Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  Jimmy ignored Townsend and closed his office door behind him. Ten minutes later he was asleep at his desk. Bob Musil woke him up around six. He stood over Jimmy with a cup of coffee and handed it over as soon as the sheriff could hold it. As Mondale took his first sips, Musil told him how it was.

  “Take some time off, Jimmy. Not a suggestion this time.”

  Jimmy didn’t have the energy to argue. When he got back home, Julie was gone and there a message on his machine from his ex-wife. Shirley’s voice started talking directly to him, for once, mistaken, that he’d been standing there listening. “Jim, Elizabeth’s gone into labor. We’ll be at the Holiday Inn if you need to reach us. I’ll call again soon with more news. And Jim? Pick up the phone next time.”

  He went to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He was fifty miles outside of Kansas City before he realized he had no idea what hospital to head to.

  CHOWDER

  Forty-eight hours were up with no word from, and no sign of, Tate Dill. He’d had Hettie begin packing for a clandestine exit. The cloak and dagger element excited her. They’d had a bout of aggressive two-minute sex after he’d told her to keep it quiet, then he’d gone into the Bait ’N More where he was working the four-to-midnight shift. He was reading travel magazines about destinations south when the movie star lawyer came through the front door. Chowder looked up and the lawyer waved at him as he headed for the salty snacks. Chowder’s stomach acted like he’d eaten a fistful of nails while he watched the lawyer shop. A few minutes later he strolled up to the counter with bags of chips, cans of nuts, a large coffee and two-liter Vess cola. Then he stood in front of Chowder and leafed through the magazines. “You have High Society?”

  “Sold out.”

  “Damn. Everybody is. Guess I’ll have to find it elsewhere.” He winked at Chowder and indicated that he was finished shopping and was ready to check out.

  Chowder rang everything up slowly, mentally tracking the caloric value of the lawyer’s purchase.

  Dennis Jordan read his mind and laughed. “I know, disgusting isn’t it? I don’t usually eat like this, but y’know, stake-out food.”

  Chowder nodded. “You’re gonna have to leave the parking lot. Got a no-loitering policy.”

  “Spotted me, huh? There’s a ding in the back of the car I oughtta fix. Be more discreet.”

  “What are you hoping to see happen?”

  Jordan shrugged. “My primary target left town this morning, so I’m just observing another one now. Probably nothing’ll happen tonight, but you never can be certain.”

  “I see. Who’s your primary target?”

  “Sheriff Mondale.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, he split pretty quick. Packed light and left town. I lost him, I’m embarrassed to say. You have any idea where he might’ve gone?” Chowder shrugged. “Well, if you have any ideas, lemme know, huh?”

  “Why would you want to follow Jimmy Mondale?”

  Jordan put his hand on top of a bag of chips and his voice became mock sincere. “No offense, Charles, but you’re just not the bigger fish here. When I take down Jim Mondale it’s going to make my career.” He stifled a grin and added, “I’m sorry, you didn’t think I was really spending all this energy coming after you, did you?” He broke out that movie-star smile and amped up the wattage. “Now that’s cute.” He let the smile slack a little. “You’ve made a good name for yourself, Charles. Really. Good for you. You wanna keep that good name, though? Help me help yourself and your family. Mondale’s lost it. He’s going down and who knows what he’ll do to keep that from happening?”

  Chowder’s stomach bubbled audibly.

  “Just saying, those who come to me first, before accusations start flying? Usually get the better shake.” He picked up his groceries and popped a handful of chips into his mouth and munched them noisily. He started to leave, but stopped and turned to Chowder. “Speaking of accusations flying. Any truth to the rumor it was your daughter who ran the sheriff’s little girl off the road that night?” He studied Chowder’s face for a moment. “No? Hmm. That’s good. I’d hate to see something bad happen to her when the sheriff gets wind of the same rumor. I hope people quit saying that. She sure seems like a real sweet girl.”

  He walked out the front door and toward his car parked on the far side of the lot where it’d been for an hour. Chowder wiped the counter free of crumbs from the chips and found Assistant State Attorney Dennis Jordan’s card left there for him. He picked it up and held it close to his face to study.

  He started to throw it away, but stopped. Then he put it in his wallet.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TERRY

  The Mexican population was a small, but growing minority in Hamilton County, a fact that alarmed most of its citizens. They were a cluster that were rarely spotted outside the borders of Beantown, but were large enough to have their own grocery store in Spruce that stocked mini tortillas and a rainbow coalition of salsa and beans. They also had their own video store with Mex titles starring big-tittied, big-hipped Mex starlets. The movies were big on guns and mustache wax. They also had their own liquor store.

  The volume wouldn’t be large enough to make a worthwhile score of the cash register, but there was a neighborhood Mex lottery held on Friday nights and Heck figured they could hit that stash tonight for enough to make a good weekend for the three of them at a brothel he knew in West Memphis.

  One advantage, Heck figured, was that it probably wouldn’t even be reported to the police, seeing as how the lottery was unregulated. “Rock on,” agreed Cal as Terry opened the window so that the breeze would brace him enough to be a getaway driver.

  They parked across the street and Cal put the car in neutral and pulled the parking brake. Terry slid beneath the wheel and rested one palm on top and one on the stick. “I got this bitch,” he said, confident on adrenaline and racial superiority.

  Cal popped the glove box and grabbed a mask, then he and Heck strode across the pavement like it was the streets of Laredo. Heck kicked open the door unnecessarily and the cowboys charged in brandishing weapons. With the windows rolled down, Terry could hear the muffled shouts and make out the flailing of arms between the window posters for exotic Mex liquors and Budweiser, the king in any language. He wished that he were in there too. The testosterone surge had produced instant facial stubble and he thought about what kind of whore he’d select for the weekend.

  It was taking longer than usual for one of these jobs, but he figured that was to be expected since there would be a separate safe for the lottery money. Maybe the greasers were giving them trouble about it, denying it and playing dumb.

  Fucking beaner trash, he thought. Give it up.

  A small contingent of civilians was beginning to collect on the sidewalk, somehow aware that something was going down. Spooky how the ethnics were connected like that. A couple of them even turned and looked at Terry who extended his bandaged middle finger to them out the window. He revved the motor as the front door burst open and a masked Heck emerged pistol in one hand, grocery bag in the other. The glass door shut behind him and was instantly painted red in a single blast.

  Heck didn’t even turn around. He sprinted across the street and began fumbling with the door handle. Terry stared at the shop door as the red paint began to slide down, effluvia separating and streaking the now-cracked, spider-webbed glass. It was flung open again and a stout Mexican woman with a shotgun stepped over the headless corpse of Cal and took aim at the car.

  “Go, go, go.” urged Heck.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” countered Terry. The car lurched and died at the same moment Heck was flung across the seat and into Terry’s lap. He was missing the right side of his face. “Shit, motherfuck!” The car started again and Terry pushed Heck to the other side of the cab. He clipped a parked car and had to use the back of his right hand to clear the blood and hair from the windshield. He succeeded only in smearing it before he had to shift again.

&
nbsp; The car lurched a second time, but didn’t die, and he picked up speed while the back window exploded. A sharp pain in his neck turned warm instantly and he gunned the car. Reaching to the windshield again, he scrubbed harder and cleared a window just large enough that he was able to register the streetlight before he struck it.

  MONDALE

  He found the hospital by calling each one on the list he got from information, asking for Elizabeth’s room number till he got a hit. He trolled the gift shop for an appropriate card to express himself and settled on a tasteful black and white image of a woman with a newborn baby cradled against her. Inside, the sentiment was rhymy and he didn’t quite follow it, but figured that wasn’t too important. He had to borrow a pen to sign it with and then froze up deciding what to sign. “Dad?” “Your Father?” “Love?” “Sincerely?” “Jimmy?” He ended up scrawling “I love you,” and left it at that. Then he folded the card gently into his breast pocket.

  He had no intention of barging in there uninvited, but made himself comfortable in the waiting room and settled in for the night.

  Shirley found him a little past midnight, on her way to find some food. “Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

  Mondale smiled at his ex-wife and the reality of the situation broke through to him for the first time. He reached out to hug her without thinking. “Hey, Grandma, how’s our girl?” He kissed her neck and took a deep sample of her smell.

  “Liz is great, Jim, and Lilly is beautiful. You should go in and see them.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to intrude. I know nobody is expecting me tonight.”

  “You’re right, there. But it’s great you could make it. Liz may give some attitude, but she’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m on a mission. We’re starving.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Shirley hesitated only a second. “Of course. Come on, Grandpa.”

  They took Shirley’s car to the twenty-four hour Dunkin’ Donuts where they loaded up on pastries and coffee. Jimmy insisted on paying and listened to her recount the story of the labor and delivery. The two of them should be proud, she’d said when they got back in her car, their little girl had done so well. Neither spoke for a moment and Shirley didn’t start the car. Jimmy looked at her and saw the tremble in her lips. It triggered his own and they both began to cry simultaneously.

  Jimmy reached for her and she allowed him to hold her, sliding her arms under his and around his back. She snorted and Jimmy squeezed her tighter. “I’m so sorry, Shirl, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault, it’s –”

  “No, no, it’s not, Jim. She was –”

  “God, I miss her so much.” She gripped him so tightly he didn’t think he’d be able to breathe. He cried harder than he had since childhood and completely lost control of it. There was no reigning it in now. Great heaving sobs racked him and he buried his face in her shoulder.

  For ten minutes they clutched each other and Jimmy never let up. After some time, Shirley took his head and laid it in her lap and stroked his hair. He let her do it while he continued to shake. “Shhh.” She soothed him until he was finished.

  “I’m sorry I was no use at the funeral.”

  “Shhhh.”

  “I fell apart, Shirl.”

  “We’ve got a beautiful granddaughter waiting for us to spoil her.” He picked himself up and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Shirley reached into the Dunkin’ Donuts bag for napkins, which she used on her shirt and jeans.

  His phone began to vibrate in his pocket and Jimmy fished it out. He checked the number. Chowder’s disposable again. He ignored it. “Oh, man, Shirl. I’ll buy you some new clothes.”

  Shirley began to chuckle. “I am a mess.”

  TERRY

  He woke up in a hospital room. Nurses came in every half hour, police too, but he wasn’t speaking yet. He barely registered anyone’s presence. Someone snapped their fingers and he followed the sound to a deputy who spoke his name.

  “Hickerson. Terry Hickerson. You hear me?”

  He must have nodded his head because the next thing he knew they were wheeling him out of the hospital and taking him to the police station. At the station Terry was seated at a folding table in the break room that doubled for an interrogation space. His head cleared disturbingly quickly as he eyed the Doritos in the vending machine and his stomach bubbled. The deputy came back in the room ten minutes later with two Styrofoam cups of weak government coffee. In the light, Terry read his name: Musil.

  “What the fuck time is it, Deputy Musil?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  “What time you feature I might get to bed?”

  “Just depends on your willingness to cooperate.”

  “Shit, then I am never going to sleep tonight.”

  “I just want you to answer a few questions.”

  “See, and I don’t want to.”

  Musil took a sip of coffee and swished it around his mouth. He smiled a sad smile at Terry like he pitied him. It pissed Terry off. Musil leaned back and turned his attention toward the snack machine. He said, “These damn apple pies are making me fat. See, the problem is that coffee is a necessity and what’s available here is shit.” Musil indicated the coffee in front of Terry, which did look poor. “The only thing that makes it drinkable are these sugar bomb ‘pastries’ and the only thing that makes them tolerable is the bitter-ass coffee.”

  Musil punched a button and the machine shat out a green paper-wrapped apple pie. The policeman peeled it lengthwise, like a banana, and tore off a corner causing white cracks to shoot through the sugar coating. “I bet I could leave one of these in a bowl of milk overnight and it wouldn’t be soggy in the morning.” He popped the piece into his mouth, took another swig of the coffee and swallowed. “Terry,” he said, “this has got to be your shit year.”

  Terry had no objections to that statement, but he had some designs on turning it around. “I know, y’all are about as tired of my ass as I am of yours, so how ’bout you just lemme get on home and go to sleep.”

  Musil chuckled. “You’re half-right. But you’re gonna have to do a lot better than saying ‘please’ to make me let you go home.”

  “I know how this works, so how bout this: how ’bout I give Chowder Thompson to you on a plate?” He let his offer hang in the air and settle over the fat cop. It looked to be having the desired effect. He had the policeman’s full attention. “He’s a drug-running pimp parked in your very own back yard, and I will bring him in. Would that interest you? Why don’t you go ahead and get me a lawyer while you consider what that’d be worth to you?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHOWDER

  Irm was on the couch in Darlin’s office, half-baked and watching TV when Chowder arrived. Randy peeked his head in from the kitchen and Chowder told him to get lost. Randy grabbed his breakfast and took it outside while Chowder looked at Irm watching Ren & Stimpy.

  As soon as he was out the door, Chowder walked over to the television and snapped it off. He turned to Irm who looked up at him, impishly amused by his frustration. After a moment, she said, “Yes?”

  “You heard any interesting rumors lately?”

  She shrugged.

  “About yourself?”

  Irm straightened and shook her head. “Like what?”

  “I’m hearing that you ran Eileen Mondale off the road.” The control he had on his voice was slipping. Irm was stonewalling him. “Killed her.”

  Irm looked him in the eyes for ten seconds then tried, “Sorry?”

  Chowder turned around and kicked the TV off its stand, but when it failed to shatter on the rug he put his fist through the kitchenette wall. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “It’s not true?”

  Chowder’s face turned purple and Irm chuckled.

  “Was an accident. She was driving that asshole’s truck. I was just trying to fuck with him. Who the hell is saying this anyway?”

  “Assistant
State’s Attorney. Wants me to help him bring down Mondale.”

  Irm looked interested now. Invested. She sat up. “Well, I hate the sheriff, but fuck that.”

  “Yeah, well it’s all of it fucked now, Irma. If I don’t turn on the sheriff, he’s going to tell Mondale what you did.”

  “Can’t prove anything.”

  “He doesn’t have to, Irm.”

  Irm nodded her head and smiled.

  “You want to go to prison?”

  “I’m not afraid of prison.”

  “The choice between going there and not is no choice at all.”

  Irm rolled her eyes. “Spare me, dad. He’s your friend and your problem. You want my help, just ask.”

  Chowder picked up the cheap metal chair in front of the desk and hurled it across the room. It put marks in the plaster of the wall on the far side.

  Irm stood and bumped him with her chest. “I am ready to help you, old man, but I am not prepared to take any more of your shit.” She poked his sternum with two stiff fingers. “You’ve been playing house with the police so long now, you think it’s what you want.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen. “I suppose it’s got advantages, but I’m prepared to live the other way. Just cause you got old and comfortable don’t mean the world did too.” She opened the fridge and grabbed a beer in a can. Popping the tab, she continued. “So just say it, dad. Who do you want me to get? You want me to pop this lawyer? Want me to make sure the sheriff don’t ever hear about it? Say it.”

  Chowder pointed at her. “Just stay out of my way.”

  He slammed the door as he left.

  MONDALE

  Holding his granddaughter had sobered him up. Priorities reasserted themselves and all the world’s problems were reduced into neat stacks he organized instinctually into two camps: things I give a shit about, and all the rest. He looked around the hospital room at his daughter lying there all swollen and exhausted, but glowing and proud, her dull husband oozing protectiveness and parental instinct, his ex-wife watching him hold the future in his arms and not a drop of ill will or condescension in her stance, and Jimmy couldn’t deny that even her new husband, the man who made a cuckold of him, belonged here. He realized that everything outside the door belonged in the latter category.