Peckerwood (14 page)

Irm and Big Randy sat at opposite ends of the tweed couch in Darlin’s office. There was a video playing in the VCR. Redneck vampire clan traveling around Oklahoma or somewhere in a Winnebago had stopped at a shitkicker bar and things were about to get bloody. Irm was lighting a joint and Randy cleaning a shotgun. She offered the big man a hit.

“Nah, thanks, Irm.” Randy and most of the staff at both Chowder’s and Darlin’s had been on edge in the weeks since Dale whathisname had disappeared and Tate Dill had been let go. Chowder had stepped up security, keeping two people on every shift at the bait shop and hanging around Darlin’s almost around the clock. He’d told Randy to clean all his guns and make sure they were handy which didn’t exactly encourage relaxing in anybody. Except Irm.

Recently, Irm’s demeanor had cleared considerably. She wasn’t sulking anymore, in fact she was nearly as cheery as anybody could recall. Not that she whistled exactly, but she smiled once or twice and occasionally told a joke. She shut all the windows and closed the doors to Dutch-oven Randy earlier in the evening and the ghost of that nuclear fart still clung to the split ends of his bangs. He didn’t know what to make of it, but had sense enough not to ask questions and to stay alert. Last thing he needed was for Chowder to walk in and catch him getting stoned on watch. His boss was as tense as Irm was loose.

The lethargic splat of water drops hitting the plastic shower curtain in the back room signaled the end of Chowder’s nap and made the muscles in Randy’s shoulders knot tighter. Irm sensed his tensing and insisted he take a hit, which he reluctantly and gratefully did. One would help. Irm watched him concentrate on it and a sly smile came over her face.

When Randy stopped holding his breath and exhaled a plume of smoke, he coughed three times before passing the joint back and sinking into the couch. He inhaled deeply through his nose and immediately began coughing and gagging again. “Oh, fuck!”

Irm rolled on the couch, cackling.

“Damn, Irm, what are you eating?”

“S.B.D.”

“You need to see a doctor, seriously, you’ve gotta have the colon cancer.” Irm laughed harder and took another hit. Randy thought he might prefer sulky Irm to this mirthful and flatulent version. He got up off the couch and stumbled for the kitchen and a glass of water. The air was fresher inside the refrigerator for once and he stuck his head in and breathed deeply while digging for a snack.

“Don’t even think about touching my chili,” said Irm from the other room, still chuckling and sighing with satisfaction.

Not a chance, thought Randy.

“Fuck’s sake, Irma,” Chowder growled.

Randy shut the fridge and got an empty glass he stuck under the tap for a drink.

“Open a window.”

Randy turned around to see his boss entering the kitchen, shirtless and running a towel through his grey hair, dark with moisture. He put the towel to his face and vigorously dried his beard before draping the cloth around his neck.

“Randy,” he acknowledged.

“Hey, Chowder.” He averted his eyes to keep the outlaw from noticing any recently added redness. “You want a glass of water?”

“No.”

“Okay. Is it alright if I have one?” Shit.

Chowder stopped and gave his full attention to the big man. He looked at Randy like he’d just shit the rug. “The fuck do I care?” Randy smiled, trying to make it look like a joke in retrospect. He turned sideways and edged by Chowder back out to the living room. He heard Chowder muttering to himself behind him and thought he’d volunteer to go make some rounds.

Chowder growled and Irm laughed. Randy exited the trailer grateful for fresh air and distance. He left the shotgun in the office.

Outside, sitting around the fire, three of the girls and six regulars were discussing the accident. Three weeks earlier, the sheriff’s daughter Eileen had driven a truck right off the road and down a steep hill where she’d been caught and killed by a large tree. It was a big event for Spruce.

“I know that guy,” said one of the girls.

“How’s that? Which guy?”

“Customer. The one whose truck it was. Squirrelly.”

“I would not want to be him right now.”

“No kidding. Sheriff’s gonna make it so he can shit from three holes.”

Randy knew who they were talking about. Terry Hickerson had been a penny-ante douchebag till the sheriff’s daughter had used his truck to go all Thelma and Louise with his dog and everything. Now he had a mortal enemy with a badge. Everybody was waiting for him to turn up dead, accidentally eviscerated with a can opener or hung by his nuts outside the elementary school. Or just disappear and never be heard from again.

Nobody would look into that too deeply.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHOWDER

Chowder split the shades with his fingers and watched Randy talk to the folks outside around the fire. Irm was giggling in the next room. “Open a window, Irma. Smells like a retirement home in here.” His shower had helped him clear his head, but already it was getting murky again.

He looked at his daughter on the couch, getting stoned and giggling at the TV. When he’d talked with her at the cabin, she seemed ready to sober up and take care of business. Take it seriously. He’d been feeling righteous about cutting his loose ends and just about ready to disappear. Take Hettie some place warm and let Spruce and the government kiss his ass.

Now that Mondale’s daughter had been killed, the stability of everything was in question. Now was exactly the kind of time he needed a clear and cool head from Irm since he couldn’t count on the sheriff. Listen to her.

“Hey,” he barked. Irm quit laughing and sealed her lips around the joint. She lifted her eyes to squint at him, though. “Sober up. I need you sharp.” She nodded and held her breath. Chowder held out his hand, “Gimme that.” Irm coughed out the smoke and gave her father the joint. Chowder ground it out between his fingers.

Irm didn’t protest. She cleared her face of any trace of mirth. “I’m good. What’s crawled up your ass?”

Chowder angled his body just right before letting himself fall onto the couch. He exhaled upon landing, then leaned his head back and pinched the top of his nose and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “This whole fucked up situation with the sheriff’s girl. You heard anything from Tate?”

“No.”

“What about Dale whatshisname?”

Irm nodded. “Nobody’s gonna find that little shitstain.”

“Okay. For now we just sit tight.”

“I’m chilled out, Pop.”

A low growl began to rumble out of Chowder as he tried to keep his voice conversational. “I know that Irma. I don’t need you chilled. I need you sharp.” He swallowed the growl and heaved himself upright. He walked to the back room to retrieve a shirt. When he came back into the front room, Irm still sat on the couch, but forward, elbows resting on her knees. She turned to look at him.

“I’m gone to see about the sheriff.”

Irm nodded. “What should I do?”

“Lemme know if you hear anything.”

“About what?”

“Anything.” He opened the door, but paused with his back to her. “Just stay sharp.”

Chowder stepped through and closed the door behind him, leaving Irm alone in the office. She waited a moment till she heard her father’s truck pull out of the lot, then she rolled a new joint and put it between her lips. She lifted her hips off the couch to reach the lighter in her pocket and, once retrieved, set it against the stick in her mouth and sparked it. She took in the first hit, but started to smile and coughed it out prematurely. “Oops.”

MONDALE

Mondale sat in his cruiser not listening to the radio or watching the traffic. He was off the road behind a sign that advised drivers to stay alert. The engine was cold and he was pointed at the spot Eileen had gone off the road. He’d been parking there every day after work for hours at a time.

His tunnel vision was zeroed in on the edge of the asphalt where the tire marks stopped. His little girl was dead, but all he could think about was how pissed Shirley must be with him.

He’d taken the chicken shit route and had Musil place the call to his ex-wife and she and her new husband had come to town immediately. Even his oldest daughter, only daughter, Liz had come down, seven and a half months pregnant, and between them they’d taken care of all the funeral arrangements. He had no idea how they’d even tracked down Eileen’s friends. Handful of hippie, college kids from Kirksville she’d been closer to than anybody she’d grown up with. He was left now with the responsibility of caring for her grave and even that seemed like too much for him. If it had been up to him he’d have had Shirley take her body to St. Louis and bury her there. Now she anchored him here. She wasn’t leaving. Neither was he.

The funeral had passed in a haze. Tears and condolences from the whole world. And food. So much food, but he’d barely eaten. His already wiry frame had tightened and become even more compact in the last few weeks. His uniform was too roomy and even his teeth seemed loose inside his skull.

He just wanted to disappear and get drunk. Nurse his hate. But he couldn’t do that. Not with unfinished business. And not without drawing too much attention to it. For now he kept his drinking discreet. He did his job and stayed even- keeled. Everything he did was biding time. Waiting for the right opportunity, and gathering strength. Eventually the lethargy would slip away and he’d emerge from the cocoon reborn and consumed with a terminal rage.

And he would kill Terry Hickerson.

Back at the house, he’d climbed out of his clothes and into the shower. He’d sat under the scalding stream until the hot water ran out and then through the cold for another twenty minutes. He collapsed onto his bed without bothering to dry off and rolled onto his back. He closed his eyes and slept, but it wasn’t rest.

He awoke early to someone at his door. He lay awake and listened to the persistent knock, not frantic, but not going away, until he broke and got up and slid into some pants. At the door was Bob Musil looking even worse than the mirror. He opened the door let his friend inside.

Musil looked him over approvingly. “Got some sleep. Good. How about some coffee?”

Jimmy just nodded his head and took a seat at his table while Musil went into the kitchen and set about preparing a pot for the two of them. He heard the tap running then stop and the sound of the machine being filled and turned on. Musil appeared in the doorway a moment later, leaning on his left shoulder against the wall. “Jim, I talked to Hickerson again.”

Jimmy’s guts constricted at hearing the name. “Jim, I just don’t think he had anything to do with it.” Jimmy just shook his head. “Seemed as surprised as anybody when I told him what’d happened.”

“Bullshit.”

“Said his truck was stolen.”

The coiling inside him reached upward toward his throat, but he managed, “Why would she steal his truck?”

Bob didn’t answer. He stepped back into the kitchen and began looking for clean mugs. Jimmy heard him opening and closing cabinet doors, then turning on the tap again. There was a hiss as Jimmy pictured Musil removing the pot from under the drip and then another as he’d be returning it. Bob reappeared with two mugs, steam rising out of both. He set one down in front of Jimmy and sat down with the other across from him. “I don’t know that, Jim.”

Mondale looked into his cup and saw his image reflected on the black surface of the liquid. He raised it to his mouth and scalded his tongue sipping it. Musil continued. “Didn’t you say, she sometimes took your car when she came to town?”

“My car.
My
car, yes. Sometimes, but…”

Musil held his hands up.
Okay, I’ll drop it.
“All I’m saying, Jim.”

Musil waited for Jimmy to lift his eyes to meet his own. “Don’t go and do anything stupid over Terry Hickerson. He’s not worth it. Have you given any more consideration to taking some time off?”

Bob was spared being told to go fuck himself by a knock at the front door. Jimmy kept his back to it and stared violence at his deputy. Musil got up to answer. Behind him, Jimmy sensed Musil tensing up and the sound of the door opening. Heavy footsteps came into the house and Jimmy turned around to see his deputy standing in the front room with Chowder Thompson.

Musil said, “Call me, Jim.” And left.

When the sound of deputy’s prowler had died Mondale shrugged his shoulders, “What the hell, Chowder? You shouldn’t be here.”

Chowder ignored him and made his way toward the coffee pot.

“Any of the neighbors see you?”

Chowder came out of the kitchen and sat opposite Jimmy at the table with his own mug of black coffee. “Fuck you, Jimbo. You don’t want me coming around? Answer your phone. You’ve kindly exhausted my patience.”

“Aw,” Mondale waved dismissively, “go fuck yourself.”

“Gladly, once I know where we stand.”

“What? What do you wanna know?”

“I need to know you’re still ready to take care of business.”

“Fuck you. I’m ready.”

Chowder looked him in the eyes, “Yeah? What’s going on with the ASA?”

“He’s just rattling cages.”

“And you know that how?”

Jimmy’s voice was tight. “I’ve looked into it.”

“It’s my dick on the chopping block. I’m going to need more than that.”

“Like what?”

“Have you reached out to him?”

“That would be a mistake. He’s just a politician. He’ll be distracted by something else soon enough.”

“Don’t have to remind you what you stand to lose.” He waited for Jimmy to meet his eyes. “You are the straight face of a criminal enterprise. You run drugs and whores and do the occasional buy-off or murder to protect that enterprise.
They will string you up by your nuts with zeal
.” Chowder took a swallow of coffee. “And after that, will they come to see what service you performed for them and regret your crucifixion? No, they’ll find some way of digging you up and doing it all over again.”

Chowder took another drink while Jimmy looked at his.

“I can do prison, but I don’t want to. I’d rather keep things as they are. We’ve got a situation or two deserving our attention and we need to have a serious talk. As a man with my own family, I sympathize. If you want the peckerwood chopped down, something can be arranged.”

Chowder sipped the coffee and looked intently at his partner, watching for glimpses of his internal designs. Jimmy sipped at his own coffee and grimaced. It had gotten cold. Worse actually. It was getting cold. Cooling coffee was failing coffee.

The bitter taste of failure in his mouth, Jimmy lifted his gaze to the man before him. In Chowder’s eyes was strength and clarity of purpose.

Jimmy said, “What have you got in mind?”

TERRY

Brother Eli’s program was showing re-runs.

They’d mailed prints of the photos to him with a note scrolled in fat magic marker ‘ELI ONLY’ and, inside, another note saying they’d be in contact soon. They hadn’t exactly worked out the details for collecting, but they figured they’d give him some time to think about it. Get worried. Terry was enjoying it.

The thought of Eli explaining his bruises to his wife and congregation and the board kept Terry whistling at work. He and Cal tuned in every night to see if Eli would appear on live TV or even a new taped segment, but they’d yet to see him. Cal would drive him home after work and they’d crack some beers, flip on the television and discuss how much money they should ask for.

“Ten million dollars.”

“He’d never pay that.”

“I know that. It’s a negotiation.”

“I don’t wanna negotiate. I wanna get paid quick.”

“We need to be reasonable. A lowish amount that he can afford to repeat later. If he’s got a brain at all he’ll know it’s not a one time pay-off.”

“Y’think?”

Cal ignored Terry’s sarcastic tone. “Anybody dealing with the kind of money that TV station pulls in knows about those kinds of things. Any figure we throw at em will bounce around for approval.”

“No way he’ll tell anybody about it.”

“We ask for too much money, he sure as hell will.”

“Fuck. So how much you think?”

“I don’t know. One million?”

“How ‘bout two hunnert thousand?”

“I’m thinking more like thirty thousand with an annual repeat.”

“No way. I did not do what I did for a lousy fuckin thirty thousand. Fifty.”

“That might be alright. He might be able to get his hands on that much.”

“Well that’s his problem, ain’t it?”

Then they’d get high and the TV would get better. Eli’s hairdo would begin to glow. When it came to life and reached out off the screen to fondle Terry, he changed the channel.

They decided to let Eli know they were serious. They sent a letter demanding ten thousand dollars be made ready for a drop off and that they would contact him with a location in two days. Eli was to wait for the location’s identification in the food court of the Walmart on Branson Hills Parkway.

Two days later, Terry and Cal took turns browsing near the food court wearing disguises. They looked respectable with their hair combed back and their button down shirt sleeves and Terry even wore one of those cowboy ties decorated with a rhinestone. They pretended to shop for clothing, batteries and household wares while they waited for Eli to show.