Dimebag Bandits

by Craig Furchtenicht

  It shocked Dale to hear Stu mention his daughter's name. He could only recall hearing him speak of her a few times in the years that he had known him. How old had she been, twelve maybe thirteen when she disappeared? Got off the bus from school one day and never made the hundred yards walk to the house. Vanished in thin air. Stu and Margaret never had any more children. Dale guessed that the chance of losing another one was not a risk their broken hearts dared to take.

  “I'll tell you something else, too. If you let this get away without at least giving it a shot, you'll spend a good part of the rest of your life hating yourself for it. And rightly so.”

  Dale had been staring at his untouched glass of tea during the entire lecture. When he finally looked up he found himself locked in the gaze of a prematurely aging man. The tender welcoming eyes of his lifelong mentor grew severe as they studied him. He no longer felt bad for taking the job, but he felt terrible for burdening the old man with the task of convincing him to do so.

  “Make the call, boy.”

  Dale exhaled a sigh of relief and stood up fast enough to knock the dust from the wicker chair as it slid out from under him. He downed the tea in three gulps and tipped the melting ice cubes over the railing into the flowerbed below. “Alright. You talked me into it.”

  Stu raised his graying eyebrows slightly.

  “I take that back. You made me talk myself into it. I'll make the call as soon as I get home. Tell Margaret, thanks for the tea. He sat his glass down and started down the steps when Stu called after him.

  “We have phone service here in the boonies, too, ya know. Why don't you make the call right now?” He produced a cordless phone from the seat cushion beside him and held it out. Dale grinned sheepishly and took it from him.

  Butch snapped his fingers in the air just inches from his face, pulling him out of his trance. Dale looked at his partner and sighed. It seemed that Stu's prophecy had indeed come true. He was partnered with Butch Tassler. He was also right about him being a prick.

  All Catalpa county officers were required to patrol in pairs after Stu's run in with the Collin's brothers. A lawsuit filed on behalf of Delbert Collins had hastened Sheriff Baylor's decision to create the new policy. Some slick lawyer from Des Moines claimed that if the deputy in question, namely one Stuart Lloyd Fisher, had not been patrolling alone that evening he might not have been so inclined to blindly empty the clip of his sidearm as Delbert Collins attempted to choke him unconscious from behind. Consequently, four of the fifteen rounds would not have connected with flesh and bone. Three in Delbert's thigh and one into Stu's own leg.

  After a drawn out legal battle, Delbert Collins now received a check every month for permanent disability. It was the same check that Stu received in addition to his pension benefits. Not bad for a guy who never worked an honest day in his entire pathetic life.

  “You say something, Butch?” He really did not care what Butch had to say. Most of what came out of his partner's mouth was either negative or laden with a tone of sarcasm that he found quite exasperating. When Butch did initiate a conversation, if it could be called that, he typically did so to get a rise out of him.

  “I said early bow season starts this weekend, but I forgot you don't hunt.” Butch glanced over to see what kind of reaction he was going to get. He enjoyed a challenging debate every now and again, but this kid was like ice. Nothing got under his skin.

  “You know I don't hunt, Butch.”

  “Yes, Dale. I am very aware of that,” Butch answered. Finally a hint of life in the boy. Maybe the rookie finally grew a pair. “I've been meaning to talk to you about that. How is it that a guy who makes his living carrying a firearm, doesn't have it in him to hunt? I see you snapping pictures with that camera of yours all the time. I just thought you might consider upgrading to something with a little more kick. I mean, don't get me wrong here, but you don't strike me as the tree hugger type... and you grew up here, right?” He waited momentarily for a response, but got nothing. He snapped his fingers inches from Dales face once again. “Right?”

  Dale leaned across the seat and got right into his partner's face. He had no regard for the fact that he was blocking Butch's view as they sped down the road. He had had enough bullying for one day. If Butch wanted to see how many of his buttons it took to set him off, he was going to show him.

  “Look, we've been over this before. I have nothing against you or anyone else who hunts. I eat meat three times a day and drive a fucking pickup to work. I'm no tree hugger. And yes, I grew up here. A few miles from this very spot as a matter of fact. What do you want me to say...? I'm sorry that I'm one of the five or so guys in the county that doesn't waste my weekends sitting in a tree stand once or twice every fall? Well I'm not. So before you start...”

  Butch brought the cruiser to a jarring stop that nearly put Dale into the dashboard. His right shoulder bumped smartly into the shotgun rack mounted between the two seats. Butch's eyes darted from the weapon to his partner, intentionally making sure that the younger man noticed. He was well schooled in the art of subtle intimidation.

  “Whoa, whoa! Take it easy, tiger. First of all, don't you ever get in my face like that again. I don't care how many fucking state medals you won in high school or how many friends you think you have back in the office. Out here, all we got is each other. For good or bad.” He forced his own face closer to Dale's with each word until they were nose to nose. “Got it?”

  The last words seeped through his clenched teeth, seemingly from the back of his throat rather than his mouth. He feigned attack with a slight jerk that sent Dale retreating back to his own side of the car. A self-betrayal that left Dale regretting even waking up in the morning. Butch eased his foot from the brake and the cruiser began to roll down Quarry Road once again.

  Dale stared solemnly out the window as they made their way down the winding road. The wildlife along this stretch was phenomenal. He spotted a few good photo opportunities along the way, but refrained from pulling his camera from its case. Butch seemed to have settled back into a comfortable cloud of smugness after their confrontation. There was no use in getting him going again.

  They turned left onto what the locals had dubbed River Road, a dead end that ran parallel with the Cedar River for about a mile. Dale realized that Butch had something more than a simple pass through Cedar Ridge in mind. The rarely used road was a waste of time to patrol this time of year, but Butch had his own agenda.

  To the right was a small picnic area and boat ramp utilized mainly by fisherman and teenagers during the warmer months. Dale had partaken in a few underage drinking parties there as a teenager and busted up a great many more during his two years on the job. To the left was a small campground that had been closed since Labor Day. Now it stood deserted except for a single camper, which for reasons Dale did not understand, was allowed to remain in place all year round by the conservation board.

  Aside from the small tavern on the corner, there was only one other permanent structure that the road accessed. Virgil Semler, otherwise known as Virge the perv, lived at the end of the road. Dale did not bother to ask why they would be going to see some old hermit who had probably not left his property in more than a decade. He did not want to know, although he did have his suspicions. Whatever business Butch had with Virgil was undoubtedly not about the law, let alone within the parameters of it.

  “Just going to check on some mounts he's working on,” Butch explained as he pulled into the long lane. Dale considered asking him what kind of taxidermy work was necessary in the week before hunting season even took place, but thought better of it. He stared out the window and said nothing as his partner exited the vehicle.

  Butch knocked on the front door and stood back with his arms crossed. He anxiously tapped his foot on the wooden porch boards as he waited. He continued to shift his attention from the heavily curtained window and then back to the cruiser. Dale watched the strange display with increasing curiosity until the door finally opened.

/>   Just a crack at first, then the door opened just wide enough to produce the bald head and a pair of bespectacled eyes. Virgil peered out and then opened the door just long enough to allow Butch to be swallowed up by the darkness within. He shot a cold glance toward the patrol car before slamming it shut.

  As soon as the door shut Dale fumbled for the Nikon between his feet. In addition to his passion for photographing wildlife, he had a knack for finding and capturing bits of local oddities that would probably never be appreciated by anyone besides himself. Maybe one day he would get them all published into a coffee table book. Until then they were just more files for his growing scrapbook.

  He snapped shots of the house and the yard. Both were overloaded with various tools and contraptions that bordered on antique status. Junk cars were stitched in place by an overgrowth of weeds. A white van that looked like it had not moved in years, but still much newer than the other vehicles sat in the forefront. Several four wheelers and snowmobiles skirted the house's foundation. Dale captured every one of them on film, taking special care to get a shot of the license plate numbers. At least the ones that still had them.

  He noticed a sign advertising canoe rentals and inner tubes, none of which could be seen anywhere on the property. In smaller letters, sloppily written in black paint was the word HIDERUGS. Not two words, just one. Dale muttered this word over and over like a mantra. “Hiderugs, hiderugs, highdrugs... high drugs.” Interesting. He laughed to himself and snapped a shot of the sign.

  The smell inside the house was thick and overpowering, invading Butch's nostrils as he stepped inside. The pungent odor of marijuana smoke hung in the air and mixed with other smells that he did not even want to identify. He did not care about the pot smoke. He entered Virgil's domain not on professional terms but of personal ones. If he were to have entered a home like this in a normal police situation he probably would have been laying some dope head's ass on the floor by now.

  “Officer Tassler, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Virgil inquired with a slightly high pitched lisp as he quickly bolted the latch. His small rodent eyes peered through the window curtain. “Do you think that bringing your shadow along for show and tell was such a good idea?” He gestured his hand toward the vague shape of the cruiser that lay beyond the smoky glass.

  His eyes carried a desperate air of nervousness that Butch found rather detestable. If the old bastard was not so resourceful he would have split his head open a long time ago, but he truly did need Virgil. So he had no choice but to at least overlook his shortcomings.

  “Oh, don't you worry about him. He's not much for conversation, let alone questions. Besides, I told him that I was coming to check on some deer mounts. I honestly don't think he gives two shits about what I do.” Butch playfully punched at Virgil's shoulder with a sideways grin. “Don't ask, don't tell. That's our motto.”

  Virgil relaxed a bit, completely unaware that his yard was currently the subject of an amateur photo shoot. He lowered himself into his recliner. Absently, he fingered the collar of his bathrobe with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. He considered quitting for the umpteenth time earlier that day. Nervousness was his usual excuse to smoke again and Butch Tassler made him more than nervous. He was downright terrified of the man. He could think of nothing better than getting him out of his house as quickly as possible.

  “What can I do for you, Butch?”

  “The usual,” Butch replied.”No, actually double that. First season starts soon and I need a little extra staying power, if you know what I mean.” Butch flashed that vicious grin once again.

  “Yeah, sure.” Virgil had no idea what he meant and he was sure that he never wanted to find out. He could not imagine hunting with the crazy sonofabitch. Probably just uses his bare hands to get the job done.

  “I'm sure there'll be no problem putting a bit more on my tab, right?” The grin instantly vanished and was replaced by a serious 'don't fuck with me' look.

  “No, no problem whatsoever,” Virgil agreed. Anything to get the bastard out in a hurry. He produced two gram bindles of white powder from his front robe pocket. He found himself wishing that he had both the guts and the foresight to have a couple of grams of D-con loaded up for the deputy when he made his random unannounced house calls. That would be nice, but it would only complicate thing further up the food chain. He shook the thought away and handed over the meth.

  Butch was stuffing the packages inside the folds of his wallet and heading for the door before Virgil could get out of his chair. He waved his hand coldly, told him not to bother and let himself out. Virgil sunk back into the fabric of the recliner, lighting another cigarette off the end of the last one. His hands did not stop shaking for hours and the rest of his afternoon was shot.

  Chapter 8

  “What the hell are we doing here?” Kori asked, as he adjusted the green wristband. It never failed, the adhesive strip on the back of the band always managed to expose itself just enough to grab a few hairs and rip them out by the roots. The doorman raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth at them while he banded Brenden's wrist. Brenden put up his other hand in a 'hold that thought' gesture. After paying the cover charge he threw his arm on his brother's shoulder and led him through the door.

  “This will take less than an hour if everything goes right.” Brenden made a visual sweep of the room and chewed at his lower lip. Then he abruptly grasped the back of Kori's neck and pulled him close. “I'm gonna tell you this once. If you have any more stupid fucking questions, get them out now. Don't ever open your mouth like that in front of anyone in here. Dig?”

  Kori pulled away from the grip and rubbed the back of his neck. His face became flush with anger. He was not as mad at his brother as he was with himself. He knew that he had made a mistake. The less attention that they drew to themselves, the better. After all, Iowa City was not that big of a place. Chances of running into any of the patrons of this bar on the street were pretty high.

  “Okay. Sorry.” Kori mumbled, looking at the floor.

  “Don't worry about it. Let's just have a couple of beers and wait this out.” Brenden nudged him in the side and smiled apologetically. He had a way of charming his way out of most situations. Kori found himself deeply admiring his brother and bitterly envying him at the same time. He smiled back and followed him to the bar.

  The plan sounded simple enough. Their job was to hang out at the bar and make sure the Queen was there. When that was established Kori would text Todd with the news. Then they just had to stay put and make sure the Queen did the same. Unless anyone's status changed, all they had to do was wait for the call to go back outside and catch their ride.

  It seemed so simple that Kori was having trouble understanding why they would actually pay him to do this. He understood why he was delegated to the gay bar position. That was obvious. Chris was the only one who actually knew the Queen, so he was out. Soup and Todd looked more like a couple of rock band roadies than gay clubbers, no matter how well they cleaned up. This left only the Woodson brothers up to the task. He still had no idea what everyone else's jobs were.

  Brenden ordered two beers and scanned the room again while he waited for the bartender to bring them. Kori wanted to ask him if he saw the Queen yet, but knew better. In the adjoining room a crowd had gathered around a small stage. Gloria Gainer was singing about how she would survive through a sound system somewhere in the darkness of that room. On the stage a tall blonde dressed in drag lip-synced the words and danced around to the delight of the audience. Occasionally someone would tuck a bill into her/his dress and extend their face forward for a kiss on the cheek. Kori looked at Brenden who in turn shrugged and handed him a beer.

  A few minutes later the song ended and a raspy voice of another drag queen poured out of the speakers. “One more hand for the Glory Hole's very own Queen Alana! I want to thank you all for coming... ahem, being here tonight.” The crowd laughed and whistled at this. “Be sure to stick around for the next show at midn
ight.” The lights in the adjoining room brightened and the crowd started filing back into the bar area. Club music erupted from the sound system and some of the crowd began to dance.

  Brenden nudged him and nodded toward the doorway. Kori turned to see the tall blonde strutting to the bar with a small entourage in tow. Brenden nudged him again but the meaning was lost to him. He mouthed the word “what?” and stared back dumbly. Brenden rolled his eyes impatiently. He put up his thumb and pinky to the side of his face in the universal sign for telephone. Kori nodded and sent the text: the queen is here.

  For the most part, people left the alone as they finished their beers and ordered another round. It was not until these were half gone that the bartender placed a pair of full shot glasses in front of them. The bartender leaned across to Brenden and nodded in the direction of the Queen's group.

  “From the gentleman in the corner.”

  A skinny older guy with a beak nose and a neck too long for his body stiffened up when Brenden looked his way. Slightly mascara lined eyes widened and then swam in a way that only old gay guys can do. His upper lip twitched and his hands unconsciously smoothed out the sides of his skin tight shirt as he looked the brothers up and down.

  Brenden told the bartender that he could afford his own drinks and pushed the glasses away. He turned his back to the group and pretended to spark up a deep conversation with Kori. Everyone except the old guy burst into laughter. The Queen threw back her/his head, clapped and let out a deep bellowing laugh. For some strange reason this made Kori think of his old gym coach. The skinny old queer whipped around and stormed off. The overhead lighting reflected off the back of his thinning hair as he bounced back into the other room.

  “Well played, straight boy,” the Queen called out, tipping the edge of his glass in their direction. Brenden reciprocated in the gesture and left it at that. No one else bothered them after that. The brothers made small talk that amounted to nothing and waited for the call.