November Mourns by Tom Piccirilli

splattered against the gas pumps.
    “Been waitin’ two years to pay you back!”
    “That so?”
    “It is!”
    Shad knew guys who liked to play the moment out, grinning before a brawl, warming up to it. All that mattered to them was ego and image. They went through the day acting like there was a camera covering their every move. Like there was a group of teenage girls sitting on a couch somewhere watching them, cheering them on, getting sweaty. It was much harder to fight when you were alone.
    “You should’ve waited and put this off for as long as you could, Zeke.”
    “And why’s that, convict?”
    “Because I won’t let you off so easy this time.” Shad gave him the killing gaze so there’d be no doubt in Zeke Hester’s mind at all.
    “You think I’m scared of a jailbird like you?”
    “You should be after last time. You’re going to answer my questions or I’m going to hurt you again.”
    “You ain’t got the brass,” Zeke hissed, with a hint of fear in his dull voice. He was an idiot, but he had sense enough to know that everything Shad said was genuine. He tried to smile, putting some snarl into it.
    They squared off and Zeke let out a nervous chortle, shrugging his shoulders, loosening up as if this might be a twelve-rounder. He slid out of his jacket and threw it wildly over Shad’s head. He had on a sleeveless black T-shirt and hit a pose so his biceps bulged. He kept tightening and opening his fists, making his blood rush so the veins would stand out on his arms, hoping to look cut and strong. He scanned left and right to see if any girls might be around, but there was nobody except seventy-year-old Griff staring out the window, his lips covered in beer foam.
    It was going to be tough getting through to Zeke Hester if he thought he was on a movie set, about to be the next action hero star. Already you could see he was hoping to come up with some snappy, sarcastic patter. Something they could use for the trailer and highlight on the poster.
    Shad said, “Did you do anything to my sister?”
    “What’s that?” Zeke was still flexing, scared and unwilling to face the real context of the situation.
    “Answer me.”
    “You—”
    “I don’t have all day. I won’t ask you nicely again.”
    Zeke bolted up straight and his crude features, already cloyed with ignorance, grew even more moronic. “Megan? Your sister? You think . . . so you think I had something to do with what happened to her?”
    “I’m asking you.”
    “I reckon you can just turn yourself around right now and go find yourself a knothole for you to stick your rod in ’cause I ain’t—”
    Shad flowed forward and covered the ground between them in one step. He brought his hand up from low and backhanded Zeke with a solid shot, but Zeke’s unkempt head didn’t even turn aside. He wasn’t all flab. Beneath the matting of beard that chin was pointed stone.
    “Goddamn you, Jenkins!”
    “None of your usual posturing for the next five minutes, Zeke. What happened to her?”
    “How the hell should I know!”
    “You made a grab for her once.”
    “Now you listen to me ’bout that! You done sullied my good name—”
    Again Zeke checked left and right, really hoping somebody would come along and listen to his script. He’d worked hard on it for the last two years. The word sullied wasn’t an easy one to pull off, but Shad had to admit it sounded pretty natural. Zeke had been practicing.
    “Did you try again?” Shad asked.
    “What’s that?”
    “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
    The longer they went without tussling, the more time Zeke had to fan his anger and keep himself worked up. The fear was draining out of him too. “That ain’t it at all, you son of a bitch!”
    “Then why were you bothering my father?”
    “Me? You blame me? That bastard’s been putting the devil in folks’ ears for weeks, telling ’em I had a hand in Megan’s murder.”
    Shad tensed and stood straighter. “You think she was