Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  The Beaumonts step back. The threat to be banned from Baxter’s is a real one. I wonder how many other drinking establishments have kicked them out forever. Maybe this is the only bar that will take them in. If so, I wonder what kind of a deal they made with Dave, who strikes me as a no-nonsense kind of guy.

  “Nah, we were just jokin’ with her,” Gary says. “You knew that, right, Isabel?”

  Dave doesn’t wait for my smart-ass answer. He grabs each brother’s shoulder as if they’re going into a huddle.

  “Why don’t you two fellows get yourselves somethin’ cold to drink and stay outta trouble. All right?”

  Dave lets the Beaumonts go after they mutter something in agreement I can’t hear. I wait until the brothers shuffle off to a table across the room before I speak.

  “Thanks for rescuing me from those thugs.”

  “Thugs. That’s a good word,” he says. “Hey, you don’t have a drink. What’ll it be? Some fancy schmancy cocktail? Nah, you strike me as a beer and wine kinda gal.”

  “You’re right. I’ll take a light beer, if you don’t mind. I have a ways to drive home.”

  Dave signals to the bartender and relays our order. Then he holds out his arm when I lower myself from the stool. I giggle, yeah, a bit. This guy thinks he’s some gentleman cowboy. But I play along and let him lead me to a corner table. He even pulls out my chair. Ma is going to get a kick out of this when I tell her.

  “How long have you owned this place?” I ask Dave.

  “Almost twenty years. I’m third generation. I grew up in this place. When my grandfather owned the joint, it was nothin’ more than a fishin’ shack. My parents built it up a bit and ran a mom-and-pop kind of place after that. When I took over, I doubled the size and made lots of upgrades. That’s when Sue and I were together.”

  “Is Sue your wife?”

  “Late wife. She died a few years ago. Cancer. It’s an awful way to go. Sue was a real sweetheart. We knew each other since we were kids.”

  “I lost my husband about eighteen months ago. Sam was a great guy.”

  “I believe I met him. Carpenter, right? Kinda quiet? Yeah, I did.”

  The waitress brings our drinks. We both get Buds although mine is the light version. I forgot beer comes in cans and hard drinks in plastic glasses here at Baxter’s. I skip the offer of a plastic glass.

  I get the immediate feeling I won’t be rushing Dancin’ Dave. At least I have Ma lined up to give me that phone call at ten. Just before I left, she asked whether Jack knew what I was up to tonight. I told her no, but I was sure word would get back to him.

  I put a bit of thought into this meetup with Dave. I decided not to wear a skirt or anything too feminine. It’s not that I don’t want to look good, but it might be too suggestive, like I was dressing up for him. I settle on jeans, not too tight, and a v-necked sweater, not too low. Of course, it’s black. Seventy-five percent of my wardrobe is black, not because I’m a widow, but it’s my favorite color. I’m wearing earrings, something dangly. I always have them. It’s the only jewelry I wear since I removed my wedding ring months after Sam died.

  Dave hands me the menu.

  “Whatever you want, Isabel.”

  His voice is so smooth, it makes me feel we’re on a first date, which isn’t my intention, but maybe his, if the Chet Waters’ thing is only a lure. But I’m going to go along and not pester him, at least not yet.

  He raises his beer can.

  “Thanks for comin’,” he says.

  This guy is really smooth. I tap my can against his.

  “Thanks for inviting me.”

  He orders a steak. I ask if I can have a salad and a baked potato. The waitress seems a little perplexed until Dave nods.

  “Give the lady what she wants,” he says. “I heard you’re one of those vegetarian types.”

  “You heard right although I’ve loosened up since my mother came to live with me.”

  We talk while we wait for our food. Dave wants to learn more about me. I find it hard to share. I’m usually the one asking the questions. I give him a quick rundown about growing up beside the ocean, that my family is Portuguese, what that was like. I talk about Sam and the kids, and working for the newspaper. I mention my mother. I’m not that interesting, if you really want to know, but Dave sits back in his chair, nodding at the parts he likes, laughing at my snide remarks and stories. He’s a handsome older guy, with good lines on his face that make him appear both wise and humorous.

  “How serious are you and Jack Smith?” he asks.

  I don’t answer right away. That’s a real good question. We were hot and heavy until his sister got caught, thanks to me, and then he dropped me until she died. But I like being with Jack. He’s sweet, but not too sweet, and he makes me laugh, appreciative qualities in my book.

  “I believe we’re figuring that out,” I say. “We took a little break after… you probably heard all about that.”

  He chuckles.

  “Uh-huh, at least I don’t have a sister who was a killer. Sorry, that was a bad joke.”

  “That’s okay. I kinda have a gallows humor myself,” I say.

  “Gallows humor. I like that. Oh, here’s our food.”

  As we eat, I turn the questioning toward him. Of course, the good reporter I am, I lob him a couple of softball questions first. Eventually, I’ll get around to Chet Waters, but right now I’m having a whole lot of fun grilling Dancin’ Dave about his life.

  “Why do you take in the Rooster’s rejects like the Beaumont boys?” I ask.

  He holds his fork mid-air.

  “It’s strictly business. I don’t care much for those little punks, but they know better than to conduct any business in the parking lot. That was plain stupid what they did at the Rooster. Maybe they learned their lesson. Dunno. But I keep a real close eye on them and a few of the others. It’s easier for me than Jack. I’m not working behind the bar or shagging empties. I pay people to do that.”

  “You must see a lot in here.”

  “I could write a book or have one of those reality TV shows.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me real curious. What did you want to tell me about Chet Waters?”

  He laughs.

  “I was wonderin’ how long it would take you to ask that. You sure know how to play a man.”

  I make that stupid giggle again.

  “Dave, I wouldn’t say I’m playing.”

  We’re interrupted when the waitress comes to clear our table. She asks about dessert.

  “The lady says no. How about another round?” He eyes me. “The lady says yes.”

  “To get back to my question about Chet… ”

  “You must’ve been a real good reporter.”

  “I was relentless. Back to my question, please.”

  Dave chuckles.

  “We used to have after-hours poker games here. Bettin’ and all that. Actually still do, but regular hours only on Tuesdays, which is kind of a dead night. But now that Chet’s gone, it’s a lot friendlier. The stakes are much lower.”

  “Friendlier?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Chet could be a blast to be around if he wasn’t being a pain in the ass. Told stories. Made jokes. Course, it was all a ruse to distract his fellow players. Well, a couple of weeks before he died, he was in a big game here. I had already exceeded my limit of losin’ that night, so I just watched. Chet was goin’ head to head with another guy, who ended up givin’ him quite a load of money. It turned really ugly. I managed to break it up without anyone gettin’ hurt. But it was damn close. There was blood in their eyes.”

  “Who was the sore loser?”

  Dave leans over the table. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his lips. “Al Sinclair.”

  “The guy who owns the junkyard?”

  “The very one.”

  “When I talked with him, he was mighty P.O.’d his boys lost big to Chet,” I say. “He didn’t say anything about losing his shirt to the man.”

  �
�Interesting he left that out.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I think about what I want to ask next, and give myself the okay. “Somebody told me about a fatal accident many years ago involving Chet and Al’s sister. Do you remember that?”

  “Sure do. I went to school with Amanda. She was a little doll. I forgot about it but I bet Al hasn’t. It was a tragedy. I can see why he used every opportunity to speak ill of the man. He still does even though Chet’s dead.”

  Dave sits back. He appears to be weighing what he will say next. I'm wondering if he has more to say about Chet and Al when he hits me with this: “Heard you’re workin’ with Lin Pierce.”

  “Yes, I am. I need to be employed by a P.I. for three years before... wait, you have something on him you wanna tell me?”

  “It might help if you know who you're dealin’ with. The story happened a while back, but it still applies. Nobody else told you about him?”

  Of course, I'm curious. I can't help it. It's part of my genetic makeup.

  “No. What's Lin's deep, dark secret?”

  Dave does a quick look around.

  “It was probably before you moved here.” He sits forward. “Lin was supposed to give evidence for a personal injury case. Guy fell at a construction site. He was a subcontractor. The contractor wouldn't pay him a dime even though his crew messed up. Anyway, Lin blew it and the man lost the case.”

  “How did Lin blow it?”

  “He was drinkin’ heavy then, and when he came drunk to court, he was in no shape to testify. Poor guy lost his case and ended up killin’ himself cause he couldn’t support his family.”

  “That's awful.”

  “Let's say it scared Lin sober, but his reputation was a bit tainted.” He lowers his voice. “He did try to make good with his widow and kids. I’ll give him that. Most don’t.”

  “That's a really sad story.”

  “Sure is.”

  Dave glances toward the side door. The band and their helpers haul their equipment to the stage. I recognize the Lone Sums, which played last night at the Rooster. Baxter's must be part of the redneck circuit. Dave sits back with a beer can in his hand. He is studying me.

  “Now that we’ve got that business outta the way, we can have a little fun on the dance floor. The night’s still young.”

  By the wall clock, it’s getting onto eight-forty. I figure I’ll split around ten after I get that call from Ma.

  “Yes, it is,” I tell him.

  I glance up when I realize someone is crowding our table. Pete Woodrell hovers above me as if he’s my bodyguard. Dave gives him a nod. The two of them exchange the usual country guy pleasantries, and then Pete pats my shoulder.

  “Isabel, nice to see you in my neck of the woods,” he tells me.

  Dave sits back.

  “Isabel is my special guest tonight,” he says.

  “Special guest, eh? Saw you two dancin’ up a storm at Jack’s place last night.”

  “Yeah, I expect we’ll be doin’ more tonight,” Dave says.

  This conversation is making me a bit uneasy. I like Dave, but I don’t want Pete getting the wrong idea about us.

  “Is Barbie here?” I ask.

  Pete shakes his head.

  “Nah, she stayed home. Not feeling up to it. Female problems.” He slaps the table. “Hey, I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Dave nods, and after Pete has moved far enough away, he says, “Like I said, we could do one of those reality TV shows in here.”

  “Yeah, you could.”

  The Lone Sums are into their first song, something Southern rock I don’t recognize right away, but Dave does and he grins.

  “Wanna dance?” he asks me.

  Oh, why not?

  Dutifully, my mother calls, but I tell her everything is fine. I almost joke that so far I haven't been molested, but that would be over the top for Ma.

  Dancin’ Dave keeps me moving on the floor, and when the Lone Sums take a break, he locks me in a conversation about this and that, about him and me. He has two daughters and a few grandkids. He likes to fish but not hunt. He takes his RV to Maine, and the only time he's flown was to Florida with his late wife for vacations and once to California for a wedding. He'd like to see more of the country. Course, he has a motorcycle, a Harley. No rice burners, as he put it. Maybe I’d like to go for a ride when the weather is warm enough. Or maybe I’d like one on his snowmobile although the snow is starting to get thin in spots on the trails.

  Uh, this guy wants us to make plans.

  “Dave, I need to head home soon. I’ve got a ways to go,” I tell him.

  “You could just head out in the morning.”

  I laugh when he says that. Yeah, I'm having a swell time, but I'm not about to go to bed with the guy. Besides, I'm a bit unsure right now. Dave hit it when he asked about Jack. What is going on between us two anyways? Are we co-workers with benefits? Or is there something more? Jack has no hold on me, but it would definitely complicate things if I hooked up with Dave. Take it slow, Isabel.

  “You're a fast worker,” I tell Dave.

  He made a low rumble of a laugh.

  “I am when I want something.”

  I let him walk me to my car, a sound idea given the Beaumont brothers kept a watch on me all night. Ditto for me on them when Dave wasn't on my radar. Dave and I talk a bit in the parking lot until I insist on leaving, and, yes, he clinches me in a kiss that gives me no doubts about his intentions.

  About all I can say is a breathy “Well,” which comes off sexier than I intend. Dave doesn't stop smiling. He waits until my car leaves the lot.

  Driving is fine. I can handle three light beers over three hours, no problem. I pass the Rooster, still lit up, ponder stopping but think better of it. I’m not about to test Jack's feelings for me. I'll see him Monday anyway.

  Old Farts

  It’s time to pay a visit to the Old Farts. This morning, I’m going solo without sweet little Sophie because her parents are on vacation at someplace warm and sunny this week. I'm a bit surprised the Old Farts didn't tell me Lin Pierce's backstory. My conclusion is there has to be some connection to one of them, hence, the silence. Plus, I have a few other questions for them. Of course, I'll see what they have on me.

  As expected by the cars parked outside the store, the regulars are in full attendance with a couple of Visiting Old Farts who have yet to earn a name, so I’ll call them Visiting Old Fart One and Visiting Old Fart Two. Naturally, the Fattest Old Fart announces my arrival. He pats the bench.

  “I've been saving this spot just for you, Isabel,” he says.

  Across from him, the Serious Old Fart quips, “Face it. Isabel is the only one who could fit in that space.”

  His comment draws chuckles from his colleagues and a sputter of lips from the Fattest Old Fart. Then we go through the usual routine of a cup of coffee by one of the group and that lame joke about the espresso machine. I don't mind although it confuses the two visitors until one of the regulars brings them up to speed.

  Across the way, the Bald Old Fart clears his throat.

  “Heard a certain woman was hired back at the Rooster,” he says.

  Beside him, the Old Fart with Glasses nods like there's a spring in his neck. “Yeah, my sources say only Friday nights though.”

  I roll my eyes. “I see you guys have your spies reporting back to you.”

  More chuckles from the whole gang.

  The Fattest Old Fart clears his throat. I’m expecting another revelation, and I'm not disappointed but a little embarrassed when he announces, “Now I heard there was an interesting scene when Jack and his recent hire were on the dance floor. Seems he had a bit of competition when somebody cut in.”

  Everybody including the two visitors swing their heads my way.

  “I heard that, too,” I say.

  Across the way, the Serious Old Fart mouths, “Who?”

  “I'm not one to gossip, but he owns a bar in West Caulfield,” the Fattest Old Fart annou
nces.

  Not one to gossip. Who’s he kidding?

  I can see I'm not going to get far with these guys today. Besides, I don't know how trustworthy the visitors are. I down the rest of my coffee, crush the cup, and toss it into the open trashcan about four feet away.

  “As usual, thank you for the coffee and conversation.” I get to my feet. “I'm gonna head out.”

  The group makes a collective groan. I came here expressly to ask about Al Sinclair and Lin Pierce, but that's not going to happen. I bid my farewells and turn for the door. I’m barely outside when I hear my name. The Fattest Old Fart stands near the doorway.

  “Isabel, what brought you here today?”

  I smile because he's also my Favorite Old Fart.

  “I was gonna ask about Al Sinclair. Is the guy on the level? I just found out a couple of things about him that are troubling.”

  The Fattest Old Fart sets a hand on my shoulder.

  “Mind telling me what it's about?”

  “I heard from a trustworthy source that he lost a bundle to Chet Waters in a poker game just before Chet died. My source says things got ugly.”

  The Fattest Old Fart listens intently.

  “That may be true, but between you and me, I don’t see Al killing anybody, even a sworn enemy like Chet.”

  “That's what my mother said last night. She’s betting on the Beaumonts.”

  “Your mother? How’s she doing?”

  “She's just fine,” I say. “Hey, I have a question. What's with Lin Pierce? The same source told me an interesting story about him. When I asked about him before you guys clammed up."

  The Fattest Old Fart checks behind him.

  “I'm glad you didn't bring him up inside.” He mentions the real name of the Silent Old Fart. “His son was the client. I heard Lin tried to help out the family, but definitely all was not forgiven.”

  “So it's true?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  Packing up Eleanor

  Jack is drinking coffee at his kitchen table when I arrive to help him pack his sister’s things. He raises his mug.