Starkville: Bull’s Eye!, Chapter One

My name is Ben Urich.

I’m a newspaper man.

Nearly a month ago I approached thirteen years of employment at the New York Tribune, where I started as a yeoman and wrote my way up the rungs of the organization. I departed an editor with a weekly column and countless bylines.

In many ways a heartbroken editor, nonetheless an editor at the greatest newspaper in the country.

While my dear friend and mentor, Horace Greeley, focused on his political ventures and in conjunction with the transitional period of Whitelaw Reid assuming control of the Tribune, I began a correspondence with railroad mogul and inventor A.E. Stark. The well-written if not self-serving Mr. Stark extended invitation to me to begin a newspaper, initially to be funded by his wealth, in his developing community of Starkville.

I began packing upon receipt of the aforementioned telegram. It would be no less than fair to describe Mr. Stark as a man who doesn’t ask twice. I accepted with the exception my departure from New York be delayed until Mr. Greeley’s passing.

I spent this past tenth annual Thanksgiving Day with Mr. Greeley, sharing cranberry sauce and odd glances. He died the following  evening, unaware of who I was or of his own existence. Yet he managed in his final hours to carry six of thirty-seven states in his run for presidency of the United States.

I then followed Mr. Greeley’s advice. I went West.

*     *     *

His name is Ben, too. At least that’s what he told me.

He is not a newspaper man. He is a killer.

I reported during the war between the Union and the Confederacy. I familiarized myself with the mortality of man. Those four years were as close to hell as we may ever come.

Luckily for mankind, there isn’t time enough in the world for all its people to make Ben’s acquaintance.

My occupation instilled in me the ability to detach emotionally when appropriate. Ben, on the other hand, is simply and entirely detached. If he has an emotion other than the instinct to inflict terminal harm, he hides it behind darting, icy eyes and a satisfied sneer.

Ben is as cold-blooded as one comes. He could step into a room and the lanterns would snuff out in fear.

“Including that sheriff, I reckon that tallies four.”

That was Ben’s response to my how many he had killed. He was smiling.

“I meant in total,” I said.

He laughed. It echoed throughout the cell he sat in and the neighboring two in the jail of the now-deceased Sheriff Reilly. The short cackle awoke Deputy Jack Monroe from his nap, and he fell back asleep as the reverberation dissipated.

“Ain’t no tellin, Mr. Urich,” he said.

“Ben.”

He raised an eyebrow as if awaiting my next inquiry.

“You can call me Ben,” I said.

The jailed man approached the bars between us. It was a slow and methodical endeavor. His eyes alternated between me directly ahead and the cigarette he was rolling.

“Funny thing,” he said. “Wasn’t that sheriff whose neck I put an arrow through named Ben, too?”

I nodded.

“Where did you learn to throw one like that?” I said.

His gaze was afar, like he was reliving the moment. I noticed the slight tension in his arm. Reality returned to him in seconds.

“Got a match?” he said.

I lit the cigarette he poked through the bars.

“Ain’t that just the story,” he said.

A Companion Proper

I been by your side since the day you stole me from that outlaw –
Jebediah Thompson –
who only used me like some sort of youngster’s toy,
orderin me out and spinnin me around, grippin tightly,
provin his prick was worth his talk.
But you,
you never shown me off, and not in no ignorant way,
just that you’re casual about it, is all.
Sometimes your hand will brush against my butt
and in those wordless moments
I know just what to do.

Remember when them Injuns was all hopped on that mescal
round the time we got the news
bout Custer gettin himself killed
and them savages was celebratin and causin a ruckus
and that deputy sheriff boy come over
pale as a hen’s hindquarters
and asked could you go over to the saloon
and straighten the situation out?
Diplomatically, I recall he called it,
and you said “sure” and you’d have to fetch your girl
and you sweet-talked me and rubbed me with oil
in just the right places,
whisperin to me all the while.

They was half a dozen of them with eyes glazed
and ox-blood war paint on they faces
starin at you and you stared at them and nodded
and they seen me by your side and one smiled
and gulped his liquor and set his glass on the bar.
He wasn’t the biggest of the bunch but
damn near about so, and you said,
“Fellas, gone need you to finish your drinks
and saddle up and head out.”
The grinnin one laughed and they all laughed
And this young’un with a feather in his headband
came at you a’running and you shot him.
His head went backward before he fell on his back,
his third eye red and toward the ceiling
and the Injuns looked at him and looked at you
and hell rose from neath those mountains
And set itself tidy in that there saloon.

That deputy sheriff boy come in and lost breakfast
on account of all that blood on the walls
and puddles of it on the floor
and him addin to it didn’t make it much a prettier sight
and you told him you would wait for me –
you called me “Missus” to folks –
to cool down from the excitement and tuck me in
and help clean up once you were done
and had a few shots yourself to numb the feelin
of takin men’s last breaths.
I remember you stood at the bar and ordered mescal,
one for each of them you shot dead.

You always had a way of kissin me certain
on the ridge atop my openin.
Ain’t never took me for granted in all those days
and I reckon you never would
and tonight was testament to that assumption
as I felt the whiskers of your mustache brush over me
and you oiled me in your careful nature
and held me whisperin in that quiet voice
you used even to all them you killed.
You smiled in that lovin’ly way you do
and you brought me close to you.
I inched toward you in all shy manner,
clean and ready and abidin,
and touched your temple soft-like,
and for the first time since you shot that outlaw –
Jebediah Thompson –
I kissed back.

Epitaph for Mr. Malloy

Sorry, Moose.
She played you for
a sap. She got Amthor
to pump me full of dope
so I wouldn’t leak her
secret. You big lug.
You had to press the
issue, didn’t you?
It wasn’t your fault.
The blood is
on her hands. And
it won’t wash
off with lye. Her
lies died with
her. Unfortunely,
you did too.

This poem was inspired by the 1944 motion picture “Murder, My Sweet.” The movie is an adaptation of the novel “Farewell, My Lovely” by Raymond Chandler.

Set Adrift, Epilogue

James,

These past two years without you would have torn me to pieces if I didn’t find out what happened to you. Instead of sitting and sulking, I investigated. At first, I thought you may have just left. I know you were a free spirit (you don’t know how much that word just hurt to write) and could have decided it was time to start elsewhere. If I took myself out of the equation, and you always did say selfishness blinds, I figured  you wouldn’t leave without finishing class or saying goodbye to Rhonda. I know how much she meant to you for so long, and she loved you like a son. I waited for you to come through the kitchen’s swinging doors every time I was at her restaurant.

When the pieces finally fell into place, I knew I’d have to avenge your death life somehow. None of it was easy. Not emotionally. Not physically. How was I going to plan?

I contacted Luke, since I knew he’d be the most likely to help of the three. My dad wasn’t an option. Vince is the scum of the earth. Luke told me he was called to help with… After my dad hit you, he showed up. Luke explained he owed a favor to my dad Charlie, so that’s why he showed.

He told me what happened.

I worked with Luke to talk Charlie into a kind of reunion. I wanted it to come full-circle on him. Luckily for us, Charlie agreed and that part was in tact.

Then I had to contact some girlfriends for the Vince part. I sent Katie to the bar he frequents. She slipped a couple roofies in his beer and left while he was in the restroom. Vaughn, there for Katie’s protection until she got a ride home, stayed for a while. He told the bartender to call a cab for Vince, paid and waited for Vince to leave. Vince was dropped off at his house, where Esther went to work.

His criminal history shows Vince has multiple drug offenses. Esther planted roofies in his cabinet so there wouldn’t be a question of why they were in his system. She also gave him mild doses of heroin throughout the night and left the evidence for the amusement of the cops.

Luke’s biggest obstacle was getting Charlie to Vince’s. He was towing the boat with Charlie’s body in it. He had to drop it off at Vince’s in time not to be caught. Esther left and called the police, so Luke didn’t have a huge window of time. He succeeded and I haven’t heard from him since.

The execution of it all (for lack of a better term) was the easiest part. The hardest part was is knowing I can never have you back. I’ve written you so many of these letters. I’ve burned them. I’ve tossed them from bridges. It’s therapeutic, but it’s not a remedy.

I’ll always miss you. You may not approve of what I did, but you aren’t here to be the logical one anymore, my light.

I love you.

Always,

Mona

*     *     *

Mona held the lighter to the letter’s corner until it singed and eventually went up in a gold flame. She dropped the remaining ashes in the river and watched them float downstream for a few seconds. She started the boat’s motor and headed upstream, the setting sun poking through the brush on her left.

Set Adrift, Part Six

The humidity had subsided the better part of an hour ago, but the silence in the air weighed heavily on the johnboat and its two-man crew. The surface of the still river reflected the unsaid, and Charlie appeared unaffected with his eyes lazily shut and a cigarette planted between his dry lips.

Luke finished another can of beer, crushed it and tossed it on the deck. He opened the cooler and brought out the whiskey.

“Let’s kill this bottle,” Luke said.

*     *     *

Pounding.

His head was pounding. It took Vince considerable effort to open his eyes. His nose was stuffed, and he gasped for breath. And there was the pounding.

No, the pounding was coming from outside. Outside the room. The front door?

Vince sat up, clutched his chest as if his heart was spilling out.

Pounding.

“Vincent Pettigrew.” A voice on the other side of the front door. “We have a warrant.”

*     *     *

Charlie opened his left eye and aimed it at the bottle. “Reckon so.”

Luke took down a couple shots in a single gulp and stretched the whiskey to the other man. Charlie flicked his cigarette overboard, sat straight and accepted the handle.

“Well,” Luke said as Charlie drank, “bout time I told you.”

Charlie paused with the spout of the bottle at his mouth. He simultaneously and slowly lowered it as he turned toward the business end of a Sig Sauer pistol in Luke’s gloved hand.

*     *     *

Esther returned the syringe to its kit, zipped the kit and stowed it in her carry all. She surveyed the room and traced her steps to assure everything was as set as planned.

The spoon and dirty needle lay on the nightstand beside the man’s bed. The narcotics would wear off long before the Rohypnol. Vince would barely remember last night. Not that it would matter. He had no contact with Esther leading to being drugged.

She went out the back door and left the house wearing baggy clothes, sunglasses and a baseball cap over the hairnet. She walked several blocks before stashing the disposable gloves and hairnet into her bag. From a payphone at a convenience store about a mile away, she dialed a number.

“Hey,” she said. “Come pick me up.”

*     *     *

Luke wrapped Charlie’s corpse in the tarp that lined the deck. Not once on the fishing trip did Charlie question the decor of the johnboat.

Luke hitched the boat to his pickup, assured the trailer’s lights worked and got into the truck. He adjusted the rear-view. His eyes were distant. He focused on the reflection of the river for a moment. It was stoic. It held no judgment.

He turned the ignition.

*     *     *

Luke’s stomach was in knots when he opened the front door. He tiptoed down the hall and arrived at Vince’s bedroom. Vince lay asleep on the mattress, a syringe and spoon by his side.

Luke placed the pistol in Vince’s hand with his own gloved one. He wrapped Vince’s index finger around the trigger and helped the limp digit squeeze until a shot was fired through the open window. Powder burns, Mona had told him.

He disarmed Vince and left the bedroom. He opened the cupboard underneath the sink and set the gun inside.

*     *     *

Luke drove north. He had no destination and little worry. Whether he got away with it didn’t matter. Justice was served. He would always be a prisoner to his guilt, anyway.

He heard sirens. They were southbound. They sped by in the opposite direction, likely destined to give Vince the rudest awakening of his life.

Set Adrift, Part Five

Mona swore off mascara the week after James disappeared.

It was bad enough her period hit two days later. She labored through the days interning at the insurance company and was physically and mentally exhausted by the time she left her night classes at the community college. It became more of a routine wiping the streaks off her face than applying it to her lashes.

Pillow cases were discarded. Mirrors were broken. The metal drum in the back yard contained the ashes of tampons, tissues, unused makeup, glass shards and shattered dreams.

Sixteen month passed since James split town without warning. The wound never healed, but it was treated often with equal doses of distraction and curiosity. When Mona dated, it was casual and in group settings. She rarely spoke of the love she lost. Instead, she listened. She nurtured what began as blame and transformed it into an awareness of her periphery.

Mona stopped by RC’s once a week. Sometimes for lunch. Sometimes for dinner. Sometimes for socializing. Always for answers.

It was her conscious effort to keep the conversations light. She refused to pry. She once overheard Lewis at the firm use an analogy about selling life insurance.

“It would behoove one in sales,” Lewis said, “to master the art of lock-picking as opposed to operating a battering ram.”

Mona kept a journal of exchanges she had or overheard at RC’s and other places James had frequented. She shared beauty tips with Rhonda. She discussed the Heat’s playoffs chances with Pierre. When the topic of James arose, it was the same old song.

“It’s tearin his mama apart that boy ain’t around,” Rhonda would say. “Heard she turns her TV off when our commercial comes on.”

Pierre acted dismissive but couldn’t conceal the concern in his eyes from Mona.

“That knucklehead don’t know what he missin,” he would say. “Fine woman like you left all worryin. You keep checkin that mailbox a yours. He be sendin you a plane ticket one day soon.”

Mona’s cell phone rang. It was Esther. She closed her journal and placed it under her mattress.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Mona said.

“Happy twenty-first, bitch!” Esther said. “I’m coming to kidnap your hot ass in a half hour. You better be ready. This limo is coming out of next week’s check.”

Mona assured her friend she would be prepared, hung up after a few minutes of chit-chat and tossed her phone on her bed. She dropped the towel wrapped around her slender frame and stood in front the mirror on her door. Her dark tresses, still damp, fell onto shoulders that shrugged away the weight of burden.

I won’t be broken, she to herself. This is the day. This is my day.

She opened her closet and lifted her favorite dress from its hangar. It was red, spaghetti-strapped, cut mid-thigh and had a deep cleavage. She slipped it on and walked to her dresser.

Mona picked up the folded piece of paper with the phone number on it. She studied the number for a moment, turned and went for her phone.

She dialed the number.

“Hi,” she said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Mona? Charlie’s daughter? It’s my birthday, and I have something very important to ask you, Luke.”

Set Adrift, Part Four

The last customers of the night were finishing their crab legs, collard greens and custards when James slid out the back door of Rhonda’s Crab Shell — RC’s to the locals — with two cans of garbage. Save for the remaining two tables, he finished his side work in the dining room, so keeping busy while giving the kitchen staff a hand wasn’t a big deal. Though RC’s had a deck James had spent twelve-hour shifts on, it was still a relief to breathe the open air. Never mind the two Dumpsters filled with seafood scraps.

It also freed a moment for James to turn on his cell phone and check his text messages. Mona knew he didn’t often check his texts and was conservative about sending them. A joke here or there. A random sweet line or sexy picture now and then. James usually bypassed texts from others in these brief occasions and saved them for his post-shower recliner-and-a-beer wind down.

The only message from Mona was a lyric from a pop song, but there was a missed call from her. James tossed the bags of trash into the container, powered down his cell phone and went back into the restaurant.

“Thanks for taking that out, dog,” Pierre said as James replaced the can in the dish-washing station.

“No thing,” James said. “You peep that Heat game last night? Wade was crackin ankles like Kathy Bates in Misery, son.”

“Dude’s a bad boy,” Pierre said. “How’s that designin goin? You own Google yet?”

James washed his hands in the sink and laughed. “I don’t even own my car, P. Got a semester left then trying to transfer.”

“Where you going?”

“I want out of Florida,” James said. “Thinking about Louisiana.”

“Dog,” Pierre said, “you ain’t even tryin to get away from these hurricanes. Katrina’s little sister be comin for your ass.”

“Be better than my girl’s old man. Ain’t tryin to be lynched anytime soon, know what I’m sayin?”

“I hear ya, dog.”

James left Pierre to check on his tables in the dining room. Twenty minutes to eleven — closing time. He had a statistics exam the next day. He refilled draft beers for the couple at table thirteen and dropped the bill off for table six.

On his way to the kitchen, he checked the NBA scores on the TV over the bar. He had a rare Saturday off this weekend and thought about taking Mona to a Miami game. He had paid his bills for the month, and it was still early in March. He could spare some of his tips to hit the arena.

He chatted with Pierre in the kitchen for a few minutes, said goodbye to RC’s exiting patrons and counted his tips on the stainless steel opposite the line.

“You ballin, dog,” Pierre said. “When you gonna hook an old man up?”

“Shee-it,” James said. “Strugglin just like you, my man.”

Not a half hour later, James was out the back door and on his way to his car. He caught a glint of something in the reflection of his driver side window. Before he could turn round, the tire iron smashed against the back of his skull.

He went down, convulsed and blood ran from his mouth into his left ear.

Set Adrift, Part Three

Dead leaves crackled under the weight of the wad of tobacco. Some of the spit splattered on Luke’s shoes. It didn’t matter, with the amount of mud and blood beginning to harden on them. The attire was to be incinerated anyway, just as the Bonneville had been.

Vince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, neglecting the strand of saliva hanging from his goatee. “Worn out from all that hackin?”

Luke ignored the comment, picked up the drill and returned to where they pulled the boat ashore. Charlie, white tank top stained crimson, wrung his hands as he passed. He gave a slight shrug to Luke and met Vince atop the embankment.

“You said Corella called?” Vince said.

“Was on the way here,” Charlie said. “Was badgerin Luke where you was. Told her we was coming to meet you to do some drinkin. She gonna be a problem?”

Vince spat, didn’t wipe his mouth. He handed Charlie a bar of soap and nodded to the plastic bucket of water behind the tow truck. “Shouldn’t be. I left, she’d taken all four spoons of juice. Doubt she’d recall the conversation.”

“She ain’t gonna be callin ‘thorities chasin your ass down, is she?”

“Bout what I said.” Vince followed Charlie to the rear of the truck. “Tell me again what happened?”

Charlie peeled off his shirt, lathered his arms and chest and used the sponge to rinse. He reached for his shirt and shoved it in one of the plastic bags Vince had brought. Luke was busy punching holes in the hull of the boat they used to distance themselves from the burning Pontiac.

They had taken the craft at least five miles upstream, to a point where they no longer saw the glow from the inferno. Vince had stayed to ensure the blaze didn’t get out of hand, his truck having a hose and some firefighting equipment.

Charlie and Luke chopped the body into several pieces, each wrapped in a garbage bag and heaved overboard. Vince’s sawed-off shotgun lay on the deck in case any of the reptiles in the area came too close. After feeding the wildlife, they searched for the marker Vince had planted and pulled the boat ashore.

“We got him comin out of work,” Charlie said. “Hit him with a tire iron and threw him in the trunk.”

Vince held a wad of chew in the crooks of his thick index and middle fingers. He shove it inside his bottom lip. “I ain’t talkin bout what or how. I’m talkin bout your reason.”

“I ain’t make that clear when I called?”

Vince stared at Charlie, who returned it. They stood still, the whirring of the drill the only sound. Charlie broke first, the lazily threatening leer of the bigger man weighing on him.

“Wasn’t aware I needed one, Vince,” he said, “considerin the shit you and me done.”

Vince tilted his head and spit a solid stream, his eyes still locked on Charlie. “I ain’t condemnin you,” Vince said, “but I ain’t askin again neither. You ain’t smart enough to get away with this shit by yourself. That’s why you call me. You used goddamn cell phones, for chrissake. I. Need. Ev’ry. Detail.”

Charlie pursed his lips. “Ain’t no daughter a mine gonna be fuckin no nigger.”

Set Adrift, Part Two

“She havin one a her goddamn hissies?” Charlie said.

Luke shrugged. The Bonneville had a habit of pulling to the right. The slightest swerve could raise suspicion. Getting caught in a stolen vehicle would be the least of their worries. Especially considering what was in the trunk.

This was two years ago, and the tension from gripping the steering wheel never eased in Luke’s hands.

Charlie threw a can of beer out of the window. “Girl’s Hitler when it comes to Vince’s where’bouts.”

“Ain’t smart to be doin that,” Luke said. “Trooper sees you tossin—”

Charlie’s mouth spread wide, tobacco-stained teeth on display. He jerked a thumb toward the rear. “Room back there for two.” He opened a new beer and drank. “Hell, maybe three.”

Luke stared through the splattering of insect guts on the windshield. Every billboard he passed contained a secret message directed at him. Bible passages. Hotel slogans. Lawyer ads. Over-sized fingers. Everything accusatory.

The headlights were dim, and the right lamp projected at a forty-five degree angle toward the highway. The high beams didn’t work. Luke followed the broken white line on the road and steered toward it in three-second intervals.

He asked Charlie to light him a cigarette. Charlie lit two and passed one to him. Luke’s cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID.

He turned to Charlie. “Mona,” he said.

“Give it to me,” Charlie said. He flipped it open. “Hey, sweetheart… Now, calm down. I can’t hear nothin with you actin all hysterical… Ain’t that somethin… No, no. Po-lice won’t do shit til he’s missin for three days… Why don’t you head to your mama’s and let her cook you somethin? Rest for the night… Listen, sweetheart, can’t hear too good out here. I’ll call you later… Yeah, I will… All right. Bye bye.”

Charlie closed the phone and gave it Luke.

“She OK?” Luke asked.

Charlie didn’t answer. After a while he said, “Turn off your phone.”

“What if Vince’s—”

“Turn it off,” Charlie said.

The occasional mosquito and dragonfly became inch-long yellow streaks on the glass in the following minutes. Luke wondered if some collided with the Pontiac in attempt to escape the humidity of the night. We’re all fleeing something, he thought.

They exited where Roger had told them and drove the forty-odd miles to the fork he said they couldn’t miss. They veered left.

“Roger says it’ll be ‘proachin on our left after some kind of birdhouse,” Charlie said.

Luke nodded. The gas gauge bordered on empty. A full five-gallon gas container sat on the floor behind Charlie’s seat, and Luke hoped to make it to where Roger said would be a convenient spot to torch the car without tapping into the extra fuel.

“Here it is,” Luke said.

The road was two tire-sized ruts barely visible under the trees that lined it. The Bonneville crept down the road and stopped at the dock. Luke turned off the ignition and turned to Charlie.

“Well, let’s get him out,” the passenger said.

Luke got out and stood at the trunk. Charlie brought the container out of the back seat. Charlie met Luke at the rear and lit a cigarette for each.

“Shouldn’t be much longer til Vince gets here,” Charlie said.

Set Adrift, Part One

“Marionette strings are dangerous things,
I thought of all the trouble they bring.
An eye for an eye, a spy for a spy,
Rubber bands expand in a frustrating sigh.”

P.M. Dawn
“Set Adrift on Memory Bliss”

The several minutes of silence was only interrupted by the occasional rustle of wildlife in the brush ashore. With no breeze to carry it along the river, it danced with the wafting cigarette smoke in the beams of light that cut through the foliage as the sun sank. It thickened and suffocated and flirted like a promise waiting to be broken.

Like the fish that day, Charlie didn’t take the bait. He sat at the bow of the johnboat, one arm over the starboard side, the other hand on the top of his beer can between his legs. He not only embraced the stillness, he united with it.

At the stern, Luke opened the cooler and lifted the handle of Jim Beam from the melted ice. He unscrewed the cap and took a good three-second pull of the bourbon. He set the half-empty bottle on the motor, took his hat off, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and pulled his hat back down. He licked his lips and put the whiskey back into the cooler.

He nodded toward Charlie. “Ready for another?”

Charlie shook his can then drank the rest. “Reckon so.”

Luke handed Charlie another beer, and Charlie crushed his last and tossed it on the deck with the rest of the fallen. The hiss of the tab pushing through the perforation lingered and the quiet resumed. Charlie stroked his ponytail and stared beyond the brush. His grey eyes didn’t blink.

Luke opened his own beer. There were seven remaining from the twenty-four pack and just enough Beam for each to drink a few more healthy gulps. Soon it would be dark and time to start the motor and head back.

“Shame Vince wasn’t here,” Luke said.

Charlie surveyed his can, his mustache twitching. ”Damn shame.”

Luke glanced from side to side then pursed his lips. He downed some beer. He examined Charlie. What’s happened to you in the last two years, Luke thought. You look like it’s been a dozen or so.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Luke said.

Charlie looked at him for the first time in nearly an hour. “To go?”

“Well,” Luke took a swig, “I meant for a beer, but yeah, whenever you’re ready.”

Charlie let out a mirthless giggle. “Luke, I ain’t much one for catchin up or doin no ritualistic thing. We did what we did. Don’t need to be reminded. Don’t care to remember.”

Luke nodded and opened the cooler. He reached for a beer, changed his mind, brought out the bourbon instead and unscrewed the cap. He took another long pull and held it out to Charlie.

Charlie looked at it for a few seconds before accepting it and taking a shot of his own.

“Some people just need closure is all,” Luke said. “Can’t keep that couped up inside eatin at ya.”

Charlie crushed his beer can and gave the bottle back to Luke.

“Might as well,” Charlie said. “Feedin that piece of shit to them gators ain’t never meant no thing to me. I sleep fine.”