The House of Fists

The House of Fists

By Scott Crowder

Published by r[E]volution Press at Smashwords

Contents and cover copyright © 2010 Scott Crowder / r[E]volution Press

All rights reserved. Any reproduction, sale, or commercial use of this book without express written permission of the author is strictly forbidden.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are inventions of the author. Any resemblance to actual events or people, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Cover image courtesy of shudder-stock.deviantart.com

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This book is dedicated to my beautiful wife Dana, who has always believed in me, even when I haven’t.

Chapter 1

Otis Hazelrigg’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he held his hands out for the canvas tote bag.

Is this why they’d driven halfway across the county in answer to Old Lady Munroe’s summons? For this ratty old bag, its handles fraying, the pull on the zipper nothing more than a safety pin?

The old woman released her grip on it before Otis was ready and he fumbled it before pulling the handles in tight.

Idiot, she said, her eyes as friendly as metal shavings. The bun in her hair was as tight as a clock-spring.

Otis looked over at his cousin Harlis Hocker so as not to have to meet Old Lady Munroe’s withering gaze anymore.

Harlis was lean and hard, his dark eyes as quick and dangerous looking as his scarred fists. A filthy John Deere ball cap was pulled low over close-cropped hair; a four-day scruff of beard shadowed his face. His jeans seemed as much dirt now as denim.

Otis stole a glance despite his fear and watched as Old Lady Munroe’s face softened when she turned back to Harlis.

In the deepest part of the river. Preferably where it bends at the Foundry and Machine Works, she said.

You don’t think we should put it in the lake? Harlis asked. It’s a lot deeper than the river.

Too many people fish in the lake, Harlis. And nobody fishes on the Machine Works property. Put enough rocks in the bag and it won’t go anywhere for a long time.

Whatever you want me to do, Miz Munroe, he said.

I appreciate you taking care of this for me, Harlis. I thought about just burying it in the backyard myself, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it, she said as she reached up and touched the clear tubing pinched under her nose. The tubing ran back to an oxygen tank set in a small wheeled cart behind her. "I certainly couldn’t do this on my own, and I didn’t have anybody else I could turn to."

I don’t mind at all, he replied.

You’re a sweet boy, Harlis. Thank you for always being here.

I’m glad I can help you when you need it. Matter of fact, we don’t even have to talk about money right now. We can wait until later.

Tut, she said. Tut. We can and will talk about it now. I don’t expect you to do anything for free.

Harlis grinned and sidled up beside her.

If you insist.

The two of them moved to the other side of the large living room to discuss financial matters and Otis took a moment to look around the room.

Photographs and Daguerreotypes hung on its walls. Stern-looking men, many dressed in Confederate uniforms, stared dauntingly back at him. On the mantle and end tables was quite a collection of antiques and knick-knacks: more pictures and an old porcelain wash basin, silver serving ware, a flint-lock pistol in a shadow box, lace doilies yellow with age on sofa arms. It was apparent that nobody cared for these things, anymore, though, these things that at one time had obviously been family heirlooms. The shine on them was long gone, dusted with monotony, tarnished with forgetfulness.

Otis glanced down at the bag hanging heavily in his hands.

What in it was so important that Old Lady Munroe would pay Harlis to dispose of it? And in secret, no less?

Movement at the far end of the hallway leading to the back of the house caught his attention. A figure seemed to be looking at them from behind a partly opened door, its features hidden in shadow.

Andisue? Was it her?

Maybe, but maybe not. The figure shifted and didn’t appear to be pregnant, and Andisue, Otis knew, had been pregnant just a few days ago.

Otis, driving Harlis’s old rattletrap 1978 Ford pickup home from the grocery store one day last week, had stopped at the red light in front of Old Lady Munroe’s house, and Otis had glanced over as he sat there. Andisue’d been standing on the front porch, her stomach swollen beneath a bright sundress, her skin and hair aglow with a luster that didn’t seem to touch her eyes.

Holy crap, Andisue’s pregnant, he remembered thinking. Holy holy crap.

An angry Miz Munroe had been scolding and forcing the girl back into the house. As Otis had watched, Andisue had given in to her grandmother’s demands and had turned to go back in. Otis had looked back at the road ahead and when he‘d gotten home he’d said nothing to Harlis about seeing her, nothing at all…

Nobody in their little south-west Georgia town had even known Andisue had been pregnant. Everyone thought she’d moved to Atlanta to be with her mother.

That wasn’t the reason at all, was it?

She’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock, hadn’t she? And Old Lady Munroe had tried to send her away in shame.

The figure in the hallway turned away and pulled the door closed. The shadows in the hall were empty once more.

Otis realized with a sudden lurch of sickness in his gut what was in the bag he held in his hands. He choked back a moan and his face sagged in horror.

He felt the fire of angry eyes as Old Lady Munroe turned her attention to him.

Do you have a problem with this? she asked.

No, Otis replied. No ma’am.

She didn’t look away and Otis felt the urge to squirm begin to build in him.

Oh god, she knows, he thought. She knows I know.

She continued to hold him in the napalm of her gaze until the urge to squirm became overwhelming. He shuffled his feet on the boards of her living room floor. Still she didn’t look away, and a prayer began to churn in his mouth, ready to spill over his lips. He wondered if he could sweat just from being stared at…

Abruptly Old Lady Munroe turned back to Harlis, absently spinning the oxygen cart with her.

The idiot won’t be a problem, will he? she asked him. Nobody can know. That’s why I’m asking you to do this in the first place.

He doesn’t even know what we’re talking about, Harlis said, his eyes narrow black slits as he glared at Otis. He won’t say nothin’ to nobody. He turned back to her. The only reason I brought him is because I didn’t know what you wanted us to do, whether it was somethin’ that was gonna take two people.

I understand, she replied. But we probably should have made him sit outside.

I won’t say a word, Otis said, because he knew it was what Harlis wanted to hear. He couldn’t meet Harlis’s gaze anymore and turned his eyes to the worn pine planks of the living room floor. I promise.

You better keep that promise, too, half-wit, Old Lady Munroe said. Otis could feel the heat of shame rolling like silent scarlet thunder up the back of his neck.

He sighed as she turned her attention away from him at last. Beneath his feet, the knots and whorls in the wood of the floorboards, dark with the passage of countless years and feet, stared back at him like unblinking eyes, peering at him as if they knew something about him he himself didn’t know...

Stop, he wanted to say. Stop staring at me.

Otis pulled himself from his own mind at the insistent bark of Harlis’s voice.

What did you say, Harlis?

I said let’s go.

Otis grabbed the bag’s straps tightly, careful not to let the weight of it touch his stomach, and followed Harlis out the front door. Harlis turned on the front porch to face Old Lady Munroe, who stood in the doorway.

Don’t you worry about a thing, Miz Munroe. I’m gonna take care of it for you.

I know you will. You just make sure you stop back by whenever you’re through to pick up your money.

Otis couldn’t see Harlis’s face from behind him but could almost smell the sticky sweetness of his smile, like the scent of cotton candy at the Fair.