by Chris Bauer
Andy was stiff and stoic, and went right at what was on his mind. “I’ll get Dody to find out what happened. The Scranton police owe her.”
Ursula’s face soured. “Scranton isn’t Rancor, Andy,” she said, her tone chiding.
“Yeah, but it’s close enough,” Andy said. “We need to know what happened.”
Ursula pushed. “Andy, please, let the Scranton police handle it. It’s not our problem.”
“Not our problem yet,” Andy said.
10
The Buick Electra idled, Randall inside, a bit nicked up. The Electra faced the Impala head on, French-kiss close. The Impala’s convertible top was down. The new body Randall had put in its trunk would stink up the interior less that way, until he was ready to move it.
Nap the car dealer was one of those wiry pint-size Italians with genes that had to come from a bricklaying or cement-working father from the old country. He didn’t go down with the first tire iron shot across his face, instead came at Randall like Rocky fucking Marciano, wading in with his fists up and his head all bloody, dazed but still looking to land that one good punch that would put his attacker into a fist coma. The second tire iron shot Randall put on him dropped him flat on his back in the brush, but not without Nap landing a clean, solid right to Randall’s ribs first. After a few minutes Randall’s breathing had returned to normal and left him hopeful that none of his ribs were broken. His few-minute respite gave him time to think about what had just happened. Nap had raised himself from the dirt after the second thump from the tire iron, spit into Randall’s eyes, blinded him with blood, snot, and chunks of teeth, and just kept coming. If Randall hadn’t had the Beretta, Mr. Napoli might have gotten off that one punch he’d been so willing to take so bad a beating to deliver. Judging from his loss of breath from Nap’s first punch to the ribs, he was glad he hadn’t had to deal with a second.
The pancreatic cancer was showing itself, starting to wear him down, and was one reason why he’d decided to go out on his own terms after finding his kid. He’d have fun with an unsuspecting population, soil up this small town’s reputation but good, then pack it in. Except he’d been sloppy, again. The gunshot to Nap’s face took care of it.
The park closed at seven. Randall intended to rest a few minutes more, take the Electra out for a spin then come back to the park after it got dark to move the Impala.
Christ, that wiry little bastard could hit.
11
“Call me Charlie,” she said.
The side porch of the B&B faced a stand of Pocono pine that ran uphill, toward a mountaintop. I was there with my two dogs resting next to me, having tea with one other guest, the mother of proprietor Andy Prudhomme.
“Hello, Charlie. I’m Counsel Fungo.”
“Pretty name, Counsel is,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Mr. Prudhomme popped back onto the porch to check on his afternoon tea participants. “Everything good, Ma? Miss Fungo?”
A yes response from me, a nod from Charlie. The two of us sipped our freshly pressed Earl Grey double bergamot. Far as I could tell, Charlotte—Charlie—was the only other B&B guest. She boasted she was eighty-one, had an apartment nearby, and because her son Andy owned the place, boasted that she had a room here, too.
“I have to tell you, ma’am,” I answered, “women who call themselves ‘Charlie’ usually like pounding back shots and chasing them with Pabst Blue Ribbon. The name doesn’t fit a person with your elegance.”
She blushed. Her son left the porch satisfied his guests were getting along with each other. He returned shortly with homemade brownies and cookies, placed them on the wicker table between the wooden rockers the two of us occupied. I couldn’t help it; my glances between the two of them were overt. An incredible mother-son resemblance, discounting the gender and Mr. Prudhomme’s salt-and-pepper hair.
My interest led to some uncut, uncensored verbalizing. “You’re both so fuh—fuh—”
The ears on Tess, she at rest beside me, perked up. She stood, lowered her chin onto my lap. A few pets of her silkiness and I was able to contain myself.
“—so fuh-freeeaking handsome,” I said on the exhale. “Sorry. That could have been a lot worse.”
Charlie’s face lit up at the praise. “Sorry for what? Comparing me to my gorgeous son? Nonsense.” She gave me the once-over, chuckled at herself. “A put-together woman like you, thinking I’m the handsome one… How nice. But sorry, Miss Fungo, I’m already taken, a few times over, it’s been now.”
“Not into women, ma’am,” I said, smiling for her, “so you’re in the clear.”
Her son inserted himself into the conversation. “Let’s keep this clean today, Ma, okay?”
“My Andy here, he’s another story. Married a major bitch. Andy, honey, take a good look at this woman. Easy on the eyes, right? How about you two—”
His mother fit the elderly senior mold, a heart-on-your-sleeve type who didn’t care about speaking truth, the way she saw it, to power. Fungo, my German Shepherd, saved the awkward moment by pulling hard at his leash toward Charlie. Fungo recognized the territory; older folks were pushovers.
“Charlie, this is Fungo, my deputy. You can pet him, just no quick moves please.”
Charlie massaged his black-and-tan head, her French manicure be damned. The dog’s ears were back, looking borderline orgasmic. My Bull Terrier, Tess, stayed sprawled at my feet, only vaguely interested.
“I used to be a bowler, Miss, um…” Charlie said, then she looked at me, suddenly puzzled. “What’s your name again?”
“Call me Counsel, ma’am.”
“Miss Counsel.”
“No, ma’am, Counsel is my first name. My name is Counsel Fungo. Call me Counsel.”
“You’re named after your dog?”
And this was how it went for much of the conversation, Charlie lucid one moment, a bit confused the next. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, tinted a flaming Ann-Margret orange-red. Her perky cherry cheeks were only slightly rouged, and the skin on her neck taut, her chin aristocrat thin. Such grace and beauty. She looked incredible for her age.
“Mom’s retired from her medical practice,” Mr. Prudhomme volunteered. He’d already warned me that Charlie wasn’t firing on all cylinders, also assured me that despite her new challenges, she still had an agile medical mind. “But I’m sure you’ll be hearing more on the other topic.”
“When I wasn’t bowling, I was performing surgery,” Charlie volunteered. “When I wasn’t in surgery, or being a mom, I was bowling.” Her eyes twinkled, the comment getting a rise out of her as she delivered it. “A person’s got to have some priorities, Counsel. I knew pro bowlers Dick Weber, Don Carter, and Earl Anthony, and I bowled with Paula Carter, Don’s wife, in some pro-am tournaments. And I’m still very close to the dearest of the dear, Bert Carbone, the Carbon County Carbine.”
Mr. Prudhomme had taken a seat in the worn fan-back wicker chair across from his mother. The Bert Carbone comment seemed to trouble him.
The names Charlie dropped I recognized from the seventies and eighties, when the pro bowler tour ruled late Saturday afternoon TV, right up there with ABC’s Wide World of Sports. I was pretty sure his double take was because all these people were dead. Which made his mother’s current friendship with one Bert Carbone, apparently the county’s top bowler, somewhat suspect.
“Mom is such an incredible surgeon,” he said, redirecting. “General surgery, trauma. Reconstructive surgery is her specialty. She still has the steadiest of hands.”
“And a one-eighty-six bowling average, Andy, back when I could really bring it, yes indeed.” Charlie’s eyes brightened, my nod and smile at her the reason.
Charlie’s chin lowered to her chest, and just like that she dropped off for a nap. A wayward brownie crumb sat outside the corner of her red lip-sticked mouth. Mr. Prudhomme reached over with a napkin and brushed it away.
“Charlie has survived a lot, in and out of medicine. She likes the salt
-of-the-earth types, and is happiest when she’s at a bowling alley.”
“So she’s still practicing?”
He’d used present tense to describe his mom’s vocation, past tense to describe her as a bowler. Fair question, I thought, no hidden agenda, considering his mother was on the slippery slope dementia-wise.
“Oh no, of course not,” he said. “That wouldn’t be wise. Sorry, Miss Fungo, a slip of the tongue. Charlie hasn’t been in a hospital in years, other than for her own medical challenges.”
Charlie stirred, awakened, was groggy but apparently aware. “She’s named after her dog, Andy. Isn’t that strange…”
“Yes, Ma, strange.”
“‘Counsel,’ Mr. Prudhomme,” I said. “Like I told your mom. Call me Counsel.”
Charlie again, rallying a bit: “Counsel, you can call him Andy. Short for Andrew. Andy, call her Counsel. There. Settled.”
Charlie nodded off again. Fungo bobbed and sniffed at Charlie’s side, gave up on her, moved to her son’s hand and nudged it. He picked up the petting where his mother left off.
“Counsel is an interesting first name for a person.”
“My father had high hopes,” I said. “Wanted me to be an attorney. Then I showed symptoms.”
“As a child?”
“Late teens.”
“Taking any medication?”
“Antihypertensive agents. Clonidine works best.”
He nodded. “Good results, in my experience. Your parents must have had a time settling on a treatment for it. No medication works universally.”
“Not my parents. My mother. She did all the heavy lifting. My father wasn’t quite as interested.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“No biggie, but thanks, Andy—short for Andrew.”
Okay, fine, so maybe that was me flirting. So what. It elicited a nice smile from him.
“Bert Carbone died in January,” he said, serious again. “His death affected my mother deeply. When she’s on top of things she accepts it, but then she drifts away.”
“Were they a couple?”
“There were rumors. Mom was a young widow. We lost my dad. It happened during a bank robbery. He died”—his smile was self-conscious—“protecting me. She never remarried.”
“Wow. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Tragic. Thanks.”
“Anyone caught?”
“Yes. They tried them, in western Pennsylvania. Publicity concerns made them move it there. The bastards got off.”
He laid it out. “No guns were found. The only one who could identify anything about the shooter was me, a wounded five-year-old in shock. I got a close look at the shooter’s sneakers. Same brand as mine. Unreliable and not definitive enough, the defense attorney said. The jury agreed. Our town was devastated.
“The torch my mother carried for my dad never went out. But just look at her. She’s still gorgeous. If she sought comfort somewhere, I’m sure there was no shortage of offers.”
A horrifying story. I did the math, connected some dots. “The bank robbery. Was it here in Rancor?”
“Rancor Savings and Loan.”
I mentioned the squat, silver-etched black granite memorial that I’d seen on the corner of the bank property; Rancor’s tribute to its fallen miners. “That’s quite an inscription. ‘The dust, the dark, the deep, and the damned. We stand tall against it all.’”
I held my stare, hoped he’d get my drift.
“You saw the People magazine article,” he said.
“Sure did.”
“Look—Counsel—we’re proud of this town and its independence, it’s no-serious-crime record. We’re upset about the spotlight the media’s shining on it.”
Fungo nudged Andy-short-for-Andrew’s hand again with his nose, an attempt at getting him to follow his head down to the porch floor, with Fungo looking to stretch out and still get massaged while doing it. He lost out as hand and dog head parted company, Andy intent on concentrating. He addressed my next question before I had a chance to verbalize it.
“The robbery and murder were Rancor’s last reported violent crimes. My father’s name is on that memorial; his murder prompted its construction. Since then, fifty years of safe streets and relative obscurity.”
I nodded. “That scrapbook album in my room. There’s one picture in there I wondered about. Is that—?”
“Maurice Prudhomme. My dad.” A slight pall crossed his face. A sadness he couldn’t hide.
“I see. And the Maurice Fund? I had lunch at the bowling alley and saw this helmet…”
“Him again. A local charity. For deceased miners’ widows and orphans. The town set it up when he was murdered. The helmets have been donated over the years by families touched by one mining tragedy or another.” He paused. “There are a lot of helmets out there.”
He changed the subject. “So it was lunch at the alley, then. Helen’s a great fry cook. She marinades everything in Yuengling. Burgers, chicken, onion rings, fries.”
“Then I suppose you could say I went double-down.”
“Ah. A draft porter to go with a marinated burger and beer-battered onion rings. The locals call that the Thunder Wonder Combo.”
I nodded again, then fished out a business card. “Look, I’m in private law enforcement and I’m tracking”—cough, swallow—“ack-ack-ACKING!—tracking someone. I work with bail bondsmen.”
Andy-short-for-Andrew didn’t wince at my oopsie. He read the card, netted out the info for himself: “So you’re a former state trooper who’s now a bounty hunter.”
“Yes.” I pulled a flyer from a pouch in Fungo’s harness and handed it to him. “Here’s the fugitive I’m after. He may still be driving the same car you see at bottom.”
He studied the flyer. “A face and beard like Santa Claus. He’s here in Rancor?”
“Him or the car or both. Or were. He jumped bail on an attempted rape charge. He might have kidnapped an older woman in the process. If you see him, don’t confront him, just call me.”
“Interesting. So you want me to bypass our sheriff.”
“What I mean is—”
“Look, we’re a one-lawman town here. The sheriff’s not particularly fond of extra-law enforcement factors roaming around, like bounty hunters. Just let him handle things. That’s why we elected him. Do that, and maybe you’ll get that call afterward.”
Great. A town where the law was elected and hadn’t had to deal with a felony in over a generation, and me the former State cop slash current fugitive recovery agent who’d been taking down felons for over twenty years, being told to take a back seat. Except something behind his stare said this was non-negotiable.
Fine. But Mr. Andy Prudhomme here was a nurse and a B&B owner. If I didn’t stand down, it wasn’t like he’d ever know.
“Sure. Of course. Safety first. Nine-one-one is the way to go, then call me. Please.”
Tess was up now, nudging my thigh. Pee time. Charlie snored, Tess whimpered and got pushier, and Fungo rose to all fours, the two ready for their walk. I tightened my hold on their leashes. Time to go.
Andy collected the plates. “Charlie will nap out here until dinner. Tonight she’ll be at the lanes with the bowling team. A team,” a sly smile to himself, “of nurses and doctors who expect to prevail in the alley’s spring Senior League Mixed Doubles semifinal.”
Fungo pulled hard, nudged Andy’s mother for one last pet. Charlie mumbled and responded with a weak scratch of his head. She dozed off again.
“Mom could have used someone like you back when our lives were turned upside down. Still, in the grander scheme of things, the men who killed my father did pay for their crime.”
This got my attention. “Paid how? Bad karma, fate, what?”
“Someone tracked them down and executed them. One in a motel just over the New York border, the other two in Ohio.”
The inference hit a nerve. “Just to be clear,” I said, “I’m paid to return people who skip out on the crimes charged a
gainst them, not execute them.”
“Sorry, Miss Fungo—Counsel—my bad. I’m not implying—”
“No, no, of course not, my bad, where are my manners?” I needed a redirect. “You were wounded. That’s something I never experienced in two decades with the state cops. Unless you count dog bites.”
“I don’t remember much,” Andy said, “other than the same shotgun blast that killed my dad wreaked havoc on my shoulder. He took the brunt of it. I lost a lot of blood, but I recovered quickly, so to speak.”
So to speak. A deference to a to-be-determined outcome. Quite a burden for a kid to carry.
“Physical wounds heal,” I said, waxing philosophical. “Emotional wounds, from traumatic events, are different. I’ve been there, unfortunately. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Thanks, appreciate it, but we’re good.”
12
Outside the B&B on the back lawn, Tess and Fungo took care of their business. The chat over tea had been invigorating, for me and my deputies both. Interesting discussion with an interesting woman and her son. That, plus my German Shepherd got a nice massage without making a scene, considering massages usually gave him wood.
Hell, not a fair assessment on my part. They were more than interesting. The mother became a surgeon, the son a nurse. Impressive, and after so terrible a loss. Strong woman, assertive child, little drama. Two kick-ass, in-your-face responses to having your heart ripped out. It helped when you were able to relate. Andy seemed less the sexy beast here, more the gentle caregiver and survivor.
I had a firm hold on each of my deputies’ leashes, but that often meant they were as secure as a lasso on a twister. When they weren’t on a mission, a leash served the civilian population and my dogs well. At other times their training and their eagerness to please me controlled them, not these pieces of leather.
I loaded them into the van and headed for a hiking trail that the internet said was pet friendly and pro level. Time for me and my team to get in some fieldwork.
