Munro scrunched up through the scrub oak, held his hands out to the fire. He lifted his club foot in the direction of the cast iron skillet resting on a piece of shopping cart frame over the fire.
“Where’d you get the skillet, Stefan?”
“Farmer woman. Up the road some.”
“You stopped for a chat?”
“Some. She was hangin’ out her woman wear on the line there in back. Said she’d be glad to hep me out.”
“An you stole her goddam skillet? Last time you stole somethin –”
“She give it to me. An we come out good on them tools we pawned outta that El Camino.”
“You kept that piece a shit El Camino, damn near got us throwed in jail.”
“How’d I know the damn thing had a geo-locater an that shiny shirt jackalope hadda stole it an them tools before we stole ‘em from him, huh?”
“You coulda asked ‘fore you stuck him.”
“Coulda. But there weren’t the time. Fella’d been a sport I wouldna had a kill him.”
“Coulda made time. Lucky the cameras were out at that Walmart an the po-leece didn’t see who parked it.” Munro sat on an upended cinder block close to the fire. “Not thinkin’ an reactin’ is how you fuck up, Stefan. Now you done killed that woman for what? A skillet?”
“I told you she give it to me. ‘Sides. Thought it might come in handy.”
“Maybe so. What’s that you’re cookin’.”
“Fryin’ biscuits. She give some Bisquick, too.”
“Fryin’ in what?”
“An where’d you get that?”
“Bacon, where else?”
“She give you some of that, too?”
“Bacon, Bisquick, eggs,” he pulled a block of Tillamook sharp cheddar from his jacket pocket, “this here cheese. Told her I didn’t have no way to keep yogurt or none of the green stuff. Did get half a cooked roast beef in the bag there, and some sweet corn.
“And she gave you all that. This’s got nothin’ to do with them cop cars running red an hot up 61 a while ago?”
“Coulda. Didn’t hit her all that hard. She’d a stopped carryin’ on after offrin’ to hep a man out I’d a left peaceful like.”
“At least you didn’t steal her car.”
“Mebbe that’s true and mebbe it ain’t. See, I been thinkin’. You an that foot slow us down, so mebbe the trains an hoofin’ it all over ain’t my idea a no hobo picnic.”
“You’re the one fucked up my foot, so don’t start complainin’. An look here, I’m getting’ up a letter to my congressman ‘bout how the whole world needs to get right with any kinda disability, don’t matter if it’s somethin’ wrong with one person in two hunnert million, by God we need to bend over backwards if need be to accommodate ‘em. An America needs to lead the way.”
“You sayin’ we need a block an tackle in front a every Seben Elebin to drag some handicapped lard-ass outta their subsidized, customized dump truck and inside the store there we need talkin’ Diet Coke cans an Cheeto bags so some dyslixical retard can buy shit they don’t need?”
“What I’m sayin’.”
“An who’s gonna pay for that, Munro?”
“Everbody out there that ain’t got a lick wrong with ‘em, and Seven-Eleven. An Coke and Cheetos. They all got money.” He reached for the skillet. “Them biscuits look done to me.”
Stefan wrapped his coat sleeve around his hand, grabbed the skillet’s handle, threw the biscuits and grease in Munro’s face. Munro screamed, Stefan slammed the skillet into the back of Munro’s head, sent him face-first into the fire where he stayed. Stefan kicked the dead man’s club foot, tossed the skillet on top of him.
“Told ya it’d come in handy.”
Ever wonder about unsolved homicides? Talk politics.