by Vince Milam
It was hard to gauge how serious Miriam was, although good money went with pretty doggone serious. We continued the conversation about the new neighbors and worked down several rabbit holes. Marcus and I contributed little. We did emphasize these types of wing nuts, from every walk of the weird belief spectrum, were sprinkled across the United States. And the world. Simple bad luck old man Tannenbaum’s distant relative was a card-carrying member of a hate-filled crowd. My issue lay with the potential for random violent acts from the group. Evil manifested. I didn’t express this. It would trigger more hard stares from Marcus.
The conversation soon shifted again and touched on movies, books, and music. An easy flow, relaxed, the previous tension long dissipated. A good evening. An excellent evening. Marcus and I cleaned dishes while Miriam and Irene chatted in front of the great-room fireplace. We slipped the dogs the few remaining scraps on the sly. Both the women had asked us not to feed them, but you can’t turn a good dog down.
Marcus and I moved outdoors with brandies. The fire pit logs still burned, casting warmth. The flames danced with the wind, and he fired a cigar.
“Cattle to move tomorrow. Fresh pasture.”
Coyotes yipped from nearby coulees, the sky blue-black and bathed with stars. The three dogs joined us, barked a couple of times at the coyotes, and settled.
“Need help?”
“Nope.”
Simple as that. If help were needed, he would have asked.
“A fine dinner. Thanks.”
“Except for the introspection theater,” Marcus said. “Otherwise it was a fine dinner.”
“Aired stuff out. Not all bad.”
“Suppose not.”
We stood near the fire. Marcus moved the logs around with the toe of his boot. Smoke and sparks lifted.
“I can’t gauge your interest in Irene. And vice versa.”
“Seems more of a balancing act than interest.”
“Scratchy answer.”
“I know.”
We sipped brandy, breathed the crisp air. Our silences, never uncomfortable, allowed for thought and reflections.
“I get too wrapped around the axle,” I said. “Relationships. Start thinking about Rae.”
“It can’t be easy.”
“I’m not sure I ever give easy a chance.”
Yips and howls from surrounding turf. Coyotes socialized, the pack formed. An evening hunt.
“It’s good having you around,” Marcus said. “And this isn’t the talk. It just feels right.”
“Me too. Love being here. As always.”
“Any plans for tomorrow?”
“Nope. Take a walk. Visit Irene. Still haven’t seen her place.”
Visit her, see her place, and scope the new neighbor situation.
Chapter 20
Irene phoned midmorning, holding back sobs and anger and a tinge of fear. They’d killed Kismet. Shot the little critter because he’d wandered onto their property. Property, like Irene’s and Marcus’s, separated by barbed wire and spanning miles.
“I called the sheriff. He just left. Said he would go over there and talk with them now.”
Something else came across the line, something she wasn’t telling me.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
She sniffed, loud, and said, “I’d like that. I know Marcus is out moving cattle.”
“Hang tight. And I’m sorry about your pup, Irene. Really sorry.”
“Please remember one thing.”
“What?”
“The sheriff said he’d handle this. Okay?”
“Okay.”
A quick three-mile jog. The day cool, breeze light. Those SOBs. A cruel action, unjustified, and demonstrated much of what I needed to know about them. At the last hill before dropping down to her place I spotted the sheriff’s car arriving. I stopped and waited. Subsequent actions—and there would be subsequent actions—wouldn’t have the added wrinkle of the sheriff knowing me. Ten minutes later he pulled away. I waited until he hit the gravel county road.
“Tossed her!” Irene said when I arrived. “Shot my Kismet and drove here and tossed her at my feet!” Tears rolled. She wiped them with the sleeve of her ranch coat, now stained with blood. Her hands showed dirt. She’d buried the dog. “And asked me if I was friends with Marcus. But they didn’t say Marcus. Asked me if I was friends with that n-word.”
“Scum. Evil scum.”
“So now I’ve got my own private pet cemetery started. Great. Just great.”
“What else?” It was clear she teetered on the edge of revealing more but held back. She shook her head and pulled a Kleenex, blowing her nose.
“What else, Irene.” I approached and held her waist. She sniffled again and looked away into the big lost. Time ticked as she weighed a revelation. I waited, exhibiting calm and concern. While weighing retribution. Those SOBs.
“One of them touched me.”
Fire rose, unbridled, but held inside. An outward expression of fury wouldn’t help.
“I picked up Kismet. Held her and cried. They asked about Marcus.”
I pulled her close, head against my shoulder. Her voice lowered.
“Three of them. They surrounded me. Close.”
I rocked her, slow, and kept quiet.
“One of them asked me how long it’d been since I’d had a man. Then he touched me. While I held Kismet!” She shuddered and wiped her eyes on my shoulder.
I hammered down physical manifestations. I wouldn’t clench, flex, or display any outward sign of my fury. She’d notice it. And wouldn’t elaborate.
“Touched you how?” I tried a clinical approach, waited, and continued rocking her.
“He grabbed my butt.”
“And?”
“And slid his other hand between me and Kismet. Grabbed my breast.” She shuddered again, held back a sob. A sob not of loss, but pain and anger and terror.
“Which one of them?”
“All three pressed against me.”
“I understand. Which one?” She held back any identifiers. I suspected the reason, but this went well beyond her concerns. I’d pay them a visit—a midnight rambler visit—and one of those bastards would get special treatment. She shook her head against my shoulder. I changed tactics. Kept her talking.
“What did the sheriff say?”
“They said Kismet threatened them. Threatened them! So they were well within their rights.”
“Did you tell the sheriff about the attack?”
She pulled away and wiped her nose again. “Don’t use that word.”
“They attacked you. Period.”
“No. Don’t. Because it shoves everything into a different realm. At least as far as you’re concerned.”
She had that right. I returned to more neutral turf. “Did you tell the sheriff?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“And?”
“He said they denied everything. My word against theirs.”
Not unexpected. Scum knew how to work things, float above the law.
“He’s a good man, Case. Not his fault.”
I didn’t doubt her assessment and didn’t doubt the sheriff let those SOBs know how he felt about the situation. Still, his hands were tied. Mine weren’t.
“Which one did it?”
I’d never know if it was revenge, a desire for justice, or burning anger that drove her answer.
“He had a tattoo of a swastika on one side of his neck. A long knife on the other. Both blue.” She answered while staring into the distance.
“I’ll go talk with them.” The die was cast, retribution assured.
A plan mulled over at the Solid when Marcus first told me. Nothing definitive, lots of options. Until now. The Irene attack kicked off the escalation clause of Case Lee’s scum-removal contract.
She grabbed the front of my jacket. “No. Please don’t. I don’t want that. They’re dangerous.”
Those punks didn’t know dangerous. But the
y were going to learn.
Maybe it was the jaw muscles working, or the change in my eyes. But she picked up on it and released my jacket. “It will get out of hand. Don’t. Please don’t.”
“Irene. Look at me.” She did, and wiped her nose again with the overused tissue. “You don’t hide from these things. You face it. Take care of the situation.”
“I don’t want you to kill them.”
There it was. A gathered perception, huge, slapped on the table. I fooled myself into thinking I didn’t know why or how such an assumption could be drawn. For a few seconds. But reality—life’s incursion on our personal hopes—settled in. She knew, at a gut level, my background, my proclivities. For a fact, she knew.
“No. No killing.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Unless they fire first.”
She nodded understanding.
“And don’t call Marcus,” I said. “That’s important.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. And I’ll be back shortly.”
I walked her quarter-mile drive toward the gravel road traversing this portion of the county. Enter their place through the main entrance. Walk up in plain view. No barbed-wire fence hopping. I seethed over the incident. The “can’t touch us” attitude those scumbuckets adopted. The rip in the peaceful fabric of my blood brother and Irene’s daily lives. Trash. Human trash.
The three-act play would commence. Formulated and based on human behavior. Backdropped with violence of the intense variety. Act one—establish the players. Them, and me. Crank up the hostility and ill-intent factor. Act two would soon follow. Peg the threat meter. Get them jacked, prepped. And tonight, act three. Take out the garbage. While ensuring no connectivity with Irene or Marcus. They might suspect it, but I’d do my damnedest to shade that bond.
Thirty minutes later act one kicked off. I approached the old shack and collection of dilapidated trailers. Two seen-better-days pickups clustered at the center, along with a sedan. A young man with a rifle approached.
“What do you want?” Belligerent, frosted with the assuredness of weaponry. A punk. A bully. And I couldn’t stand bullies.
The other four heard his call toward me and exited trailers and old man Tannenbaum’s shack. Each displayed firearms of one variety or the other. I made a mental log of their type and condition. A swastika and some type of white power flag were hoisted up two makeshift flagpoles. The material snapped with the increasing breeze.
“I’m curious,” I said, addressing the group. No women or kids. A blessing. It made pest removal easier.
They looked among themselves, shrugged shoulders. “Curious about what?” one of them asked.
“Curious where you folks were headed next.”
“What do you mean, headed next?”
I scanned the place, registered layout and flow. “Leaving, shithead. Departing. To infect another part of the country.”
I strolled over to a stack of lumber. Two-by-fours and three-quarter-inch plywood. The lumber end markings indicated several sources. Steel bands were sprung, boards and sheets of plywood spilled on the ground. The varied markings and mishmash of lengths and sizes indicated stolen lumber lifted from several construction sites.
“You boys stole this lumber. That’s not good.” I smiled toward the crowd. Teeth showed but not an ounce of friendliness in the eyes. “No, no. Not good at all.”
Several of them glanced at each other. “Bought and paid for,” said the one with the most belligerent presence. “And we’re not going anywhere. But you are.”
Close-cropped hair topped a badass stance. And two neck tattoos. One of a swastika, the other a knife. Both blue. “I bet you’re the long-lost relative of Mr. Tannenbaum,” I said. “My, I know he’d be so proud knowing how you turned out.”
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, a sneer plastered across his face. This guy came across as someone who’d never had his ass kicked. That would soon change.
“A neighbor. From across the road.” I pointed toward property the opposite direction of Irene’s. I left the piled lumber and walked into the middle of their semicircle. They stood thin, pasty. Eyes filled to the brim with malice. A malice driven by sick hate. Irrational hate. “So back to my question. Where are you pieces of trash headed next?”
“And I told you,” neck tattoo said. “We’re not leaving. You are.”
“Oh, I will. For a while. But I’ll be back.”
“Get off my property, asshole.” He spoke with the weight of legal possession. “And we’ll find out where you live. Bet on it.”
The implied threat brought more head nods and false bravado. Time for added spice. I squatted on my haunches, semi-surrounded. An act I was trained to avoid. If a safety snicked off or a round chambered, the .45 would appear. A fine line. But these were cowards. Lowlife flecks, dependent upon group courage and support.
Their feet shifted, confused at my adopted position. I found a small stick and sketched on the hard-packed ground. Faint figures, meaningless. But the act, the presentation, sent a message. I was off, strange.
“And we shoot trespassers,” another said, lifting his rifle. I continued to scratch dirt.
I shifted, arms wrapped around my legs, and hummed a bit of a song. The message was clear—there was something bad wrong with this guy before them. Their feet scuffled again, off-kilter, exhibiting nervous crowd reaction and tinged with fear of the unknown. The weird. Wind blew, a tarp rattled. A piece of garbage—plastic wrapper—skittered through us.
I stood and dusted hands on jeans. “My, my. So much to do. I’d best be going.”
Seven paces later I turned and sprinkled serious danger over crazy. “Oh. Forgot to mention. I’ll personally see to it you leave.”
“Good luck with that.” Several of them exchanged nervous laughter.
“Maybe today. Or better yet, tonight. But soon. Very soon.” I smiled, wide. Eyes filled with ill intent locked with each of them, one at a time. “Nighttime is the right time, my children. Sleep well. Or not.”
I wanted these clowns on full alert. Doing their version of standing guard during the night. Taking them one at a time in enclosed spaces—trailers or the shack—invited too many risks. Get their punk asses into the open, at night. Then bring down the hammer.
Their dirt drive crossed a small coulee, a ravine, where it joined the gravel county road. The coulee ran parallel to the road. They’d talk among themselves at my departure, building resentment and badassery. Then they’d come looking, armed, and intimidate me. Because they could.
Time for act two. Peg the threat meter. I slid into the coulee alongside the county road, a couple of hundred yards from their enclave’s entrance. Opposite Irene’s direction. Hunkered among the sagebrush and waited. They’d scramble to find me in short order. A lone man walking these remote roads and hills. An easy target.
Ten minutes submerged among the sagebrush alongside the road, and the rattle of a vehicle carried above the wind. They ventured forth, demanding—commanding—respect, bellies full of righteousness. The pickup skid to a stop where their dirt entrance road T-boned the county road. Two of them. Neck tattoo drove. No one in sight, so they turned right and stomped the accelerator. Wrong direction. They’d be back.
Five minutes and tires-on-gravel headed my way. I pulled the .45. They flew along the road, hell-bent on finding the strange man who invaded their compound. Who walked in and threatened them.
I waited belly-flat, hidden, the .45 ready. As the pickup flew past I fired a single shot. Hit the near rear tire sidewall. The pistol’s report blasted loud, shocking. They freaked.
Someone had shot at them! So they floored the accelerator and fled toward a collection point. A reconnoiter place away from gunfire. The flat tire didn’t allow them much distance. They skidded, turned off the engine, and bailed into the road ditch. Each carried a rifle. Idiots.
My morning work was done, the curtain drawn on act two. I crawled along the coulee until it inte
rcepted another ravine and headed into adjoining hills. Took a circuitous route back to Irene’s. I’d wait for nightfall.
They’d hide in the ditch for an hour or so, boost each other’s bravery, and run back to the collection of trailers and Tannenbaum’s shack. Then fidget and wonder and bolster bravado. And plan. Change the shot tire, elevate the group badass attitude, and perform their amateur version of establishing a perimeter. Protect their turf. Safety in numbers and we won’t be intimidated. They had that wrong. Big-time.
The day was fine but cool, and chilled when wind gusted. Snow remained against the north shadowed sides of coulees. Green grass peeked, even through the snow. I unbuttoned my jacket, the brisk hike warming. I wore a smile and edged toward humming the seven dwarves off to work song from the old Disney movie. And caught myself. Sure, leading those clowns by the nose through acts one and two—simple enough. But act three opened tonight. Against armed men, fingers on triggers. Act three failed the lighthearted test. Grim business, but hours away. I afforded myself a touch of smug satisfaction.
“I heard a shot!” Irene waited on her covered front porch, Adirondack chairs scattered about. She rushed toward me, dropping her wraparound blanket on the chair. Along with the deer rifle she held. She met me a dozen paces down her drive. “What happened? Anyone hurt?”
“No one got hurt. Promise.”
“So what was with the gunshot?”
“A motivator. An assurance they’d be waiting tonight.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“For me.”
She gripped my arm and pulled me onto the porch. “I don’t know, Case. I don’t know. We should get the sheriff on this or get Marcus involved. Without gunfire.” Her eyes remained puffy, having shed recent tears over personal violation, over Kismet, over frustration at ugliness visiting her domain.
“We’ve talked about the sheriff.”
“Let’s talk with Marcus.”
“No can do. Don’t mention it to him. Any of it. Until tomorrow morning.”
“Why?” She pushed me into a chair. “You want coffee? Why not tell Marcus?”
