Screwjack by Thompson Hunter S

Author:Thompson, Hunter S [S, Thompson, Hunter]
Format: epub
ISBN: 0684873214
Published: 2010-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

Screwjack

LOS ANGELES ,...

Death of a Poet

In the coffin of ice, I sleep naked

In the tunnel of fire, I drink

-F. X. Leach

It was dark when we dropped into Green Bay, and the airport was deadly calm. The whole town was in shock from the disastrous beating inflicted that day on the hometown Packers by the Kansas City Chiefs. . . . Their confidence was broken; the Magic Man had failed, Mighty Casey had struck out.

The girl at the Avis counter was weeping uncontrollably in her booth as I approached. My heart was filled with joy, but I couldn't get through to her. She had lost her will to live. “Take any car you want,” she said. “I don't care anymore: It's over. I'm moving to Milwaukee on Monday.”

“Who cares?” I said. “Give me some goddamn keys.” She was slow to respond so I gave her a taste of the long knuckle and she fell to her knees. “There's more where that came from,” I told her.

Then I grabbed a set of keys off a nail and hurried outside to find a car. I was eager to see Leach and celebrate our great victory.

* * *

The address he had given me turned out to be a trailer court behind the stockyards. He met me at the door with red eyes and trembling hands, wearing a soiled cowhide bathrobe and carrying a half-gallon of Wild Turkey.

“You got here just in time,” he said. “I was about to slit my wrists. This is the worst day of my life.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “We won big. I bet the same way you did. You gave me the numbers. You even predicted Kansas City would stomp the Packers.”

F.X. tensed, then he threw back his head and uttered a high-pitch quavering shriek. I seized him. “Get a grip on yourself,” I snapped. “What's wrong?”

“I went crazy,” he said. “I got drunk and changed my bet. Then I doubled up.”

I felt a shudder in my spine. “What!” I said. “You bet on the Packers? What happened?”

“I went to that big Packer pep rally with some guys from the shop,” he said. “We were all drinking schnapps and screaming and I lost my head. . . . It was impossible to bet against the Packers in that atmosphere.”

It was true. Leach was a bad drinker and a junkie for mass hysteria.

“They're going to kill me,” he said. “They'll be here by midnight. I'm doomed.” He uttered another low cry and reached for the Wild Turkey bottle, which had fallen over and spilled.

“Hang on,” I said. “I'll get more.”

On my way to the kitchen I was jolted by the sight of a naked woman slumped awkwardly in the corner with a desperate look on her face, as if she'd been shot. Her eyes were bulged and her mouth was wide open and she appeared to be reaching out for me.

I leaped back and heard laughter behind me. My first thought was that Leach, unhinged by his gambling disaster, had finally gone

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