Small Town Trouble

by Jean Erhardt

  The loser on the other side of Charlene leaned forward to get a better view of us. He just grinned drunkenly and stupidly, then sat back and lit another cigarette.

  “Hey, Pebbles!” Charlene called out to the bartender who was yakking to a farm boy at the other end of bar. “How about a drink for these girls? And make it another for me, too.” She held up her empty booze glass.

  “All right, all right. Hold your damn horses,” Pebbles said. Pebbles patted the horny looking farm boy’s head, then sashayed our way.

  When it came to women, Jimmy Jacobs had certainly known what he liked. Blondes with big, big boobs.

  “Jesus,” Amy said, under her breath.

  Pebbles was a piece of work. She might have been all of five feet tall and had to be at least a 38DD. She wore her makeup in a way that would put Catwoman to shame. Pebbles had on a pair of skimpy, Daisy Duke cut-offs and a black leather halter that barely reined in her headlights. She came around the bar and leaned on her elbows, parking her cleavage about an inch from my nose.

  “Now what can I get for you girls?”

  “Make it the usual,” I said, furtively eyeing her amazing fault line.

  “Yeah,” Amy said, “the usual sounds good.”

  Pebbles raised her well-penciled eyebrows. “The usual?” Her nostrils flared a little. “Help me out here.”

  Obviously, Pebbles didn’t have much of a sense of humor. It looked like God had packed all of her attributes into her halter.

  We settled on a couple of Little Kings. Pebbles retrieved two cold ones and brought a fresh drink for Charlene. Then she beat feet back to her anxiously awaiting plowboy, no doubt for some more stimulating conversation.

  “Thanks, Charlene.” I took a sip. I just love it when a nice-looking girl buys me a drink.

  Charlene narrowed her eyes and stubbed out her smoke. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Cheers,” Amy chimed in, holding up her beer.

  It was shame to wreck a chummy little scenario like the one we had going there at Jimmy’s Place, but time was not on anybody’s side any more. The creep next to Charlene had just hit the highway, so now it was just us girls.

  “So, Charlene,” I said, “how long have you and Officer Mike been an item?”

  Charlene lit a new smoke and set her little gold lighter back on the bar. Slowly her eyes crawled around to meet mine. “What makes you think we are?”

  I took another sip of my beer. “I guess last night makes me think so.”

  Then it was on, a full-out stare-down of Clint Eastwood proportions. Charlene’s eyes probed me like a fine surgical instrument. She was intent on trying to figure out just how much I knew and what I was going to do about it.

  And I was bluffing like 007 on his best poker night, minus the tuxedo. I wanted to make Charlene think that I knew everything there was to know, and that I was ready and willing to screw her right to the wall. It was unnerving to say the least. I could feel Amy practically vibrating on the other side of me.

  Finally, Charlene stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. “Maybe we’d better have a little private chat,” she said and nodded over at a closed door next to bar.

  “Maybe we’d better,” I said, setting down my beer.

  “Christ-opher,” Amy whispered.

  Charlene slipped off her chair, made some weird, but meaningful eye contact with Pebbles, then headed for the back room. Amy and I played follow the leader.

  Charlene closed the door behind us. We’d obviously entered the bowels of Jimmy’s Place. The back room apparently served as the storeroom, head office and employee lounge, and the ratty, unmade bed in the corner made me wonder what other functions it served.

  “Have a seat,” Charlene said and motioned at a couple of chairs that even the Salvation Army would have passed on.

  Charlene sat on the corner of the bed. Amy and I took the moldy, understuffed chairs. I couldn’t help but think that a room like this, ripe with the stench of spilled beer, stale cigarette smoke and decades of lowlife decay, would be a one hell of a lousy place to die. I could tell by the look on Amy’s face that she was thinking along the same lines.

  I wanted to wait for Charlene to go first. I knew that she would if I was patient enough. Whatever happened, Amy would follow my lead.

  It was sickly quiet for a moment. The only sound was the muffled noise of the jukebox on the other side of the door. Charlene reached over and picked up a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the small table next to bed and poured herself a shot. She downed it like a pro. Then she licked her lips and set her glass down with a clunk.

  “It’s not the way you think,” she said, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “Then how is it?” I said.

  “Girls, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Me neither,” said Amy.

  “Let’s review. Your ex, Jimmy Jacobs, the former proprietor of this fine establishment, and my cousin Abbott are no longer among the living and Amy’s brother, Rick Rod, is sitting in jail because of it and guess what? We don’t think Rick Rod killed anybody.”

  “We know Rick Rod didn’t do it,” Amy said.

  Charlene’s rodent-like eyes roved back and forth between Amy and me. Then she set her mouth in a way that made me think that she was starting to feel the screws tightening her butt to the wall. It was so much fun watching her squirm, I decided to do some more tightening. “And guess what else, Charlene?”

  “What else?” she said. A real smartass.

  “We think you killed them.”

  She poured herself another shot. I watched her closely, but she didn’t give anything away.

  I kept turning the screws. “And if you didn’t do it, then I’ll bet it was your boyfriend, Officer Mike.”

  “Which is it, Charlene?” Amy said.

  Suddenly Charlene seemed to come to full attention. To my horror, I noted that Amy had pulled the gun out of her purse and aimed it dead-on at Charlene. To borrow one of Amy’s best lines, Christ on toast.

  “What’s the debutante doin’ with a gun?” Charlene said, looking over at me like I was Amy’s parole officer. It was an excellent question. I shrugged.

  Then Charlene got a shitty grin on her face. “You think you’re real hardasses, don’t you? Well, let’s just hope you’re tough enough to handle what you’re stirrin’ up.”

  “Cut the crap and spill it,” Amy said. Not bad for a debutante. I was impressed.

  “You’re only half right,” Charlene said. She quickly downed another shot of Jack Daniels and swallowed hard. It looked like we’d succeeded in rattling her cage a bit. Amy’s gun, no doubt, helped speed things along. “Rick Rod didn’t kill anybody.”

  “I knew it!” Amy said.

  “But neither did I,” said Charlene. “And neither did Mike.”

  “Then who did?” I said.

  Charlene shook her head. She lit up a smoke. “Don’t know.”

  She was lying, but I wasn’t sure about which part.

  “Bullshit. But let’s change the subject for a minute. Just what were you and Officer Mike doing out behind WFOG last night?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said, holding the gun steady, “what’s so damned interesting out there in that field?”

  There was more dead air. Charlene seemed to be weighing her options. Then she said, “Tell you what. When I get off tonight, I’ll show you. How about that? Then maybe you can figure out who the real killer is.”

  “That’s a terrific idea,” I said. “Isn’t that terrific, Amy?”

  “A super idea,” Amy said.

  “Meet me at the old outbuilding at the bottom of the hill on Cemetery Road. Midnight,” Charlene said.

  “Midnight’s good,” I said.

  “Let’s synchronize watches,” Amy said.

  “She’s kidding, right?” Charlene said.

  “Of course she’s kidding.” I knew she wasn’t, but I covered for her any way. “Now I’ll tell you w
hat, Charlene. You’d better come alone, and you’d better not be late or we’re going straight to the police chief with enough questions to keep your ass in the hot seat until your pants catch fire. Got it?”

  Charlene reluctantly nodded. “Got it.”

  Chapter 39

  Amy and I left Charlene in the back office with what remained of her bottle of Jack Daniels and we hot-footed it for the front door.

  It was kind of shame to be leaving Jimmy’s Place. The fun was just starting. Pebbles had dropped her top, and she and her major attributes were just getting warmed up and so was the crowd. Someone pinched my butt on the way out, and I certainly didn’t want to turn around to find out who.

  “Sure you don’t wanna stick around?” Amy said.

  “Maybe another time,” I said, practically diving for the door. Amy was right behind me. I hoped that no one was right behind her.

  Amy cranked up the Lexus. “What the hell did we just do?”

  “We? You’re the one who pulled the gun.”

  “Hey, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

  Between the two of us there was enough adrenaline flowing to fuel the U. S. Olympic Team to numerous gold medals.

  “Let’s assess later.” I checked over my shoulder and fully expected someone or something ugly to burst through the front door after us.

  “Good idea,” Amy said, peeling out of the gravel lot.

  We had a couple of hours to kill before our arranged rendezvous with Charlene. I didn’t feel much like bowling, but I thought the lounge at Fogerty Lanes might be a nice little late-night, out-of-the-way spot for us to cool our heels. On almost any other night I would have preferred Sparkie’s Lounge, but it was still a bit tainted due to my all-too-recent braining in Sparkie’s parking lot. I hadn’t even worn out my first Sesame Street Band-Aid. Like I’d said only moments before, maybe another time.

  We parked around back between a rusted, steadily dripping air conditioner and a towering mountain of cases of empty beer bottles. The place was seriously run-down. My father had probably been the last owner to make improvements and that was long before the Bicentennial.

  There weren’t many cars in the lot. Maybe everyone was over at Jimmy’s Place watching Pebbles and Charlene get up and boogie.

  “I think I might throw up,” Amy said, grabbing her purse off the seat.

  I put my hand on her purse. “Promise me you won’t shoot any bowlers.”

  “Only if I have to,” Amy said, yanking her purse back.

  The lounge was nice and dark and dead, just like I’d hoped.We took a table in the far corner away from the jukebox which was playing Barry Manilow’s Weekend in New England. I wouldn’t have minded being in New England, even with Barry Manilow, right about then.

  We ordered coffee. Neither one us probably needed coffee, much less a cup of bowling alley coffee, but it seemed like the right thing to do. One could hardly be too alert for a midnight meeting with a potential serial killer on a deserted road in rural America.

  “Charlene’s a big, fat liar,” Amy said, sipping out of her styrofoam cup.

  I nodded. “She’s lying all right, but is she lying all the way around, or just here and there?”

  Amy looked wistful. “That is the question.” She added three packs of sweetener to her coffee and stirred. “You know, I hate to get my hopes up, but I’m starting to think that just maybe we can get Rick Rod off the hook.”

  I didn’t want to say what I was thinking. I didn’t even want to think what I was thinking, but I knew that if Rick Rod was ever going to get off the proverbial hook, Amy and I had to land one big, nasty, man-eating fish before it ate all of us alive, and soon.

  We sat tight, sipping wretched coffee and listening to the staccato sounds of the skittering and scattering bowling pins, all the while trying to ignore the oppressive smell of grease from the kitchen. Amy chain-smoked and I played pick-up sticks with the coffee stirrers and made about twenty trips to the bathroom. Occasionally, a small group of hungry, thirsty bowlers came and went. Not counting Barry Manilow and Billy Joel, that was the extent of our entertainment.

  Amy and I went on like this until it was time for us to get up and boogie.

  “Are we up for this?” Amy said.

  “Let’s assess later.” Putting off any and all assessments until much later seemed prudent, if not inspired and Amy agreed.

  At five minutes before the Howling Hour, Amy and I packed it in and made for the Fogerty Lanes parking lot where the Lexus sat ready and waiting to deliver us straight to the Gates of Hell.

  Charlene’s empty car was parked next the old building in the same spot Officer Mike’s car had occupied very recently. Amy wheeled in next to Charlene’s car and cut the engine.

  There was almost no moon, but it was clear as a chapel bell in a country hollow. Amy popped the trunk and grabbed her industrial-strength flashlight.

  “You want the flashlight or the gun?” she said.

  Decisions, decisions. “Flip you for the gun?”

  “No,” Amy said firmly, handing me the flashlight.

  “Why did you even bother to ask me?” I mumbled. Well, it was her gun.

  Somewhat reluctantly, we hiked around to the backside of building. The lightning bugs were out in full swing, flashing all around us like teeny weeny yellow neon lights. It would have been a pleasant moment on some other occasion. I let the light sweep out ahead of us.

  “Where the hell is she?” I made the beam travel as far out as it would go.

  “She’d fucking better be here,” Amy said, a debutante no longer.

  Once again, I couldn’t help but throw a few glances in the backward direction. I was really hoping, even praying, that we weren’t walking into a trap of epic proportions.

  “Charlene!” I called out. “Hey, Charlene!”

  “Where are you, damn it?” Amy said, waving her gun. “Show yourself!”

  Then my shoe hit something in the underbrush with an unappealing thud. All that coffee I’d poured down over the past two hours was now swiftly moving north, back up my esophagus.

  “Hold up,” I said to Amy. I shined the light down at my feet and held my breath.

  Amy screamed like an authentic banshee. Her scream seemed to go on and on, like some horrible echo in a horrible nightmare.

  “Holy sheeit,” I said, staring down at what looked like one very expired Charlene.

  I hadn’t majored in forensics at Maryville College, but even someone with a PE degree like mine could tell that someone had slit Charlene’s throat. I forced myself to reach down and feel for a pulse.

  Negatory. I looked up at Amy and shook my head.

  “Let me try,” said Amy.

  Gladly, I stepped aside. Amy cringed as she probed around trying to come up with Charlene’s thumper, but I had a sick feeling that I wasn’t going to be only one who couldn’t find the beat.

  “I think she’s dead all right.” It looked like Charlene was out of the running all the way around.

  I forced my mind to take a jog down the trail of logic, and, after a few false starts, it told me that if Charlene was dead, she couldn’t have been dead for long and that meant whoever was responsible wasn’t far away.

  “Good God,” Amy whispered, still hunkered down in the brush next to what used to be Charlene. “What do we do now?”

  “Don’t put your gun away just yet.”

  “We’ve gotta call the police,” Amy said, as we loped like spooked antelope, high-stepping it for the Lexus. “Don’t we?”

  “Ask me later.” So far, I was winning the footrace back to the car, and making it back to car was eating up all of my concentration.

  But Amy wouldn’t have to ask me later, and we wouldn’t have wondered about whether we should perform our civic duty. As we hustled around the corner of the building, we were greeted in a big way by a police cruiser wheeled in sideways, blocking the Lexus and there was an officer of the law in full possession of a drawn weapon climbin
g out of it.

  Chapter 40

  “What’s the rush, girls?” It was Chief Cokie.

  I didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh a relief and gratefully throw my arms around her or just keep running.

  Chief Cokie offered a third option. “Hold it right there, and drop the gun, sweetie pie.”

  We complied all the way around. The police chief kicked Amy’s gun out of reach, then beamed us with her own industrial-strength flashlight. It looked like Chief Cokie and Dr. Smith had done their shopping at the same flashlight outlet.

  “Start talkin’, ladies.” Amy looked at me. I looked at Amy. Neither of us knew exactly where to start.

  “Okay then,” Chief Cokie said, “I’ll start. I just got a call on the radio. Ken Soesbe phoned the station and told dispatch that he’d been out walking his dog along the road out there because he couldn’t sleep, and he heard an awful scream coming from this direction. I just happen to be in the general vicinity so I check it out and happen to spot a couple of vehicles here. This interested me some so I pull off and start to nose around. Then voila! You girls come flying around the building about a hundred miles an hour wagging a gun.”

  Chief Cokie shrugged. “Guess that brings us right up to the present. Now, who wants to jump in next?”

  “First things first, Chief,” I said. “There’s a killer somewhere nearby. You need to move fast.”

  “A killer?” She said it flatly, like she thought I was full of s-h-i-t. “Is this little shenanigan somehow related to your stupid theory that Rick Delozier is innocent?”

  “He is innocent!” Amy blurted. “And that dead body out there proves it!”

  I knew that sooner or later we’d have to get around to that, but I’d been pulling for later rather than sooner.

  “Pardon me?” Chief Cokie said, high-beaming Amy. “What dead body?”

  “Guess you better follow us,” I said.

  “This better be good,” said Chief Cokie.

  “That’s a dead body, all right,” Chief Cokie said, after giving Charlene a quick once over. “I suppose the two of you were just out taking a nature walk and stumbled across this?”