"Let me go you rat bastard!" Shannie struggled to free herself. Count managed to pin Shannie's arms to her sides. Feet flailing, Shannie repeatedly kicked at Count's shins. "Let me go!" Her wails angrier than my mother's ever were! Count loomed over her, repeatedly telling her it's okay, it's okay.
"Let me go," Shannie cried. "Let me go," she repeated, her voice trailing off.
***
Recently I found the balls to ask Russell about the tunnel and Indian point business. I returned to Beyford for my father's wedding. The day after the wedding I slithered into JD's Tavern.
Still dressed in his tux, Russell's ass was parked on the same stool as that afternoon fifteen years ago. I again tracked down Russell for information that could bring me closer to Shannie. Three other patrons hunched over their beers. The Television pleaded with the uninterested patrons to stay tuned for a once in a lifetime half-time spectacular. Russell, isolated in his own world of stale cigar smoke, peered aimlessly into the dark side of his sunglasses.
"Happy New Year, old man!" I said plummeting into Russell's stratosphere of cheap tobacco.
His thick lips turned upward, his stubble the color of the early January sky. "James Morrison," he coughed. "I never expected to see you here." Laughing at his own joke, Russell fell into a coughing fit.
"You better change out of that thing before they charge you double," I said.
"Boy," he said, pausing to inhale his cigar. "These here tweeds never looked so good as they do on this old fool." He tugged a pant leg.
Across the bar, a patron yelled to the Television, "Fuck the new Millennium!" He threw his mug at the TV. "What's there to be happy about?" The drunk's mug missed the television and shattered against the Saint Pauli Girl's breasts. She continued smiling. The other patrons guarded their beers. Russell's laugh was crusty. "You tell 'em Ralph."
"Fuck you and your fucking tuxedo, you old bastard," the drunk slurred. Russell laughed more. "What's the new millennium going to bring you?" the drunk slobbered. "More of the same. You'll still be in chains! You'll always be in chains! You dumb old bastard. You're as stupid as the rest of them," he cried.
"I's going to be free, free at last," Russell laughed, falling into another phlegmy coughing fit. He motioned for another shot. The miserable bartender obliged.
"Fuck y'all," the drunk bellowed. He jerked out of his stool, sending it to the floor with a crash. "Burn in hell. All of you!" He stumbled out the door. "Happy Fucking New Year," the miserable bartender uttered.