Legion of Despair: Book Three in The Borrowed World Series by Franklin Horton Read Free Book Online Page A

and all the exterior trim with that color. The paint had the added benefit of high reflectivity, a feature that enhanced the safety aspects of the product, and the result was that headlights would illuminate the building brightly when they landed on the lone structure in the remote countryside. Buddy’s father aptly named his new establishment The Yellow House.
    Over the next several years, Buddy’s mother and father ran The Yellow House with modest success. They developed a reputation for good quality meals at a fair price. Cold beer could also be had at a reasonable price. While hard liquor required a license that Buddy’s father did not have, he kept such spirits under the counter and would sell them by the shot to men that he knew. For those that appreciated the novelty of untaxed clear liquor, the highest quality local moonshine was also available by the shot or by the jar.
    Despite taking liberty with the letter of the law, Buddy’s father did not flaunt his under-the-counter offerings. He even developed a regular clientele of deputies and state troopers who stopped in for a free meal and a coffee mug of their preferred beverage, which was as apt to be moonshine as coffee.
    The Yellow House thrived until a fall day in 1963. Buddy’s mother opened up for the lunch shift while Buddy’s father ran into town to make a bank deposit. His wife had opened the lunch shift on her own many times over the past couple of years and had never had any problems. The lunchtime opening of a drinking establishment, though, can represent Happy Hour for a man who has been working the night shift and has not yet made it home to bed.
    Buddy’s mother, as she did nearly every day, served beers to such men, who would drink them with their meal and go home to sleep until their next shift. On this day, she only had a few customers and most ate their lunches and then left promptly. One man did not. He continued to drink and made comments to Buddy’s mother of an insulting and inappropriate nature. She cut him off, having served him a half-dozen beers already. This made him angry and he refused to pay, issuing vile promises to Buddy’s mother before left. These were emphasized with a firm hand encircling her wrist, a gesture that made her all too aware of the man’s strength and, at the same time, of her own vulnerability.
    She had stopped her crying and shaking by the time Buddy’s father returned. She could not hide that she was upset and wilted under the pressure of her husband’s stern gaze. She told him the entire story. Buddy’s father knew the man she spoke of, and in fact had passed him walking home a few miles down the road. Buddy’s father walked out of The Yellow House and sped off, gravel spraying from beneath the tires of his black Buick Electra.
    It took him no time to find the walking man, who’d turned off the main road by this time and was following a narrow dirt road along the Levisa River. Buddy’s father slid to a stop and got out of the car. The man must surely have sensed who Buddy’s father was and why he was there, but he reportedly said nothing. Buddy’s father withdrew a .25 caliber Colt automatic from his pocket. He shot the drunk man in the face until he fell and kept shooting him until the gun was empty. When he left the scene, Buddy’s father made a tight turn, backing over the body twice before his car was pointed in the right direction.
    Buddy often wondered why his dad did not attempt to hide the body, but he made no such effort. The body was found and reported before the day was out. While the face of the dead man was not easily recognizable, the reek of alcohol was, and that led the police right to the door of the most likely place that the alcohol had been obtained -- The Yellow House.
    When asked if he’d seen this particular man today, Buddy’s father replied that he had.
    “When did you last see him?” the trooper asked.
    “When I killed the son-of-a-bitch,” Buddy’s father said.
    His