Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  “Alright.” Cal rubbed his hands together.

  Stuart held up a hand, “But I don’t want any money. I’m not doing this for any reason other than he’s a real dick and you’re my cousin.”

  Cal nodded. “Sure, then. Who is it?”

  Terry licked his lip and arched his eyebrows.

  Stuart rolled his eyes and nodded with his gaze across the room. “See the dude in the wig chatting up my friend Russell?”

  With utter nonchalance, Terry and Cal looked over their shoulders and saw the back of the man’s head. From their angle they couldn’t tell much about him other than he was slight and probably in his late forties. It was definitely a wig he wore, a near shoulder length blonde-bob, which clashed with his conservative clothes; light blue jeans with a brown leather belt and a vertically striped button down tucked into them. He wore grey colored tennis shoes with white socks and leaned against the bar with his head balanced on his left fist looking intently, it seemed, at Russell, engrossed in whatever he was saying.

  Terry and Cal turned back to Stuart who said, “You know who that is?” They looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Who is he?”

  Stuart stood up to leave. “He’s the one you want, but don’t do anything tonight, ’cause everybody’ll remember you were here with me.”

  “Who is that, Stu?”

  Stuart shook his head. “Go home and watch some TV, channel fifty-one, then come back next week. He comes by all the time, puts on that stupid wig and a ridiculous accent, thinks nobody recognizes him.” Stuart glared at the man’s back then turned to Terry. “Asshole deserves it, just leave me out. Good to see you, cousin.” Stuart walked out of the bar.

  Cal and Terry turned around and tried to get a better look at the man throwing a wrist and giggling at something hee-larry-us Russell had to say. Cal said, “Your cousin’s pretty cool. What’s on channel fifty-one? You think he’s like a weather guy or something?”

  Terry shook his head. “Nah, man, fifty-one is the religious station.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHOWDER

  Tate Dill was leaning on the counter flipping through a glossy magazine when Chowder opened the front door. The doofus looked up at him and nodded then went back to his reading. “Where’s Irm?” Chowder asked. Irm hadn’t spoken to him for two weeks. He couldn’t decide if he was glad about that or not. The swelling at her eye had gone down, but the bruising of her pride would take longer to heal.

  Tate shook his head slowly without looking up from his magazine. “Dunno. Thought maybe you was her coming in for her shift.”

  Chowder went behind the counter and into the back office. “She hasn’t shown up yet?”

  “No. Haven’t seen her since yesterday. She’s still not talking.”

  Chowder grabbed the telephone and dialed his daughter’s number. When the voice mail picked up he left a gruff message. “Get your ass in to work.” He wheeled the rolling chair over to the safe and spun the dial with his thumb. “How long you been here, Tate?”

  “Since this morning.” He appeared in the doorway a moment later. “I don’t mind staying, but if you could hold down the fort while I go grab a bite, I’d appreciate it.”

  Chowder counted through the deposit from the day before and double-checked the reports. Without looking up he said, “Give me five minutes, then you can take off.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, just lemme get a couple things in order.”

  “Okay.” Tate went back to the counter. The receipts from Darlin’s had been down since the incident with Irm a couple weeks back, and Chowder suspected that had to do with Irm’s nastier than usual demeanor. Now she wasn’t even picking up her shifts at the bait shop? At least Tate was stepping up. He didn’t ever complain or offer an opinion on anything. Chowder liked that. He hated the thought of going outside his family for important work, but Irm wasn’t leaving him much choice these days.

  He glanced at the security camera feed. Tate was alone, stocking a few items before leaving. Chowder watched the kid work and thought about the future. Truth was, he was getting a little itchy for the horizon these days. The headaches were starting to pile up and Mondale’s announcement about a new investigation and the possibility of an informant? He’d like to disappear with Hettie for the rest of his life. Just the two of them with a pocketful of cash. Gulf of Mexico maybe. That’d be okay.

  Hettie came in an hour later. He’d called her and asked if Irm had checked in.

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s blowing off work. Come on up to the shop and bring dinner, huh?”

  And now she’d arrived. Hettie came through the front door and held up two plastic bags full of food.

  The round woman turned sideways to pass behind the counter. She kissed Chowder’s cheek. “Surprised you didn’t just eat some junk food. Lord knows you sell enough of it here.”

  “Nah, I knew you’d come through.” She’d brought cold chicken and gravy for sandwiches, potato salad and asparagus sticks. He got off his stool and shuffled over to the aisle with plastic ware, selected some and tore it open on the way back to the office. Hettie was putting out the spread. He set the plates and utensils down and went out for another chair. When he came back into the office, they sat across from each other and Hettie handed out the sandwiches.

  She kicked her feet up and burrowed them snugly into Chowder’s crotch. Chowder licked a drop of cold gravy off his fingers and spoke with a mouthful. “Feel like taking a trip?”

  Hettie grabbed a napkin and, leaning forward, wiped a drop of gravy off of his pants. “Where to?”

  “Someplace warm, I’m thinking.”

  “Sounds nice. When?”

  Chowder went to the refrigerator and returned with a chocolate milk for himself and Diet Coke for his wife. “Soon as I can afford it.” She accepted the pop and opened it. She slurped the fizzy top bit before it could spill and Chowder continued. “Just something I’ve been thinking about recently. Getting out. For good.”

  “Really? That’s new.”

  “Maybe, but I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You’re the idea man.”

  “How would you like it? To leave? Retire.”

  “I’d give it a try.”

  The front door bells rang and Chowder looked at the security video feed as two big, camo-decked fishermen headed straight for the cooler.

  “Well give it some serious thought, but don’t say nothing to anybody.”

  Hettie picked up and asparagus stick and paused with it between her front teeth. “What about Irm?”

  Chowder wiped his mouth with his sleeve and got up to see to the customers making their way to the front counter on the video feed. “’Specially not her.”

  When Irm came through the front, two hours later, she went to the office and shut the door. Chowder’s stomach cramped and he belched. Tasted asparagus. He sold some night crawlers and a case of Tab to the citizen at the counter. He looked at the time then and held his breath waiting for his daughter to come out.

  Irm emerged from the office two minutes later and went immediately to the coffee pot and poured herself a helping before pulling up a stool to sit on behind the counter. Chowder turned, leaning on the counter, to look at her full-on. The swelling had disappeared, but there was still a trace of purple gone to yellow receding like the tide in a half moon around her right eye. She didn’t look at him or say anything, instead picked up his magazine and began to flip through it.

  “You’re fuckin fired, you know that, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “Nowhere.” She flipped a page of the magazine and leaned in to study a photo of a celebrity’s cellulite. “Here, if anybody asks.”

  “Who’d ask?”

  “Nobody.” She tilted the magazine as if to get a better angle of the movie star’s thighs. “Sheriff, maybe.”

  “The hell you been doing, Irma? Tell me.�
�

  She looked up at her father with calm defiance. “Nothing.”

  “Well you’re fucking fired.”

  “You said that.”

  “Yeah well, don’t miss any more shifts.”

  MONDALE

  A twenty-four box of corn dogs in the frozen foods section caught his eye and he picked it up guiltily. Seemed he’d read somewhere that you should never do the grocery shopping when you were hungry. Maybe there was something to that, but he was hungry and stressed and knew that these batter dipped shit sticks were going to hit the spot.

  He stood in the line thinking about the best way to prepare them. If he weren’t so hungry, he’d heat the oven and get them nice and crispy on the outside, but there was no way he’d have the patience for that. His skill with a microwave was non-existent. He’d simultaneously burn and undercook them if he tried that, so he was left with pan-frying them, which still required vigilance. Low heat, he kept telling himself. Give em a chance to warm through before scorching the outside. Use some butter, not oil, to keep em from sticking.

  “Hey, Jimmy.” He snapped out of concentration and turned his head to see who’d spoken his name. “Looks like it’s going to be a good night.” Behind him Eileen’s friend Julie Sykes was indicating his box of corn dogs and twelve pack of High Life with a coy smile he tried hard to not find sexy.

  “Hey, Julie, yeah these are pretty good. Winning combination.” Despite himself, his cheeks colored some.

  “Been a long time since I’ve had a corn dog.”

  It was harder than he thought it should be not to find a suggestion in there. He examined her basket full of various vegetables and greens. “Hah. I guess so.” He turned to face front again, but couldn’t stay so. Over his shoulder he said, “Thanks for letting Eileen stay with you.”

  “Oh, no problem. I always liked Eileen.”

  “She knows she could stay with me if she wanted to, but well, I’m sure she’d rather stay with her friends. Think I’d probably cramp her style.”

  Behind him Julie snorted. “Me too, Jimmy.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Oh, Eileen’s got her own style. Always had.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He set the box of corn dogs and the beer on the conveyer belt and smiled at the cashier. What’s her name? Glenda. “How’re you tonight, Glenda?”

  Glenda the cashier smiled. “Fine, Sheriff, you?”

  “Fine. Fine.” The transaction completed and Mondale refused a sack to put his dinner in. Glenda began to ring up Julie’s groceries as the thought occurred to him, he’d like a pack of cigarettes. “Oh, could I get a pack of Marlboros?” He’d said it before noticing it was too late.

  Glenda indicated the line behind them and said, “Sorry, Sheriff. You’ll have to get back in line.”

  Julie said, “Go ahead and ring em up on my ticket.” She smiled at Jimmy, who looked embarrassed.

  Glenda finished the transaction and Julie handed over the pack of smokes. They walked out of the grocery store together and Jimmy stopped outside the door to fiddle with the wrapping on the Marlboros. “Hold on Julie, I’ve got cash for you.” He fumbled with the plastic wrapping and tore it open gracelessly. He dropped the cellophane into the trash and found a lighter in his pocket. He sparked it and began digging for cash, but Julie stopped him.

  “That’s okay. How bout you cook me dinner?”

  Mondale raised the box of corn dogs to eye level. “Spose I could spare one or two.”

  What the hell was he doing?

  He preheated the oven, opting for sure-fire deliciousness, since he was entertaining. He cracked a High Life for himself and one for Julie, who’d made space on his kitchen counter to make a large salad. He didn’t allow himself to think about anything he was doing and, had he allowed a reflective thought to surface, would have been disconcerted to find that it was so easy. When the oven was warmed, he loaded a dozen corn dogs onto a cookie sheet and opened two more beers.

  By the time they were ready to eat, he’d relaxed considerably. He didn’t have anything other than ketchup for dressing, so they ate her salad dry, but he didn’t mind. In fact it seemed like the best salad he’d ever had. He’d taken the plastic wrap off a few CDs he’d purchased in the years since Shirley and the girls had left and put something tasteful and unassuming on.

  “Sorry ’bout everything, but I haven’t entertained in a long time.”

  “That’s alright. I like your place. Feels lived in.”

  “Has been.” He’d moved out for a few months when he and Shirley’d split. She’d gotten the house in the settlement, but he’d bought it back from her when she’d moved away. She’d taken most of the furniture and fixtures that’d been there when they’d built their family, but she’d left him the bed, television and his favorite chair. In the mean time, he’d added a table, a washer and dryer, and a coffee maker.

  After dinner, Julie helped him wash dishes in the sink and they’d killed another couple beers. Then, like it was nothing out of the ordinary, she’d got up on the tips of her toes, nipped his lips, and taken her leave. He followed her out onto the porch, the corner of his mouth where she’d kissed him twitching, and he bit his lower lip lest it flare into a smile.

  She opened her car door and got behind the wheel, calling out, “Good to see you, Jimmy. Call me if you like, sometime,” before starting the car and driving away.

  Jimmy went back inside and had two more corn dogs.

  He’d spent the week watching channel fifty-one around the clock. It’d started off as research, trying to picture everyone on there in a blonde wig, but his careful scrutiny had given way to fascination with the culture.

  One thing he’d decided was that there was a direct relation between the touch of the Holy Spirit and the gift of supernatural hair. He couldn’t shake the boldness of their pleas for cash money. How much money did it take to run a television station? he wondered. He guessed that he could scare up enough scratch to get a license and a camera. There were plenty of folks out there desperate to get on the airwaves he could rent time to. Put up some religious programming – Leave it to Jesus or something – a talk show maybe – live prayer meetings. Take a flat fee or a cut of the donations. That license would pay for itself.

  God, it seemed, was awfully concerned and dismayed at the way people dressed these days and the drugs they enjoyed and the movies they watched. God had a plan to put a stop to it apparently by putting these slick assholes on the airwaves as an example of what an alternative to hedonistic living might look like. For a celestial being in charge of heaven, hell and the cosmos, his preoccupations seemed a tad pedestrian, Terry thought. The ploy would pay off when people on the down slope of a high would flip on the television and become struck with a hunger for righteousness and straight teeth as modeled by the likes of this one - Brother Eli, the spiritual voice out of Branson.

  Brother Eli. Terry thought about him with a blonde wig on.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TERRY

  He and Cal didn’t bother to make themselves pretty anymore. They played pool in the corner, quietly surveying the place three nights in a row before they’d caught a glimpse of the bewigged evangelist swishing around the bar. Stuart hadn’t been in again. They’d been ignored by the rest of the clientele, and weren’t sure how they’d go about getting what they needed.

  They huddled at their table and exchanged ideas in excited, hushed tones. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves,” said Cal.

  “Too late, kemosabe. We stick out here.”

  “But we can’t just run up and snap pictures off in his face, we’re likely to get our butts kicked.” He indicated the room full of burly queers. “Even your cousin looked ready to throw a punch when you told him what we was up to.”

  Terry thought about it. Cal was right. Homos or not, they were seriously outnumbered tonight. The odds weren’t in their favor. “So what then? Wait for him to go to the bathroom?”

  They thought
on that for a few moments. Cal offered, “We need to get him out of here and isolated.”

  “I told you I’m not doing anything gay.”

  Cal slapped the table-top. “This is our chance at some real money.”

  “Hey, we’ve been over it. You’re the one said all we needed was a photo in this place and it would speak for itself.”

  “I know, but I didn’t think it’d be somebody this important. We can totally retire on this one if we do it right, but it can’t just be any ol’ silly picture in a wig. We need something really, really gay here.”

  “So you do it. I’ll take the picture.”

  “It’s my camera. My idea. I take the picture.”

  Terry fumed. “Well, I guess we just watch him. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  The pace of the night was maddening. Brother Eli floated around the bar getting mostly cold shoulders from the patrons, but it didn’t seem to dampen his spirits any.

  No new ideas occurred to them. Terry and Cal watched the evangelist with the eyes of lazy predators, stumbled onto the juiciest prey ever. The rate at which nothing was happening troubled them as they felt the breeze drift through their temporal window of opportunity.

  Terry felt the weight of destiny on his shoulders as he strode toward the bar for another pitcher. Eli turned to look his direction and Terry averted his eyes and put a slight roll into his hips without thinking about it. He couldn’t afford to think about it. This was his big chance. He leaned on the bar awaiting the pitcher and looked steadfastly at the opposite wall while cocking his posture, what he thought might be seductively, toward his mark. The arch in the bartender’s eyebrow was subtle, but Terry noticed it and shot him his best shut the fuck up look while collecting his order and strutting back to his booth.

  When Terry got back, Cal’s eyes were as wide as his gaping maw. Terry set the pitcher down. Neither dared to look up or speak above a whisper. The excitement radiating off of his partner had raised the temperature five degrees. Cal’s limbs and fingers were positively vibrating with energy.