A Slow Kind of Poison

Redd Patman would tell anyone who was in his business for more than a few minutes, that his family’s bar had been here since before Texas was a part of America. This was partially true. There had always been a Patman running some sort of liquor selling establishment in, around, and occasionally under Cooperston. So if one considered “here” to include roughly a few dozen assorted locations of varying legality, then one could look at Patman’s statement and consider it true enough.

And for what it’s worth, it DID have history in the region. Cooperston was barely a trail stop before Redd Patman’s great-grandfather had put several thousand miles between himself and Deadwood, and decided that there were enough thirsty souls here to support a man who needed money, but didn’t want TOO much attention or infamy. And for two generations, the bar prospered. It really got going in the 1920s, when a bunch of well meaning suffragettes had decided to ban all alcohol. Black Pete Patman, Redd Patman’s father, could charge damn near anything he wanted, and his connections on both sides of the border helped him rake in so much money that the occasional cost of having to pick up stakes and move was easy enough to bear.

But after the joyful years of prohibition, and its eventual repeal, (and an end to the obscene profits that Redd Patman’s daddy was raking in, before he dashed out on his wife and kids and took all that money south of the border somewhere,) the bar was forced into a somewhat more sedentary existence. Redd, who had found himself thrust into the role and responsibility of the county’s chief dodgy booze-slinger at the tender age of sixteen. That had been an experience, for the young Redd Patman, who had hitherto enjoyed the prominence of being the only son of the region’s biggest bootlegger.

He’d picked up the pieces, as best he could, but his father’s clout didn’t completely translate over to his own purview, and Dad had taken the best bits of blackmail with him when he’d skipped town, so things had gotten a bit dicey. He ended up having to go somewhat legit, but was so late to it that all the spots in town were taken, and the bar was relegated to locales that could kindly be called “out of the way.”

Still, Black Pete hadn’t been able to take ALL the money and valuables with him when he left, and Redd had managed to eke out enough of a living that the bar had survived, but never again came close to thriving. With enough left over to pay the appropriate bribes to keep himself out of the draft, back during the second World War.

The current location of Patman’s bar was out in the dry stretch to the north, and driving down that way meant passing by the crumbling, collapsed remnants of six or seven farms that hadn’t survived the drought. It was like one long graveyard, and it hadn’t done Patman’s custom any good. Patman regularly grumbled about how he would’ve moved years ago if the place wasn’t historical. But anyone who spent more than a few minutes in his bar and had two brain cells to rub together knew the truth; Patman couldn’t afford to move to any place better. And unless Cooperston itself got some sudden shift in its fortunes, then this current resting place of the bar was going to be its last.

*****

Cyrus opened his eye when the truck came to a halt, considered the old shack that was strung with Christmas lights, and had an American flag drooping and seared thin and pale by the unrelenting sun. The outside was bound with tin plates and baling wire, with smooth sheets of asbestos insulation peering through, and gleaming in the afternoon light. Barbed wire stretched away to either side, blocking off a field that had a definite slope to it, as the hard rains of June had eroded the dried-out husk of the soil, and made it impossible to work. Off to the side of a parking lot, a lonely outhouse stood open, swarming with flies.

That farm over there at least had a little hope once the rain settled down a bit. Patman’s bar did not have that kind of hope.

Rusty glanced left, saw his Dad looking back at him. “You good enough to walk?” The elder Colfax asked, drumming his left hand’s fingers on the steering wheel. Just enough twitch, just enough eagerness in his voice, to get under what was left of Cyrus’ skin.

“Let me try,” Cyrus said, shoving down the irritation. He pushed the door of the Chevy open, and pulled himself out by the top of the frame, settling one foot, then the next on the ground, and shifting his weight. There was a bit of a wobble, but he thought he could make it. “Yeah, I’m goo—” his voice trailed off, as he looked back to see the driver’s seat empty, and the front door of the bar closing. Dad had left him to manage.

Cyrus shook his head. Then he walked around to the other side, grabbing his spare cane from the gun rack as he went. He was good now, but there was no telling how he’d be by the end of it. Then he paused, looked around at the muddy patch of dirt that served as a parking lot, at the six or seven other rust buckets that were pulled up nearby, and snagged the keys out of the ignition. They had the nicest-looking vehicle in the place, and that wasn’t saying much. Besides, taking them now would mean he wouldn’t have to talk Dad down from being dumb later.

The bug strewn pieces of flypaper by the entryway rustled in the hot air from outside, as Cyrus pushed through the doorway, and let the door bang shut behind him.

It took a few seconds for his eye to adjust to the light. He could feel the gazes of the patrons on him, but his Dad’s happy patter and chatter was pulling them away. Not that they would have lingered long. They knew him, and they knew what he looked like, and he figured that he wasn’t too pleasant for them to stare at overlong anyway. To them he was the Colfax kid who’d come back from the war broken; an unpleasant little reminder of their own generation’s war, and friends who’d suffered worse.

Once his eyes adjusted, he made his way to one of the cable spool tables and sunk into a battered wooden chair, giving his already-wobbling legs a rest. The drug was still doing its work, and his coordination was shit for the first few hours while it was going. He used the opportunity to glance up at the bar, a scant ten feet away. Dad already had a drink in hand, and was deep into talking about the last game with Rick Dooley, the older man nodding and blinking drunkenly as he smiled amiably.

“Round for the house, Redd!” Dad said, after a minute or two of agreeing how that sunovabitch should have been shot for missing that kick in the third quarter. And the five men back among the tables nodded and smiled at the older Colfax and raised their mugs to him.

Redd Patman set them up, topped them off, and hauled a tin cup over Cyrus’ way with a friendly, if distant smile. He stopped when Cyrus raised a hand. “Can’t right now. It’ll mix up wrong.” He wasn’t lying about that. Alcohol messed with this stuff, made it a little more unpredictable.

At least, Redd’s booze did, anyway. Cyrus hadn’t experimented with any other kind. Mom didn’t allow it in the house, and that was one area he agreed with her on.

“Pain’s acting up again, huh?” Redd asked, but his tone made it clear that the question was rhetorical. He knew Cyrus only showed up when it was. He knew exactly why Cyrus was here. “Should I give Ben a call?”

“No rush,” Cyrus said. “Dad’s gonna be here a few hours, at least.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Redd said, then went and dumped the cup back into the open top of the keg he’d pulled it from. “Get you a coke, at least?”

“Gladly, and thanks.”

It was warm, but Cyrus sat and sipped on the bottle of Sun Tang Creme Soda that Redd turned up, and watched his Dad relax.

Give his old man this; the guy knew how to pace himself. And to Cyrus’ surprise, the initial round for the house wasn’t repeated, not from Dad, anyway. Instead he’d drift from table to table, chatting with his old friends, and buying one or two of them drinks, rather than trying to make everyone in the room happy. This wasn’t how Dad had acted, the last few times Cyrus had had to come here with him. What had changed? Was he really that low on money? He wasn’t drinking as much as last time, either.

Something was up, Cyrus figured. And with the numbing haze of his medicine slowly wearing off, Cyrus focused his attention on Steve Colfax, trying to figure out what his Dad was doing.

This was probably why he didn’t see Benjy Custer come in.

He snapped his head up as the legs of the chair next to him screeched across the floor, turned his neck just a touch too far to get his remaining eye on whoever had chosen to keep him company, and looked into the faded, brown eyes of his dealer.

Benjy Custer was a regular guest at Hostetler Baptist, where he came in regularly to tell stories of how he’d once been a wicked man, and jailed for his sins. And he told a pretty good story about how he’d found Jesus while he was in the lockup, and changed his ways. But given the things he was doing when he wasn’t helping the pastor warm a few hearts on Sunday, Cyrus thought that Benjy had decided that now it was his turn to hide, and Jesus was having some trouble finding him. Benjy was a thin man in his thirties, about a decade younger than everyone else in the bar. He had short black hair, a stetson hat, and a tracery of scars on his shaven chin where the police who’d arrested him for his first manslaughter case had put him through a window during his escape attempt.

And right now he wasn’t smiling. That was different from the last few times, as well. Cyrus blinked. Was his medicine affecting his memories, now? “Custer,” he said, testing the word. Nope, it sounded fine in his ears, he was at the point of the cycle where he was coming down and past the worst of the effects. Something WAS off here.

“Cyclops,” Benjy said, clapping him on the shoulder, but still not smiling. He waved a hand at the bar, pointer finger in the air, and Redd started lining up a mug of the hard stuff. “How you been?” Benjy asked.

“Better,” Cyrus admitted. “Going to need something to get me through the rest of the month, if this heat don’t break.”

“I hear you there,” Benjy said, staring at him with a cold intensity, from barely a foot away. “Guess we’ll see.”

Cyrus blinked again. “How have YOU been?” he asked. This wasn’t the normal routine at all. The man normally asked how much he thought he’d need, offered a price, then they dickered for a while. He didn’t stick around any longer than necessary.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Doing reasonably well,” Benjy said, looking back and smiling at Redd, as he took the drink and took a pull. The smile faded, as he looked back to Cyrus. “Though I was a mite surprised to hear tell that you been over to see the feds in Dallas.” The smile was off his face. And now Cyrus knew why.

Ah, shit. “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “I was trying to get them to help find my brother. Not sure why I bothered, they were about as useful as tits on a snake.”

“Your brother. Which one, again?” Benjy asked.

“Rusty.”

“Ah yeah, one of the congregation was talking about how he’d gone missing. I remember that.” Some of the coldness left Benjy’s eyes. “That makes some sense. Had me worried a mite, when I heard you were over there in Dallas, visiting that place you visited. I thought that maybe you’d broken the rules.”

There were only two rules, when you were purchasing things from Benjy Custer. The first was that you didn’t tell any kind of cops about Benjy Custer’s side business. The second rule was that once you were a customer, you only bought from Benjy Custer.

“I sure as hell didn’t break the rules,” Cyrus said. “You’re doing me a solid, here. I appreciate the risks.”

Benjy looked him over hard, scrutinizing him over the rim of his mug. But after a while, he nodded. “Just trying to help. It’s nice to be able to do some good. And you’re smart; I appreciate that.” he sighed. “I’m sorry for being a hardass, Cyclops. I know how the government done you. You wouldn’t sell me out. Unlike some others,” he rolled his eyes.

“There’s people that stupid? After all this time?”

“It’s that old goddamn story,” Benjy grimaced, making the scars on his chin dance. “Word’s gotten around that the tequila suckers down in Laredo are moving in this way, getting into the market with cheaper shit. Got some dumbasses who think they’ll get a better deal from the illegals. Caught more’n a few of my regulars visiting Bunktown. Now what’s that tell you about how they’re respecting my rules?”

Catalina’s words came back to Cyrus. They're usually trying to buy something we don't sell…

And instantly, Cyrus knew that he couldn’t say a word about it. Because if he did, he’d be admitting that he’d visited Bunktown. Benjy was already wary because of the FBI visit, no matter how he smiled and reassured Cyrus now. If he found that Cyrus had visited Bunktown, then he’d assume the worst.

That was the problem when you were dealing with criminals, Cyrus had found. They had to assume that anyone who looked like they were screwing them over was in fact screwing them over. If they didn’t, then they’d eventually be killed or arrested and replaced, usually by the person who was screwing them over.

“That’s rough,” Cyrus said. “Hope it doesn’t cost you too much.”

Benjy shrugged. “Nah, not yet. Truth is I don’t think there’s anyone moving in over at Bunktown. Not yet, anyway. But if this gets much worse, I might have to get off of my ass and do something about it. And that’s likely to cause a fair amount of fuss, especially before the harvest.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, shooting a look out the torn screen door, noticing with a shock that the sun was low in the western sky. “Reckon it’s best to avoid that if possible.”

“I hope I can,” Benjy said. Then he offered Cyrus a hand. “This next delivery’s on the house. You know where to find it.”

“You’re just giving it to me?” Cyrus blinked, and stared at Benjy. This was unheard of.

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out,” Benjy said, and stood up. “Think I’ll go drain the snake. You only really ever rent whisky, you know?”

“I hear you there,” Cyrus said, and watched him go. There was no plumbing in Patman’s bar, and the back door clattered as his dealer made his way to the outhouse.

When the door shut, Cyrus closed his eye. The slow burn was starting under his skin, again. The fire ants were waking up from the poison he’d dumped on them, and a few were starting to poke around in his skull, too. It wasn’t quite a hangover, coming down from his medication. It was more like a slow, dull headache. Well, except for his right eye socket. That was sharp and hurt, usually a hell of a lot.

The front door banged open, which was usual. And the entire bar went silent. That wasn’t usual.

Someone cleared their throat, and Cyrus looked up to see a stranger in the doorway.

He looked familiar, but Cyrus couldn’t place him up until he opened his mouth.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” said Dave Beel. “I don’t reckon she’s out here, but I need to ask, ‘cause I ain’t seen her nowhere else.”

This was Dave Beel. Rusty used to play with his kids, Cyrus remembered. He was the janitor at the school over in Cooperston. He was a weathered, faded man in his fifties, bald up top with white fluff on the sides, wearing what was obviously his sunday best, a suit with holes in the elbows that had been patched over many times, and wrinkles so deep that no amount of ironing could fix them without destroying the fabric. He had taped up spectacles with deep scratches, and a nervous smile. He’d been married and divorced a time or two, and Cyrus remembered his Dad saying Dave’s last wife had basically gotten married to him to dump her kids on him then run off to California with her boyfriend.

And the bar was silent. All save for one voice. “Dave! Dave… it’s been forrrevva, Dave!”

Cyrus flinched, as his Dad slurred, and rose, wobbling, at the back of the room. “How are ya.. How a ya doing? Sid own… sit. Please. Let me get you a… drink?”

That was a shock. Cyrus had thought that dad had been pacing himself… then he looked down to the mug in Dad’s hand, for the first time. It was tilted, just a bit, and he could see the liquid inside was clear. Not amber, clear. Well, shit.

“Oh. You’re ah, you’re… Mister Colfax!” Dave Beel said, smiling nervously. He stepped in, hesitated, and flinched a bit as Dad stumbled forward and hugged him.

“Call me Steve! You used ta open the school when… when I… back before. You know? You know,” Dad babbled, patting his back.

“When you dropped your kids off, I remember,” Dave said, doing his best to peel Dad off of him.

Rusty heard the low snickers around the bar, looked back to see the small groups sneering, then turning back to their conversations. But they were keeping their voices low. He knew they were all listening. This was quality entertainment to a group of bored alcoholics who hadn’t quite gotten to their drinking buddy’s level.

“Kids, yeah,” Dave Beel said, managing to get both hands on Dad’s shoulders, and stepping back. “Do you remember Janice? I don’t think you would have met her, but she’s my little girl. And she went missing a week ago. I asked the sheriff and there ain’t nothing he can do lessen someone turns up word, and ain’t no one seen anything. You seen anything?”

“Missing… oh no,” Dad said, his face drooping into misery. “Like Rusty. Poor Rusty! He’s gone… gone. Just like that. Just like… He’s GONE!” Dad sobbed. “SOMEONE TOOK HIM!”

Cyrus grimaced, and gathered his cane, struggled to stand up. More ants chewed at his calves, fire flickered up his nerves, and he grabbed the table to steady himself.

“Someone took… yeah, that’s what had to have happened! My Janice girl wouldn’t a run off! She was happy as a clam here!” Dave’s grip tightened on Dad’s shoulders. “What did you see? Was it the Bunktown folks? It’s the only place I ain’t checked yet!”

“Fuckin’ Bunktown,” someone in the back of the bar snarled. “They done run me out of business!” said a man Cyrus recognized as the owner of the now-defunct washboard factory.

“Assholes work too cheap! Ain’t no one will hire me for the harvest” Another man muttered. This man Cyrus didn’t know, but he’d always been in the bar whenever Cyrus had visited.

“Ain’t right,” one of the fatter, better-dressed men in the back rumbled. “Those lazy assholes eat all our food and charge way too much to work! Someone ought to do somethin’.”

“It isn’t Bunk…” Cyrus started to say, then cut it off, glancing at the closed restroom door. “Come on, let’s get you home, Dad,” he said as his father started bawling, and trying to sink to the ground. Dave Beel got a helpless look on his face as he held the senior Colfax up by his armpits.

“Them Bunktown fuckers ain’t Christian!” wailed another barfly, that Cyrus had occasionally seen when picking his Dad up on Sundays. “Bet they’re doin’ horrible stuff to them kids!”

“Bet they’re sellin’ ‘em into slavery south of that border! It’s fuckin’ inhuman!” said another man, who Cyrus damn well knew had a grandfather that had fled Georgia after Sherman came through and bought his farm in Texas with a payment of four young slaves and a mule.

The only good part of that rumble of fear and hatred was that Cyrus managed to get his Dad and Dave Beel through the door without anyone taking notice, as they drank and yelled and worked themselves up. It was mostly hot air, he reckoned. Then Catalina’s face flickered through his memory, and he hoped it was mostly hot air. Otherwise this could get messy.

“Gosh, them folks sure don’t like Bunktown,” observed Dave, glancing between the sobbing man he was half-walking, half-carrying, and the closing door of Patman’s Bar.

“You might say that,” Cyrus said. “Listen, don’t talk about Bunktown. You’ll bring a whole heap of trouble down on them, and they didn’t do it. I visited there, and they’re missing kids too—”

“You been to Bunktown?”

“Keep your voice down!” Cyrus snapped, and waved him toward the Chevy, glancing back at the bar. But the people in there were loudly swearing and bitching about the Bunktowners still.

That said, Cyrus lowered his voice to a whisper, and leaned in closely. “I did. They didn’t take Janice. They didn’t take Rusty.”

“I heard Rusty went missing too. It’s why I come here, one of the reasons, I was hoping I could talk with Steve, but I didn’t recall his name ‘til I got here.” Dave looked down, to where Dad was still, his sobbing faded, worn out and barely conscious in Dave’s arms. “But… well…”

“I wish I could tell you something,” Cyrus whispered. “But I’m working on trying to find Rusty. I can try to find Janice too, if you have anything you can tell me about how she disappeared. Did you see anything? Did you hear anything?”

Dave shook his head, light glinting against his glasses. “No. She just didn’t come home from Lula’s two Fridays ago.. I been looking ever since.”

Cyrus closed his eye. “All right. Look, give me your phone number, and I’ll go ahead and call you if I find something or need help. All right?”

“Reckon that’s mighty swell of you! Thanks, um… Mister Colfax.”

“Cyrus.”

“Cyrus.” Dave smiled.

One pair of traded numbers later, (for Dave’s neighbor’s phone, because the Beel residence didn’t have a phone of their own,) Cyrus secured his father in the passenger seat, belted him up, then set out home. The itching from his legs was all across his body now, and all he could think about was the package that would be waiting for him at a certain crossroads along the way, off to one side under an old, weathered crate.

He should have thought about that package’s provider a little more.

And if Cyrus’ mind hadn’t been on the chemical relief that he needed, he might have remembered that there was no attached restroom in Patman’s bar. One had to step out the back door, walk around the side, and go to the outhouse that was next to the parking lot. Close enough where a man inside could hear a shout or a loud voice, but not a whisper.

And if Cyrus had glanced back in the mirror, as he rolled away, he might have seen the door open, and Benjy Custer glare after his departing truck, eyes cold and hard with a very mistaken certainty.