then …” He swept his gaze back down to me and slowly advanced across the table. “Then we don’t get paid. We don’t get nothin’. On the other hand, we just make sure we kill all these goddamn worms and we keep our mouths shut.”
I tried again. “Where’s this meat going?”
Junior turned back around and kicked the carcass again, harder this time, asking Bert, “You think there’s any more of them in here?”
I raised my voice. “Where’s this meat going?”
“Nah. I’d say we got ’em all,” Bert said.
“That’s what I figure too.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted, and slammed the cleaver down on the table. “That steer was sick! There’s something wrong with it! These worms, they—”
“Easy, Archie. Don’t forget, you’re the dog around here.”
I backed away from the table, still clutching the cleaver tightly. “Where’s that meat going?”
Junior sighed, rolled his eyes. “Okay. Okay. If I tell you, you gotta promise not to say nothin’ to nobody. If Fat Ernst found out, hell, he’d have my balls for breakfast.” He lowered his voice.
“Fat Ernst has got some deal where he supplies a little meat to this small outfit that makes cheap, generic dog food. He only does it once in a while. And only when he’s got some extra meat that he can’t sell to customers anymore, ‘cause the meat has gone past the … whaddya call it? The expiration date or something. Better than throwing it away, right?”
I wasn’t sure if I had ever seen Fat Ernst getting rid of anything that happened to age past its expiration date, but I had to admit, it did make sense. It fit Fat Ernst’s do-anything-for-a-buck attitude.
Junior continued. “He wasn’t planning on doing it again for a while, seeing how he was getting low on meat. But since he needs some quick cash, he figured it wouldn’t hurt nobody if me and Bert just picked up a dead steer from Slim. It’s not like that cheap bastard was going to use the meat or anything. So you see? Fat Ernst told us to do it so he could snag a little cash, pay for some booze and better meat and so he could pay you. That’s the only reason, I swear. But don’t tell him I told you, okay?” Junior spread his arms and shrugged.
“It’s up to you. You can either stay all squeamish like some little crybaby and me and Bert, we’ll do the work and get paid, or you can grow some balls and stay with us, get the job done. It’s that simple. Either way, this steer is gonna get butchered. Me and Bert are gonna get paid. That’s all there is to it.” Bert nodded, scrubbing the dried blood off his teeth with his tongue.
Junior looked down at me. “The question is, do you wanna get paid?”
I swallowed, keeping the cleaver tight in my fist. I wanted to tell the Sawyer brothers to go to hell. I wanted to send the cleaver sailing back across the table at Bert. I wanted to walk out of the barn. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to call the health inspectors. I wanted to call somebody, anybody.
But then I remembered Grandma.
If I left now, not only would I not get paid for this job, I probably wouldn’t get any wages at all for the past two weeks. But that wasn’tthe worst that could happen. The worst was that Fat Ernst would happily kick Grandma and me out of the trailer. And then what? Where would we go? Grandma didn’t have the money to move anywhere. Neither one of us had enough money for much of anything.
So I finally looked up, found Junior’s eyes. “Let’s get it over with.”
I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter if I was there or not. The steer was going to get chopped up for dog food, one way or another.
Junior grinned. “Hell, that’s the spirit.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Sharpen those knives, Bert. We got us a steer to butcher.”
I closed my eyes. Now that the decision had been made, I felt my mind going numb. I couldn’t feel my fingers curled around the cleaver, couldn’t feel my
I tried again. “Where’s this meat going?”
Junior turned back around and kicked the carcass again, harder this time, asking Bert, “You think there’s any more of them in here?”
I raised my voice. “Where’s this meat going?”
“Nah. I’d say we got ’em all,” Bert said.
“That’s what I figure too.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted, and slammed the cleaver down on the table. “That steer was sick! There’s something wrong with it! These worms, they—”
“Easy, Archie. Don’t forget, you’re the dog around here.”
I backed away from the table, still clutching the cleaver tightly. “Where’s that meat going?”
Junior sighed, rolled his eyes. “Okay. Okay. If I tell you, you gotta promise not to say nothin’ to nobody. If Fat Ernst found out, hell, he’d have my balls for breakfast.” He lowered his voice.
“Fat Ernst has got some deal where he supplies a little meat to this small outfit that makes cheap, generic dog food. He only does it once in a while. And only when he’s got some extra meat that he can’t sell to customers anymore, ‘cause the meat has gone past the … whaddya call it? The expiration date or something. Better than throwing it away, right?”
I wasn’t sure if I had ever seen Fat Ernst getting rid of anything that happened to age past its expiration date, but I had to admit, it did make sense. It fit Fat Ernst’s do-anything-for-a-buck attitude.
Junior continued. “He wasn’t planning on doing it again for a while, seeing how he was getting low on meat. But since he needs some quick cash, he figured it wouldn’t hurt nobody if me and Bert just picked up a dead steer from Slim. It’s not like that cheap bastard was going to use the meat or anything. So you see? Fat Ernst told us to do it so he could snag a little cash, pay for some booze and better meat and so he could pay you. That’s the only reason, I swear. But don’t tell him I told you, okay?” Junior spread his arms and shrugged.
“It’s up to you. You can either stay all squeamish like some little crybaby and me and Bert, we’ll do the work and get paid, or you can grow some balls and stay with us, get the job done. It’s that simple. Either way, this steer is gonna get butchered. Me and Bert are gonna get paid. That’s all there is to it.” Bert nodded, scrubbing the dried blood off his teeth with his tongue.
Junior looked down at me. “The question is, do you wanna get paid?”
I swallowed, keeping the cleaver tight in my fist. I wanted to tell the Sawyer brothers to go to hell. I wanted to send the cleaver sailing back across the table at Bert. I wanted to walk out of the barn. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to call the health inspectors. I wanted to call somebody, anybody.
But then I remembered Grandma.
If I left now, not only would I not get paid for this job, I probably wouldn’t get any wages at all for the past two weeks. But that wasn’tthe worst that could happen. The worst was that Fat Ernst would happily kick Grandma and me out of the trailer. And then what? Where would we go? Grandma didn’t have the money to move anywhere. Neither one of us had enough money for much of anything.
So I finally looked up, found Junior’s eyes. “Let’s get it over with.”
I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter if I was there or not. The steer was going to get chopped up for dog food, one way or another.
Junior grinned. “Hell, that’s the spirit.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Sharpen those knives, Bert. We got us a steer to butcher.”
I closed my eyes. Now that the decision had been made, I felt my mind going numb. I couldn’t feel my fingers curled around the cleaver, couldn’t feel my
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