Fiddler Fair (anthology) Read online

  So, like I was sayin’ I went back t’ murderin’ worms an’ makin’ the bass laugh, an’ finally got tired’a bein’ the main course fer the skeeters an’ chiggers an’ headed back home. I fell inta bed an’ didn’ think nothin’ about it till I walked out next mornin’.

  An’ dang if there ain’t a big ol’ mess in the middle’a my best hayfield! What? Oh heckfire, ma’am, it was one’a them crop circle things, like on the cover’a that Led Zeppelin record. Purely ruint m’hay. You cain’t let hay get flattened down like that, spoils it right quick ’round here if they’s been any dew, an’ it was plenty damp that mornin’.

  How’d I feel? Ma’am, I was hot. I figgered it was them scifi writers, foolin’ with me; them city folk, they dunno you cain’t do that t’hay. But they didn’ have no cause t’fool with me like that, we bin pretty good neighbors so far, I even bought their books an’ liked ’em pretty much too, ’cept for the stuff ’bout the horses. Ev’body knows a white horse’s deaf as a post, like as not, less’n’ it’s one’a them Lippyzaners. Ain’t no horse gonna go read yer mind, or go ridin’ through fire an’ all like that an’—

  Oh, yeah. Well, I got on th’ phone, gonna give ’em what for, an’ turns out they’re gone! One’a them scifi conventions. So it cain’t be them.

  Well, shoot, now I dunno what t’think. That’s when I heerd it, under th’ porch. Somethin’ whimperin’, like.

  Now y’know what happens when you live out in the country. People dump their dang-blasted strays all th’ time, thinkin’ some farmer’ll take care of ’em. Then like as not they hook up with one’a the dog packs an’ go wild an’ start runnin’ stock. Well, I guess I gotta soft heart t’match my soft head, I take ’em in, most times. Get ’em fixed, let ’em run th’ rabbits outa my garden. Coyotes get ’em sooner or later, but I figger while they’re with me, they at least got t’eat and gotta place t’sleep. So I figgered it was ’nother dang stray, an’ I better get ’im out from under th’ porch ’fore he messes under there an’ it starts t’smell.

  So I got down on m’hands an’ knees like a pure durn fool, an’ I whistled an’ coaxed, an’ carried on like some kinda dim bulb, an’ finally that stray come out. But ma’am, what come outa that porch weren’t no dog.

  It was about the ugliest thing on six legs I ever seen in my life. Ma’am, that critter looked like somebody done beat out a fire on its face with a ugly stick. Looked like five miles ’a bad road. Like the reason first cousins hadn’t ought t’get married. Two liddle, squinchy eyes that wuz all pupil, nose like a burnt pancake, jaws like a bear-trap. Hide all mangy and patchy, part scales and part fur, an’ all of it putrid green. No ears that I could see. Six legs, like I said, an’ three tails, two of ’em whippy and ratty, an’ one sorta like a club. It drooled, an’ its nose ran. Id’a been afraid of it, ’cept it crawled outa there with its three tails ’tween its legs, whimperin’ an’ wheezin’ an’ lookin’ up at me like it was ’fraid I was gonna beat it. I figgered, hell, poor critter’s scarder of me than I am of it—an’ if it looks ugly t’me, reckon I must look just’s ugly right back.

  So I petted it, an’ it rolled over on its back an’ stuck all six legs in th’air, an’ just acted about like any other pup. I went off t’ the barn an’ got Thang—I ended up callin’ it Thang fer’s long as I had it—I got Thang a big ol’ bowl’a dog food, didn’ know what else t’give it. Well, he looked pretty pleased, an’ he ate it right up—but then he sicked it right back up too. I shoulda figgered, I guess, he bein’ from someplace else an’ all, but it was worth a try.

  But ’fore I could try somethin’ else, he started off fer m’bushes. I figgered he was gonna use ’em fer the usual—

  But heckfire if he didn’t munch down m’ junipers, an’ then sick them up! Boy howdy, was that a mess! Look, you can see the place right there—

  Yes’m, I know. I got th’ stuff tested later, after it was all over. Chemist said th’ closest thang he’d ever seen to’t was somethin’ he called Aquia Reqa or somethin’ like—kind’ve a mix a’ all kinda acids ­together, real nasty stuff, etches glass an’ everthang­.

  Anyhow, I reckon gettin’ fed an’ then sickin’ it all back up agin jest made the poor critter ’bout half crazy bein’ hungry. But next I know, Thang’s took off like a shot, a headin’ fer one’a my chickens!

  Well, he caught it, an he ate it down, beak an’ feathers, an’ he sicked it right back up agin’ ’fore I could stop ’im.

  That made me hot all over agin’. Some dang idjut makes a mess’a my hayfield, then this Thang makes messes all over m’yard, an’ then it eats one’a my chickens. Now I’m a soft man, but there’s one thing I don’t stand for, an’ that’s critters messin’ with the stock. I won’t have no dog that runs cows, sucks eggs, or kills chickens. So I just grabbed me the first thang that I could and I went after that Thang t’lay inta him good. Happens it was a shovel, an’ I whanged him a good one right upside th’ haid ’fore he’d even finished bein’ sick. Well, it seemed t’hurt him ’bout as much as a rolled-up paper’ll hurt a pup, so I kept whangin’ him an’ he kept cowerin’ an’ whimperin’ an’ then he grabbed the shovel, the metal end.

  An’ he ate it.

  He didn’t sick that up, neither.

  Well, we looked at each other, an’ he kinda wagged his tails, an’ I kinda forgave ’im, an’ we went lookin’ fer some more stuff he could eat.

  I tell you, I was a pretty happy man ’fore the day was over. I reckoned I had me th’ answer to one of m’bills. See, I c’n compost ’bout ev’thang organic, an’ I can turn them aluminum cans in, but the rest of th’ trash I gotta pay for pickup, an’ on a farm, they’s a lot of it what they call hazardous, an’ thats extra. What? Oh, you know, barrels what had chemicals in ’em, bug-killer, weed-killer, fertilizer. That an’ there’s just junk that kinda accumulates. An’ people are always dumpin’ their dang old cars out here, like they dump their dang dogs. Lotsa trash that I cain’t get rid of an’ gotta pay someone t’haul.

  But ol’ Thang, he just ate it right up. Plastic an’ metal, yes’m, that was what he et. Didn’ matter how nasty, neither. Fed ’im them chemical barrels, fed ’im ol’ spray-paint cans, fed ’im th’ cans from chargin’ the air-conditioner, he just kept waggin’ his tails an’ lookin’ fer more. That’s how he come t’ chew on my Chevy; I was lookin’ fer somethin’ else t’feed him, an’ he started chawin’ on the bumpers. Look, see them teethmarks? Yes’m, he had him one good set of choppers all right. Naw, I never took thought t’be afraid of him, he was just a big puppy.

  Well, like I said, by sundown I was one happy man. I figgered I not only had my trash problem licked, I could purt-near take care of the whole dang county. You know how much them fellers get t’take care’a hazardous waste? Heckfire, all I had t’do was feed it t’ol’ Thang, an’ what came out ’tother end looked pretty much like ash. I had me a goldmine, that’s how I figgered.

  Yeah, I tied ol’ Thang up with what was left of a couch t’chew on an’ a happy grin on his ugly face, an’ I went t’sleep with m’accountin’ program dancin’ magic numbers an m’head.

  An’ I woke up with a big, bright light in m’eyes, an’ not able t’move. I kinda passed out, an’ when I came to, Thang was gone, an’ all that was left was the leash an’ collar. All I can figger is that whoever messed up m’hayfield was havin’ a picnic or somethin’ an’ left their doggie by accident. But I reckon they figger I took pretty good care of ’im, since I ’spect he weighed ’bout forty, fifty pounds more when they got ’im back.

  But I ’spose it ain’t all bad. I gotta friend got a plane, an’ he’s been chargin’ a hunnert bucks t’take people over th’ field, an’ splittin’ it with me after he pays fer the gas. And folks that comes by here, well, I tell ’em, the story, they get kinda excited an. . . .

  What ma’am? Pictures? Samples? Well sure. It’ll cost you fifty bucks fer a sample’a where Thang got sick, an’ seventy-five fer a picture of the bumper of my Chevy.
r />   Why ma’am, what made you thank Okies was dumb?

  Small Print

  This story appeared in Deals With The Devil, edited by Mike Resnick. Larry and I live near Tulsa, Oklahoma, home of Oral Roberts University and widely termed “The Buckle of the Bible Belt.” We have more televangelists per square mile here in this part of the country than I really care to think about. Maybe somebody out there will figure out how to spray for them.

  Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

  Lester Parker checked the lock on the door of his cheap motel room for the fifth time; once again, it held. He checked the drapes where he had clothes-pinned them together; there were no cracks or gaps. He couldn’t afford to be careless, couldn’t possibly be too careful. If anyone from any of the local churches saw him—

  He’d picked this motel because he knew it, frequented it when he had “personal business,” and knew that for an extra ten bucks left on the bed, the room would be cleaned completely with no awkward questions asked. Like, was that blood on the carpet, or, why was there black candlewax on the bureau? Although he hadn’t checked in under his own name, he couldn’t afford awkward questions the next time he returned. They knew his face, even if they didn’t know his name.

  Unless, of course, this actually worked. Then it wouldn’t matter. Such little irregularities would be taken care of.

  His hands trembled with excitement as he opened his briefcase on the bed and removed the two sets of papers from it. One set was handwritten, in fading pen on yellowed paper torn from an old spiral-bound notebook. These pages were encased in plastic page-protectors to preserve them. The other was a brand-new contract, carefully typed and carefully checked.

  He had obtained—been given—the first set of papers less than a week ago, here in this very ­motel.

  He’d just completed a little “soul-searching” with Honey Butter, one of the strippers down at Lady G’s and a girl he’d “counseled” plenty of times before. He’d been making sure that he had left nothing incriminating behind—it had become habit—when there was a knock on the door.

  Reflexively he’d opened it, only realizing when he had it partly open just where he was, and that it could have been the cops.

  But it hadn’t been. It was one of Honey’s ­coworkers with whom he also had an arrangement; she knew who and what he really was and she could be counted on to keep her mouth shut. Little Star DeLite looked at him from under her fringe of thick, coarse peroxide-blonde hair, a look of absolute panic on her face, her heavily made-up eyes blank with fear. Without a word, she had seized his hand and dragged him into the room next door.

  On the bed, gasping in pain and clutching his chest, was a man he recognized; anyone who watched religious broadcasting would have recognized that used-car-salesman profile. Brother Lee Willford, a fellow preacher, but a man who was to Lester what a whale is to a sardine. Brother Lee was a televangelist, with his own studio, his own TV shows, and a take of easily a quarter million a month. Lester had known that Brother Lee had come to town for a televised revival, of course; that was why he himself had taken the night off. No one would be coming to his little storefront church as long as Brother Lee was in town, filling the football stadium with his followers.

  He had not expected to see the preacher here—although he wasn’t particularly surprised to see him with Star. She had a weakness for men of the cloth, and practically begged to be “ministered to.” Besides, rumor said that Brother Lee had a weakness for blonds.

  Lester had taken in the situation in a glance, and acted accordingly.

  He knew enough to recognize a heart attack when he saw one, and he had also known what would happen if Brother Lee was taken to a hospital from this particular motel. People would put two and two together—and come up with an answer that would leave Brother Lee in the same shape as Jim Bakker. Ruined and disgraced, and certainly not fluid enough to pay blackmail.

  First things first; Brother Lee’s wallet had been lying on the stand beside the bed. Lester grabbed it, pulled some bills out of it and shoved them at Star. The little blond grabbed them and fled without a word.

  Now one complication had been dealt with. Star wouldn’t say anything to anyone; a hooker whose clients died didn’t get much business.

  Then, he had helped Brother Lee back into his pants; shoved the wallet into his coat-pocket (a small part of his mind writhing with envy to see that the suit was Armani and the fabric was silk) and draped the coat over Brother Lee’s shoulders. He could not be found here; he had to be found somewhere neutral and safe.

  There were car keys on the nightstand too; Lester had assumed they were for the vehicle outside. He had hoped there was a car-phone in it, but even if there hadn’t been he could still have worked something out.

  But there had been a phone, a portable; Lester dialed the emergency number, returned to the ­motel room, got Brother Lee into the car and got the car down into the street moments before the ambulance arrived. There was, after all, no harm in being rescued from the street—only in being taken from a motel room in a state of undress. He had followed the ambulance in Brother Lee’s car, and claiming to be a relative, set himself up in the waiting room.

  The reporters came before the doctors did. He had told them a carefully constructed but simple story; that he had met Brother Lee just that day, that the great man had offered his advice and help out of the kindness of his heart, and that they had been driving to Lester’s little storefront church when Brother Lee began complaining of chest pains, and then had collapsed. Smiling modestly, Lester credited the Lord with helping him get the car safely to the side of the road. He’d also spewed buckets of buzzwords about God calling the man home and how abundant life was to believers. The reporters accepted the story without a qualm.

  He had made certain that Brother Lee found out exactly what he had told the reporters.

  He bided his time, checking with the hospital twice a day, until Lee was receiving visitors. Finally Brother Lee asked to see him.

  He had gone up to the private room to be greeted effusively and thanked for his “quick thinking.” Lester had expected more than thanks, however.

  He was already framing his discreet demand, when Brother Lee startled him by offering to give him his heart’s desire.

  “I’m going to give you the secret of my success,” the preacher had said, in a confidential whisper. “I used to be a Man of God; now I just run a nice scam. You just watch that spot there.”

  Lester had been skeptical, expecting some kind of stunt; but when the quiet, darkly handsome man in the blue business suit appeared in a ring of fire at the foot of Brother Lee’s hospital bed, he had nearly had a heart-attack himself. It wasn’t until Brother Lee introduced the—being—as “My colleague, Mister Lightman” that Lester began to understand what was going on.

  Brother Lee had made a compact with the Devil. The “number one saver of souls” on the airwaves was dealing with the Unholy Adversary.

  And yet—it made sense. How else could Brother Lee’s career have skyrocketed the way it had without some kind of supernatural help? Lester had assumed it was because of Mafia connections, or even help from—Him—but it had never occurred to him that Brother Lee had gone over to the Other Side for aid. And Brother Lee and his “colleague” had made it very clear to Lester that such aid was available to him as well.

  Still, there was such a thing as high-tech trickery. But Mr. Lightman was ready for that suspicion.

  “I will give you three requests,” the creature said. “They must be small—but they should be things that would have no chance of occurring otherwise.” He had smiled, and when Lester had a glimpse of those strange, savagely pointed teeth, he had not thought “trickery,” he had shuddered. “When all three of those requests have been fulfilled, you may call upon me for a more complete contract, if you are convinced.”

  Lester had nodded, and had made his requests. First, that the transmission of his car, which he had already had inspected and knew was abou
t to go, be “healed.”

  Lightman had agreed to that one, readily enough.

  Second, that his rather tiresome wife should be removed permanently from his life.

  Lightman had frowned. “No deaths,” he had said. “That is not within the scope of a ‘small’ request.”

  Lester had shrugged. “Just get her out. You can make me look stupid,” he said. “Just make me sympathetic.” Lightman agreed.

  And third, that the sum of ten thousand, two hundred and fifty three dollars end up in Lester’s bank account. Why that sum, Lester had no idea; it was picked arbitrarily, and Lightman agreed to that, as well.

  He had vanished the same way he had arrived, in a ring of fire that left no marks on the hospital linoleum. That was when Brother Lee had given him the battered pages, encased in plastic sleeves.

  “This is yours, now,” Brother Lee had said. “When you want Lightman to bring you a contract, you follow these directions.” He grimaced a little. “I know they’re kind of unpleasant, but Lightman says they prove that you are sincere.”