude interactive water volleyball.
They met early in the day. It was a fine morning, and the air held a hint of summer. They left their vehicles and began the long hike to the trout stream. Eugene carried the rods and a large tackle box. A.J. ferried his bat and a backpack loaded with food and a six-pack of beer. They walked briskly, exchanging easy conversation.
“I can’t believe it,” Eugene said. “We could be chest deep in wet, naked women right now. But no, you want to go on a fishing trip. I can’t believe it.” He sounded disgusted.
“You’re married,” A.J. responded. “If you want wet, naked women, take a shower with Diane.” He swatted the bat at a movement in the leaves beside the trail.
“This is different,” Eugene explained. “A little variety in wet, naked women never hurt anybody. These are nice girls. Girls just working their way through college. Girls helping their sick mamas. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch deal. If you touch, some big guy breaks off your hands and throws you in a dumpster.” He had a patient, instructive tone.
“So we drive to Atlanta,” A.J. recapped, “pay a twenty-five dollar cover charge, rent a bathing suit for another twenty-five, and get in a pool with naked but pure college girls with sick mamas who want to play volleyball?”
“There! Now you’ve got the idea!” Eugene seemed excited.
“Send Diane to college, and then take a shower with her,” A.J. suggested. “Her mama’s already sick.”
“I don’t know why I even try,” Eugene said, disgusted again. “You’re hopeless. Saint fucking A.J. I don’t know why I even try.” He shook his head.
“I’ll take off my shirt while we fish,” A.J. said, “but that’s as far as it goes. If you touch me, I’ll have to break off your hands.”
They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a
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