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three…to…one with coffee and Wild Turkey。
Otis gazed skyward； perturbed。 A pocked metal sign above the gate read PUSSER'S SCRAP & SALVAGE。 It was his lifeblood； his legacy； and his bread and butter。
Which accounted in no small part for why Otis was so pissed。 Here he was； up and ready for business； and where was his no…good son？ Probably sleeping off a stone…drunk； the little shit。
Otis gave the horn one final blat； to no avail。 〃Some balls will roll；〃 he grumbled； then threw open the door and squeezed through the gap。 It took a minute to waddle over and unlock the gate； he swung it back； hitting the dogs in the process。 DamDog yipped and skittered off Coon。
〃Bitch！ Git out the damn way！〃 Otis barked； returning to the car。 The dogs scattered as he gunned the engine and motored into Pusserland proper。
It was a tad over three acres of rusted refuse； the cannibalized corpses of the American dream。 Junked cars。 Junked refrigerators。 Junked air conditioners and hot…water heaters。 Lots of just plain junk； passing through Otis's hands on its way to oblivion。
Otis had an eye for worth； and oodles of connections。 He could rip the copper out of a Kool King faster than a kapo could yank teeth； and he knew just who to sell it to。 It was a gift。
Like last night's load； he thought with no small satisfaction。 Not bad for one night's work。 Twenty…five drums at forty bucks per； a cool grand for the simple magic trick of making someone else's problem disappear。 Otis was an alchemical endstop in the digestive tract of society； siphoning off the last ounce of value； turning shit to gold。
In the grand scheme of things； Pusser's was the dungheap at the end of the line。
And Otis was the undisputed King of Turd Mountain。
He tooled down the main drive to the trailer； a forty…foot Airstream that double…dutied as both the office and Boonie's bachelor pad。 Otis parked beside it and got out； noting that the lights were on in the trailer； even though the truck was gone。 Running up the goddamned electric bill again； he thought。 There was gonna be some serious butt kicked today。
He stomped toward the trailer door； brimming with fatherly； corporate； and inebriated rage。 To his plete dissatisfaction； he found it unlocked and ajar。 A thin sliver of gold light squirted out the crack； glowing in the pale blue dawn。
He slammed his way inside； preparing to pounce。
Then suddenly； abruptly； stopped。
The interior of the trailer was cramped； smelling of spilled beer and gym socks and crammed with cast…off furniture and antique porno mags。 Another smell…dense； chemical； heady…hovered in the closed； dark space。
The boy was hunkered in front of a piece of mirror； propped on the battered steel desk that delineated the office。 A gooseneck lamp was twisted up for illumination。
When the door flew open； Boonie whirled as if caught jerking off； though his expression conveyed far less surprise than pain。 He had been mewling when his father came bursting in。
〃Jesus H。 Christ；〃 Otis whispered； staring dumb…struck at the mess that was his son。
〃Pa 。。。 〃 Boonie whimpered； stuffing psychic ice chips down the core of Otis's spine。
He clutched a pair of bloody tweezers in one hand and a gore…smeared rag in the other。 A pile of glass cubes glistened before him like a grisly display from Van Scoy's Diamond Mine。 It was only half the prize； the rest was still imbedded in Boonie's face。
The cleaned side was raw； almost abscessed； the lacerations had opened up； given rise to clusters of smaller open sores； like craters on the alien landscape of his cheek； nose； and forehead。
A bottle of hydrogen peroxide sat uncorked on the table。 Boonie grabbed it with swollen fingers and doused the rag； then daubed his mangled right cheek。
It fizzed audibly； sputtering pinkish foam； Boonie cried out and brought one clawed hand up to hover an inch away from the angry surface。 He looked up at Otis； his eyes bloodshot watery orbs。 〃Pa； I fucked up。 I fucked up； bad； Pa 。。。 〃
Otis listened； as Boonie fessed up。 It took two minutes。 Otis didn't believe half the drugged…out shit his boy said； but the other half more than did it。 Two sweeps of the second hand were more than enough time for Otis to imagine his kingdom crumbling beneath his feet。
Otis waited until Boonie finished； got the facts as straight as he could。
Then he kicked the shit out of him。
First things first。
Five
〃You're joking；〃 Harold Leonard said。
There was a thin sheen of extremely cold sweat on his brow。 It hadn't been there a minute ago。 A minute ago； he'd been piling Marge and their six lovely children into the Arrow； mini…vanning in style to another Sunday service。 A little Christian fellowship； promptly followed by the Bob's Big Boy buffet。 It was a little chilly for golf； but Harold was a diehard。 A quick nine holes down at the club； and he'd be back in time for the Eagles game。
A minute ago； he'd had it all figured out。
That minute was gone forever。
The voice on the other end of the phone was drunken； surly； strangely out of breath。 It assured him that； no； it certainly wasn't a joke； then proceeded to rattle off a coarse litany of hugely unpleasant specifics。 Each and every one of them fanned the spark of dread taking root in his lungs； peed fire into his paunchy gut。
Harold Leonard was the owner and operator of Paradise Waste Disposal； the area's largest legitimate waste disposal facility。 For some fifteen years； the local industrial munity had e to him with its dirty diapers： paying him dearly to clean them up or； at the very least； store them somewhere inoffensive and safe。
The good news was that business was grand； the one thing we never ran out of was waste。 The bad news was that there was far too much of it。 Even with the most up…to…date technology he was willing to spring for； he couldn't process but a fraction of what he took in。 Every day； every month； every year。
That was where Harold's operation tiptoed somewhat afoul of the law。
Harold Leonard was a middleman in every sense of the word： middle…aged； middle…class； pickle in the middle。 His stature in the business munity manded a respect that he rarely achieved in his personal life。 Liver…lipped； beak…nosed and weasel…eyed； he was the last guy you'd have picked for your team in school： the fat kid who always got two for flinching。
He was flinching now； that much was for certain。 The phone's receiver was slick in his porcine hand。 〃Don't do anything stupid；〃 he heard himself whine。 〃We'll work this out。〃
〃You're goddam right we'll work this out；〃 spat the voice from the other end。 〃I wanna know what you're gonna do about my boys。〃
Harold didn't know what to say。 The hospital was out； for obvious reasons。 His brain flailed in search of contingency plans that didn't exist。 〃Look；〃 he began。 〃I've got to talk to some people。 You haven't told anyone else yet； have you？〃
〃What； are you stupid？〃
He silently thanked God； and in that moment； his brain began to work。 Perhaps it was the power of prayer。 〃Okay； listen up；〃 he said。 〃First； I want you to call the cops。〃
〃Yeah； right！ FUCK you！〃
〃Will you listen to me！〃 Harold pressed； more forcefully。 He was in his element now： weaseling in real time； thinking on his feet。 〃Tell 'em that you just got in； and the truck was stolen。 Probably last night。〃
The moron to whom he was speaking made a colorful noise of prehension。 Redeemed in his own eyes； Harold pressed on。 〃That'll cover you if they find it； and buy us some time to work this mess out。〃
〃Okay。 I like that 。。。 〃
〃And for Christ's sake； keep your big mouth shut。 Don't say anything to anybody until I get back to you。〃
Leonard slammed the phone down； ending their chat on a power note。 Then he stood there； just shaking for one long； dreadful minute； trying mightily to quell his panic。 His ulcer bubbled like a gastric Jacuzzi； his heart slammed in his temples。
〃Everything's gonna be fine；〃 he told himself； wanting hard to believe it。 〃I'll just have to tell Blake。 He'll know what to do 。。。 〃
Outside； Marge or one of the kids tapped out 〃Shave and a Haircut〃 on the horn。 It shook him out of his stupor； made him long for their warmth and panionship。 I'm not a bad guy； he told himself。
Wanting hard to believe it。
I'm not 。。。
Then Harold Leonard donned his coat and hat； locked the door of his cozy little house in Haines Acres； walked through the yard of his snug little hunk of suburban Paradise。
And went to join his loving family in worship。
At the church of his choice。
Six
By a quarter after ten； on a Sunday morning； the legions of God's faithful were off and running。
Whatever else one might say about the people of Paradise County； Deitz noted； they were awfully big on Sunday services。 And with eighty…seven houses of worship within the city limits alone…representing twenty…eight Christian denominations…there was certainly no shortage of God…anointed service stations。 While the wicked slept in； the righteous deployed； flocking en masse to their respective personal savior pit stops。
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