Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  He turned to his wife, smiling like a kid watching a Fourth of July celebration. But Hettie wasn’t smiling back. She was lifting the Glock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MONDALE

  They moved at a quick pace, walking silently over the uneven road, avoiding holes and obtrusive root formations. The light was dying, lost in the thick tree-line. In another hour the trip would necessitate flashlights.

  Bob Musil strode beside him, trying to disguise his heavy breathing, but the overweight deputy was sweating profusely and had to constantly mop his forehead with a kerchief. Mondale made eye contact with his best friend and saw determination hardening over the fear beneath. He guessed that Musil saw the same mixture in his own face and turned his gaze forward to avoid it being detected by any of the resolute federal agents with them.

  When he recognized the road’s last bend before the cabin was visible, he held up his hand for the procession to stop. Agent Harris stepped to him and Jimmy whispered the information. Agent Harris rounded the bend with Mondale signaling the others to wait for them to return.

  Around the corner the cabin was visible fifty yards across a clearing. Chowder’s pickup was parked in the muddy drive, twenty yards away from the front porch. Harris told Mondale to stay there and went back to the waiting men. While Jimmy crouched behind a rock he saw Chowder come out the front door. Jimmy looked over his shoulder. Agent Harris wasn’t back yet. Was there any way he could warn Chowder without tipping off the feds?

  Chowder was opening the driver’s side door, but not climbing into the truck. Mondale sent a psychic message to the old outlaw.

  Turn around. See this coming. Run away now. Disappear.

  Nothing doing. Chowder retrieved whatever he was fishing for and began walking back to the cabin.

  Agent Harris appeared at his side again, this time with three more federal agents and Deputy Musil in tow. Harris whispered to all, “We can’t let him get into the truck. No time to fan out. Follow me.” The agent stood, as did his men, who spread out as far as they could on the narrow road and into the clearing. Bob Musil locked eyes with Mondale, and nodded. They followed suit.

  Chowder threw a small flaming object into the open front door of the cabin and stepped back. The agents slowed their approach. Agent Harris stopped altogether. Chowder began to back up toward the truck and Harris saw that his chance at nabbing his man without incident was beginning to evaporate. He motioned his men forward and was at a trot when the heat from the blast singed their eyebrows. At twenty yards, shotgun leveled, Agent Harris called out, “Charles Thompson! On your knees, asshole!”

  They were Agent Harris’s last words. The back window of the truck’s cab exploded with bullets and Harris caught one with his mouth.

  CHOWDER

  Hettie’s eyes were cold and her intent to kill was plain. Chowder heard his own name called and then Hettie opened fire. The world was an inferno of glass and bullets, fire and blood. He turned to see Armageddon in flack jackets descending upon him, led by Jimmy Mondale atop a pale horse.

  Hettie was empty and reloading when the windshield turned red. She fell out the passenger side, one hand clamped over her neck and a fine spray of blood shooting between her fingers. The next shot caught her high in her right shoulder and spun her around and the back of her head burst like a water balloon in the next instant.

  Chowder screamed for her, ignoring the angry voices ordering him to show his hands. Something big and unseen hit him in his side and his right arm stopped responding. He looked at his attackers, chose one and ran straight at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MONDALE

  Agent Harris was dead before he hit the ground. His face had nothing behind it anymore. What used to be there was all over the man to Jimmy’s left. The pulp-blinded agent dove to the ground to avoid more bullets while he scooped his boss out of his eyes.

  The agent to Mondale’s right opened up with his shotgun on the unseen shooter inside the truck. The agents fanned out, putting as much distance between them as possible, forming a semi-circle around the truck. In four seconds the firing from inside the truck stopped. Bob Musil dropped to one knee and fired into the shattered back window. There was a grunt that punched through the sounds of thunder around him, then Chowder Thompson screaming himself hoarse.

  A woman, shit, Hettie stumbled out the passenger side door with one bloody hand clamped to her neck. She slammed the butt of the Glock on her thigh, securing a fresh clip, but, as she raised her arm to fire, she spun one hundred eighty degrees and the back of her head disappeared in a pink mist. She fell forward onto whatever was left of her face.

  Chowder screamed with renewed fury and the agent on the ground next to Harris’s corpse shot the outlaw in his right side, ripping meat from the bone of Chowder’s arm and opening up small holes near his ribs. The biker staggered, leaning on his left foot, before charging at the man to Mondale’s right.

  Jimmy threw his gun to the ground and dove for Chowder, hitting his partner across his tenderized chest and shoulder and knocking him to the ground. He landed on top of Chowder and held on for all he was worth. The big man was trying to get to his feet even as bullets tore up the ground around them.

  Staying on top of Chowder felt like riding an electric current. Jimmy squeezed with his arms and legs as his business partner bucked and rolled and kicked and thrashed beneath him. Jimmy caught bites of sound: the burning house in front of him snapped and crackled and threw off intensifying heat, the agents ran to the fallen bodies of Agent Harris and Hettie Thompson and were beginning to assist him in subduing Chowder Thompson.

  Bob Musil used the butt of his shotgun on Chowder’s chin to stop the struggle. The biker went slack and Jimmy rolled off of him.

  The agent with Harris was on his radio calling for an ambulance and frantically relaying their coordinates. Jimmy lay on his back in the hard clay beside the unconscious figure of his partner, wondering how long he had left. How soon would they come to his house or the station and place him under arrest? Would he have another chance to see his granddaughter before it all came down on him? Would Irm retaliate in the night, waking him up with a knife through the eye? He looked at his deputy. Bob. What would happen to Bob? He would try to leave his staff out of it. Chowder had been right. The town, his family and his own police force would turn on him. His intentions would never matter to them. He’d done dirt. The worst kind. And they’d crucify him for it.

  Musil reached a hand down for him and Jimmy gripped the meaty arm and hoisted himself up with it. He threw his arms around Musil and whispered to him, “You say what you have to, Bob. I’m not taking you down with me.”

  Musil gripped him tightly. “Hold it in. You don’t know what’ll come of this.”

  Jimmy let go of his deputy and found a rock to sit on. He eased himself down and looked into the sky. The first stars were just visible on the far edges of the horizon, but the fire was washing out the night sky above him.

  Musil took command of the scene, organizing the feds and emergency traffic that was beginning to bottleneck on the road. Jimmy watched paramedics revive Chowder Thompson and their eyes met across the smoke and confusion. Chowder wore an oxygen mask, preventing him from speaking. Jimmy sent him psychic messages:

  It wasn’t me. We’re still partners. We can work something out. Please don’t bring it all down.

  Murder was all he got back.

  EPILOGUE

  CHOWDER

  Chowder Thompson sat in the conference cell, waiting for his visitors. He’d not uttered a word to any of them, except the name of his lawyer. A case as high-profile as his, the feds would be on their best behavior, none of the usual dirty tricks. No leaving loopholes for his lawyers or the media to exploit. He didn’t have to wait long. Over the course of several weeks, he’d had regular meetings with his council and a defense plan had begun to form.

  He looked up now at the sound of someone at the door. The guard who entered didn’t look Chowder i
n the face and as soon as he had admitted Chowder’s lawyer and Irma Thompson, he exited. Chowder looked at his visitors.

  “Well?”

  His lawyer produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and placed them on the table in front of his client. “Their case is almost entirely circumstantial. Plus their guy, Harris, was running a pretty loose ship. The whole operation was a long way from textbook. Depending on what they choose to prosecute, they’ll most likely be fighting countersuits against the agency, plus the major focus was Kansas City. You were sort of a side project.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  The lawyer continued. “I don’t think they want this to go on any longer than we do. I think a plea bargain is a real possibility.”

  “How much time are we talking about?”

  The lawyer shrugged. “More than you’re going to want. Two federal agents died.” The lawyer looked at Chowder, trying to read his client’s features. “But maybe not as much time as you think. The DEA is going to be held at least partially responsible for those deaths.”

  “You get my package?”

  The attorney nodded. “Yes, though, I’m not sure what you want to do with them.” Chowder smiled to himself, thinking of the photographs of a famous televangelist sucking cock he’d had the foresight to send to his lawyer.

  “I think we could find Shekina Ministries very interested in my defense is all. Friends with deep pockets are always worth having.”

  The lawyer made a note. “How would you like me to approach them?”

  Chowder lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’m not sure yet.” He exhaled a plume of blue smoke and said, “Lemme talk to Irm in private.”

  “Sure. Is there anything else you want me to do?”

  “Just do your law thing. Keep me appraised.” The lawyer stood and nodded his goodbye. He knocked on the door and it was opened a few seconds later by the guard. Chowder and Irm watched the attorney leave, then Irm spoke.

  “I think I’ve got somebody else eager to help.”

  “If you’d just done what I asked you to in the first place. Whole fuckin world knew Dale Kube was rotting behind the cabin. If I hadn’t stopped, your momma…” He gave up reprimanding his girl. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes misted, but he said nothing.

  Irm’s face was red and she spoke in a terse whisper. “You want my help or not?”

  Chowder stared at the table. After a moment he took another drag on his cigarette. Irm continued. “Just listen to me.”

  Chowder raised his gaze to meet his daughter’s. His genius daughter who was gonna save the day. He couldn’t wait.

  Satisfied that she had his attention, Irm began at the beginning. “Now you remember that big girl workin at Darlin’s?”

  Chowder shook his head and shrugged. “No.”

  Irm continued. “Well, her name’s Cinnamon.”

  MONDALE

  He got up every morning expecting to find his house surrounded by federal agents. He went to work keeping an eye out for black SUVs in the lot, but weeks had passed without his world ending. Deputy Townsend took personal time and told Jimmy he was going to start looking for a position out of town. Mondale told him he’d write a letter of recommendation.

  Every day after work, he spoke with his best friend. The Musils had him over for dinner and he and Bob stayed up drinking like it was the last supper. They arranged contingency plans, but day after day, nothing came.

  Every morning he called Liz and talked about the baby and he cavalierly made plans to come visit at Christmastime, plans he never expected to happen, but that felt good in the making anyhow.

  The second night, after Chowder Thompson’s arrest, he showed up on Julie Sykes’ front porch. Her bedroom light was on, but she never answered the door. He left an apology note in her mailbox. On Sunday afternoon, he called her at home. She didn’t pick up, so he spoke to her machine like she was listening, the way Shirley used to do with him. He’d gotten all the apologizing he intended to do out of his system, and let her know he wouldn’t bother her any more. If she wanted to see him, he’d like that. She knew where to find him.

  He’d gone to see Beth Moore, Terry Hickerson’s ex-wife. He’d sat down with her and told her how Terry had died, shot by Cal Dotson’s aunt Jeanette when he broke into her home. Jeanette Dotson had apparently died of the excitement. If he ever spoke to Chowder Thompson again, he was going to let him have it for the old lady.

  Wendell Hickerson had come home in the middle of the death notice. His mother asked him to come sit next to her on the couch and listen to what the sheriff had to say. Jimmy’d looked in the kid’s defiant stare and not been able to hold eye contact. “I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, son.”

  He’d been interviewed by the DEA endlessly, and gave the helpful, if clueless, local rube routine till he thought he’d choke on the words if he had to repeat them one more time.

  The morning Assistant State’s Attorney Dennis Jordan showed up in his office, Mondale took a deep breath and exhaled through the palms of his hands and soles of his feet. If this was it, he was ready, but he thought he’d like a chance to knock out one of those perfect teeth first. Mondale let him in and shut the door behind him. The lawyer took a seat in front of Jimmy’s desk and the sheriff sat down behind it.

  The ASA was dressed sharp as always, but didn’t carry himself with the same arrogant prick-sure style as before. He didn’t look Jimmy in the eyes as he spoke. “Sheriff Mondale, I’d like to ask you some questions about Agent Harris and the events of the day he died.”

  Jimmy cocked his head. “I’ve been through all this with the DEA.”

  “I’m aware of that, Sheriff, and I’ve read a copy of your testimony, but I have some questions of my own. I am filing suit against the Federal Drug Enforcement Administration on behalf of Charles Thompson and the late Hettie Thompson.”

  Jimmy said, “Come again?”

  CHOWDER

  He sat in his cell and wrote journals. He documented everything he could remember about Jimmy Mondale and The Bucs. Any detail or event that crossed his mind went into the books. At each weekly meeting, his lawyer would collect them and supply him with more empty volumes to fill.

  The plea deal was beginning to take shape. Looked like something he might get through. Once out, Jimmy Mondale could suck his dick. He’d fucking own that town and Mondale’s badge. When Irma came by, he’d coach her if she wanted it, which she did sometimes. She had a long way to go, but she was learning.

  Once she brought him some pictures to see. Ones she’d told him about. Seeing them made him smile. They were of the big girl, Cinnamon, he remembered when he saw the photos. They depicted her sexing with a movie star looking fucker that resembled very closely the Assistant State’s Attorney, Dennis Jordan. Kinky shit.

  He’d shuffled through a half dozen pictures, all taken from the same angle, to appear like a hidden camera, but clear and revealing plenty of detail. He handed them back to Irma. “You done good, girl.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “And hey, that Cinnamon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Give her a raise, huh?”

  This book would not exist without all the encouragement and ass slapping I received from my earliest supporters, editors and publishers: Cameron Ashley, Greg Bardsley, Laura & Pinckney Benedict, Frank Bill, Paul D. Brazill, David Cranmer, Peter Dragovich, Kent Gowran, Glenn Gray, Jordan Harper, Brian Lindenmuth, Matthew Louis, Keith Rawson, Todd Robinson, Kieran Shea, Anthony Neil Smith, Steve Weddle. Thank you.

  Scott Phillips, thank you.

  Thanks also to the Noir at the Bar community, especially Rod & Judy – you guys rock.

  Finally, for the family members and close friends for whom association with me has cost dignity, respectability and peace of mind: I hope someday it pays off. No promises.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Jedidiah Ayres is the author of Fierce Bitches and A F*ckload of Shorts.

  Table of Conten
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  peckerwood