Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
Ten miles down the road a small prairie town popped up. On the main street of that town was a hillbilly-looking bar called the Coyote’s Breath. A couple of dozen pickup trucks were parked in the vicinity together with a smattering of cars and a handful of motorcycles. One of those pickup trucks was white with a black tailgate.
River drove by slowly.
The place had no windows but the door was propped open.
The interior was long and narrow. A bar ran down the right wall. The stools were filled with rough-looking drunks fondling brown bottles.
“Did you see ’em?”
January shook her head.
“No, but I can smell ’em.”
River did a one-eighty, circled back and scoped it a second time before pulling over at the end of the drag three blocks down and killing the engine.
“I’m not sure exactly how to do this,” he said.
“Let’s forget it.”
He grunted.
“That’s not an option.”
She tugged on his arm.
“If you go in there you’re dead,” she said.
He kissed her and said, “Stay here.”
“River, no!”
He already had the door open.
“I’ll be back.”
A louder and louder thunder pounded in his chest as he headed up the street.
He had no gun.
He had no knife.
He had no club.
When he got to the door he took a deep breath, crossed his chest and stepped in. A jukebox somewhere near the back was spitting a hillbilly twang from crumby speakers. The air was thick with smoke and stale beer. The floor was scuffed linoleum, buried with butts and peanut shells.
River got onto the bar, grabbed a bottle of beer and smashed it on the edge of the counter.
Every face turned.
“Who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Noise broke out.
“Looks like we got ourselves a girl,” someone said.
“A fag is more like it.”
“Hey, baby, you want to choke on a big one?”
River gave the closest guy a warning look.
“I said, who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Eyes turned to two men in the back standing next to the pool table with cues in hand.
One of them said, “Why the hell do you care?”
“Is it yours?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
River hopped down and headed for him.
The bodies separated in front and closed in behind.
River got face to face with the man.
Their eyes were the same height.
He was a lot bigger close up.
“Is that your pickup truck?”
“Maybe. What’s your problem, girlie?”
“You forgot to do something,” River said.
He looked around. The faces were quiet. “I forgot to do something,” he told everyone. Back to River, “So what did I forget to do exactly?”
“You forgot to cut your dick off,” he said. “That’s the proper etiquette after you rape someone. You cut your dick off and give it to ’em for a souvenir.” He tossed the broken bottle onto the pool table. “You can use that.”
Someone said, “Jesus, Jackson. Did you rape someone?”
“Hell no. He’s making it up.”
“Do it,” River said. “Do it now. Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”
The man stepped back, slowly with a confused smile on his face, as if pondering the next thing he would say. Then he exploded in a motion that brought the thick end of the cue swinging with full force at River’s face.
River jerked.
He was fast.
The stick was faster.