Peckerwood (15 page)

After an hour of waiting Terry caught Cal’s animated expression from across the room and followed his friend’s subtle head jerks over to their mark. The preacher was wearing the same blonde wig and a pair of dark sunglasses, which Terry took for a sign that he was alone. No way he was going to wear that rug around his friends.

Terry walked away and headed for the phone bank at the south entrance. Cal had insisted that they look up the number for the manager’s office instead of counting on there being a Yellow Pages there and it was a good thing because there weren’t any directories available. He dialed the office and had them page “the gentleman who lost his photographs.”

He had to wait three minutes before the preacher was on the other end of the line and Terry told him to leave the bag in the first stall of the men’s room and then haul ass across town to the Marantha Family Bookstore where he’d find a personal photo.

The preacher’s voice was harsh, but muted, “Fuck you and your penny-ante shakedown. Why don’t I just keep my money?”

Terry was enjoying this more than he ever would the money. Having the important man jump through hoops. Having something on him and making him squirm. He let himself go silent and waited for the preacher to fill it.

“Hello?” Eli said. “Are you there? Answer my question. Why don’t I just keep it?”

“I tell you what, Brother E. Go ahead and keep your money this time. Truth is, I already left that picture in that Christian book-store, right beside merchandise with your face printed all over it. You rush over there, you might get to it before anybody notices, so go ahead and keep it. Just know that if you do, I won’t tell you where I’m leaving the next one.”

CHOWDER

His eyes opened suddenly. He brought all of his senses out of sleep and into full alert and focus in less than a second. Hettie was asleep beside him and the clock said it was three in the morning. That was both early and late at different times in his experience. Either way it was fucked.

With an economy of motion he was out of bed, armed and at the back door. It was closed, locked and showing no sign of disturbance. At the front door, he turned on the porch light and peered through the curtain.

In the drive was a car he didn’t recognize parked, waiting. The door opened and Tate Dill climbed out and leaned against the hood. He was alone. Chowder turned the light off and stepped onto the porch. “Looking to get yourself shot, Tate?”

“Need to talk to you.”

“You only think you do. Get out of here. You come around again, you will get shot.”

“Found Dale.”

“Who?”

“Sloppy work, Chowder.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know it wasn’t you digging either. You know I’d never leave loose ends like that. I’m just saying, you need a number two with a competent streak.”

“Yeah? Where’d you suggest I get one of those?”

“Hiring Dale was a dick move, I see that now and that’s on me. But c’mon, bring me back, boss. You need me. And you need what I’m bringing to the table. I’ve got big plans, man.”

Chowder shook his head. “I want you gone.” He went back in the house and shut the door. He waited in the dark for Tate to leave. His ex-employee remained leaning against the hood of his car, looking right at Chowder through the window, though he couldn’t possibly see inside in the dark.

When he spoke, it was in a quiet, conversational tone that meant that he knew he still had an audience and Chowder realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Forty-eight hours, Chowder. Think about it.”

Then he got off the hood and back into his car. The ignition was silent and he waited till he was down the street to turn his headlights on.

Forty-eight hours. Little cunt.
Chowder started the day’s first pot of coffee.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MONDALE

Wanda Templeton had been a looker when it counted. She’d picked the cherry of half the graduating class of 1978, which didn’t exactly endear her to the other girls her age, especially twenty years on as many of them had married those same boys. Wanda had stayed single and active after high school, but somewhere around thirty she’d started putting on weight and didn’t stop. The heavier she grew, the more aware she seemed to be of the way she was regarded in the town. Years ago no one could’ve guessed she was so sensitive.

When his secretary opened Mondale’s office door at nine o’clock she looked like she hadn’t slept all night and she was angry to boot. Wanda threw a magazine on top of his desk and said. “Lies, Jimmy. They’re all lies. I don’t even know that man. I just wanted you to hear it from me first. I found that slipped into my locker this morning and I’m going to need to take a personal day. Maybe more.” She burst into tears and ran out of the station before Jimmy could ask her to explain.

He watched her out the window get into her car and speed away, then swallowed the bear claw he’d been ingesting when she barged in, washed it down with black coffee and licked his fingers clean before picking up the magazine. He’d finally begun putting a little weight back on. Since Eileen’s death, he’d dropped ten pounds he could ill afford to lose. After his talk with Chowder, his priorities had begun to focus and purpose had given him an appetite again. Mostly he ate junk. But he ate. And he drank as much coffee as alcohol these days.

He looked down at the magazine that had so upset Wanda and picked it up. It was a smut rag opened to the letters department and accompanied by a photo essay of a muscle bound hayseed giving it to a big busted blonde wearing a cap with a badge on the front and holding an old standard issue six shooter. There was a particular letter that seemed to correlate to the photos and it was highlighted in yellow. The author’s address was Hamilton County, Missouri and his last name was Hickerson.

The story wasn’t about Wanda.

He fought the urge to run the lights and bleat the siren whenever someone pulled in front of him, but everyone on the road seemed to understand they best get the hell out of the way. When he’d finished reading the magazine, he’d rolled it up and stuffed it in his back pocket, checked that his weapon was loaded and walked out of the office. He’d felt the eyes of the whole world on him though no one would look at his face. In the parking lot they all seemed to be watching him, too.

He arrived at the Hickerson house under twenty minutes later. It took him a dozen strides to reach the front porch after he got out of the cruiser and thirty seconds of constant pounding for the door to be opened.

Thirteen-year-old Wendell opened it looking like the best parts of his daddy, which weren’t many. He wore his hair shaved on the sides and long on top and flipped his head every few seconds to keep it out of his eyes, which were rimmed, red by beer or pot. He was a thin boy trying to look tough and mostly looking confused. His jeans were bunched around his unlaced army boots and the sleeves were cut off his flannel shirt, which was unbuttoned, and framing a black t-shirt that read Skinny Puppy, which was either a musical suggestion or monogram. The pathetic creature before him took some of the velocity off of the sheriff’s heat-seeker.

“Your father here, kid?”

The boy pursed his lips and shook his head.

“You know where he’s at?”

Again, Wendell gestured in the negative.

“Why aren’t you in school today, son?”

Wendell shrugged.

Just then, from the back of the house, Terry Hickerson’s voice croaked, “Who was that?”

Mondale looked hard into Wendell’s eyes and the skinny puppy showed some pluck. He yelled, “Run dad, it’s the police.”

Mondale pushed past Wendell, who stared daggers at the big man. He could hear Terry Hickerson scrambling around the back and found the door partially blockaded. He put his shoulder to it and forced it open enough to see Terry’s ratty-legged jeans shimmying out the window.

“Shit.” Mondale ran back to the front door and around to the back yard sidestepping three decade’s worth of junk, half sunk into the earth. He whacked his shin hard on a console television shell hidden behind a pile of plywood scrap and went down hard clutching his leg with both hands. He got back up and hobbled around the last corner and saw no sign of his quarry. “Shit whore.”

Wendell was waiting for him back on the porch, looking defiant and scared simultaneously. He stood his ground though, which got to Jimmy a bit. “That was real cute, son. Now where’s he gonna go?”

Wendell backed up, but remained silent.

“Don’t you think I’ll come back looking for him? Don’t you think whatever I’ve got in store for him is just gonna get worse?”

Wendell shrugged.

“That your answer for everything?”

Wendell started to shrug, but stopped short.

“Get in the car.”

The kid’s eyes swelled and he swallowed, but his feet didn’t falter as he walked down the drive toward the cruiser.

Wendell stopped at the back door and placed his hands behind his back as if to submit to a cuffing.

“Up front. Get in.”

Puzzled, Wendell did as he was told and Jimmy got behind the wheel.

“What grade are you in now?”

Wendell sat rigid in the passenger’s seat and stared straight ahead. “Eighth. Where are we going?”

“Taking you to school.”

In the time it had taken to arrive at school, Wendell’s nerve hadn’t faltered, but his outlaw’s instincts were proving unformed and naive. Mondale’s silent treatment was perplexing to him and maddening and five minutes into the trip, he began confessing to recent criminal activity.

Mondale let him keep talking.

“It was all me, too. My money, my pot.” Wendell glanced nervously at the policeman who kept his eyes forward. “Yeah, I let my dad have some, but it isn’t his.”

“Give me a break, kid.” He didn’t have the stomach to listen to Terry Hickerson’s son defend his father, King of the Douchebags. The poor kid knew a thing or two about the kind of man his father was, but still he was trying to shield Terry from the consequences of his actions. Dickhead would probably let him do it, too. Mondale wondered if Wendell knew that. Probably did. Kid wasn’t stupid.

They pulled up in front of the school and Mondale had to go around to the passenger side and open the door before Wendell would get out. He stood there waiting. “Get going.” Wendell looked up at him and flipped his bangs out of his eyes for a better view. He was trying to read the policeman’s intentions. “C’mon, I don’t have all day.”

“I’m not arrested?”

“Hell, no. Get your ass in there.”

“What about my dad?”

Mondale slumped. “What do you want me to say? He’s on my shitlist.”

“For what?”

“I haven’t got time for this, get.” He gave Wendell a push toward the school. The Hickerson kid made the most of it, looking hard for any spectators and not giving any backward glances.

Mondale went back to the driver’s side, but stopped when someone called his name. He looked up and saw Julie Sykes coming his direction from the front doors of the school. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral, where he’d barely acknowledged her. He hadn’t been returning her phone calls either. It was too fuckin weird, especially since Eileen’s death.

“What’s going on?” She was right beside him now. He could smell her.

“I’ve got to go, Julie.” He opened the door.

She looked angry. “Why won’t you return my calls?”

“I’ve just been busy.” He started to get in.

“Bullshit.”

She was right. He was full of it.

“I can’t talk now.” He closed the door and started the car.

Julie leaned on the open window. “I’m coming by tonight.” She waited till he looked her in the eye. “Be there.”

TERRY

It was his turn with the kid this week. Beth was out of town with some new boyfriend who was going to take her all manner of places she’d always whined about wanting to visit.
Good luck, bro
, thought Terry.
See if she lets you in the back door now.
Since Wendell was with him and he had to work hard to score points in the dad department, Terry’d decided to teach him how to score pot. He figured since he was eighty-sixed from Darlin’s, it might be good to have the boy start running certain errands for him.

Wendell had been scared, Terry could tell. “Relax, it’s not like on the TV with the guns and scary blacks and shit. Just try not to look like a pussy.” He was thirteen and it was embarrassing how soft the boy was. That was his mother’s fault. She was always spoiling him, always cuddling him as a baby when he cried. Maybe that shit worked with girls, but you had to be tough on boys. It’s a cruel thing not to whip boys, they’ve gotta learn about things young so that they can handle it when the world takes off its belt.

So he’d taken Wendell around to see his new primary connect Enoch Tomlinson. Since the sheriff had put Earl Sutter in county lock up and he’d been uninvited to Darlin’s, Terry’d adjusted and sought out Enoch for weed and kept him in mind for other, slightly more exotic procurements, but he didn’t like it. Mostly, he just didn’t like Enoch, whom he’d been to the fifth grade with and taken an instant dislike to on account of his vinegary smell. There were also rumors in the class that Enoch had been caught fondling his own younger male cousin the year before and Terry had opinions about that.

He’d given Wendell thirty dollars and the briefest of instructions, mostly designed to test the kid’s mettle. “If he shows you a gun, don’t budge on the price and if he asks if you’re wearin a wire tell him to fuck himself.” Wendell had swallowed, but didn’t say a word, just nodded in consent. “Now if he tells you to take off your clothes to prove it, just don’t let him touch you.” Terry’d winked and smiled inwardly at the anger briefly coloring his son’s cheeks.

Wendell’d come back to the car ten minutes after gaining entrance to Enoch Tomlinson’s home and morosely sat in the passenger seat. Terry stared at his son silently before prompting him verbally. “Well?” Wendell had simply dropped an eighth of an ounce baggie into his father’s lap and turned his face to the window. “How much you pay?”

Wendell dropped a wad of damp singles on top of the bag and Terry’d smiled. “Shit, he likes you.” Terry stopped short of telling him he’d done good, not wanting to make the kid’s head swell, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a twinge of fatherly interest in his progeny. “Didn’t let him touch you now, did you?”

Wendell just looked out the window and Terry started the car.

A bonus to having the squirt around and knowing how to do things like that and drive a car too was that Terry could get stinko at The Gulch without chancing another DWI on the way home. He pinned a note to his own jacket instructing the bartender, who would find him passed out or incapacitated, to get the kid out of the pickup on the corner to help him out the door. He was feeling spendy lately thanks to the capitulation of Brother Eli. He’d even shared some of the grass with Wendell and he had no financial reservations about drinking.

Cal, generally finding Wendell to be a drag, had opted out of his company and Terry’d spent the evening thinking of what he might say to Brother Eli next time he told him where he’d left a photo. He was damn near ready to quit the construction job altogether. Hell with Cal’s caution. He intended to go full-time with this blackmail shit. It was easy and even better, it was satisfying on a level that holding up convenience marts never could be. For the first time in his life he felt like he had a purpose and that he could take pride in the work he was doing.

Seeing that little fairy in the wig, just about bursting into tears running down the length of the Walmart, clutching the bag to his chest, had filled Terry with a strong warmth and sense of well-being. The money they found in the bag abandoned in the men’s room hadn’t come close to feeling as good as the shrieks of anger and fear he could only imagine were filling the preacher’s car at that time. The more he thought about it, the more he drank.

It must have been a hell of a night because when the banging in his head woke him up he was on his own bed. His jeans were wet and cold about the crotch, but the bedding looked to have been spared the worst of it. Wendell must’ve been stronger than Terry’d given him credit for. Managing him drunk out of the truck, into the house and then into his bed couldn’t’ve been easy.

The banging started up again and sent regret throbbing through his head. He heard someone talking in the other room followed by the creak of the front door. “Who was that?” he called to Wendell.

“Run, dad! It’s the police!” came the immediate reply.

Like a hung over robot, Terry’s legs shot out from under him and carried him toward the bedroom door. He tipped over his dresser to block the way, then slid the window open and jumped through, kicking his legs spasmodically, and landed upon his head in the lumpy lawn outside his bedroom. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled into a crouch and sprinted through the back yard into the woods, over the creek and north toward St. Louis.