Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “I’m going to start with Fred. I should be able to find the other junkyard in Fulton pretty easily.” I hold up the phone book. “The rest? I’ll start making some cold calls.”

  I take Annette’s list upstairs to my office. Already I have the photo of her and her father tacked in the center of one wall. Printouts of the news stories, plus road maps of Caulfield and Western Massachusetts are beside it. I add the list Annette made. I don’t have much.

  I pick up the phone. Lin Pierce answers.

  “I’m taking the case,” I tell him.

  “You have a lot to go on?”

  “Not really, but the client gave me a list of names and other paperwork, so that’s some place to start.”

  “What names?”

  I rattle them off. The only ones he doesn’t recognize are Anthony Steward, the newcomer, and JoJo Tidewater, the ex-boyfriend.

  “Beaumont brothers? Bad news there.”

  “That’s the impression I get,” I say. “Annette did give me all the official records, too, and her father’s finances for the previous year. There’s a lot to go over.”

  “Keep me informed,” he says and then, “Good night.”

  Dance Music

  On Friday night, I pace around the house until my mother says, “Enough already, Isabel, why don’t you go?”

  I glance at the clock on the kitchen stove. It’s after nine. The Cowlicks are warming up with the first set of the night, and I’m at home, nervous as hell, not about quizzing Fred Lewis, although I don’t want the creep to get the wrong idea, but, of course, about seeing Jack. Suppose he’s found somebody else already? I shake my head. Shut up, Isabel. You were the first woman he’d been with in years. He told you himself. Besides, you don’t have a claim on him.

  I go upstairs and check myself in the bedroom mirror. My silvery hair looks good longer. Makeup? Nah, not at the Rooster. I turn around, pull off my top and get something closer fitting with a V-neck.

  My mother says, “Good choice,” when I walk downstairs.

  I’d tell her not to wait up for me, but she’ll still be awake well after last call if I last that long.

  “Wish me luck,” I tell her.

  The Rooster’s parking lot is packed with snowmobiles, cars, and pickups. I manage to find a space on the far end, tight against a snowbank, and when I get inside, I’m surrounded by music, voices, and other barroom noise. Every seat in the joint is occupied or saved with a jacket. I’ll just have to get myself a beer and stand out of the way. I don’t see el Creepo Fred, but he’ll be here tonight. I can almost feel him making his way here from whatever hole he lives in.

  I greet people I know and vice versa as I make my way to the bar for a beer. I am four back in line. Jack’s behind the bar, in constant motion as he fills orders. The light is on in the kitchen, but dinner is over. I suppose the new cook has a pile of dishes to wash. The tables are filled with empties. With this crowd, I expect Jack is having a hard time keeping up.

  He raises his head and grins at me as he pops the caps off bottles of Bud.

  Finally, it’s my turn.

  “Hey, Isabel, the usual?” he asks.

  “Not tonight, Jack. Make it a Bud Light, please. It’ll be easier to hold a bottle than a glass in this crowd.”

  “Sure enough.” He still has his eyes on me as he reaches into the cooler. “Great turnout, eh? Just like old times.”

  I hand him the bills. Damn, I’m smiling too much.

  “Just like that.”

  The night rolls along. After a while, I realize I’ve never been here alone on dance night. It was Sam and me on the floor. Then it was Jack and me working the bar together. Honestly, I feel a little lost. First, I stand, and then a stool opens up at the bar. It’s at the far end next to the wall for the men’s room, so I can turn halfway on the stool with something behind my back if I don’t mind listening to men taking a long piss and talking behind me. I watch the musicians and dancers. People just want to have fun at the Rooster.

  “Want another, Isabel?”

  Jack has slid over to my side of the bar. I check my bottle. It’s nearly empty. One thing nice about Bud Light is I can drink more of it and not get a buzz.

  “Uh-huh. This one’s almost done.”

  I see he already has one open for me. I go for the money in my wallet.

  “Put your money away, Isabel. This one’s on the house.”

  I’m making that stupid smile again.

  “Thanks, Jack.” I’m searching for words and almost slap myself when I say, “Want me to clear some tables for you?”

  He chuckles.

  “You don’t have to work off that beer.”

  I shrug.

  “You look a bit swamped. I thought I could help.”

  He thinks about it for a second, and then he hands me a tray.

  “Yeah, I could use an extra hand.”

  I grab the tray and slide off the stool.

  “Just save my place.”

  I get busy, grabbing bottles off tables, dodging drunken dancers, and gabbing with the drinkers. The number one question I hear is: “Are you back?”

  “I’m just working off a beer,” I joke.

  “You work cheap,” one of the Rooster’s True Blue Regulars says.

  “Gee, I’ve heard that one before,” I tell him.

  I make four trips. Each time, Jack gives me an appreciative grin.

  “You’re getting good at that,” he says after I drop the last tray on the bar top.

  “Yup, I haven’t lost my touch.”

  I laugh when I take my stool because there’s a hand-written sign next to my beer. It says: RESERVED FOR ISABEL. I glance toward grin-faced Jack. He’s waiting for my reaction.

  “Just for you,” he says.

  “Thank you very much.”

  But my mood shifts abruptly when you-know-who arrives. Of course, Fred makes a beeline to my end of the bar. I don’t mind too much because he’s on the list of Annette’s suspects.

  “Hey, gorgeous, drinking alone?”

  I shake my head.

  “Hardly, with a bar this full.”

  Fred moves closer and over my invisible line of comfort.

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, darlin’.”

  “Annette Waters hired me to look into her father’s death.” I watch as Fred drops his shit-eating smile. “She told me you and she used to be married.”

  “Don’t believe a word that bitch says. She’s a goddamn liar.”

  “About you or her father?”

  “Me.”

  “I only want to talk about your relationship with her father.”

  The smile is back.

  “That’s gonna cost you.” He tips his head toward the band’s side of the room. The Cowlicks are revving up Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps.” “You gotta dance with me first to ask me that. Seriously.”

  I roll my eyes and drop off the stool. Fred slips his arm around my back as he leads me to the middle of the dance floor. He’s got me by the hand, twisting and twirling me amid the drunks who shout the chorus. He’s no Sam or Jack, but he’s a decent dancer. Fred struts and smiles. Shoot, what I’ll do for a case.

  I slip my hand from his grip when the song ends and head back to my stool.

  “Hey, wait, let’s dance some more,” he says.

  “You said one dance.”

  “Shit, you’re tough, Isabel.”

  “That I am.”

  But as I squeeze through the crowd, I realize there’s no way I can interview Fred here. Too much noise. Too many ears and eyes. Fred is back and standing close.

  “So, what do you wanna ask me?” he says.

  “How about we do it tomorrow instead?”

  His mouth drops open and wide. I swear he’s practically drooling. His hand is on the bar’s edge.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I can meet you here
at two tomorrow. It’ll be quieter, so I can ask you those questions.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Sure, I’ll be there.”

  I finally shake Fred loose when some of his snowmobile-riding buddies arrive. A couple of the Rooster’s True Blue Regulars ask me to dance, fast numbers thankfully, and I comply. It’s strictly for laughs and the exercise.

  I watch Marsha aka the Floozy bully her way through the crowd toward my direction. She’s smiling at me, so I know she’s just in a rush and not pissed off. She greets me, “Hey, Isabel.”

  I respond, “Hey, Marsha, what’s happening?”

  “I talked with Annette last night. She really likes you and your mother. Says you didn’t make her feel stupid.”

  “I’m glad she feels that way.”

  “She told me about the list she gave you.”

  I glance around. Too many people are too close to talk about who’s on Annette’s list. But I want to hear what the Floozy has to say. She just might steer me in the right direction.

  I tip my head toward the crowd.

  “I bet you could help me, but this isn’t the place.”

  Marsha’s eyes light up.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it.”

  “How about we go outside?”

  Her head bobs like somebody’s yanking it with a cord and she’s got that “Yeah, yeah, yeah” chorus going again. I eye the RESERVED FOR ISABEL sign next to my beer. I tap the guy sitting next to me and tell him, “I’ll be right back.”

  Marsha lights up a cigarette halfway out the door as she leads me off the front stoop and toward a spot between two pickups. It’s frigging cold out here, but this is as private as it will get at the Rooster. I try to stay upwind from the Floozy’s cigarette.

  “What did you think of Annette’s list?” I ask.

  “If I was gonna bet money, I’d put it on the Beaumont brothers,” she says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re in that line of business. I mean sellin’ drugs. Al Sinclair, who runs the junkyard, is just some old guy tryin’ to make a living. He’s ancient. But I know for a fact he and Chet kinda hated each other’s guts. Somebody told me when Al heard what happened to Chet, he said it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Really. Maybe there’s somethin’ there.” Marsha takes a drag from her butt. “The newcomer guy? Nope.” She makes a snickering laugh. “I see she threw in a couple of exes in there. That’s wishful thinkin’ on her part.”

  “Wait a minute. Go back to Al Sinclair. What set that off? Because they were competitors in the junk business?”

  “It was probably more than that, like somethin’ that happened years and years ago, and they can’t let go of the grudge.” Marsha shrugs. “Shit happens up here. Sometimes it goes back a generation or two. People just don’t forget or forgive. They like to do payback.” Then her face brightens. “Wait a minute. I remember now. It had somethin’ to do with Chet’s sister or maybe Al’s. Eh, you can find that out by askin’ one of the old-timers.”

  I nod. I know exactly which old-timers to ask, my friends in the backroom of the Conwell General Store, yes, the Old Farts. This could be something or nothing, but I won’t discount it.

  “I will,” I say. “What about her brother, Mike?”

  “Hmm, kind of a jerk, but not sure if he’d kill his old man. But keep him on the list for now.”

  “What about the other brother?”

  “The professor.” Her lips flutter. “That wimp? He calls himself Chester by the way.”

  “Wimp? What does that mean? Is he a weakling because he has a desk job or is there something more?”

  “Somethin’ more. Let’s just say he swings the other way.”

  Oh, so he’s gay. Big deal but maybe it was with his father.

  “So, the Beaumont brothers are your prime suspects. They ever come here?”

  “Not anymore. They made Jack’s list. He booted them out for dealin’ drugs in the parking lot.”

  As she says it, I have one of those ah-ha moments. I recall Gary and Larry Beaumont’s names on the permanently banned list posted behind the bar.

  “Ah, it was those guys. Where do they hang out?”

  “There’s a biker bar in West Caulfield. It’s on a lake. You can probably find ’em there. Guess the owner ain’t so fussy about who drinks there.”

  “Then that’s probably the place for me to find them.”

  “You really gonna do that?” she asks.

  “They’re on Annette’s list of suspects.”

  Marsha sucks in the last bit of smoke before she chucks the butt in the snow.

  “You got balls, Isabel.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I say.

  “I tell ya what. If you wanna, I’ll go with you. I can’t speak for my Bobby, but definitely I’m game for a trip to Baxter’s. That’s the bar’s name.” She leans forward. “Let me drive, okay?”

  I believe I’d welcome riding shotgun with Marsha. Safety in numbers, as my mother would say. Two isn’t exactly a big number, but I’d bet on Marsha over three newcomer women any day. Besides, I get the feeling this could be one of those anthropological experiences I had as a reporter when I found myself immersed in a far different world than I was used to living in. I kept my eyes, ears, and mind open as if I were some explorer. I get the feeling going to Baxter’s with the Floozy would be the same.

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Nah.”

  “How about next Saturday?”

  Her eyes light up. I believe this woman likes a bit of danger.

  “I can almost guarantee the Beaumont boys never miss a Saturday at Baxter’s. I can ask Annette to meet us there. We’ll make it a girls’ night out.”

  “How about we make it a covert operation?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ll be under cover. Like spies.”

  I see the empty spaces between her teeth when she cackles.

  “Yeah, under cover.”

  “I’ll get back to you, but save Saturday unless the weather’s real bad,” I say. “Let’s head inside. I’m freezing my ass out here.”

  Marsha cackles and shakes her head as we walk inside. She’s happy to be a part of this investigation.

  My stool has been saved. The guy sitting on the next one says, “I had to fight off a few for you, Isabel.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  I lean back against the wall while I mull my good fortune to have the Floozy on my side. I take in the sights. Jack is one busy man tonight. The Cowlicks are on fire. People are bumping into each other like pinballs on the dance floor. Everybody’s happy to have music at the Rooster again. Me, too, and I still have half a free beer left.

  It’s midway through the third set when I hear the familiar opening to Waylon Jennings’ “Good Hearted Woman.” I half-expect to hear that cowbell ring and Jack holler the bar is closed until the song is over. And then he grabs me by the hand and makes believe he’s dragging me onto the dance floor. It was our thing here at the Rooster, well until things got messed up.

  But I don’t, and he doesn’t.

  Suddenly, I feel the bottom of the floor has dropped, and I’m going with it. I don’t dare look at Jack. I don’t even wait until the song is over. I down the rest of my beer and slip out of the bar without so much as a good-bye to anyone.

  El Creepo

  Fred shows up at the Rooster parking lot exactly at two. I’m standing outside my car with my backside against the fender. It’s still damn cold, but at least it’s sunny.

  “Hey, the Rooster’s closed,” are the first words out of his mouth.

  I glance back. The Rooster is locked up tight. Yeah, I tricked him. I heard from the Old Farts, of course, Jack doesn’t open these days until three on Saturdays, especially since football season is over. I’m not expecting my conversation with Fred to last more than twenty minutes max, so I should be long gone before Jack or his cook shows up.
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br />   “It doesn’t open for another hour.”

  “Damn it, Isabel, how are we supposed to meet? It’s fuckin’ cold out here.”

  “We can sit in my car.”

  He snorts a laugh. I don’t even want to venture a guess at what he’s thinking.

  “All right then.”

  We get in the front seats, and I’m glad for the console dividing his from mine. I don’t want him putting his hands all over me.

  “When you and Annette were married, did you get along with her father?”

  “Sort of. We both liked to throw back a few.”

  “What do you mean sort of?”

  “When things went sour with Annette, he took her side. It’s to be expected. She’s his daughter.”

  “How come you two got divorced?”

  “Let’s say in those days I had a bit of a temper.”

  “You hit her?”

  He stares.

  “I smacked her around. I admit it. I’m not proud of it. She sure could push my buttons.” He raises both hands. “Yeah, yeah, that’s no excuse. It pissed off Chet when he found out. Anyways I’ve cleaned up my act. Never touched a woman like that since.”

  I nod. I believe him.

  “When was the last time you saw Chet Waters?”

  He holds up his hands like he’s stopping traffic.

  “Whoa, whoa, are you suspecting me of killin’ him?”

  I’m prepared for this. My mother wasn’t crazy about my idea of meeting Fred in the parking lot, but I reminded her there isn’t any other place in town. The Conwell Town Hall isn’t open Saturdays, and I don’t know if I could’ve enticed Fred to meet me there anyway. Invite him to my house? Are you outta of your mind?

  “No, I’m not,” I say, leaving out the part Annette thought he could. “I’m not familiar with Caulfield at all. I know you a little. I was hoping you could help me. I’ll repeat my question. When’s the last time you saw Chet?”

  He works his mouth.

  “Actually, just a couple of days before the fire. I needed some parts for an old truck I was fixin’. I tried the other junkyard, Sinclair’s, but Al didn’t have them. Chet did. It was strictly business. He seemed to get over that I was a lousy husband to his daughter.”