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REVIEW COPY • NOT FOR REPURPOSE PROPERTY OF TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY

SMALL MOVING PARTS


SMALL MOVING PARTS

D. B. JacksoN

T U R N E R


Turner Publishing CompanyNashville, TennesseeNew York, New Yorkwww.turnerpublishing.com

Small Moving Parts

Copyright © 2017 DB Jackson

All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design: Maddie CothrenBook design: Glen Edelstein

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

9781683367826

Printed in the United States of America17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


These mortals do concern me, dying as they are.

—Homer, The Iliad


SMALL MOVING PARTS


CHAPTER ONE

Bufort,Texas—The Summer of 1958

There he is. Watching him watch himself like some mute carnival barker in a dream. Sitting off in the moonlight. A .45 to his head. His reflection in the window glass the sole

witness to the last of his undoing. He had come to this place stowed in the back of a wagon, an afterling born to a railroad tracklayer dead before the child’s sixth birthday, a mother dead before his seventh. Passed from house to house. Working in the coal mines, a breaker boy at the age of twelve. A runaway road-kid hopping freights at fourteen.

“Harland Cain,” he heard the doctor say, “there’s nothing more we can do.” That had been a month ago. The old man set the pistol down, rolled a cigarette, and struck a match. The flame flared. He held it to the paper and inhaled. He shook the match. The flame died. The cigarette glowed, then dimmed. He watched the smoke rise before his face and trail upward to the porch ceiling, where it stalled.

A final drag off the cigarette. Cain stared off into the gloom


2 D.B. Jackson

of the desert, ground the cigarette butt into the glass ashtray on the table before him, and then took up the pistol.

He watched the image in the window glass raise the .45 and edge the muzzle across the hollow of his cheek to the temple where his pulse throbbed against the smooth steel bore.

This was it.First would come the explosion. The bullet spiraling down

that empty corridor, twisting its way to him. The impact. The scattering of flesh and bone and gore that would follow. The shutdown of the cerebral cortex. All before the brain could process any sensation of pain. Then darkness.

He considered the after-journey. For the first time, it occurred to him that there might not be one. No matter. He had made his peace.

Cain squeezed the single-action trigger partway. A faint click at the first detent. There it was—that absolute and liber-ating shift of power as he took control over his destiny. Death was now his choice. His time. His place.

He eased up on the trigger, smiled, slipped his finger from the trigger guard, and set the pistol on the table with the hammer cocked. It was all done but the doing of it.

No urgency now. One more cigarette, a final cup of coffee. So simple in the end. He tapped the tobacco out onto the paper, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, and then leaned back in his chair.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back when he inhaled. He wondered how he had ever taken such a pleasure for granted. He lifted the cup to his lips, its aroma intoxicating.

Cain took another drag, flipped the butt into the yard, and then picked up the pistol and pressed it again to his temple. For all he had agonized over the right and wrong of it, the guilt, the shame—in the end it was an uncomplicated act. The fear in living was death. Now, so close to death, his only fear was living.

He leaned his head forward and held his breath. God forgive me.


Small moving Parts 3

The sky cracked like thunder, a howl coming in off the nearby blacktop road, ripping through the night like the onset of Armageddon. An engine roared. Tires screamed. Headlights pierced the emptiness like the fiery eyes of something from the inferno as they lurched and bounded out of the murky abyss and then dipped and went black. Shearing metal, exploding concrete—the final crescendo in an eerie quiet followed by the gasping, dying sound of radiator steam. The noise was coming from the direction of the bridge.

The old man dropped the pistol. He stared wide-eyed out into the blackness, expecting to see Satan himself come to collect his dues. He waited. He listened. There was no sound save that of the hissing, which sent a chill through him.

He waited. Nothing. He hurried off the porch and across the driveway, poking in his trouser pocket for the keys as he ran. He slipped in behind the wheel of the old ranch truck. The keys rattled as he thrashed about, searching for the ignition. It started on the second try. Gravel sprayed out from beneath the rear tires as he fishtailed out of the driveway and onto the blacktop.

He came upon the fresh skid marks first. Then, in his headlights, the smoking wreckage. Before him sat a half-ton pickup angled across the shoulder, its hood collapsed to the firewall, steam rising from beneath it. Both doors were sprung open and bent. The bed partially torn from the frame. The front fenders wrapped around the concrete bridge abutment. The entire scene covered with the broken glass of every window.

The old man stepped out of his truck and hurried to the driver’s side of the wreckage. There, behind the wheel, sat a young boy, fifteen at best, staring through the missing windshield with eyes white and reeling. He was wearing an old felt cowboy hat, a threadbare shirt, and worn-out Mexican boots.

Cain leaned in, supporting his weight with one hand above the doorframe. “You okay?”

The boy, red with blood and reeking of alcohol, turned half toward him. His head bobbed and he coughed.

“I ain’t sure.”Cain took him by the arm.


4 D.B. Jackson

“C’mon, we gotta get you to the hospital before you bleed to death.”

“Don’t move me.”“You need looking after.”“I can’t go to no hospital.”“Why can’t you?”“I said I can’t.”“Well, can you walk?”“I ain’t tried.”The old man reached for the boy, pulled on him.“Hold it, hold it,” the boy protested.“We gotta get you outta there.”The boy’s head wobbled. He teetered side to side. “Okay,

okay. Let me do it.”The boy swung his feet out with great effort. It was not

clear if it was the alcohol or the injuries that impaired him.Cain reached for him again.“I’ll take you to my place, and we’ll see how bad you’re

hurt.”“I don’t need your help.”The boy stepped out and then stood shaking while he

held on to the loose door. He took one step and then another, limping noticeably on his left leg.

“That leg hurting you?”“It ain’t the leg.”The boy turned and began staggering in the direction from

which he’d come, and then he collapsed to the pavement.

He awoke on the old man’s sofa. His eyes darted wildly about the porch, and there was an unsettling fear in them.

“Where am I?”“You’re on my davenport. You’re cut up some, but you

don’t look to be hurt too bad.”“I gotta get out of here.”“What’s your hurry? It’s two a damn clock in the morning

and your truck’s all tore to hell.”“It ain’t my truck.”



The boy stood. He tottered side to side and then sat back onto the deep cushions of the sofa.

“Whoa. You got anything to drink?” He slurred his words. Cain regarded him with disdain. “Coffee.”“Got any beer?”“Ain’t that what got you here in the first place?”“Probly—I’m drunker’n Cooter Brown.”The boy leaned his head back and held on to the sofa

cushions. The old man poured him coffee in a tin cup.“Here—drink this.”The boy sat up and took the cup. He sucked in a hot sip,

then another, and handed the cup back to the old man.His legs wobbled when he tried to stand again. He sat

down and leaned forward between his knees.“I’m ’onna puke.”The old man snatched the boy’s hat from his head and held

it in front of the kid.“Puke in this then. There’s gonna be a big enough mess

around here as it is.”The boy’s body convulsed as he heaved. The sour smell of

half-digested alcohol made the old man turn away as he held the hat.

When the boy raised his head and wiped his sleeve across his wet mouth, the old man pitched the hat out into the yard.

“You’re a sorry mess.”“Yessir, I know it.”“What the hell were you thinking?”The boy spoke without looking up. “I was aiming to kill

myself.”“You didn’t do a very good job of it.”The boy shook his head. “That was my first go at it.”“That was a practice run?”“No, sir. I didn’t think it would take more’n one.”“Whose truck is that, if it ain’t yours?”“It’s Eugene’s. He’s my momma’s boyfriend. When he sees

it, he’s gonna off me himself.”The boy’s eyes closed. His head dropped to the cushions,

and he began to snore. Cain lifted the boy’s feet onto the sofa.


6 D.B. Jackson

He sat back in the rickety chair at the small table, glanced over at the boy, and then rolled his fingers over the checkered wooden grips of the pistol. He lit another cigarette, took two quick drags, flicked the burning fag out into the yard, and pressed the muzzle to his head.

He squeezed the trigger, and the pistol exploded with an awful roar as it spewed fire at the same instant the old man jerked his hand and sent the bullet ripping into the ceiling. Dust, wood fragments, and debris fell upon the table. When the dust and smoke cleared, the old man cursed.

He looked at the pistol and released the locked-back slide. He set the pistol down, rose to his feet, and went inside. When he returned he carried a washbasin of warm water, a small brown medicine bottle, and a handful of rags. He sat next to the boy and set to cleaning his wounds. The boy did not stir when he picked out the glass fragments, and he did not stir when Cain turned him over, but he sat bolt upright when the old man daubed the deep wounds with Mercurochrome.

“What the hell?”The old man pushed the boy back down. “Be still.”The boy’s eyes, bloodshot and feral looking, flitted about

the room as he attempted to control the spinning sensation and remember where he was.

When the old man finished, he walked the basin to the edge of the porch and slung the bloody water over the railing, where it was absorbed into the dust of the driveway. He returned to the boy, placed the bloody rags into the washbowl, and then surveyed his work.

“You don’t look too good, but you’ll live,” he said to the drunken mess of a boy.

The boy slept until late morning. When he awoke, he sat up and looked about. He heard the old man inside and smelled bacon cooking. He limped through the open door and said to the old man’s back, “You the one doctored me up last night?”

Cain turned to assess the raggedy example of a boy standing



in the doorway. He appeared younger in the light of day. His wounds appeared more severe with their bruising and swelling.

“That’s right. You want some breakfast?”“No, sir. I don’t feel too good.” The boy leaned against the

door casing. “You got any coffee?”“Cup’s on the drainboard. Pot’s on the stove.”The boy filled a cup half full and sat at the table. He looked

down at his shirt, stiff and dark from the blood that had dried on it. His blue jeans hung on him, bloody from belt to knees.

“Where’s my hat?”“Out in the yard.”The boy turned to look back at the door opening.“It’s a Resistol, you know. They ain’t but one like it.”“You puked in it last night.”“It was my daddy’s.”The boy shook his head and blew into the cup before

taking the first sip. He studied the bandages and the bloodied clothes, then he looked up at the old man. “Thanks for what you done.”

“I’d a done it for anyone. It had nothing to do with you.”“Well, thanks just the same.”The boy smiled a half smile. Cain did not smile back.“Where’s my truck?”“In a pile where you left it.”“Bad, huh?” The old man stared at the boy. “You don’t remember?”“I reckon I do—I was just hopin’, I guess.”“It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”“Yeah, I wasn’t countin’ on that.”Cain nodded. “I know what you mean.”“Did the po-lice come?”Cain turned and leaned back against the counter, and then

he pushed himself forward and took a seat at the table across from the boy. “I don’t see many cars come down that stretch of road. Unless someone calls it in, that truck could sit there a while before the police see it.”

“I’m going to jail over that truck.”“Why’s that?”


8 D.B. Jackson

“I done stole it.”“From your stepdaddy?”“He ain’t my stepdaddy. He’s just my momma’s boyfriend,

but he will sure as shit kill me when he finds out.”“You got a mouth on you for a kid.”“What do you mean?”“Cussin’ like that.”“I heard that before.”Cain looked up over his fork. “You still got time, you know.”“For what?”“To kill yourself.”“Yeah, well, I ain’t in the mood any more. I was fixin’ to be

drunk when I done it, anyways.”The old man finished his breakfast and watched the

contemplative kid nurse his coffee. His expression dead serious, he held the boy in his eye. “I got a bottle of whiskey in the pantry if you’re fixin’ to take another run at it.”

The kid looked up and smiled an uncertain smile. The old man stared at him with no expression at all. The kid watched him and waited for a change in the old man’s appearance, but none came. The kid gave up and shook his head.

“I reckon I lost the taste for it.”The old man nodded but did not say anything one way or

the other. The kid directed his attention to the plate of bacon and bread on the table. “Mind if I have me some of that?”

“Help yourself, but be quick. We got work to do.”“What kind a work?”“We’re going to burn what’s left of that truck, then call it in.”“They gonna know I took it.”“How they going to know that?”“Fingerprints.”“There won’t be no damn fingerprints. Does your momma’s

boyfriend know where you were last night?”“He thinks I went over to Bobby Washington’s house.”“Who’s Bobby?”“He’s my friend since fifth grade. He’s a good fighter.”“Will Bobby vouch for you?”“What do you mean?”



“Will he stick up for you if you ask him to say you were with him last night?”

“Yeah. He does all the time. Me and him’s best buds. He’s colored, and them other boys don’t like me or him that much, so we look out for one another. He beat up a lot of guys bigger than him that was pickin’ on me.”

The old man looked at him and nodded toward the front door.“Eat up.”

The boy followed Cain out to the barn. The old man motioned in the direction of a small shed off to the side of the main structure.

“Go in there. Get them two cans of kerosene. Bring them to my truck.”

They returned to the wreckage and, for as bad as it had looked in the dark, the light of day painted a clear picture of the totality of the devastation and the narrow margin by which the boy had missed killing himself.

The boy whistled and his eyes widened.“I prit’near got the job done.”“Douse it good, and hurry up about it.”When the cans were empty, the boy watched as the old man

threw a match to it. The whole affair belched into flames amidst a cloud of black smoke that spiraled heavenward and could have been seen for miles had there been anyone looking to see it.

Back at the house, the old man made the telephone call. The dispatcher noted the information and thanked him.

“Now we gotta get you back to Bobby’s house. When you get there, can you call your momma’s boyfriend and ask him for a ride home?”

“Well, yeah, I can, but you know he don’t have no way to give me a ride now that he don’t have no truck.” The boy’s tone softened. “And he wouldn’t give me no ride even if he did.”

“That ain’t the point. We just don’t want him thinking you know anything about his truck.”

“Oh, okay, I get it.”“Where does Bobby live?”


10 D.B. Jackson

“In Bufort, same as me. I can show you if you can drive me there.”

“That’s thirty miles away. What you doing way out here?”“I told you, I come to kill myself.”“Seems like you could have found a place closer to home

and saved us both a lot of trouble.”“I didn’t know it was gonna be this much trouble or I

woulda.”“What’s your name anyway?”“Bodean Cleon Cooper. What’s yours?”“Harland—Harland Cain. Do they call you Bo?”“No, sir, they call me Dodger.”“Dodger? What the hell kind of name is that?”“It’s what they called me since I was a kid.”“Dodger?”“Yeah. I was born in the back seat of a 1937 Dodge.”The old man shook his head. “I reckon you’re lucky. It

could have been a Studebaker.”


review copy ¥ not for repurpose property of turner ...€¦ · “we gotta get you outta there.”...

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