The Jar of Nephren-Ka

The Long Watch

Belle Chasse, Louisiana: 7:34 AM, Monday, June 18th, 1984

I sat in my cruiser out in the auto shop's lot, a warm cup of coffee in my hand and the remains of takeout waffles sitting in a Styrofoam container in my passenger seat.

Beatnik turned out to be something of a workaholic, a feature as surprising as his raw talent and disturbing imagination. He had spent nearly twelve hours at the shop Saturday, only to show up on Sunday and put in another ten. I was too beat either night to go snooping around inside the shop, but I would make a trip in tonight.

Right now, I was waiting to see if he was going to keep any semblance of normal working hours. On the weekend, he tended to arrive around noon, but he might do a normal nine to five through the week.

I cracked open my paperback and settled in.

***

A little before nine, a scruffy looking white man in a beat-up white Ford pickup pulled into the auto shop's lot, giving me the stink-eye the whole way. He parked in front of the shop, stared at my car parked over by the road for a second, then unlocked the door and went inside.

I finished my coffee, worked on my teeth for a bit with a pick, then unfolded myself from the car and rubbed my knee down. I walked to the shop and opened the door, the smells of grease and gasoline heavy in the air.

The door slammed shut behind me, and walked up to the shabby little counter. I heard the sounds of tools being laid down from out in the garage. A few moments later, the scruffy white man came around the corner, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, his look one of surprise before the scowl retook possession of his face.

"Don't open till nine," the man said in a deep southern drawl.

"Not here for auto work," I said, and I handed him a card.

He looked down at the card as I looked him over. He was wearing a clean but stained blue mechanic's uniform, light blue shirt over dark blue slacks. The embroidered name on the shirt said Denis.

His eyes, a blueish gray, focused back on me and he handed the card back.

"What you need from me?" he asked.

"Nothing much. I'm watching a gentleman across the road, and I'd like to do it from your lot here."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Mister, I'm probably gonna need my spots. You'd best find somewhere else to settle."

I nodded. "What if I were to offer something to rent the spot?"

"How much you offering?" he asked.

"I can do $50 for the week," I said.

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, staring off into the distance, then focused back on me.

"Make it $100, and you got a deal."

I scrutinized him for a second, more for his benefit than out of any real need. I reached into my wallet and pulled out four crisp Jacksons and laid them on the counter.

"Best I can do right now," I said.

He chewed his cheek some more, then asked, "What he do?"

"Nothing yet. He's not all there in the head, and his family wants me to watch him in case he goes off the deep end." After a moment, I added, "He's not dangerous, just a little touched."

After another moment of contemplation, he slapped his hand down over the bills and slid them across the counter.

"Just don't bother my customers," he said.