Sintown Chronicles III: In Dark Corners

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  "Honey,” a second male voice explained, “you burned up the engine. Ain't nothing to do but replace the thing and it'll take several days to get one shipped in. The nearest parts house is in Catawaba and that's ninety miles from here."

  "They probably ain't got one in stock. Hell, it might take two weeks to get one."

  "Shit!” the female voice exclaimed. “I can't wait two weeks. Hell, I can't wait a day. I must be in Dot tonight."

  "Ain't never heard of no place called Dot. Where's it at?"

  "It's none of your damned business. What's a new engine going to cost me?"

  "Four, five thousand."

  "You're out of your frigging mind. That's more than the damn car is worth."

  "Yup,” one of the men agreed. “Tell ya what I'll do. I'll give you five hundred for what's left of your car."

  "What good will that do me? I'm stuck out here in the middle of nowhere."

  "If the price is right, I'll give you a lift into Waverly. It ain't nothing but a crossroad, but they've got a used car lot. You can pick something up there and be on your way."

  The gas pump kicked off. Stan pulled out the nozzle and screwed on the filler pipe cap.

  "How much?” the female voice asked.

  "You ain't much to look at, darling, but I imagine you have a juicy slit between your legs."

  The other man chuckled. “Right nice little mouth on you too. Why don't you get them clothes off? You be real nice to Jake and me and we'll be nice to you."

  "Go to hell, you bastards!"

  "Honey, we ain't asking. We're telling you. Get naked."

  "Get your frigging hands off me!” the woman screamed.

  Stan jammed the nozzle into the pump and raced towards the bay amid sounds of a violent struggle but he was too late. He stood just inside the bay door trying to comprehend the scene.

  One man lay unconscious on the concrete floor. The second was in a fetal position, moaning and clasping his crotch. A tiny woman, no more than five foot four, faced him and crouched in a karate stance. “You want to take me on too, Stud?"

  Stan lifted his hands defensively and took a backward step. “Hold on, Lady. I'm the good guy here."

  "These bastards..."

  "Yeah, I heard,” Stan interrupted. He towered over the mechanic who was still moaning. “You lay right there, Slimeball, or I'll finish what the lady started. You understand me?"

  The man nodded.

  Stan motioned towards a workbench. “Get that roll of duct tape and make sure Sleeping Beauty doesn't bother us when he wakes up.” He nudged the mechanic with his foot. “Roll onto your fat belly,” he demanded. “Now, what's really wrong with the lady's car?"

  "The engine seized. That's the truth. She musta blown a gasket and run it hot."

  "How long will it take you to get a new engine?"

  "They probably have a rebuilt in Catawaba—it'll take three, maybe four hours to drive over there and get it."

  "And what is the true cost?"

  "The engine'll most likely run a thousand, maybe two. Pulling the old engine and dropping in a new one is hard work, man. It oughta be worth five hundred easy."

  "When can I get my car back?” the woman asked.

  "If we don't run into no problems I can have her ready by lunchtime tomorrow."

  "Shit!"

  Stan glanced in her direction. “Can't you call ahead and tell somebody that you've been delayed?"

  She shook her head. “It's not that kind of appointment. I've been dreaming of this night for thirteen years. The opportunity may never come my way again."

  Stan glanced at her disabled car. “It's not fresh out of the showroom, but it ought to be worth more than five hundred. Why don't you give the lady two thousand for it? You can replace the motor and make a nice profit."

  "Man, I ain't got that kind of money."

  "That's unfortunate. The way I see it, you're either going to buy the lady's car or go to jail for attempted rape."

  "Wait a frigging minute, Stud. It's my car and my life. Butt out."

  "Just trying to help, ma'am."

  "You call me ma'am one more time and you can forget about ever having children."

  Stan grinned. “I wouldn't want that to happen. What should I call you?"

  "Dale will do."

  "I'm Stan."

  "Who cares?” She studied him for a moment. “You planning on giving me a lift to this Waverly place?"

  "That's what I had in mind but, like you said, it's your predicament. You wiggle out of it.” He turned and headed for the open bay door.

  "Hold on, Stud.” She picked up a tire tool and moved next to the mechanic's head. “What's it going to be? Two thousand dollars for my car or jail?"

  "I'll see what's in the safe. You have the title with you?"

  Dale nodded. “Crawl on your hands and knees."

  Stan watched Dale follow the humbled mechanic into a back room and squatted in front of the other man, whose eyes were now open.

  "You going to behave yourself, Creep?"

  The man nodded. “I was kicked in the ass once by a mule. Didn't hurt near as much as that broad's foot on my jaw."

  "That's a good boy,” Stan chuckled.

  Dale signed over the title to her car and Stan made the mechanic load her luggage into his car.

  "It ain't legal,” the man muttered. “Her signature ain't notarized."

  "I imagine a smart guy like you knows a notary that'll okay anything for a price,” Stan replied as he approached with the duct tape. “Turn around and put your hands behind you."

  "Hell man, don't tie me up. I done what you wanted."

  "True, but I've seen too many television shows where the country boys chase the good guys and run them off the road with their pickup.” After taping the man's wrists, Stan knelt and taped his ankles. “Time you get free, we'll be long gone. Oh, by the way,” Stan continued, reaching into his pocket, “I owe you twenty bucks for gas."

  Ten minutes passed as they rode in silence. “Been divorced long?” Dale asked.

  "What makes you think I'm divorced?"

  "The impression of a wedding band is still on your finger."

  Stan glanced at his left hand and laughed. “I didn't wear the thing but six months. I guess I gained a little weight. I had to have it cut off."

  "What's your story?” she asked.

  "Not much to tell. I barely squeaked through high school, joined the Navy to see the world and spent all four years at a base in Roanoke, Virginia. I came home and married the prettiest little gal you ever saw. Trouble was, she was the only daughter of the richest family in town and I was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks. We had to elope."

  "Sounds romantic."

  "Yeah.” He grinned. “Exciting, too. Anyway, it didn't take long for mamma to convince my wife of the error of her ways and that's why I no longer have a wedding band on my finger."

  "Did you love her?"

  The expression on his face became somber and his fingers gripped the wheel so tightly they turned white. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “I really did."

  "Nice car and expensive duds. You must have done all right in the divorce settlement."

  "Annulment. Mama paid big bucks to keep me from contesting the court action. Does that make me a gigolo?"

  Dale smiled. “Sounds to me like the marriage was over anyway. I think a gigolo is a man who receives payment for offering his favors to a woman, not for withdrawing them."

  He relaxed.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "I'm doing it. I suppose that eventually I'll re-enlist, but since I didn't see the world during my first hitch, I thought I'd see the sights for a few months from my car."

  "See the USA in your Chevrolet?"

  "Something like that, only it's a Ford. I showed you mine, now you show me yours."

  She looked out the side window and replied, “None of your business."

  Stan slowed to forty-five and then thirty-five, obeying the r
oadside speed signs. “We must be entering Waverly."

  "Yeah, and that must be the used car lot."

  He laughed when he saw the tacky, multicolored plastic pendants waving in the breeze. As he eased into the parking lot, he chuckled. “It looks like you have your choice of three old clunkers or that ancient pickup."

  "I don't know,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I like the looks of the tractor."

  He pushed the gear lever into Park and looked into her brown eyes. “Where is this Dot you are hell bent to visit?"

  "My guess is it's a couple of hundred miles away. You go through Rock Hill into North Carolina. According to the map, Dot is thirty miles northeast of Charlotte."

  "What in the world were you doing on this back road?"

  "On the map, it looked like a shortcut to I77."

  "Look, I'm wandering aimlessly. I had a notion of winding up in Atlanta, but I'd just as soon go to Dot. What do you say?"

  She eyed him suspiciously. “I'm not going to hump you, Stud, and I don't advise you to try anything foolish."

  He threw up his hands in mock terror. “I'm not real bright, but I'm not stupid either. I saw what you did to those dudes at the service station."

  "Even if you catch me off guard, I have AIDS."

  "You're joking."

  "There are some things I don't joke about, Stud."

  "The name is Stan,” he mumbled as he shifted the gear to Drive.

  * * * *

  "What the hell are you doing?” Dale barked, rubbing sleep from her eyes as Stan pulled into the Korner Kafe and Motel parking lot.

  "We're in Dot, Wonder Woman. I'm hungry, tired and my bladder is about to burst. I don't know how long your business is going to keep you, but we're not going to drive anywhere else tonight. We may as well get rooms in the Motel."

  Dale unsnapped her seat belt and opened the door. “I need to pee too."

  "The parking lot is full,” Dale commented as they walked to the restaurant. “You'd think that by nine o'clock the dinner rush would be over."

  A dark complexioned, raven-haired beauty greeted them with flashing white teeth. “Welcome, Folks,” she said. “I'm afraid the far booth is the only table open."

  "That's fine,” Stan beamed.

  "Where's the bathroom?” Dale asked.

  The hostess grinned and nodded. “Down the hall."

  They took care of business, ordered the country style steak special and ate greedily. When Stan pushed away his empty plate and reached for his slice of chocolate pie, he asked, “Isn't it about time you filled me in on the mystery?"

  "What mystery?"

  "Why we are in the metropolis of Dot, North Carolina?"

  "It's none of your business, Stud. We have one short trip yet to make and then you can go your way and I'll go mine."

  "Everything okay here?"

  Stan nodded at the hostess. “I've never eaten a better meal,” he said.

  "Thank you, Kind Sir,” she replied. “I'm Maggie Bennett. My husband and I own the Korner Kafe and Motel. I don't recall seeing you folks before. Here for the tournament?"

  "What tournament?"

  Maggie laughed, again showing her perfect white teeth. “There's a big golf shindig at the Dollars’ Playground this weekend. From the way our business has picked up, there must be a ton of spectators."

  "Dollars’ Playground?"

  Maggie giggled. “Tim and Sandy Dollar own half of Dot if not more. Years ago they built a huge recreational complex on Highway 8 West. If you are going to be with us for a few days, you might want to check it out. They have a little of everything out there."

  "We're just passing through,” Stan said, “but we will need to check into your motel for the night."

  Maggie flashed her smile. “Better hurry around to the motel office. The last time I checked there was only one vacant room left."

  "We need two rooms."

  "Oh. Well, there's another motel east on Highway 8. It's a bit rustic, but I understand their rates are cheap. It's called Dad's Place."

  "Uh, Mrs. Bennett,” Dale interrupted, “can you describe Mrs. Dollar?"

  "I can do better than that,” Maggie replied. “That's Sandy, Tim and Tim Junior in the front booth.” Maggie shook her head. “Tim Junior must be eight or nine years old. I remember the day he was born. Time seems to fly by."

  "That's it!” Dale muttered under her breath after carefully looking at the sandy-haired, small-chested Sandra Dollar.

  "What did you say, Dear?” Maggie asked.

  "Nothing. Uh, I understand there's a trailer park somewhere in Dot. Could you give us directions?"

  "Sure. Dottie Frank has a nice place on Schoolhouse Road. Go down Highway 8 East about a mile, hang a left and go another half-mile or so. You'll see Dottie's trailer park on your left."

  Stan watched Maggie move to the next table.

  "Why don't you let me borrow your car to take care of my business while you make out with the big-chested Maggie Bennett?"

  "Hold on, Wonder Woman. I don't mess around with married women. What's with this trailer park thing and why did you say, ‘That's it,’ when you looked at Mrs. Dollar?"

  "You wouldn't understand.” Dale's eyes widened as she saw Sandra Dollar heading for the narrow hallway. “Stan, pay the bill. I need to go to the restroom again."

  Before he could reply, she was gone.

  Dale hurried, but Sandy was already behind the closed door of the bathroom stall when she caught up. Dale rapped lightly on the metal door. “Mrs. Dollar?"

  After a pause, Sandra answered, “Yes?"

  "You don't know me. For all you know, I may be a nutcase, but, well, I think your life and your husband's may be in danger and your young son may be on the verge of a lifetime trauma."

  "What the hell..."

  "Keep your house locked and a gun with you at all times. Under no circumstances should you let a stranger into your home. Hell, he may even be someone you know. Shit. I ... I ... just be careful."

  Dale rushed from the bathroom, grabbed Stan's arm and said, “Let's go."

  When they were strapped into Stan's Ford, he glanced at Dale. “Trailer park?"

  She nodded.

  He eased onto Highway 8 and drove slowly. “You're going to have to tell me sooner or later."

  "It's personal. The less you know, the better."

  "That looks like a school,” he observed.

  She nodded. “Sign says Schoolhouse Road."

  They passed a couple of houses on the right and he slowed to a crawl when they neared the trailer park entrance.

  "We're looking for Unit 1236,” she said.

  He followed the narrow winding road between closely spaced mobile and modular homes.

  "Pull over. You passed it,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

  "I'll back up,” he offered.

  "No. Shut off the engine and kill the lights. Wait for me.” She opened the door. “Pop the trunk. I need to get something."

  He reached beside the driver's seat, pulled a lever and listened to her rummage around in the trunk. Through the review mirror he saw the trunk lid close and watched her walk towards a darkened trailer. Suddenly his eyes bulged. She was holding a pistol in her right hand. He leaped from the car and raced to catch up.

  She heard him coming and placed a finger to her lips.

  "This is getting out of hand,” he whispered.

  She knocked on the door and waited. She knocked again. “Shit! He's not here."

  "Who's not here?” Stan almost pleaded.

  "You have a flashlight in your car?"

  "Glove compartment."

  "Get it."

  "Give me the gun,” he demanded.

  "I'll give you one of the bullets if you don't bring me that flashlight."

  "Dale, don't do anything foolish."

  "Are you going to get me the light or not?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, hurried to the car, retrieved the flashlight, tested it and returned to the traile
r.

  She had moved to the rear of the unit. She took the light from him and shined it into a bedroom window. “His stuff is still here. God, I hope I'm not too late."

  She tried the back door, found it locked, dug into her pocket and produced two tiny metal slivers. “Hold the flashlight,” she instructed.

  Stan watched in fascination as she inserted the toothpick-like objects into the lock and manipulated them until the cylinder clicked. With a smile of triumph, she took back the flashlight and opened the door.

  "Don't touch anything,” she whispered and immediately opened a drawer.

  "Follow your own advice,” he replied.

  "I don't care if my fingerprints are found.” She moved from room to room, examining every nook and cranny. In the bedroom she slipped to her knees and aimed the light under the bed. “Bingo!"

  Dale pulled out a sealed, clear plastic container and Stan squinted to try to recognize the odd-shaped contents floating in liquid.

  "I've got you now, you bastard,” she hissed as she slipped the container back under the bed.

  Stan followed her out of the trailer and watched as she made certain the door was locked. While walking to the front of the trailer, she said, “You can go, now, Stud."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Find a place to hide until the bastard comes home."

  "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

  "You ask too many questions."

  "You won't get away with it, even if you kill me too. Your fingerprints are all over the trailer."

  "That's my problem. Have a good life, Stud and, uh, thanks for the lift."

  He noticed the rural type mailbox in front of the trailer, opened it and beckoned to her. “The box is stuffed with junk mail, Dale. The guy's out of town. He may be gone for days, weeks, months."

  "Shit!” She aimed the light at the side of the box. “J. Smith,” she read aloud. “Yeah, right."

  Stan rifled through the mail. “Well, his name could be Occupant.” He put his hands on her shoulders and was surprised to feel her body tremble. “Let's get rooms at Dad's place. You tell me the whole story. If J. Smith deserves to die, and the matter cannot be turned over to the authorities, I'll ... I'll..."

  "You'll what?"

  "I'll help you find a way to do it without implicating yourself."

  She looked up at him and allowed a full embrace. “I'll go with you to Dad's Place, but I'm not going to fill you in. There is no reason to involve you in this mess, but I do need to give this some additional thought."