Dusk, Hatchet arrived at the address of the saloon where he agreed to meet the Buckneys. It was one of those places in the city where you check your back, a place where in the coldest hours of the morning, the unfortunate gather to feed on one another. Ricky Buckney? Hatchet asked him. Yeah, you Hatchet? That’s me. We nearly left, man. Sorry, I had little medical issue. Medical? Nothing serious; a spider bite. Sheeee-it, the other brother said, spider bites are bout as serious as it gets, man, what bit ya? I have no idea. We got a cousin lost a foot to a Brown Recluse. Fell right the fuck off, Ricky told him. Well, luckily this wasn’t that serious. Damnright lucky, said Johnny as he tugged on a longneck with a wing flap of his long thin arm, I’m Johnny. They shook hands all around and Ricky offered the stool next to him at the bar. Hatchet noted his boyish details, the looks of every onetime high school football hero he had ever known. So yer from back home? Ricky asked him, and you know that crazy bear, Dexter Poole? Sure do; he puts a lot of trust in you guys. He better, Johnny smiled.
Ricky gave him the full interrogation. How’s the ol’ hometown? Is this still there? Are the so-and-so’s still over on such-and-such? Whatever happened to the one guy who owned that one place? Who still lives in a town like that? Don’t you hate that fucking place? I’m doing my best to get a change of scenery, Hatchet told him. Ricky laughed, Yeah, apparently you are. Hatchet wondered how much information Poole had privileged them but then he decided Poole hadn’t told them anything more than he needed. He figured that was all Ricky wanted to know.
How long are we gonna be here? Johnny asked his brother. I’m gonna finish this beer and then Tomahawk here and I are gonna go have a pow-wow, why? Then I’ve got time to sniff out some split-tail? He thumbed down the shiny distance of polished bar to a pretty young woman waiting on her friend to return from the restroom. You talking bout the one with the big dick dents in her face? I b’lieve those are called dimples, Ricky. Dimples is a stupid name for dick dents.
Hatchet pulled the egg from under the seat and handed it in the bubble wrap to Ricky who sat next to him in the truck. Hatchet didn’t look at it. He stared across the black parking lot and the angular glint of the security lights across the edges of the other vehicles. Wowzers, Ricky chuckled, this thing is sumthin else, aint it? It’s certainly something other than what I expected. What did you expect? nevermind, he stopped himself in that brief moment of curiosity, forget I asked. Ever seen one? I’ve seen a real one, a big blue fucker on a museum tour a couple of years ago and I’ve seen a fake. A fake? Yup. How did you know it was a fake? I didn’t but a colleague did and it saved one of my clients an assload. Hatchet pondered on the word client and how many different ways it might apply to people who associated with someone like Ricky Buckney. Am I a client? he thought. So what do you think about this one? This is real gold, I can tell you that, the do-hickies, the rocks and the gems, they look real enough, he told him, peering at it through a monocle he had produced at some point. He tinkered with the clock for a second and Hatchet could hear the thing ticking. And it’s functional.
So what’s the verdict? Hatchet asked. Ricky let out a long breath, If it’s a fake, I’ll take it off yer hands for five grand, no shit. And if it’s real? If it’s real, it’s priceless. I don’t like priceless. Huh? Priceless means impossible; priceless means nothing to me, nothing good anyway; it might as well be an ostrich egg if it’s priceless; Ricky, I need a price. Ricky reclaimed his previous exhale and re-wrapped the egg. Tell me you’ve done some research on this thing, Hatchet. Okay, I’ve done some reading. Then you know that like six of these things are missin and have been missin for nearly a hundred years now. Sure. If this is what I think it might be, he stopped and measured Hatchet’s posture and the steadiness of his hands on the wheel of the truck, then there aint no way to price it; this thing doesn’t even exist until it’s in the hands of the authorities. That’s out of the question. Then you got yerself a fancy clock, Tomahawk.
Ricky watched him staring into the night, that same ruminating look he had seen in so many of the people he had swindled or seen swindled. Hatchet seemed capable though. He could sense an ability to recover from adversity. Ricky prided himself on his ability to evaluate people from a first impression, seeing past any affectations they struggled to present in their defense. Tomahawk aint acting or maneuvering, Ricky surmised, he’s willing to take a hit because he can take a hit. It was the same state of mind that had pulled Ricky through three years in the joint and kept shivs and knives out of his guts.
Listen, Ricky told him, keep this thing between you and me. You and me? Yeah, don’t tell Johnny anything. For a moment, his eyes found something in the darkness as if he were tracking some anthropomorphous fear milling in the shadows. Things have been disappearin around the house, Ricky said. He’s got a habit? He used to. You think he’s got it back. Yeah, I think so. Did you tell Poole about this? I don’t tell people things about my brother unless I think they need to know things about my brother. Hatchet decided to let it slide. He could see turbulence beneath Ricky Buckney’s surface, something he figured he better not agitate.
Ricky gave him the full interrogation. How’s the ol’ hometown? Is this still there? Are the so-and-so’s still over on such-and-such? Whatever happened to the one guy who owned that one place? Who still lives in a town like that? Don’t you hate that fucking place? I’m doing my best to get a change of scenery, Hatchet told him. Ricky laughed, Yeah, apparently you are. Hatchet wondered how much information Poole had privileged them but then he decided Poole hadn’t told them anything more than he needed. He figured that was all Ricky wanted to know.
How long are we gonna be here? Johnny asked his brother. I’m gonna finish this beer and then Tomahawk here and I are gonna go have a pow-wow, why? Then I’ve got time to sniff out some split-tail? He thumbed down the shiny distance of polished bar to a pretty young woman waiting on her friend to return from the restroom. You talking bout the one with the big dick dents in her face? I b’lieve those are called dimples, Ricky. Dimples is a stupid name for dick dents.
Hatchet pulled the egg from under the seat and handed it in the bubble wrap to Ricky who sat next to him in the truck. Hatchet didn’t look at it. He stared across the black parking lot and the angular glint of the security lights across the edges of the other vehicles. Wowzers, Ricky chuckled, this thing is sumthin else, aint it? It’s certainly something other than what I expected. What did you expect? nevermind, he stopped himself in that brief moment of curiosity, forget I asked. Ever seen one? I’ve seen a real one, a big blue fucker on a museum tour a couple of years ago and I’ve seen a fake. A fake? Yup. How did you know it was a fake? I didn’t but a colleague did and it saved one of my clients an assload. Hatchet pondered on the word client and how many different ways it might apply to people who associated with someone like Ricky Buckney. Am I a client? he thought. So what do you think about this one? This is real gold, I can tell you that, the do-hickies, the rocks and the gems, they look real enough, he told him, peering at it through a monocle he had produced at some point. He tinkered with the clock for a second and Hatchet could hear the thing ticking. And it’s functional.
So what’s the verdict? Hatchet asked. Ricky let out a long breath, If it’s a fake, I’ll take it off yer hands for five grand, no shit. And if it’s real? If it’s real, it’s priceless. I don’t like priceless. Huh? Priceless means impossible; priceless means nothing to me, nothing good anyway; it might as well be an ostrich egg if it’s priceless; Ricky, I need a price. Ricky reclaimed his previous exhale and re-wrapped the egg. Tell me you’ve done some research on this thing, Hatchet. Okay, I’ve done some reading. Then you know that like six of these things are missin and have been missin for nearly a hundred years now. Sure. If this is what I think it might be, he stopped and measured Hatchet’s posture and the steadiness of his hands on the wheel of the truck, then there aint no way to price it; this thing doesn’t even exist until it’s in the hands of the authorities. That’s out of the question. Then you got yerself a fancy clock, Tomahawk.
Ricky watched him staring into the night, that same ruminating look he had seen in so many of the people he had swindled or seen swindled. Hatchet seemed capable though. He could sense an ability to recover from adversity. Ricky prided himself on his ability to evaluate people from a first impression, seeing past any affectations they struggled to present in their defense. Tomahawk aint acting or maneuvering, Ricky surmised, he’s willing to take a hit because he can take a hit. It was the same state of mind that had pulled Ricky through three years in the joint and kept shivs and knives out of his guts.
Listen, Ricky told him, keep this thing between you and me. You and me? Yeah, don’t tell Johnny anything. For a moment, his eyes found something in the darkness as if he were tracking some anthropomorphous fear milling in the shadows. Things have been disappearin around the house, Ricky said. He’s got a habit? He used to. You think he’s got it back. Yeah, I think so. Did you tell Poole about this? I don’t tell people things about my brother unless I think they need to know things about my brother. Hatchet decided to let it slide. He could see turbulence beneath Ricky Buckney’s surface, something he figured he better not agitate.
Edit 11.27.2018