Good Blood. K. C. Pastore
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I was surprised to see Hog even in the “B” class. He always had a kind of dumb look about him, not to mention he slept in class all the time, but regardless, when he was awake, he took a liking to talking to me. Couldn’t say I really liked him all that much, but then again I barely knew him.
Hog’s family was big time in the “biz” as he called it. They were real “big time.” I could tell Hog wasn’t lying, because on my way to Char’s I’d biked past his house on Baker Street—the less steep, though rather lack-luster route up Union hill. And Hog’s dad always had the latest cars. I mean he, like, changed out cars two, sometimes three, times a year.
“Listen here, Rosie,” Hog still whispered, “I gotta feelin’ Mugga’s up to no good.”
“Mugga’s always up to no good, dummy.”
He tilted his square head to the side and glared his puppy eyes at me.
“Go home, you spud.” I swiveled and kept on down Cascade.
I only walked my bike about three yards before hearing short-gaited pattering feet rush up behind me. “Rose, listen here.”
“Damn it, Hog. Get outa here and stop snooping around my house.”
“I’m on’verge of a real breakthrough, ya see. I think Mugga’s turnin’ up a new business, been goin’ around tryin’ to employ people. Been’ fixin’ up dis garage by r’house, bought a dump truck and all. Been haulin’ wood chips and all that for the past week.”
“Oh man, well, that’s re-e-e-ally something, Hog.” I pointed. “Did’at shrub tell ya all that?” I swiveled my eyes forward. “I got to get to the shoe shop. Popi’s expecting me to take inventory.”
“All right, Rose, all right. I know ur’ lyin’ cuz its Sunday, and ya just wan’me outa ya hair. Just know ’dis ol’Moon, he came over two nights ago. Gave Mugga a real hard time and ripped his crucifix right off’is neck.” Hog patted two hard thuds on my back and raised his eyebrows initiating a cunning wide-eyed gaze.
Unimpressed, I stared at him. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Hog wrapped his arm around my back and leaned close. “I seen ya, Rose.” His eyebrows wiggled up and down. “Eye’n up that very same gold chain . . . at the reunion.”
“What’r ya talkin’ about Hog?” My eyes darted back and forth between his left eye, right eye, left eye, right eye, left eye. The smell of pie. The baby blue dress. The flicker of sunlight. To tell you the truth, I should have just asked Hog right then, who those guys were and what they were up to, but for some reason I found it necessary to lie.
“I seen ya. And, you know what I’m talkin’ about. You even asked ur Grandma ‘bout the crucifix. I seen ya point at it.”
“I don’t care about the chain,” I lied.
“Yea, well. I’m goin’ down to the Joint to check on the location of that very chain.” And with that, he stomped his way across the street and down the next alleyway.
The wind picked up. It felt like a nighttime breeze, though it was awfully early for that. But nighttime breeze or not, the way it weaseled through my hair relaxed me. I mean that’s the only sane reason I can come up with to explain why I followed him down that alley.
Chapter 3
Despite Hog’s stump-like stature, his little legs could move pretty quick. I’ve found this to be true of most short people. The tall lanky kind often move slowly, willowy, swaying in the breeze, but the short ones move with crafty agility, weaving in, out, and around any obstacle with ease—yet rather absent of finesse. Eventually, I caught up with Hog, but only with the help of my bike.
We strode up the alley and crossed Elm into another one. “You only take alley routes?” I asked.
“Yep.” His face kept forward, focused, and his arms pumped his stocky frame onward.
“Streets’re easier, ya know. No gravel. Or weeds. Or crap lying around.”
“Nah. Dis is fine.”
I hopped off my bike and walked it along. At the edge of the alley, Hog slapped his forearm across my shoulders, like Dad often did in the station wagon when he slammed for a stop sign.
He pointed to my bike. “Set it down,” he whispered.
I leaned it against the fence while Hog peered around the corner.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Desolate,” he responded.
How the heck did he know that word? I wondered.
The Joint was vacant. In those days, the Mahoningtown train station, otherwise known as the Joint, was the hang-out for the guys. Now, it’s just a big patch of grass. Then various assortments of Italian ragazzi lurked on its benches and squatted in its shadows—smoking, cussing, drinking and, of course, having a damned good time. I’m still envious of those picturesque scenes I never had the luck or audacity to belong in.
“Wonder where everybody is,” Hog whispered.
“Probably at home gettin’ ready for dinner.”
“Like hell, they are.”
Right then, a hoot bellowed up from the river bank that lay just beyond the Joint. A splash crashed and a rowdy crowd laughed and wailed. Hog scurried behind the Joint toward the river.
“Come on.” He flagged me over.
I followed Hog, who crawled through the weeds. Grandma’s Polaroid Swinger dangled, reckless as a reed in the wind, from my neck, so I tucked it into my shirt. Sporadic piles of clothes lay dumped at the foot of random trees. We crawled right to the edge of the drop-off, and there they were, five guys splashing around in the river.
“Didn’t know anybody swam in there,” I whispered, “Ang told me there are giant, like eight-foot long, catfish in there. That eat people.”
“Well Ang’s a liar,” Hog assured me. “He might be right ’bout the catfish, but dem guys swim in there a’right already.”
Butt naked in a river infested with man-eating catfish.
A sixth guy stood up on the railroad bridge
“Why don’t you take a shot of that Rosie?” Hog asked.
I paused. Even from our distance, I could see the moon-shaped scar hooked around the sixth man’s neck.
“C’mon, Rose. Might come in handy later!” He winked.
Though I had not a clue what he meant by that, I instinctually pulled the Swinger from my shirt. Leaning up on a pair of Levi’s, I steadied my elbows and locked him in the viewer. But just as I hit the button, I felt something like a cold slug sliver onto my elbow, and my arm involuntarily jerked. I looked down. A splash echoed from down at the hole.
“Rosie! What the . . .? You missed’im.”
Ignoring Hog the best I could, I angrily flipped my head down to see what had touched my arm. It was that gold crucifix, shiny and a little bigger in person—dreadful. I set the Swinger on the Levis and lifted the crucifix for closer inspection.
“Whoa! Hey!” Hog lurched his meaty hand to my face and snatched the chain and charm from my hand. “When you find’is?” His eyes locked with Christ’s like he was transfixed by some dubious magic.
Another splash echoed, releasing Hog from his hypnotic state.
“Well, here,” Hog stated. He dropped the crucifix in front of me. “Do yer worst.”
I stared at him, confused by the statement.
“Here’s ‘ur chance. Take it for your own.”
“Thought you wanted it,” I said. “Ya know, give it back to