Fup. Jim Dodge

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СКАЧАТЬ drinker and gambler; there was no woman in the household; his land was being sold for tax delinquency; and, frankly, that in light of the substantial inheritance, his motives were suspect. Jake, spit flying, punctuating his rebuttal with jabs of a meat saw he flourished in his left hand, informed her in turn that 79 wasn’t shit to an immortal; that drinking and gambling made men out of boys; that there was, in fact, a female in the household, a new bluetick bitch pup named Nookie; that he fully intended to deed the ranch to his grandson as collateral on the anticipated loan; that his motives were none of her fucking business; and that he was fully prepared to go to the wall if she tried to interfere, promising that his second to last act would be the Supreme Court, the last to strangle her with his bare hands. He backed her out the door with the meat saw, but he didn’t back her down.

      The next morning, still showering curses on the memory of her presence, he took the $632 he had to his name, packed a suitcase with a change of clothes and nine jars of Ol’ Death Whisper, and hit the road playing cards. Players in the north-coast cardrooms still talk about it in the same tone they talk about the fire of ’41: his age and ferocity were intimidating, but it was his plain, bald, God-graced, unadulterated, shithouse luck that wiped the tables clean. In three months he won nearly $90,000, and every time he left town he mailed a cashier’s check to the San Francisco law firm of Gutt, Cutt and Freese, a group of ruthlessly brilliant attorneys who specialized in custody cases, and who responded to each check like piranhas to blood, unleashing another frenzy of writs, motions, and suits. Finally, through sinuous maneuvering lubricated with tidy envelopes of well-placed cash, the case was assigned to Judge Wilber Tatum, an octogenarian with 17 grandkids, a honky-tonk road map of broken veins on his face, and a $100,000 credit line in Las Vegas despite the alimony he paid his eight ex-wives.

      Granddaddy Jake, as everyone began to call him at his request, drove his young grandson out to the ranch in a new Jeep pick-up. He talked to the boy continually, pointing out places they would go fishing and hunting, the swimming holes and shortcuts, the name of every waving neighbor they passed. Tiny stared straight ahead, nodding slightly.

      When they arrived at the ranch house (which he’d had Lottie Anderson spruce up), he sat Tiny down at the table with a gallon of milk and a pound of Oreos, then unloaded the truck and fixed up the boy’s room. When he returned to the kitchen, Tiny was sitting on the floor by the wood-box, building a miniature split-rail fence out of the redwood kindling. Jake went out and chopped some more. Above him he saw a ragged V of ducks flying high against the sunset, following the light south, but they didn’t stir him like they usually did. He had a grandchild to look after now, the responsibility of care. He felt himself settle into himself. The ducks could take care of themselves.

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