The Feet of God

61 - THREE DEAD MEN

As we smashed through fluffy clouds, I questioned the wisdom of starting my day with a tequila gargle.  Yeller Tom decided to take us on some sort of mad victory lap.  We went straight up and rolled over and over again.  All the trash and shit that was loose fell out of the plane before we straightened out and headed in for a final approach.  Upon landing, we wheeled along a gravel pathway till we pulled up right behind the wreck of a black hearse.

Yeller Tom held up his long-barreled pistol, “Le coup de grâce.”

He hit the ground immediately, with me following right behind as quick as I could keep up.  Yeller Tom ran to the twisted hulk of metal and examined the insides.  Over his shoulder I could see two men in black suits strapped into their seats, hanging upside-down.  An ominous squeaking came from the tires that, amazingly, still rotated.  Without gas masks they looked like any two guys in black suits.  I couldn’t be sure they was the same guys who’d gassed us just yesterday.  Yeller Tom ran to the back of the hearse and forced open the door.

“Shouldn’t we cut them down?” I called out.

“Non,” came the terse reply.

I went around to the back where Yeller Tom was, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.  “That’s a casket.”

“Pretty good cover, oui?”  He tipped the casket over on its side and pried the lid off.  The bound and gagged body of a guy in a black suit fell out.  Frantically, Yeller Tom pushed the dead body aside and began to rip at the satin lining, tearing at the fabric like a madman.  White blocks wrapped in duct tape come tumble’n out like a jackpot.

“Oui, oui, oui...” Yeller Tom smacked his lips, “...all the way home.”

As he pulled block after block of the stolen cheeses from inside the lining, he stacked them and counted.  He reached in again and tore at more of the satin, clawing and counting, stacking more blocks.

Then he wiggled himself out of the vehicle, sweat dripping from his face, and he ordered, “You take the product over to the plane.”

“Si, señor.”  I ran back and forth carrying packets of the product.

Yeller Tom continued to stack and count.  He started cursing a blue streak in French as he ripped away the last of the lining.  It was obvious there was nothing left, so he begun tearing at the clothes of the corpse.  Yeller Tom yanked at the black suit, tore open the shirt, pulled down the pants, and turned the deceased over like a Bakersfield vice cop on a Saturday night raid.

Finally he tossed the body to the ground and pushed the casket on top of it.  I watched in awe as Yeller Tom disassembled the remainder of the interior of the hearse.  For a second he looked defeated, then he ran to the driver’s side window.  He reached in through the window and grabbed the suspended driver around the throat and began shaking the lifeless body, “Where is the rest of it, bâtard?  Where is it?”  When he got no response, he ran over to the passenger’s side and repeated his assault.  Yeller Tom rummaged through pockets and vigorously frisked the clothing of two dead bodies hanging upside-down in the front end of the hearse.  Obviously he was looking for something.  Except for some cash and some keys, he came up empty.  Yeller Tom stuffed the money into his own pocket and threw the keys away.  “Bâtards,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Yeller Tom didn’t answer me, as usual.

“They’re all dead, Tom.”

“Oui.  They are all dead.”

Yeller Tom sighed, “And I am three bricks shy of a full shipment.”  His green eyes flashed at me.  “But we must go.”

“Are you just gonna leave them like that?”

“Non, I will not leave them like that.”

He ripped off a piece of casket lining and pulled out a disposable lighter.  I could hardly bear to watch what he was intending to do, so I turned away.  Then I was shocked to hear the loud report of three executionary bullets being shot in short order.  I didn’t look back.  Moments later we was both hustle’n our asses from the turned-over wreckage in a drainage ditch to the parked blue biplane.  Yeller Tom quickly sealed the hatch holding the cream cheese product, and we prepared for a quick takeoff.  In a jiffy we was up in the air again.  Then we heard the distinct sound of an explosive detonation.

“So why did your business partners double-cross you?” I asked Yeller Tom over the engine’s roar.

“Those were not my business partners.”

“Huh?”

“The hearse with the license plate ICPD86 belonged to my associates, oui, but those were not my people.”

“Who was they then?”

Yeller Tom drained what remained of the Mockingbird tequila.  “The body in the coffin was Marcel, a contact of mine.  The other two?  They carried no identification.  I have no fucking idea.”  He threw away the empty bottle.  “But, I know who sent them.”