Green Eyes

  ‘Some people you gotta waste,’ said Richmond, deep into his rap. ‘You gotta go to war with ‘em, otherwise they won’t let you be.’ He had untied his pony tail, and his hair spilled down over his sunglasses; his skin was drawn so tightly across his bones that whenever he smiled you could see complex knots of muscle at the ends of his lips. ‘War,’ he said, savoring the word, and drank a toast to it with the last of his beer.

  Jocundra nudged Donnell’s leg; her lips were pressed together, and she entreated him silently to leave. Donnell glanced at the wall clock; it was after one. ‘Let’s go, Jack,’ he said. ‘We want to hit New Orleans before dawn.’

  They were halfway along the aisle, slowed by Donnell’s halting pace, when a grumbling roar came from the highway and a motorcycle cop pulled up in front. ‘Just keep goin’,’ said Richmond. ‘Dude’s just comin’ off shift. He was in this afternoon.’ He laughed. ‘Looks like a damn nigger bike… all them bullshit fenders and boxes stuck all over.’

  The cop dismounted and removed his helmet. He was young with close-cropped dark hair and rabbity features; his riding jacket was agleam with blue highlights from the neon sign. The record ended, the selector arm chattered along the rack, stopped, and began clicking.

  ‘Couple of burgers?’ asked Sealey as the cop pushed on in, and the cop said, ‘Yeah, coffee.’ He gave them a brief onceover and sat at the booth beside the entrance.

  They waited at the cash register while Sealey tossed two patties on the grill and brought the cop his coffee; he sipped and made a sour face. ‘I can’t get used to this chicory,’ he said. ‘Can’t a man get a regular cup of coffee ‘round here?’

  ‘Most of my customers are dumb coon-ass Cajuns,’ said Sealey by way of apology. ‘They can’t live without it.’ He moseyed back to the register and took Jocundra’s money.

  Donnell glued his eyes to the countertop.

  ‘Hey, Officer,’ said Richmond. ‘What kinda piston ratio you runnin’ on that beast?’

  The cop blew on his coffee, disinterested. ‘Hell, I don’t know diddley ‘bout the damn thing. I’m on temporary with the highway division.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Richmond was aggravated. ‘Man don’t know what he’s ridin’ don’t belong on the road.’

  Surprised, the cop glared at Richmond over the edge of his cup, but let it pass.

  ‘Seems like ever since them sand niggers raised the price of gas,’ said Richmond nastily, ‘every cheap son of a bitch in the country is gettin’ hisself up on a Harley.’

  The cop set down his coffee. ‘Okay, buddy. Show me some ID.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Richmond. He reached for his hip pocket, but instead sneaked his hand up under his windbreaker and snatched out the security guard’s gun. He motioned for the cop to raise his hands, and the cop complied. ‘ID!’ Richmond laughed at the idea. ‘You askin’ the wrong dudes for ID, Officer. Hell, we ain’t even got no birth certificates.’

Looking at the gun made Donnell lightheaded. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. Jocundra backed away from the register, and he backed with her.

  ‘Ain’t but one thing to do man,’ said Richmond. He moved behind the cop, jammed the gun in his ear, and fumbled inside the leather jacket; he ripped off the cop’s badge and stuffed it into his jeans. Then he stepped out into the aisle, keeping the gun trained head-high. ‘If we don’t want the occifer here to start oinkin’ on his radio, I’m gonna have to violate his civil rights.’

  ‘You could break the radio,’ said the cop, talking fast. ‘You could rip out the phone. Hey, listen, nobody drives this road at night…’

  Richmond flipped up his sunglasses. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That ain’t how it’s gonna be, Porky.’

  The cop paled, the dusting of freckles on his cheeks stood out sharply.

  ‘Them’s just contact lenses,’ said Sealey with what seemed to Donnell foolhardy belligerence. ‘These people’s in some damn cult.’

  ‘That’s us,’ said Richmond, edging along the aisle toward the register. ‘The Angels of Doom, the Disciples of Death. We’ll do anything to please the Master.’

  ‘Watch it!’ said Donnell, seeing a craftiness in Sealey’s face, a coming together of violent purpose and opportunity.

  As Richmond crossed in front of the register, the partition beneath it exploded with a roar. Blood sprayed from his hip, and he spun toward the door, falling; but as he fell, he swung the gun in a tight arc and shot Sealey in the chest. The bullet drove Sealey back onto the grill, and he wedged between the bubbling metal and the fan, his head forced downward if he were sitting on a fence and leaning forward to spit. A silvered automatic was clutched in his hand.