Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  He believed it truly was Milwaukee’s best.

  After a long, silent interval she turned over and draped her thigh across him. When that produced a stir, she climbed on top and with the pistol still grasped in her left hand, she pinned his shoulders to the hard bed of the truck. “My turn,” she said.

  CHOWDER

  When Irm kicked in Cliff’s door he rolled out from beneath the redhead and fell off the side of the bed. The girl gave a yelp and retreated to the opposite corner of the room. Irm heard Cliff fumbling with his clothing, looking for a weapon. She let the shotgun bark and watched the nightstand disappear in a cloud of cordite and a shower of sparks from the lamp. She walked around the corner of the bed and Cliff leapt at her as she rounded the bend. She raised the butt of the gun to meet his chin and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Her father followed Bug into the room with the Glock trained between Bug’s shoulders. “Dammit, Irm. I said quiet. Is he dead?” Irm put the toe of her boot beneath Cliff’s shoulder and kicked him onto his back. Cliff groaned.

  “No.”

  “Well, now we gotta carry him. Bug, get his arms.”

  “What the hell is this, Chowder? We’re Bucs. Don’t that mean anything to you?”

  Bug, barefoot and covered by jockeys and an unbuttoned shirt that hung open to reveal outlaw tattoos that, to Irm, looked more than a little silly, squatted down and scooped up his partner by the armpits. Irm handed Chowder the shotgun and got her elbows locked under Cliff’s knees. With a hmpff they had lifted the man from Memphis and were taking him out the door.

  “C’mon, girls. Put your clothes on and git.” The blonde and the redhead hastily draped themselves and carried their unmentionables in their hands as they bumped into each other in the hall way. Irm gestured to the redhead with her chin.

  “Keys on the counter. Get back to Darlin’s and wait in my trailer. Don’t say nothin.” They did as they were told. Irm backed out the front door with Cliff and Bug in tow. Chowder was behind them closing up the cabin. Then he went around and opened up the spacious trunk of Cliff’s Lincoln.

  Bug and Irm dropped Cliff inside and Bug climbed in on top of his partner, half-naked and mumbling. Irm banged his head slamming the trunk. Chowder chuckled. “That was cold.”

  Irm shrugged and caught the keys Chowder tossed to her. “Nah, cold is gonna be torching this thing before they’re dead.” She climbed in and started the engine and watched in the rearview as her father got into his pickup and turned his lights on. She cranked the volume on the tune already blaring. Let’s have a party. Dropping the big car into gear, she tapped on the steering wheel. “Let’s do.”

  Bowling Green seemed far enough out of the way, and they stopped on the outskirts. From inside the trunk, Cliff and Bug could be heard arguing bitterly over the assignation of blame. Chowder slammed the butt of the Glock on the lid and growled, “Shut up.” They did.

  Irm busied herself emptying the fuel cans from the back of Chowder’s truck into the Lincoln’s interior. She paused long enough to eject and pocket the Wanda Jackson cassette before draining the last of the gasoline.

  Bug was trying to reason with them from inside the trunk, “Chowder, you know I got nothin but respect for you. You’re a Buc, man. I’m a Buc. Take that shit seriously.“

  Cliff caught the scent of the petrol fumes and began to panic. “Oh, fucking whore mother! Listen, you may have the biggest balls out here in butt fuck country, but if you let me die your life will be over. Everybody knows I went to see you.”

  Chowder leaned in. “I’m counting on that, asshole.” He nodded at Irm, who struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Nothing personal fellas.”

  “No wait, Chowder! Wait!”

  Irm flicked the cigarette into the Lincoln’s cab and they got back into Chowder’s truck. The banging from the inside of the trunk sounded like corn popping and the shouts of the men kept were unified sounds of exertion, the doomed working together to pop the latch, as Chowder wheeled his truck lazily around waiting to witness ignition. Father and daughter stuck their heads out the windows and looked behind them. Chowder counted to ten then said, “You watch too many movies.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Here.” He handed her a half full bottle of mash. She took it reluctantly and looked around for a fuse. “Hurry the fuck up. They’re gonna bust through that trunk.”

  The trunk did sound like it might give and Chowder thought about how that would look – cold. He didn’t like doing this shit, but he knew it would send the right message. Spruce and Hamilton County were off limits. He reached across Irm’s lap and popped the glove compartment. From inside, he removed a lacey pair of panties, which he handed over.

  Irm’s eyebrows arched subtly while she stuffed the frilly nether garments into the mouth of the bottle and let them get good and soaked before pulling one end out and applying the flame from her Zippo. The stink and smoke of burned plastic filled the cab immediately.

  “For shit’s sake get rid of it already.”

  She opened the door and positioned herself ten feet from the Lincoln’s open door before dashing the bottle against the steering wheel. The car ignited immediately and the force from the blast knocked her back, but she retained her footing.

  “Get in.”

  The shouts from the car became screams and lost all coordinated qualities, the pointlessness of their pounding did not seem to matter and the sound of the fire was already beginning to drown them out. Irm had not got the door closed before her father gunned the pickup down the road and they watched the fire grow in the mirrors. An acrid smell made her nostrils twitch and she stuck her palms under her nose. She adjusted the mirror to see herself better. She located the other source of unpleasant odor. The ends of her hair and eyebrows were curled and singed, making her look like a toddler recently acquainted with scissors. “Fuck.” She ran her palms over her face and they came back with black marks on them. “Burnt my hair.”

  “Throw like a girl, too.”

  MONDALE

  The alarm didn’t wake him. He’d been awake for more than an hour before it went off. Mondale turned toward the persistent machine and fought the urge to dash it against the wall. He would be mightily hung over in a few hours and hadn’t slept well either. The drinking was not working for him.

  He’d passed out quickly thanks to the whiskey, but it proved to be temporary paralysis more than true sleep and he’d begun to toss after a couple of hours, his mind racing the way alcohol and caffeine alike tended to cause it to.

  He went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He thought about Shirley because after six years, he still couldn’t not. When she’d told him about the affair and that she wanted a divorce, he’d done her a favor by popping her in the mouth, thereby absolving any guilty feelings she may have had about leaving him. That fat lip gave her the clarity and resolve to do what she’d been thinking about for years and he didn’t stand in her way. He’d never hit her before, and they were both glad he’d done it.

  Shirley’d never told anybody and he’d given her a quick divorce and custody of the children. He’d sent child support for a while, though she’d never asked for it, but he’d stopped when she’d tied a new knot with the fella she’d apparently been carrying on with, behind his back, for over a year.

  He arrived at the office early and put on a pot of coffee for the guests of the county. Then he got to work filing reports, perusing the state-wide bulletins and returning e-mails. The one from the State Attorney’s office included a phone number that he was encouraged to use as soon as possible.

  He got up to fetch the coffee and, making his rounds, stopped outside Earl Sutter’s cell. Pasty skin drawn too tight over his chin, cheekbones and forehead, he looked ill, but he was alert. He met Mondale’s eyes and the sheriff offered him coffee in a paper cup.

  Earl seemed about to tell the policeman to fuck off, but his better instincts rallied and he inclined his head just a bit and accepted the cup.


  “Sorry, it’s gotta be black. We’re out of cream and sugar.”

  Earl Sutter mumbled his thanks and Mondale squatted against the far wall with his own drink. “Earl, you think of anybody I could call for you, yet?”

  Earl shook his head.

  “Well, look. You’re going to be assigned a public defender, and he or she’s going to give you council on your options, which are probably not going to sound very good, any of them, but before you sign anything or make a decision, if you want to get in touch with me, I’ll give it a listen. I’ve seen about every way your situation could break from here and I’ll shoot you straight if I think it’s a good idea or not. And if it happens to be trickier than I thought, then there are a few lawyers around here that owe me a favor or two. They’d be able to walk you through any sticky particulars.”

  Earl looked skeptical.

  “Son, I’ve got no interest in seeing you over-pay for your foolishness. Call me once you’ve talked to your lawyer.”

  Jimmy got up and walked back to his office, re-filling the cup of the drunk in cell four along the way. Sitting back down, he looked at the phone number from the State’s Attorney again. He dialed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TERRY

  First light was not the gentle pinkish thing Terry remembered from fishing trips as a kid. The metal bed of the truck seemed to ignite instantly with the first touch of sun and the ringing in his ears could’ve been bullfrogs, beer or blitzkrieg.

  When he turned over she was sleeping, curled around her own knees, backside to him. Terry sat up careful not to wake her or further stir the hornets newly nested in his head. He found his pants bunched around his ankles and pulled them up past his knees and over the great general stickiness further north.

  Careful as he was, the scrape of the belt buckle on the floor of the truck woke the girl who turned over and looked into his face, not horrified, or angry, but - and it could have been the effects of sleep, alcohol or embarrassment - red faced.

  “Breakfast,” she said.

  “Thinking so.”

  He reached down to help her up and they climbed into the cab and rolled the windows down. The radio low and the breeze created by motion considerably soothed the ruckus inside Terry’s skull.

  At a station break, Terry flipped the radio off. “Why haven’t I seen you around before?”

  “I don’t really live here anymore. Been away at school three years now and I don’t come back for breaks except this one.”

  “I don’t blame you. Why come back for this one?”

  She shrugged. “Seemed about time. I’m graduating soon and then moving away. Kinda wanted to see this place one more time.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Me too.” Terry pulled in to the Come Back Again diner and the girl snorted. “What?” said Terry, “Thought you wanted breakfast.”

  “I do. Just haven’t seen this place in a long time. My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. Etta Sanderson still run the show?”

  “Think so.”

  She opened the door and hopped out. “Well let’s go say ‘hey.’”

  The diner wasn’t quite bustling, but it would be soon. He grabbed a booth while she went to the bathroom. Terry fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. His lips were dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper when he tried to wet them, but he got the nail secured and lit. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the nicotine shiver that slid slowly from his brain. When it reached his fingertips, he opened them and found the menu. He sensed the waitress approach and turned over his coffee cup.

  She filled it and turned over the other cup without asking. Then she said, “You know what you want?”

  “Always changing.”

  “I’ll give you just a minute.” She started to walk away, but turned back and, like an afterthought, asked, “Was that Eileen Mondale came in with you?”

  Terry looked up at her. “Huh?”

  The waitress, a weathered old gal with a reservoir of sex she kept full, smiled, but looked concerned. “The girl you came in with. Looked like one of the Mondale girls, but I haven’t seen her for years.” A tingle completely separate from the cigarette began to stir in him. “Is that her? Is that the sheriff’s daughter?”

  Terry smiled when he saw the girl emerge from the bathroom, face splashed and scrubbed. He studied her closely and thought there was something familiar around her eyes. It was a cold thing he’d seen before. In her father. His mouth parted into a grin so wide it threatened to split his poor lips. “I surely do hope so.”

  CHOWDER

  Chowder pulled into the gravel lot of the Come Back Again diner and shut his door quietly. It was closing in on eight in the morning and the place was bustling. Etta Sanderson pointed him toward an empty booth not yet bussed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chowder muttered, but he liked the old broad. A few heads turned as he ambled down the narrow walk way and he got a couple quick nods that turned away again as soon as he met their gaze before turning to fall gingerly into the booth then twisting and bringing his legs underneath the table.

  A few seconds later, Etta was clearing the mess from the previous diners and pouring coffee at the same time. “Want me to leave the paper, Chowder?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Know what you want?”

  “Just some taters.”

  She had spritzed the table with bleach water and he held the coffee close to his face to mask the scent. He scalded his tongue with the first sip, then set it down and began to work the knots out of his neck with his fingers.

  “Mornin’ Sheriff.” He heard Etta say two seconds after leaving his breakfast potatoes beside his coffee.

  “Mornin’ Etta. Just a coffee please.”

  Chowder looked toward the front where Jimmy Mondale was standing tall and rigid like he was getting his picture took. The sheriff looked around the room that way that cops do. Seeming casual, but not missing anything. When Jimmy spotted Chowder he made his way down to his booth.

  “Mornin Chowder.”

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  “Is that Irm sleeping in your truck?”

  “Probably.”

  “You two go fishing?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Here you go, Sheriff.” Etta placed a Styrofoam cup on the end of the counter and Jimmy reached over for it. “Say, it’s nice to see Eileen back in town.”

  “Is it?”

  “When did she get back?”

  “Got me, I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Well she looks good. Was with a fella, though.” Etta rolled her eyes, “You tell her for me - she could do better.”

  “Thanks, Etta. Keep the change.” Jimmy sat down at Chowder’s booth.

  “Everything go okay?”

  Chowder nodded.

  “Memphis is still in Tennessee?”

  “Some of it’s in Kentucky.”

  “There’s a situation come up, concerns you.”

  Chowder popped some breakfast potatoes in his mouth and packed them into his cheek like hot savory chaw. He sucked the salt out before swallowing the starchy wad and steeled himself for this latest development with a swig of coffee. “What kind of situation?” Mondale gave Chowder an extra moment to prepare, which only made the big man irritated. “Spit it out.”

  “Assistant State’s Attorney.”

  Chowder’s grip on the coffee mug constricted until the handle came off in his fingers. A redness peeked up over the line of his beard until it touched his eyes. “What about him?” he said, holding his breath.

  “Got a bug up his ass. Says he’s got an informant.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’ll be receiving him this week. In fact, I shouldn’t be seen talking with you long.”

  Chowder dropped the broken china handle on the table before it was reduced to dust in his grip.

  Jimmy eased his posture a little. “I’m working on it. Let’s go fishing tomorrow.
Talk about it then. Just thought you oughtta know up front.” He stood back up and knocked on the Formica tabletop. He strolled toward the door and held it open for Irm, who looked her usual sunshiny self. Jimmy smiled at her and Chowder read Irm’s lips from across the room. Lick my cunt.

  Outside, the sheriff glad-handed a couple of citizens in the parking lot, shooting the shit about weather, high school sports, wives and kids. Chowder looked around the diner at the customers, thinking how much damage he could do taking a fall. Mondale had to be nervous. Their fates were intertwined. His precious little community would crucify him if they knew what kinds of things their bland and easy-going Sheriff Mondale was up to, running dope and whores, killing off the competition. Chowder and the sheriff had consolidated and regulated all the narcotics traffic in Hamilton County over the past ten years and it had not been done with a kind word. Ask Bug. The price of keeping independent was one they had and would continue to pay together. The lawman had to be making his BVDs damp at the thought of some loud-mouth speaking to a State’s Attorney. He had as much to lose as Chowder did. Yeah, he was nervous.

  Through the window, he watched Mondale climb into his cruiser and smile at some Christian folk pulling in for breakfast. Chowder admired the sheriff’s cool as he gripped his mangled coffee mug and took a sip.

  Irm was wiping the corners of her mouth with her palm when she sat down opposite him. Her face was still smudged black in spots and the burnt ends of her hair stood straight up like tiny antennas on her head. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You’re grumpy when you wake up.”

  “Fuck you. You talk to the sheriff?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t like it. You can’t trust the police.”

  Chowder leveled his eyes at his daughter’s until she looked away. “You trust me?”

  Irm just nodded.

  “Then shut the fuck up.”

  She scowled and picked up a menu.