FOODCHAIN

A Novel

Jeff Jacobson

Antenna Books

Brooklyn, NY

FOODCHAIN. Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Jacobson. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

A different version of the first chapter previously appeared in F Magazine, published by Columbia College in Chicago.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jacobson, Jeff (Jeffory)

              Foodchain / Jeff Jacobson

                            p.   cm.

ISBN: 978-1-62306-041-1

1. Hunters—Fiction.  2. Vendetta—Fiction.  3. Ranchers—Fiction.  4. Exotic animals—Fiction.  5. California, Northern—Fiction

I. Title

Originally published by Five Star, March 2010 in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman

Antenna Books ebook edition, December 2015

www.antennabooks.com

For Dad

DAY ONE

 

In the sudden silence that filled the trunk after the engine died, Frank heard strange cries and howls. The other guy locked in with him started whimpering again. Frank got the feeling that the guy, a little man with a billion freckles, had been out here before, but the guy hadn’t said much, just sobbed damn near the whole ride. Frank fought the urge to kick him to shut him up.

They’d been in the trunk of the long black car for hours and when it was finally opened, the light from four piss-yellow floodlights made Frank squint. Empty cages and bare concrete slabs surrounded a gravel parking lot, as if a primitive roadside zoo had been abandoned halfway through construction.

Sergio and Giulio, the quiet gentlemen who drove the car, stepped away from the trunk and jerked their heads. Frank and Red climbed out awkwardly; their hands were bound with plastic zip-ties. Frank wore a short sleeve button-up shirt, boxers, and one sock. The gravel felt warm under his bare foot.

Red recognized the place and made a hurt sound through gritted teeth. He said, “Please. Just listen to me. I’ll pay Mr. Castellari. I’ll pay, okay? Please. I’ve stashed enough money away—you need to listen to me.”

It didn’t look like the quiet gentlemen were listening. Frank didn’t know if they were related to Castellari in some way, maybe his nephews, or God forbid, his sons. They looked like him, no necks, not really, just muscle; the bottom of their ears damn near brushed the shoulders of their black suits. But unlike Castellari, Frank didn’t think they wouldn’t change their expressions if he set their black hair on fire. No anger. No impatience. No joy, either. No nothing. It was as if all their emotions had been sucked out by an especially enthusiastic abortionist who had jammed his hollow knife into the back of their skulls and vacuumed out all feeling. They marched Frank and Red into the dead zoo, following a line of flickering floodlights.

Red sniffled harder, breathing in hushed, staccato hisses. “You gotta listen to me. Please. Please. I’ll take you right to it. All you gotta do is drive there, you understand? Please.” The pleading broke down into sobs, tears, and mucus dripping onto his stomach and the plastic cuffs.

Sergio pulled out a tiny cell phone, extended one stubby finger the size of a plump hot dog and hit a button. Frank wondered how he managed to hit just one button, considering the size of that finger. Giulio jangled the keys in the left pocket of his suit and checked his watch.

“We’re here,” Sergio said, in a clear, polite voice, his first words all day. He nodded, and held the phone out to Frank.

That’s when Frank realized that he was a dead man. This was a goodbye call.

If tonight was simply a warning, then Enzo Castellari would have waited. He would have left Frank wondering what the hell was going to happen all the way out here, out in the middle of nowhere with all the weird animal howls. Castellari wouldn’t call, he wouldn’t say anything. He’d just let Frank sweat it out, scare the shit out of himself, all on his own. Then, after seeing something, a demonstration, maybe something having to do with the other poor bastard stuck in the trunk, and after Frank got so scared he was ready to piss himself, then Castellari would talk to him.

But to talk to Frank before he even had a chance to see what could happen, before his imagination had a chance to run screaming into the night…Frank knew his time was up. Castellari simply wanted the satisfaction of saying goodbye. So Frank gingerly took the phone with the heavy realization that no matter what Castellari said, no matter what kind of salvation was promised, every word was a lie.

“Yeah,” Frank said.

“Hello Frank.” Castellari’s voice was smooth, polished; it slithered into Frank’s right eardrum, curling itself up and making itself at home. “I imagine right now you’re a little…worried. Wondering where you are and all. That’s understandable.”

Frank didn’t answer right away, just waited until it became apparent that Castellari wasn’t going to say anything until he acknowledged the question. Or was it a statement? Frank wasn’t sure. So he just said, “Yeah.”

“Take a good look at the man with you. Take a good look.”

Frank shifted the phone slightly, tilting it away from his ear, and hit the volume button with his pinkie. The voice continued, getting just loud enough to catch Red’s attention. Red stopped sniffling, his eyes meeting Frank’s and getting bigger by the second.

Castellari said, “There’s a man who can make numbers dance and sing, make no mistake. No matter how foul my financial excrement smelled, this man could sift those numbers through that magnificent, devious brain of his and it would always come up smelling like roses. Always.” A plastic sigh, full of resignation. “Trouble is, this man apparently felt I wasn’t valuing his services…appropriately. So, while it was true that he could make the numbers dance and sing, they were still out of tune.”

Castellari was always a melodramatic sonofabitch, but Frank made sure Red was getting it. And boy oh boy, he was getting it, all right. He’d frozen altogether, staring at Frank, at Frank’s right hand, at the phone.

“Now, this man was warned. Make no mistake about this. He was given every opportunity to rectify the musical numbers. But some men simply do not listen, no matter how loudly you speak, no matter how much effort you put into…impressing upon them the significance of the matter. I trust you’re listening, Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“This man has been in your shoes. He’s been here before. He knows what awaits him.” Castellari took a deep, patient breath, enjoying himself. “This man has seen God. He’s seen God, up close and personal. Unfortunately, this man was not…impressed with God.” Castellari paused. “Few men need to see God twice.”

Air hissed out of Red’s nose like it was escaping a tiny hole in a balloon.

“So. Now you’re in the position of trying to understand the significance of this matter. You watch and try to learn something. Are you listening, Frank?”

Frank didn’t say anything. Let the sonofabitch wait this one out. “Okay, Frank. Okay.” It took him a while to realize that Castellari had hung up.

* * * * *

They passed rows of dead carnival rides. Tangled metal, twisted spires, and dusty bench seats with safety bars stuck upright were collected together in a spiderweb of gathering shadows and faded colors that seemed to suck the light out of the air instead of reflecting it. Frank recognized a few rides from his childhood. The Whizzer. The Tilt-A-Whirl. The Mangler. The Ferris wheels looked like giant wagon wheels, leaning against each other, remnants of failed pioneer trips to the promised land of California.