Frankenstein

charcoal after all the black has been burned out of them. His lips were so thin, his mouth looked like a slash.
    “What the blazing hell did he mean, we’re livestock?” Mr. Lyss demanded.
    Nummy said, “I don’t know that there word.”
    “What word?
Livestock
? You live in Montana and you don’t know livestock? Why’re you jerking my chain?”
    Nummy said what was only true: “You don’t have no chain, sir.”
    Looming over Nummy, bony fists clenched, Mr. Lyss said, “You being smart with me, boy?”
    “No, sir. I’m not smart, I’m blessed.”
    Mr. Lyss stared hard at him. After a while, Nummy looked down at the floor. When he raised his eyes again, the old man was still staring at him.
    At last, Mr. Lyss said, “You’re some kind of dummy.”
    “Is there more kinds than one?”
    “There’s a million kinds. There’s the kind who’re dumb about money. There’s others dumb about women. Some are so dumb they spend their whole lives with their heads up their butt.”
    “Up whose butt, sir?”
    “Up their own butt, whose butt do you think?”
    “Can’t be done,” said Nummy. “Not your own head up your own.”
    “It’s possible,” Mr. Lyss insisted.
    “Even it could be possible, why would they?”
    “Because they’re morons,” Mr. Lyss said. “It’s what they
do
.”
    Still doubtful, Nummy said, “They must be way dumber than me.”
    “Lots of people are dumber than you because they don’t realize they’re dumb. You realize it. That’s something, anyways.”
    “I know my limits,” Nummy said.
    “You’re a lucky man.”
    “Yes, sir. That’s why they say what they say.”
    Mr. Lyss scowled. “What do you mean, what do they say?”
    “Dumb luck. They call it that ’cause it happens to dumb people. But it’s never luck, it’s God. God looks out for folks like me.”
    “He does, huh? How do you know?”
    “Grandmama told me, and Grandmama she never lied.”
    “Everybody lies, boy.”
    “I don’t,” said Nummy.
    “Only because you’re too dumb to lie.”
    “You said lots of people is dumber than me, so then lots of people don’t lie.”
    Mr. Lyss spat on the floor. “I don’t like you, boy.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. I like you—a little.”
    “Right there’s a lie. You don’t like me at all.”
    “No. I do. I really do. The littlest bit.”
    Mr. Lyss’s right eye became larger than his left, as it would have if he put a magnifying glass to it, and he leaned forward as if studying a strange bug. “What’s to like about me?”
    “You’re not boring, sir. You’re dangerous excitable, and that’s not good. But you’re what Grandmama called colorful. With no colorful people, the world would be dull as vanilla pudding.”

    
chapter
9

    The instant the cold muzzle of the pistol pressed against the warm nape of her neck, Carson froze. Through clenched teeth, she called Chang a name that, back in the day, would have gotten her thrown off the New Orleans PD for gender, racial, and cultural insensitivity.
    He called her a name that was a female anatomical term no doctor ever used, at least not in his professional capacity, and whispered, “Who
are
you?”
    Before she could reply, the killer gasped in shock, as if a cold steel muzzle had been pressed to the warm nape of
his
neck, and from behind him, Michael said, “We’re cops. Drop the gun.”
    Chang was silent, perhaps contemplating the mysteries and the synchronicities of a universe that suddenly seemed less random and more morally ordered than he had thought.
    Then he said, “You’re not cops.” To Carson, he said, “You move a muscle, bitch, I’ll blow your brains out.”
    The dark bay lapped gently at the hull of the boat, and Carsonblinked beads of condensed fog from her eyelashes as she tried without success to blink images of Scout from her mind’s eye.
    “Who are you?”
Chang demanded again.
    “Private investigators,” Michael said. “Plus I’m her husband. I’ve got more at stake here than you do. Think about it.”
    “Husband,” Chang said, “you drop
your
gun.”
    “Get real,” Michael said.
    “You won’t shoot me,” Chang said.
    “What else can I do?”
    “You shoot me, I’ll shoot her.”
    “Maybe you’ll be dead too fast to shoot.”
    “Even dead, I’ll squeeze the trigger reflexively.”
    “Maybe, maybe not,” Michael said.
    “Or your shot will pass through me, kill her, too.”
    “Maybe, maybe not,” Michael said.
    “There could be another way,”