All Green, Part 3

A serialized short story.

Continued from Part 2:

“Any chance your friend who’s selling drugs out in No Man’s Land might have a gun and some friends of his own? And maybe they’ve got some guns too?”...

Ray sighed. “Y’all are some terrible criminals. Listen. I’ll be your guide, but not your muscle. Ain’t bringing a bow to a gunfight. If you can’t get ahold of some extra firepower, I’m out, and I think you should be too.”

“I might know somebody,” said Tucker.

And that’s how we ended up with Henry...

---

Up until I met him at The Haunt two nights before the job, I had only known Tucker’s cousin Henry by reputation.

Henry was three years older than us. One of Madison’s most notorious hellraisers. For the first seventeen years of his life, if there was a fight or a broken window or a brushfire or any other kind of uproar in town, folks would expect to find Henry involved, and usually did. It was quiet in Madison after he enlisted. While he was deployed, nobody would have been surprised if the whole country of Venezuela was burned down to the waterline.

Henry spent three tours overseas. Came home with hardly a scratch. They didn’t kick him out because he wasn’t good at what he did, but because he was too good—costing his outfit too much in benefits by refusing to die. In the end, they discharged him for punching an officer. He said the other guy had started it so they’d have an excuse to cut him off with no pay and no pension. To hear him tell it, Henry got his money's worth before they managed to break up the fight.

Tucker and I had talked early on about bringing Henry in. We’d decided he wasn’t worth the risk. After Old Ray had pointed out that we didn’t know what we were walking into at Bone Man’s place, it seemed like a good idea to have somebody along who was at least as crazy as a hermit in the woods.

And besides, Henry was the only person we knew with a gun.

The three of us—me, Tucker and Ray—planned to meet two days before the hike to Beaver Creek, to introduce Henry and see if we could get him onboard.

The sun was going down as me and Tucker set out to meet the other two at The Haunt over on South Street. It was really named Miller’s House, and Mr. Miller tried his damndest to keep it that way, make it a respectable place. But it was right next to the cemetery and the old funeral home. Even on nights when the band was playing loud and the torches were lit, everybody having a good time, you’d catch a glimpse of the vacant windows up above the tall board fence that Miller had built, and wonder if there wasn’t something in there looking back at you. So folks called it The Haunt and the name stuck fast.

I used to think all that was just kid stuff—spook stories that guys would tell to make their girls squeal.

I know better now.

Tucker and I were both nervous as we walked down Main Street to meet Henry and Ray. Tucker looked fit to burst. He was always clearing his throat when he was agitated, and he nearly drove me crazy with his coughing and harumphing as we walked along. I figured it was more than just nerves about the deal, and finally stopped him on the corner of Main and South.

“You gonna be alright?” I said.

He looked startled to find me standing in front of him. “Hm? Yeah. All good.”

“She working tonight?”

“Who?”

“Come on, don’t give me that shit.”

“Eliza? Probably, yeah,” he said, shrugging. “All good.” He started walking down South Street.

“You gonna talk to her?” I said, following after him.

“If I get a chance.”

“Buddy, you’ve gotta make yourself a chance. You aren’t a kid anymore. You know she’s into you, and you’re about to be in business, once we do this job. What are you waiting for?”

He cleared his throat. “I want to know I have something to offer before I go after a girl like her.”

I almost said something crude about what he could offer her, but Tucker wouldn’t have thought it was funny. We walked on.

As we turned onto South Street, we could hear music coming from The Haunt’s front porch: banjo, guitar, fiddle, harmonica, somebody singing “When the Levees Broke”:

Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan, Lord,
Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan,
It's got what it takes to make the New Yorkers leave their homes...
Don't it make you feel bad
When you're tryin' to find your way home
and you don't know which way to run?
Don’t you go down south
Cause there’s nowhere to live
Nothing left of old Manhattan…

The smudge pots on the front yard were smoldering, wafting citronella smoke to keep the mosquitoes away, as if the haze of tobacco and weed hanging in the air wasn’t enough. It was a fine summer evening. Folks were clustered around outside in groups or in couples, sitting in wooden chairs on the grass, lounging on the front porch and enjoying the music.

Old Ray was leaning with his elbow on the porch railing, listening intently to the song. He must not have seen us walk up: when he heard me say hello, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist and mumbled something about “all this damn smoke,” smiling sheepishly as he shook hands with us. We pretended not to notice the tears in his eyes.

The three of us stood listening to the music for a while longer, then headed down the big house’s driveway.

For those who could afford it, Mrs. Miller opened up the main house’s dining room and put on a famous spread for breakfast and dinner, every day except Sundays and holidays. Meanwhile, down the driveway, Mr. Miller and his sons ran the taproom out of the old garage, selling homebrew and hard cider until midnight. A firepit burned in the backyard, with tables and chairs out on the grass, surrounded by more torches and smudge pots for the bugs.

The smell of good food—roasted chicken, carrots with butter, vinegar greens—came from the open windows as we walked down the driveway. My stomach grumbled jealously, reminding me of the thin fish stew I’d shared with my mom hours before: bones from the previous night’s fried brookies, boiled with a few potatoes and wild chives.

I caught Tucker pretending not to peer in the windows. “She in there?” I asked.

“Who?” said Ray.

“Nobody,” said Tucker, looking quickly away.

“Eliza Miller,” I answered.

Ray nodded. “Nice girl. You seeing her, Tucker?”

“As much as he can without talking to her,” I said.

“Shut up, Mark,” said Tucker.

“You should talk to her,” said Ray. He raised his voice as we walked up to the open doors of the barn. “Life’s too short to waste on missed chances.”

Whatever Tucker said in reply was lost in the noise as we stepped inside.

I'd been in Miller's taproom a dozen times before, but only for the big Christmas party they put on every year, never as a paying customer.

Christmas Eve at The Haunt was a miracle.

Not like Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving had a way of reminding us of everything we lacked. If we weren't scraping together whatever we could at home, we hoped for an invitation to eat with Tucker's family—showed up with a bowl of mashed potatoes, hats in hand, and pretended we were adding something special to their feast. They were kind enough to play along.

On Christmas Eve, there was free food and drinks for everyone, paid for with donations from people like Tucker’s parents. The whole village turned out. Everybody crammed into the taproom, sitting elbow to elbow at plank tables that spanned the floor, spilling out into the icy driveway and the frozen yard in spite of the cold.

It was the best day of the year for me and my mom. We were there as equals with everybody else, not begging to be let in. We could imagine it was our feast.

Standing in the warm taproom with our neighbors, Mom and I would pass make-believes back and forth. In our pretending, it was us who had invited everyone here. We had paid for the pig that roasted and sizzled over a bed of coals in the backyard. We had sent the cars over to Cazenovia for supplies; the convoy’s gang of flannel-wearing hardasses followed our directions, armed with shotguns and flasks of applejack for the road.

We would joke about the half-drunk politicians who sometimes ventured out from the Capitol with their forced holiday cheer, making ridiculous speeches—insane promises about high-speed Net service, highway repairs, getting tough on crime, state pensions, health insurance. This year, we whispered, they’d be seeking us out. We’d be invited inside the protective circle of blue-uniformed thugs. The men in fine coats would ask our opinion of things, and apologetically solicit our donations.

The two of us would spend Christmas Eve laughing at our little play. We’d eat, and drink, and not argue, and sing carols. We’d fill up canning jars with leftovers to smuggle out in Mom’s empty knitting bag, and bundle up close together on the cold walk home. Even if there was no decorated tree in our house, no gifts on Christmas morning—even if I knew my mom was hungover from too much free homebrew, no matter how she tried to hide it—we’d wake up feeling full and happy, for a while.

As me and Tucker and Ray walked inside the barn, it was strange to see the taproom’s doors opened wide to take in the summer breeze, after only ever seeing them shut tight against the winter cold. The plank tables were cleared away from the sawdust-covered floor. The familiar colored twinkle lights were still in storage, leaving only the glow of the candle lanterns that hung from the ceiling and the few electric lights shining down behind the bar.

Half the village seemed to be crowded inside the barn. We squeezed through the press of people and waited for Mr. Miller to work his way down to us. His drooping mustache and crushed worker’s cap made him look older than he was. Around town, he was known to be friendly and easygoing, but on busy nights in the taproom, he ran his bar like a tank commander in a firefight.

When Miller saw Ray leaning on the bar, he reached up to a row of mugs standing along a high shelf and pulled one down, setting it in front of Ray as the two men shook hands.

“Y’all getting beer? Starting your tab?” Miller asked Ray.

Ray nodded and looked back at us. “You got your mugs?”

Tucker and I cursed. In those days, the Millers didn’t spend money on anything as dear as drinking glasses, and wasted as little time as possible washing dishes. Regulars in good standing could rent shelf space behind the bar for storing their own cups. Everyone else had to bring their own or make due with whatever empty containers Miller had under the counter.

“Beans or tomatoes,” Miller said without looking at us, glancing over his shoulder to see if his position was being overrun by waiting customers.

“What?” said Tucker.

“Beans or tomatoes,” said Miller and Ray together, like they were helping a child learn his letters.

A shout went up from somewhere along the crowded bar, followed by cheers and laughter: “Beans or tomatoes!”

“Beans,” I said quickly.

“BEANS!” a laughing voice yelled from behind me.

Miller pulled an empty metal bean can from beneath the bar and spun to the taps behind him, filling the can with homebrew before turning back and banging it down in front of me. He pointed at Tucker. “You,” he said.

Tucker mumbled something that no one could hear. Miller gave him a withering look and threw up his hands.

“Hurry the fuck up!” someone shouted. More laughter.

“Beans for him too,” Ray said.

“BEANS!” the voice behind us yelled again to an answering cheer.

As we turned away from the bar with our drinks, somebody clapped me on the shoulder and tapped his own recycled can of brew into mine. “BEANS!” he shouted at the rafters, laughing. “Happens to the best of us, kid.”

I nodded and followed Ray out into the yard. Free from the noise inside, Ray turned and smiled apologetically. “The taste rinses out of the can after the first few rounds.” He looked around. “You see Henry yet?”

The yard stretched away from the house’s back porch. Torches lit the gathering dusk, and two fire pits held piles of burning logs. A row of solar panels were raised on posts to form a roof, with rough-cut benches underneath. Plenty of people were outside, drinking and smoking, standing by the fire or sitting at the trestle tables, but I didn’t see Henry among them.

“Grab that table in the back?” asked Ray, pointing to a spot at the very edge of the yard, removed from the groups of partiers around the fires, almost in the field that bordered the property.

We carried our drinks to the table and were just sitting down when a loud voice called out: “How’s it go, fuckers?”

It was Henry.

He swaggered up to our table, grinning. The hair on his shaved head was growing out into a shadow of stubble. Even with the thick soles of his combat boots, he was shorter than me. He wore a ragged gray t-shirt—“PHALANX INC.” printed across the front, fabric stretched tight across his broad chest—and camouflage BDU pants. Black tattoos were scrawled from his scarred knuckles to his thick neck.

Tucker smiled weakly. “How’s it go, Henry.”

“Heard all the whooping inside and figured it was you fuckwits. You never been to a bar before?” He jerked his chin at Ray. “How’s it go, man. You the babysitter?”

Ray reached his hand across the table. “Ray. Good to finally meet you, Henry. I’ve heard about you.”

“Fuck yeah, man. I’m famous.” Henry gripped Ray’s hand tightly, tendons standing out on his forearm, trying for a crushing handshake. I caught a look of surprise on Henry’s face as Ray easily matched his grip.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Ray with a placid smile.

“Sure man, whatever,” said Henry, pulling his hand free. “You’re the big hunter, right?”

Ray nodded. “Don’t know about big, but I hunt some. Make some bows too.”

Henry snorted. “Cute. I’m more of a gun guy.”

Ray sipped from his mug. “Tough to find ammo, isn’t it? What do you shoot?”

“MX Carbine.”

Ray whistled. “Nice piece of hardware. They still shoot five-five-six?”

“Nah. Seven-point-six mil. Hollow point.”

“Nasty,” said Ray. “Can’t hunt with that, there’d be nothing left to eat but jelly. They let you take that off the base?”

Henry grinned. “Didn’t have time to ask. There was a lot going on. Who’s buying?”

“I’ll stand you a round,” said Ray. “You boys want anything else? No? We’ll be right back.”

I turned to Tucker as Henry and Ray walked across the yard to the barn. “You sure about him?”

Tucker took a grimacing sip of his bean-tinged beer and shook his head. “Nobody's sure about him. He’s a lunatic. But he’s family, and we need some muscle.”

Except for Tucker fidgeting and clearing his throat in between sips of homebrew, we sat in silence, waiting for the other two to get back. The sun had set. A sharp crescent moon hung over the trees. From where I sat, I could see the black squares of the funeral home’s windows looking down at the people drinking in the firelight. To my right, behind the empty building, the stones of the old cemetery peeked through the trees that bordered the yard.

A figure stepped into the torchlight beside our table: small, dark hair, big eyes, wearing a mended zip-up sweatshirt over a cotton dress. Eliza.

“Hey, Tucker,” she said.

Tucker coughed, almost choking on a mouthful of beer. “Hey,” he sputtered.

“I saw you coming down the driveway. Hey, Mark,” she said to me.

“How are you, Liza?” I said.

She pretended not to notice Tucker frantically clearing his throat. “Good. Just got done serving inside, wanted to say hi.” She looked at Tucker.

Tucker said nothing, taking another gulp of beer.

“You want to join us?” I said.

She waved her hand. “Nah. I don’t want to interrupt anything. Just stopping over.”

“No, no bother at all, come on. Right, Tucker?”

Tucker cleared his throat. “Right,” he mumbled. “I—”

“Hey there, honey,” said Henry, walking up behind her. “You’re looking good tonight.”

“Henry,” she said, shoving her hands into her sweatshirt pockets as she turned to face him, coolly twisting away from his outstretched hand. “They let you back in here?”

“We talked to your dad,” said Ray quickly, stepping up beside Henry. “I didn’t know he was banned. I’m vouching for him. No trouble tonight. If that’s okay with you, miss.”

“‘Miss?’” said Henry, laughing. “Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Captain America?”

Ray frowned. “I’m sorry, but the way I was brought up, you treat a lady with respect.”

“I know all about how to treat a lady," said Henry, winking at Eliza.

Eliza looked him fully in the face. "No. You don't," she said gently. "And it's none of my business, but after all the stuff you were telling everybody the last time, about the shit that happened overseas... I guess you were probably too drunk to remember." She gave him a sad smile and put a hand on his arm. "It's none of my business. I just don't think you should be drinking."

Henry shrank away from her hand without realizing it. "Listen, I don't—"

"It's okay," she said. "Just take care of yourself." She turned to Ray. "Keep an eye on him."

Ray bowed his head. "Yes ma'am. He'll be alright with us."

"I’ve got to go.” She smiled at Tucker. “Goodnight.”

Henry made an effort to regain himself. “I’ll be thinking about you later,” he said as she walked away. “Which window is your bedroom?”

“The one with the crossbow sticking out of it,” she called over shoulder, holding up a middle finger and disappearing into the shadowed yard.

Henry watched her go. “She definitely wants it.”

Tucker looked as if he had bitten into a rotten lemon, but said nothing.

“Maybe we should get down to business,” said Ray, taking a seat at the table.

Henry sat. “What’s this kiddie bullshit y’all are up to?”

We told him about the mushrooms.

“Shit, is that all?” Henry said. “I can get you mushrooms.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, thinking about all the work we’d already sunk into our plan. "Who? From where?"

“Guy over in Morrisville. He comes over here once in a while. At least he used to. Not sure if he’s still dating that one girl.”

I sighed and took a long swallow of beer. “We got ahold of him. He’s empty. We’re going to see his supplier.”

“I want forty percent,” said Henry.

Tucker cleared his throat. “Of what?”

Henry shrugged. “Of whatever.”

“Now hold on,” said Ray. “What about me?”

“What the fuck about you, man? I’m the one with the gun.”

Ray shook his head. “When’s the last time you were in the woods, Henry? This isn’t clearing out slums in Caracas. Hell, I haven't even been as far east as we're going. Not in years, anyway.”

“Can’t be that fucking hard. I’ve got a screen. We can GPS it.”

“Henry,” said Ray patiently. “There’s no signal out there. Not unless you stole a satlink along with your gun.”

Henry took a drink from his mug.

“They teach you how to use a compass in that outfit you were with?” said Ray.

Henry laughed. “You fucking kidding me? It was the army, not some stupid goddamn pioneer cosplay bullshit.”

“Course not,” said Ray. “They just radioed you a set of cords and a door to kick in, right? It ain’t like that out there.” Ray spread his hands out on either side of his mug. “Look, we can be fair. Just don’t be greedy.”

Henry looked at me. “How about Mark? What’s his share for?”

“Are you serious?” I said. “This was our idea. And I’m putting up half the stake for this deal.”

“As far as I know, this was Tucker’s idea. Ray’s got the compass. I’ve got the gun. So what are we cutting you in for?”

“Mark stays or there’s no deal,” said Tucker quietly.

“Look,” I said. “Tucker and I have been saving up for this for months. It’s our goods we’re trading with. You two each get fifteen percent. In creds after we sell, or in mushrooms by weight if you think you can do better selling them yourselves. Your choice. Either way, Tucker and I split the rest. The compass and the gun aren’t worth anything without the stuff we collected for bartering. And you don’t know where you’re going.”

Ray nodded. “I can live with that. That’s fifteen percent of what we bring back?”

Tucker cleared his throat. “Well, there’s—”

Ray cut in before he could finish. “What do you say, Henry? Fifteen percent of what we bring back?”

Henry looked hard at me. “A three-way split sounds better.”

“Mark stays,” said Tucker.

Henry shrugged. “Whatever. Only ‘cause you’re kin.”

Ray held out his hand. “Let’s all shake on that, then. Fifteen percent for us, and the rest goes to Mark and Tucker. Of what we bring back.”

We all shook hands, and Ray tipped me a wink when Henry wasn’t looking. Nothing had been said about what we planned to grow—the cut where Ray expected to make his money. Henry would be pissed when he learned that we’d left him out of that part of the deal. I figured we’d cross that bridge if we came to it. We just needed Henry to get there and back.

Ray bought another round to seal the deal. We agreed to meet two days later, at sunrise, to go east into the forest. Everybody relaxed. Henry told war stories. Ray told hunting stories. Tucker and I listened and drank.

Maybe I don’t remember right. Maybe I had fun, talking and drinking with everybody else, a bunch of guys out on a warm summer night. Maybe it’s just what came later that changed it for me.

But as we sat there talking about our big plans, pretending not to notice the shadows and the old graves all around us, I remember feeling like we were all going to die.

---

To be continued in Part 4.