Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,56
face and big-teeth-and-tiny-gums preceding him like he’s some kind of mouthy horse. He sits down—well, flops down, really—and offers an awkward wave.
“Hey,” he says.
Shane tightens. His head shrinks into his shoulders like a softball pressed into some mud.
She tells him, “It’s all right. This is more Ch… Steven’s area of expertise.”
“You can call me Chomp-Chomp,” he says. “Or Chompers. It’s okay.”
Atlanta kinda wants to, but she feels like being polite is the way to go. “Nah, we can call you Steven. Or Steve. Or Stevie?”
“Whatever you like.”
That’s not how a name works, she thinks, but Shane’s still bristling, so they got other things to worry about.
“Chris was our third,” Shane says, his voice small and stiff.
She leans in, whispers to Shane as if Steven isn’t sitting there. “He’s not a replacement, dum-dum, he’s just… he’s just here to help and I need help so can we continue. Please?”
“Fine. You may continue.”
“Good.” Back to Chompers, then. “Steven. You know someone named Haycock? Bodie and Bird are brothers, I guess. They were—or are—victims of The Cooch’s cooch, so she says.”
He nods. “Yeah. Bodie’s the older one but not even by a year. They live up on Grainger Hill past the trailer parks. But I called Adam Rains—he’s the drummer for Hyperdoor—and asked and he said they’re not around this summer. Adam said they went and are staying with their… uncle or something up on his farm in Little Ash.”
Little Ash is just one town over. On the other side of Grainger Hill. Atlanta’s been through there—not much to look at. Not even a town, really, so much as a couple farms and hills and a few Amish and Mennonites here and there. “Uncle’s farm,” she says. “Wonder if that’s the Farm. One Tressa was talking about.”
“Could be,” Shane says. “That where the dog fights are?”
“Maybe. I dunno.”
“Then we need to figure out where the Farm is.”
“Shit. If that’s where they hold the fights, we won’t have access. It’s not like a town softball game or something.”
Shane shrugs. “Why not ask your friend, Guy?”
“Why? ‘Cause he’s Mexican?”
“No,” Shane says with a scowl. “Because he’s into some…” For this, Shane lowers his voice, talks out of the side of his mouth. “Shady. Business.” Dang, just because she told him one time that she bought some prescription drugs from Guy he thinks the guy is like fucking Scarface or something. Still. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to ask.
“I’ll ask. I need to see him anyway.” Get some money upfront from Jenny, get a hook-up. She’s about to tell them they need to settle up when someone else comes into the greasy spoon.
The cop.
The cop.
Orly’s buddy. From the gun club.
Not a big man. But he carries with him a sizable darkness. He’s in uniform. Catches sight of Atlanta and the others sitting there, and his thin lips turn to a small smile. His single dark brow like a line drawn from permanent marker twists like a snake trying to find a comfortable way to lay and he starts walking over.
Atlanta’s blood and bowels go to ice water. The sugar tang in her mouth tastes suddenly bitter.
Shane sees him, too. He stares down suddenly at his coffee.
Steven doesn’t get it. He mostly just looks up, confused.
“Everybody good here?” the cop asks.
Nobody answers. Steven finally says, “Yup.” Oblivious.
Atlanta stands. Moves fast.
She takes her iced tea glass and smashes it over the cop’s head. Sweet tea goes everywhere. The cop cries out. Jagged glass rends forehead flesh—blood and ice hit the cracked linoleum of the greasy spoon and—
The little mini-movie inside her head stops playing and the cop nods as he remains standing there, her iced tea glass still sweating in front of her. The cop smiles again. Watches her the way a black cat watches a spring robin underneath a bird feeder. “Hope so,” he says, then heads to the counter.
Shane lets out a breath.
Atlanta can’t take it. She has to get up and leave. Tosses her last dollar on the table and bolts.
* * *
Guillermo Lopez is nowhere to be found. Jay-Z raps over the grass and the crooked post-and-rail fence surrounding his doublewide trailer, the thumping beat causing the windows in the trailer to vibrate and hum—bvvt bvvt bvvt bvvt. She orbits the trailer a few times. Puffs out her cheeks and lets out a breath.
Should’ve called first.
Maybe he’s inside. She goes for the door—it’s open, not locked—and pops her head inside. Same as it’s always been: he’s her pillhead hookup out in the boonies