Movin’ on Back
by Gary Clifton
“What the hell you mean, bitch? You only made 27 dollars! That won’t buy a quart of Jack.” Buck usually shrieked his way through his diatribes but, this time, he was a tad more subdued, maybe afraid neighbors would call the law.
“I ain’t got the body of a stripper,” Callie said. “Two or three of them girls draw most of the tips.”
“If’n I thought you was holdin’ out on me, I’d kick your ass good.” Buck’s drunken eyes glared out from between a full black beard and greasy, shoulder-length hair.
“That whalin’ you gave me last week took two days off work before make-up could cover enough bruises.”
“You pick me up any beer? Or are you too damned dense to remember?”
“Twelve-pack. It’s in the fridge.”
“That damn thing don’t work no way, Callie.”
She stood against the wall next to the door, terrified. If she ran, where could she go? Her daddy had ordered her never to come back, although Mama had called her at the club and said she was welcome. Mama could handle Daddy.
“Well, damnation, gimme a beer,” he said, slouched on the torn sofa. “And gimme that 27 dollars.”
She scurried to the fridge, ignoring its foul odor when she opened the door. She retrieved a tallboy.
“Well, baby” — Buck tossed the bills on the cushion beside him and popped open the beer — “no problem, you jes’ gotta apply to a better-class joint.”
Stripping was humiliating beyond words. She was eighteen and slender, and she looked like a boy among girls with plastic boobs. The manager had compounded the horror by handing her over to two of his friends in the office earlier in the evening. That’s where the $27 tip had come from.
“How’d you get home?”
“Caught a ride with a customer.”
“You get it on with him? That oughta be worth fifty.”
“No, Buck.” My God, prostitution. She wasn’t capable. Thought of the semi-rape in the manager’s office just hours ago nearly caused her to vomit. She didn’t mention that the customer who gave her a lift home had tried to take a turn, too. She had finally jumped out of the car and run the last three blocks, lugging the twelve pack.
* * *
Callie had met Buck on the bus from Waco. Rodeo bull-rider he bragged. She learned soon enough that the only bull was whatever came out of his mouth. She had already tried to run away once and tried to hide in the bus station. That got her last week’s beating.
“Only gotta couple of joints left, Callie. You need to find more cash somewhere,” he slurred groggily while lighting a roach. “And shuck them clothes and get over here. I’m a-needin’ some attention.”
She mechanically unbuttoned her blouse. If she went to the cops, they’d just tell her to go home or move. It took money to go home and, if he caught her again, he’d kill her. Great God, what could she do?
* * *
“Man, that’s a lot of fire for careless smoking.” Water dripped from the fire chief’s helmet. “Beer cans tossed all over the place. He musta really been loaded and stoned.” His wrinkled face showed a day’s growth of beard.
The cop was younger, with unusually hard eyes. “That ratty sofa was made of cheap crap that would burn like toilet paper.” He studied the body, a charred shell lying on burnt debris and metal sofa springs.
“Yeah, a couple whiffs of carbon monoxide, and he woulda been too disoriented to find the door.”
The cop held up a scorched billfold. “Musta had his wallet layin’ on that coffee table. “Wilbur Francis Boswell, age 30. Records show he’s done ten in State for rape and has arrests for burglary and aggravated assault. Not much loss here.”
“That cutie outside his wife or ol’ lady?”
The cop held his notebook under the flashlight. “Stripper, name’s Callie Nelson. Works at that puke joint Nudies a couple miles back up Route 41. Says she been staying with the vic. Not married, nothin’ permanent.”
“How she get out?”
“Asleep in the bedroom. Heard the vic scream, saw flames, beat it out the back door.”
“She’s fully dressed.”
“First arrivers said she was runnin’ around the yard buck nekked. They tapped out the fire before it got the back part of the house. They helped her dig around and find some duds. Nekked babe gets plenty of help and sympathy.”
“Damn, I missed that part. Any chance she—?”
“Naw. Kid’s as green as new grass. No record. She’s no killer.” He shook his head sagely.
The fire chief sighed wearily and snapped off his light. “The coroner is waitin’. I’ll make sure he agrees first, but I see this as a wino stoner accidentally ridding the world of one more bum. That girl got a place to go?”
“Said if I’d give her a lift to the bus station, she was gonna go home to Mama, somewhere around Waco.”
“Not hanging around for the funeralizin,’ huh?”
“No, she seems anxious to see her folks. Only been gone from home a month. This guy wasn’t no true love deal.”
“Damn, we gonna have to pony up again to send a waif back to where she came from?”
“No, she showed me cash. She’s only got $27, but it will buy her a ticket.”
Copyright © 2017 by Gary Clifton
