Greasy Bend

by Kris Lackey

  There was no way to tell how long it would take Shit-Ass to load the box truck. Maytubby took off his cap and glasses, stopped by Veggies for a takeout box of vegetable lo mein, and then parked near his ancestor’s grave, on a hillside with a good view of the alley behind Sentinel. While the garage door remained closed, he wound noodles around a wooden fork and read tombstones. john mundt, co. c, 31st mississippi. andrew sallee, forrest’s cavalry. Maytubby didn’t read his forebear’s marker, which bore his own name. He wondered again whether this man had owned Jill Milton’s ancestors. And again told himself that was unlikely. A little work at the Holisso Research Center in Sulphur might put that issue to rest. Neither he nor his fiancée had darkened the archive’s door.

  The five-second video from his cell added nothing but captured the boxes’ numbers and a fleeting image of the loader—no one Maytubby recognized. On his cell, through a state portal, he ran the plates on all five vehicles in the Sentinel lot and then matched them with drivers’ licenses. None of the photos was of the four men whose faces he had seen in the building, but Lon Crum owned the fifth, the old pickup from Onan’s. So nobody but Crum drove his own vehicle to work? Maytubby ran all the owners’ names and found nothing but a few traffic violations.

  Winding some noodles with his wooden fork, he looked at his right hand and frowned. The counterman had written the coffee machine’s price with his left hand. Maytubby had trained himself to resist the tyranny of focus. Rooster, the boxes, the man in the second office—they had blinded him. He gave the counterman a second look. Clean-shaven, lean nose, long upper lip, strong cheekbones. Wheat complexion. The neck muscles, if they were there, didn’t show. No satyr tat. No wedding ring. Maytubby had been staring at the ceiling when the counterman walked to the copier, and so didn’t see whether he had a pronate roll in his gait. Never smiled—never showed his teeth.

  In the surveillance video, the shooter’s eyes were not hooded, but wide with excitement, except when he blinked at the shot. Was that shadow of smugness there, even at the distance of the lens? Maytubby imagined the counterman’s face with a mouthful of gnarled brown teeth. The picture made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He let his eyes go unfocused on the prairie sky until the face found its context. When Maytubby was in college at St. John’s in Santa Fe, this person had been his landlord’s handyman. Maytubby’s tiny apartment in a shabby old fake-adobe warren, like all the other apartments in the warren, was a patchwork of wires and pipes and fixtures, some dating back a century. Maytubby replaced fuses and fixed the toilet, but when a more difficult repair was needed, the slightly younger version of the counterman appeared at his door, silent as Bartleby but not so pale, a faint smirk in his eyes, a little metal toolbox in his hand. He had been thinner then—almost cadaverous—and whenever he hit a snag in the repair, the death’s-head grimace went gargoyle. Making no eye contact, offering no name, moving with forced calm. His manner had not changed. One day, Maytubby called to report a broken outlet, and a different handyman appeared. Bartleby never returned.

  Maytubby stared at the descending Sentinel garage door without seeing it. The box truck was far down the alley before he snapped into the present, set his Veggies carton on the floor, and started his pickup.

  CHAPTER 18

  “You’re on a tail, Bill. Even if your target is big as a hay barn. Like I said, the computer jockeys at OSBI can handle that swindler’s bank tricks. Call you later.” Bond ended the voice mail. She microwaved a sloppy joe at Big Red’s Trading Post in Ravia and ate it as she drove slowly down Greasy Bend Road. Before the old truss bridge came into view, a plume of dust rose, bending with the wind. Jeff Lang’s truck shot around the curve, slowed a little as he passed her, like any car passing a cruiser. This time, he avoided eye contact. No pursuit appeared, but as the bridge loomed through bare trees, she saw an OSBI cruiser parked beside the approach.

  A young agent Bond didn’t recognize knelt at the center of the span, near a guardrail. Bond walked onto the bridge, watching gaps where planks were missing. The agent turned her head, then turned it more to find Bond’s face. “You find that nine casing?” Bond said.

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “I told Scrooby where to find it.” Bond paused. “Anybody find her fake boobs?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw one hung up in the marsh a day ago, took a picture of it for you guys. Probably in Shreveport by now.

  The agent stared.

  “You find any blood?”

  “Haven’t looked for it yet. I don’t think I should discuss the investigation.”

  Bond drummed on the belt pouch holding the torn glove. She shrugged. “Whatever.” She looked down the Washita. “Did you see that clown pickup just now, big tires?”

  The agent sat back on her haunches. “Yeah. I parked next to it when I came. Guy driving it was standing in the middle of the bridge.”

  “Sweet-smellin’ fellow?”

  “Somebody else.”

  Bond nodded slowly.

  “Reeked like a sty, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. Wasn’t happy to see me, either. Turned his face away when he passed me.”

  “Did you a favor. Good luck with your crime scene.”

  The agent bent to her work, and Bond looked down the river as she walked to her cruiser. Before she got in, she surveyed the mess under the bridge: vodka bottles, beer cans, filthy blankets, condom wrappers. Bond knew that it didn’t matter whether Alice had died here or in an art museum, but the trash seemed personal.

  She had come to Greasy Bend to think on Jeff Lang, but she didn’t expect the first thought she had: he would have made a mess in his aunt’s house, and he would have stunk up the place.

  Some hours later, after facing down two angry yard dogs to post an eviction notice, Bond heard squawking on her cruiser’s radio. She continued to face the snarling dogs while she opened the car door behind her. Sheriff Magaw was saying her name. She clicked on her shoulder radio. “Bond,” she said.

  “Could you stop by the jail pretty quick?”

  “Fifteen,” she said. “If I’m not dog meat.”

  “Roger.”

  On Bullet Prairie Road, she saw a tow truck winching Jeff Lang’s truck up its tilted bed. She stopped and rolled down her passenger window.

  “Hey, Hannah.”

  “Garn.”

  “Had a little action a few minutes ago. State agent and Sheriff Magaw escorted the owner of this high-performance luxury vehicle to the business end of Tish.”

  “I’m headed there myself.”

  “This about the Lang woman?”

  “About to find out.”

  When Bond opened the door to the interrogation room, Jeff Lang glowered at her. He breathed heavily, and his eyes were moist. The room reeked of vomit. Scrooby and Sheriff Magaw sat across from one another.

  As Bond sat opposite Lang, Magaw looked at his felt Western hat on the table. He pinched its brim and slid the hat back and forth. “This man—he’s waived his rights—says you are the reason he’s here. Agent Scrooby and I know that’s not true, but we don’t know why he thinks it is. Do you know him?”

  “He’s Alice Lang’s nephew.”

  “Have you talked to him lately?”

  “Yesterday morning. I went to his house and told him about his aunt.”

  “That ain’t all you done, looks like.” Lang wagged his head at Scrooby and Magaw. “Deputy, you are a regular angel of shit.”

  “Be quiet,” Magaw said.

  Lang looked at Bond and smirked. “I bet you and her was quar for each other.”

  Scrooby glanced at Bond. She stared at the wall. “That’s enough of that, Lang. Deputy Bond, let’s step into the hall a second.”

  Before the door closed behind them, Lang shouted, “Why’d you shoot her, Deputy? She screwin’ another dyke?”


  Scrooby and Bond walked to the end of the hall.

  Scrooby looked up at her. “Hannah, did you know Alice Lang was giving money to her nephew?”

  “Did you find the neat ledger under ‘J’ in the oak filing cabinet?”

  “Wh …?”

  “Her house was a mess, right? Mud on the floor, chairs knocked over. After that yahoo in there got done dragging her out?”

  Scrooby inhaled and blinked. “No. Her house was spotless.”

  Bond nodded. “Smelled like puke, though.”

  “Actually, it smelled like—”

  “Pine-Sol. Nobody used it to wash down that scene, if that’s what you’re thinking. She cleaned everything with it, right down to her garden rake.”

  “You didn’t …”

  “A person like that, they like sunshine. All the blinds up and curtains back. That what you found?”

  Scrooby frowned. “We found the payment records in the file, and a coil of freshly cut sisal rope in Lang’s pickup. And a prior for assault. You made that arrest, Hannah.”

  “You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

  “Do you know which tree I should bark up?” Scrooby said.

  “No. You got the science kit.”

  Scrooby frowned. “We’re still waiting on some things. We may have to release him for now—don’t want to charge him before we’ve got a lock on it.”

  She put on her campaign hat. “But I’ll tell you, if you keep barking up that tree, he’ll shit on your face. It’s what a yahoo does.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Maytubby kept three cars between himself and the Sentinel box truck, but he was close enough, at the first stoplight, to see in the box truck’s side mirrors that Shit-Ass had a passenger, and, at the second stoplight, that the passenger was Rooster.

  Traffic thinned after the last tract of ranch houses, and Maytubby dropped far behind the Sentinel truck as it rolled northwest toward the Arbuckles. Bay High School was the first building in the first little town. Shit-Ass braked and steered the truck into the school parking lot. The lot not reserved for teachers was full, though the school day had ended a half hour ago. Maytubby stayed on the highway but noticed that the truck double-parked behind Jill Milton’s forest-green Honda Accord. He drove around the block and parked behind the school, pulled on a plain khaki cap, and left his specs on the seat.

  Rooster wheeled out of the cab, flicked his cigarette onto the Accord’s windshield as he took broad, quick strides to the front door. In his fist, he clutched some yellow papers.

  If this were just a restock, someone would already have product on a hand truck. Maytubby walked into the school with his head down, hands in his pockets. From the foyer, he could see into the cafetorium, where a dozen or so adults were seated at tables. Jill sat with three other people at a smaller table on a riser. Rooster mounted the stage.

  Maytubby caught Jill’s attention. Her eyes widened for second; then she frowned and raised one eyebrow. Maytubby pretended to scratch his upper lip, as in “mum,” and she nodded and rolled her eyes toward the red-faced man. Maytubby nodded. He walked to the middle of the room and took a seat, nudging an abandoned backpack on the floor. Some people looked at him.

  On the dais, a middle-aged woman in a blue blazer rose and thanked the parents for their attendance. The principal, Maytubby guessed. To Rooster, she said, “And thank you for coming, Mr. …?”

  He didn’t fill in the blank but stood in a defiant slouch.

  She pointed to an empty place at the table. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  “I’m a businessman. I don’t have time to sit around and discuss. I have to make the money that pays you to do that.”

  “We all pay taxes, sir.” To the assembly she said, “This gentleman is from Sentinel Vending. The high school is in the second year of a two-year contract with Sentinel for all the vending machines on campus. As you know, the school administration and the PTA have been dis … exploring ways to offer our students healthier food choices. We also want to thank Dr. Jill Milton.” She motioned Jill to stand. “Dr. Milton is a medical nutritionist with the Chickasaw Nation. She comes to us through the generosity of the nation.” There was polite applause.

  Maytubby watched the Rooster, whose small yellow eyes were fastened on Jill.

  “Right now,” the principal said, “there are not many healthy choices in the school’s vending machines. Our food service has made a good-faith effort in the last year to serve a more nutritious breakfast and lunch. But between meals—and sometimes instead of them—students migrate to the machines. The drinks are mostly sugary, and the food is mostly candy and chips. We wanted to ask Sentinel what sorts of healthier products could be stocked in the machines.” She took her seat and looked at the Rooster. He made his tiny eyes even smaller, thrust the papers forward, and snarled, “This contract you signed doesn’t say a damned thing about what we sell. We can sell anything but liquor and dope. We’re an Oklahoma business, not some damn San Francisco fairy granola wagon.” He turned toward the parents. “If your kids are fat, it’s because they eat too much. That’s your fault. Candy and chips don’t turn children into pigs.” He thrust his chin toward the panel. “Oh, I can stock raisins and turnip chips, but I’ll go broke and you won’t get any cheerleader uniforms.”

  The room fell silent. As the Rooster turned to go, Jill said, “Excuse me.”

  He spun on his heel and jabbed a finger at her. “You’ve got no business here, girlie. You don’t work here, and your kids don’t go to school here. You’ve got no business in any of these schools out here.” He swept his arm. “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “In less than a month,” she said dryly, “the USDA’s Competitive Foods Rule goes into effect, whether I’m here or not. Most of the snacks in your machines right now exceed both the sugar and calorie limits—”

  “Sugar and calorie limits,” he minced. “You are confusing me with someone who gives a crap about government rules. Hell, you’re not even from my American government. That’s a sorry enough government, but here you are, a female from an Indian tribe, telling me what I can and can’t sell in my own country. I’m going to look into you. You say you’re from an Indian tribe, but you don’t look like any Indian I ever saw. You look like—”

  The principal jumped to her feet, knocking over her chair. “That’s enough. You are done here, Mr. Candy Machine.”

  She was used to being obeyed. When the Rooster faced her full on and took a half step in her direction, power drained from her face. Then he glared at Jill. Maytubby tensed and shifted to the edge of his chair. The Rooster stood still a few seconds—just long enough to make his point—and then rapidly left the stage. All heads turned to follow him. When Maytubby was sure the man’s eyes were fixed on the exit, he yanked down the bill of his cap and nudged the backpack into the aisle with his foot.

  The pointed toe of Rooster’s Western boot caught a shoulder strap on the pack, and he pitched onto the buffed linoleum, his long limbs flailing and whacking furniture. “Fuck fuck fuck!” he bellowed, scrambling to get to his feet. Maytubby turned in his seat but kept the bill over his eyes. Jill told him later that the Rooster was ready to rumble until he saw what tripped him.

  The hush that had fallen over the room was just giving way to excited chatter when Maytubby banged through a side exit door, jumped a fence, and sprinted to his pickup. The Sentinel truck was backing onto the highway.

  It was a big target, so he could give it a long lead. It continued north, toward the buffalo hump of the Arbuckles, stopping at several schools for Shit-Ass to wheel in boxes of product. The Rooster stayed in the truck and smoked. When the colossal wind turbines ranked along the range’s south face glowed with late sunlight, the box truck turned off the highway onto a rocky dirt road that climbed through a stand of towering white turbines into rough foothills.

  M
aytubby took the next turnoff, rumbled over a cattle guard onto private land, and eased the Ford up a steep trail. Between stands of red cedar, he could see the top of the box truck below him, swaying slowly a few hundred yards away. He scanned the road up several switchbacks and saw another white vehicle—a utility van with the Sentinel logo—idling in a turnout.

  He parked behind a granite boulder, grabbed his binoculars, and watched the box truck pull alongside the van and stop. This time, the Rooster got out of the truck. The van’s driver door opened, and the bulk of Lon Crum listed in the driver’s seat. Rooster shouted something, and Crum scrambled to the road, the tail of his uniform shirt twisted and fanned like a kilt. All three men disappeared behind the vehicles. Maytubby backtracked on foot, in the hill’s shadow, behind a defile of bastard oaks. Though it was winter, he watched for rattlesnakes.

  The sun was behind him, so it wouldn’t glint off his field glasses. He trained them on the three men hustling boxes from the big truck to the van. These were the tattered boxes numbered with Magic Marker. When they finished, Crum slammed the van’s rear doors. The Rooster suddenly spun around and looked right into Maytubby’s binocular lenses. Maytubby didn’t flinch but looked straight into his feral little eyes. The Rooster spun just as suddenly the opposite way and cursed at Lon Crum, who ducked and then lurched to his cab.

  Twenty minutes later, Maytubby was parked behind the same patch of blackjack oaks near Ardmore Municipal where he had waited for the quarry biker. Just inside the airport gate, Crum’s van had taxied alongside a parked, running van, an old one, crudely stenciled with gill janitorial. Both drivers got out and opened the rear doors of their vans. Maytubby used the zoom on his phone to photograph them. When they had moved all Crum’s boxes to old Gill, the young driver of old Gill, who was wearing what appeared to be an olive uniform shirt and matching pants, handed two small USPS-looking boxes—white with red and blue stripes—to Crum. As the driver turned to go, Crum cradled both packages in one arm and grabbed the driver by his shoulder. Crum then took a small notebook from his uniform pocket and held it to the driver’s face. The driver took the notebook and held it close to his face—affectedly, Maytubby thought. The driver was shaking his head slowly. More bad acting. He shrugged and searched the back of his van, retrieved a third box, smaller than the others, and handed it to Crum.