Peckerwood (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

TERRY

They left in his pickup and drove toward the campgrounds, then went to work on the cooler that Terry kept behind the seat. “Wanna hear a chiropractor’s pick up line?” She nodded, slurping the foam out of the top of the aluminum beer can. Terry took her hand, then moved his fingers gently up her arm and examined her elbow gingerly. He turned it, traced his fingers down to her wrist and the heel of her palm, and her fingers closed reflexively over his. “What’s a joint like this doing in a girl like you?”

Abruptly she coughed and squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of beer leaking out of her right nostril. She dabbed unselfconsciously at it with the back of her hand, “That’s awful.” But she was smiling. As he tossed her second Stag to her, she said, “I think you should know, I carry pepper spray and a gun.”

Terry nodded his head. “Me too. I’m still not scared.”

“It kinda freaks out the guys in Kansas City.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Once I pulled it on a guy who thought he was charming, but wasn’t. When I showed him my .380 ACP, he thought it was funny until I fired a round at his feet. Pissed himself.”

She opened the door and rolled cat-like outside and leaned her back against his pickup, staring at the night sky. Terry exited his own side and looked skyward too. “Alright. Fair warning. ’Course, I piss myself sometimes anyway. It’s not the end of things.” He cracked his own beverage and took a long pull as he walked around the back end of the truck toward her. “Anything else I should know?”

She tilted her head back as if giving it careful thought. “Well, I don’t shave my legs or under my arms.”

“No? Well, you’ve got that kind of light hair. You can get away with it just fine, I bet.”

“I could probably hotwire your truck in thirty seconds.”

“Bullshit,” he said. Then, “Okay. If you can do it I’ll shave my legs and under my arms. If you can’t then you have to.”

“You’re on.”

Terry opened up the driver’s side and the girl got in. “Ready?” She nodded at him and bit her upper lip with her bottom teeth. “Go.”

Terry heard a crack and saw her blonde head bend down to look closer at something while he counted out loud. At the five-second mark, the hood of the truck popped and she got out and lifted it up. At twenty seconds she said, “Damn, it’s too dark, I can’t see shit.”

Terry finished the thirty count shaking his head. “Not my problem, girl. I believe you owe me a shave.”

“Mmm. We’ll see. I could do it no problem in the day time or with a flashlight, though.”

“Again, not my problem. You should be more careful, the wagers you make.” She came around to join him leaning against the side of the truck and took a deep breath of the cooling night air. Terry took a long look at her and said, “If we’re not careful, this fresh air might sober us up, keep us from being foolish.”

She drained her can and reached underneath the hem of her skirt. Then she stepped backward out of a pair of striped panties and tossed them in the back of the pickup. Terry unfastened his belt and pressed her gently against the side of the truck. She reached behind herself into the cab and fished through her bag. Terry lied to her saying, “It’s okay. I got a vasectomy.”

She kept fishing. “I need something else.” Terry nibbled the side of her neck and took her earlobe between his teeth.

“Then get one for me, too.”

She reached down between his legs and guided him, raised her left knee and he held it up. When he found a smooth rhythm she let out a deep sigh and dug her nails into his shoulder. When he felt metal against his face he opened his eyes. She was wrapped around him and holding the .380 flush to his cheek. Her eyes were squeezed tight as the rest of her.

The gun got him going, jump-started his pulse, and when she sensed his climax coming she fired three shots straight up, screaming at the top of her lungs while he finished. He nearly collapsed when it was over, but she held him up, still on one foot, still with one arm clutched under his and over his shoulder.

Slowly she uncoiled from top to bottom and when she dropped her knee and he slid free it was she that seemed to need support. They lay down in the truck bed and looked toward other galaxies. Terry reached back over his head and freed more fuel from the cooler, cracking them open one handed and gallantly passing hers before reaching for his own.

He believed it truly was Milwaukee’s best.

After a long, silent interval she turned over and draped her thigh across him. When that produced a stir, she climbed on top and with the pistol still grasped in her left hand, she pinned his shoulders to the hard bed of the truck. “My turn,” she said.

CHOWDER

When Irm kicked in Cliff’s door he rolled out from beneath the redhead and fell off the side of the bed. The girl gave a yelp and retreated to the opposite corner of the room. Irm heard Cliff fumbling with his clothing, looking for a weapon. She let the shotgun bark and watched the nightstand disappear in a cloud of cordite and a shower of sparks from the lamp. She walked around the corner of the bed and Cliff leapt at her as she rounded the bend. She raised the butt of the gun to meet his chin and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Her father followed Bug into the room with the Glock trained between Bug’s shoulders. “Dammit, Irm. I said
quiet
. Is he dead?” Irm put the toe of her boot beneath Cliff’s shoulder and kicked him onto his back. Cliff groaned.

“No.”

“Well, now we gotta carry him. Bug, get his arms.”

“What the hell is this, Chowder? We’re Bucs. Don’t that mean anything to you?”

Bug, barefoot and covered by jockeys and an unbuttoned shirt that hung open to reveal outlaw tattoos that, to Irm, looked more than a little silly, squatted down and scooped up his partner by the armpits. Irm handed Chowder the shotgun and got her elbows locked under Cliff’s knees. With a
hmpff
they had lifted the man from Memphis and were taking him out the door.

“C’mon, girls. Put your clothes on and git.” The blonde and the redhead hastily draped themselves and carried their unmentionables in their hands as they bumped into each other in the hall way. Irm gestured to the redhead with her chin.

“Keys on the counter. Get back to Darlin’s and wait in my trailer. Don’t say nothin.” They did as they were told. Irm backed out the front door with Cliff and Bug in tow. Chowder was behind them closing up the cabin. Then he went around and opened up the spacious trunk of Cliff’s Lincoln.

Bug and Irm dropped Cliff inside and Bug climbed in on top of his partner, half-naked and mumbling. Irm banged his head slamming the trunk. Chowder chuckled. “That was cold.”

Irm shrugged and caught the keys Chowder tossed to her. “Nah, cold is gonna be torching this thing before they’re dead.” She climbed in and started the engine and watched in the rearview as her father got into his pickup and turned his lights on. She cranked the volume on the tune already blaring.
Let’s have a party.
Dropping the big car into gear, she tapped on the steering wheel. “Let’s do.”

Bowling Green seemed far enough out of the way, and they stopped on the outskirts. From inside the trunk, Cliff and Bug could be heard arguing bitterly over the assignation of blame. Chowder slammed the butt of the Glock on the lid and growled, “Shut up.” They did.

Irm busied herself emptying the fuel cans from the back of Chowder’s truck into the Lincoln’s interior. She paused long enough to eject and pocket the Wanda Jackson cassette before draining the last of the gasoline.

Bug was trying to reason with them from inside the trunk, “Chowder, you know I got nothin but respect for you. You’re a Buc, man. I’m a Buc. Take that shit seriously.“

Cliff caught the scent of the petrol fumes and began to panic. “Oh, fucking whore mother! Listen, you may have the biggest balls out here in butt fuck country, but if you let me die your life will be over. Everybody knows I went to see you.”

Chowder leaned in. “I’m counting on that, asshole.” He nodded at Irm, who struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Nothing personal fellas.”

“No wait, Chowder! Wait!”

Irm flicked the cigarette into the Lincoln’s cab and they got back into Chowder’s truck. The banging from the inside of the trunk sounded like corn popping and the shouts of the men kept were unified sounds of exertion, the doomed working together to pop the latch, as Chowder wheeled his truck lazily around waiting to witness ignition. Father and daughter stuck their heads out the windows and looked behind them. Chowder counted to ten then said, “You watch too many movies.”

“Shut up.”

“Here.” He handed her a half full bottle of mash. She took it reluctantly and looked around for a fuse. “Hurry the fuck up. They’re gonna bust through that trunk.”

The trunk did sound like it might give and Chowder thought about how that would look – cold. He didn’t like doing this shit, but he knew it would send the right message. Spruce and Hamilton County were off limits. He reached across Irm’s lap and popped the glove compartment. From inside, he removed a lacey pair of panties, which he handed over.

Irm’s eyebrows arched subtly while she stuffed the frilly nether garments into the mouth of the bottle and let them get good and soaked before pulling one end out and applying the flame from her Zippo. The stink and smoke of burned plastic filled the cab immediately.

“For shit’s sake get rid of it already.”

She opened the door and positioned herself ten feet from the Lincoln’s open door before dashing the bottle against the steering wheel. The car ignited immediately and the force from the blast knocked her back, but she retained her footing.

“Get in.”

The shouts from the car became screams and lost all coordinated qualities, the pointlessness of their pounding did not seem to matter and the sound of the fire was already beginning to drown them out. Irm had not got the door closed before her father gunned the pickup down the road and they watched the fire grow in the mirrors. An acrid smell made her nostrils twitch and she stuck her palms under her nose. She adjusted the mirror to see herself better. She located the other source of unpleasant odor. The ends of her hair and eyebrows were curled and singed, making her look like a toddler recently acquainted with scissors. “Fuck.” She ran her palms over her face and they came back with black marks on them. “Burnt my hair.”

“Throw like a girl, too.”

MONDALE

The alarm didn’t wake him. He’d been awake for more than an hour before it went off. Mondale turned toward the persistent machine and fought the urge to dash it against the wall. He would be mightily hung over in a few hours and hadn’t slept well either. The drinking was not working for him.

He’d passed out quickly thanks to the whiskey, but it proved to be temporary paralysis more than true sleep and he’d begun to toss after a couple of hours, his mind racing the way alcohol and caffeine alike tended to cause it to.

He went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He thought about Shirley because after six years, he still couldn’t not. When she’d told him about the affair and that she wanted a divorce, he’d done her a favor by popping her in the mouth, thereby absolving any guilty feelings she may have had about leaving him. That fat lip gave her the clarity and resolve to do what she’d been thinking about for years and he didn’t stand in her way. He’d never hit her before, and they were both glad he’d done it.

Shirley’d never told anybody and he’d given her a quick divorce and custody of the children. He’d sent child support for a while, though she’d never asked for it, but he’d stopped when she’d tied a new knot with the fella she’d apparently been carrying on with, behind his back, for over a year.

He arrived at the office early and put on a pot of coffee for the guests of the county. Then he got to work filing reports, perusing the state-wide bulletins and returning e-mails. The one from the State Attorney’s office included a phone number that he was encouraged to use as soon as possible.

He got up to fetch the coffee and, making his rounds, stopped outside Earl Sutter’s cell. Pasty skin drawn too tight over his chin, cheekbones and forehead, he looked ill, but he was alert. He met Mondale’s eyes and the sheriff offered him coffee in a paper cup.

Earl seemed about to tell the policeman to fuck off, but his better instincts rallied and he inclined his head just a bit and accepted the cup.

“Sorry, it’s gotta be black. We’re out of cream and sugar.”

Earl Sutter mumbled his thanks and Mondale squatted against the far wall with his own drink. “Earl, you think of anybody I could call for you, yet?”

Earl shook his head.

“Well, look. You’re going to be assigned a public defender, and he or she’s going to give you council on your options, which are probably not going to sound very good, any of them, but before you sign anything or make a decision, if you want to get in touch with me, I’ll give it a listen. I’ve seen about every way your situation could break from here and I’ll shoot you straight if I think it’s a good idea or not. And if it happens to be trickier than I thought, then there are a few lawyers around here that owe me a favor or two. They’d be able to walk you through any sticky particulars.”