Skunk Hunt

by J. Clayton Rogers

  And the Neighborhood Watch, even demented and armed, even if it had been out to suck blood, would have been preferable to the man in the broken straw hat behind the wheel.

  Dog somehow braked, parked and threw open the driver door in a single, violent movement.

  "What the..." I began.

  The panel door slid open and there crouched Carl Ksnip, smarming me with a greasy grin that would put me off sausage for weeks to come.

  "...hell," I finished."

  "Hop in, partner," Carl said, pushing up out of his seat with some effort. He seemed to be out of shape. I assumed he spent every night bench-pressing his female employees, but it had done him no good. Maybe they did all the work.

  His invitation was transformed into a command when Dog gave me a stiff push from behind and I landed face-first on the Astrovan floor.

  "Be a lot more comfortable if you sat," said Carl, pulling himself back onto the passenger seat, grunting the whole time like the pig he was.

  I began to back out, but changed my mind when Dog began sliding the door panel shut with the apparent intention of slicing off my leg. He jumped into the driver seat and we shot ahead. I was on my hands and knees, trying to figure out what direction to point myself, when Dog took a sharp turn without benefit of brakes and I tumbled back into the cargo space.

  "Told you to sit," shrugged Carl when I yelled in pain, my shoulder having slammed against the wall. He did not look very secure himself as he fumbled for his seat belt, a sign that he knew his chauffeur's driving habits all too well. I began to raise a fuss. There was a click as Carl cinched his belt. He twisted around, obviously annoyed by the effort. "If you don't shut up I'll have Dog put a bag over your head."

  This was borderline cinema. As in most cases when truth hits fiction, I had no choice except to suspend disbelief. Dog was forced to stop at the next traffic light. I was tempted to bolt out the back, but when I caught his eye in the rearview mirror I resigned myself to the kidnapping. I just managed to clamber into the seat next to Carl before the light turned green and Dog shot ahead.

  "Can I ask what's going on?" I said as I pulled the seatbelt harness across my chest.

  "It's a free country," Carl smiled.

  "Ain't nothing free in this country," Dog pointed out.

  "I wasn't speaking in fiscal terms," Carl said, his smile dipping into a scowl.

  "Fee country!" Dog barked, processing the pun with great relish. "Pay a helluva fee to live in a free country. The Injuns gave it for free, but it's been Wall Street ever since."

  "Can you keep your eye on the road?" Carl complained. His man Friday was deviating dramatically from the staid style of the River Road locals, drawing far too much attention from the drivers flung out of his path.

  I was surprised that Dog had a mouth on him. Egged on by fear and anger, I dug myself deeper into trouble. "Hearing you talk is like listening to a goldfish sing."

  Carl gave me a warning glance. But from what I could see of his face in the rearview mirror, Dog was seriously mulling over the imagery.

  "That's very purty," he concluded.

  Carl seemed relieved that his driver had not taken offense. There must be moments when he lost control of Frankenmutt.

  It finally dawned on me to repeat my original question. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Don't be a bonehead," Carl said, genuinely afflicted by my ignorance.

  "What happened to your pimp SUV?"

  "It attracts too much envy."

  "Penis envy, or just plain attention?"

  Carl's silence was a penthouse thunderclap, with emphasis on the clap. They knew about the money we had found in the pump house—that was the only explanation. They had followed me here the old fashioned way, without benefit of a tracking device. Once they were confident I wasn't planning to deposit the $20,000 in the bank, they swooped in for the kill. It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to. Why hadn't they stopped me outside my house? But I never have pretended to understand the criminal mind. I had never understood Skunk.

  I turned around, looking towards the back.

  "Dog would know if someone's following us," Carl said. "Hey Dog, is anyone following us?"

  "Nope," said Dog confidently.

  "No rescue, then," said Carl with a convincingly bogus shrug of resignation.

  But I had not been looking out the back window. I was studying the cargo space for evidence of electronic eavesdropping equipment. The GPS tracking device would have been small and portable. But what about all the cameras at the old farm house and pumping station? I would have imagined a pretty sophisticated setup of screens and remote receivers, like a TV station, taking up a good portion of the cargo space. But there was nothing in the back but a pick and shovel.

  A pick and shovel....

  My bones fossilized in an instant. I could only hope I wasn't alive when the cold dirt was shoveled on my head. I wasn't sure if Dog was a sadist, but he probably played with his food.

  Carl caught my expression and laughed. "Since we were coming to River Road, I thought I would have Dog dig up some petunias for my window planters. You came along before we had the chance."

  A flat-out lie. They couldn't have known in advance that I was headed for the riverside. Besides, kidnapping an interloper like me was a minor offence compared to stealing flowers from titty babies. Even these dumb coconuts wouldn't have taken the risk.

  Still, there was no reason for them to kill me. Maybe the garden implements were meant for show. They wanted me to be weak at the knees with fear before we reached our destination—as if the kidnapping itself hadn't done that already. By the time the formal questioning began I would be ready to spill the beans, my guts, and whatever other undigested anatomy that might be of interest to them.

  "Really, if you just want to ask—"

  "There's nothing to ask," Carl said curtly. "You backed out of our deal. 'Nuff said."

  "What deal?" I asked.

  "You want Dog to pull out your asshole before or after we brain you?"

  Things were getting rough. Rougher. Terminal roughage. Dog bounced a sour glance off the rearview mirror that seemed directed at Carl. I sensed he wanted to tell his alleged master he could do his own trash talk, thank you very much, and put more convincing bite into it.

  My ignorance was pounding me like the worst headache. I unreeled my last conversation with the dogmatic duo in an attempt to find evidence of a deal, but all I found were threats and coercion.

  Where Cary Street narrows to a single lane Dog made sure to beat every car trying to win the head of the line, then ripped down past Windsor Farms, another dotty enclave of wealth and privilege. We got stuck in the Carytown traffic and I seriously considered bolting. Carl seriously considered stopping me, proof of which came in the form of a gun that he pulled out and rested on his lap like a pet porcupine. There had been a couple of daylight shootings in the area, so plugging me wouldn't be unprecedented.

  Scared? You bet. But along with fear came a powerful resentment. There was a complete communications breakdown at work here, and I wasn't allowed to give my side of the story. And I wasn't too pleased with Barbara, abandoning me like this to her co-workers. Hey, pleasantry had been kicked in the butt, so why shouldn't I join in? These chumps were her pimps, plain and simple. Why they weren't decked out in fur bucket hats and fish tank shoes was a mystery.

  "I—" I began.

  "Shut up," said Carl. He petted the gun, which I found pretty repulsive. It was like he was jerking off, and didn't mind who watched. The situation was too fraught with lethal consequences to mention the inadequacies this gesture represented. "You have the most annoying voice I've ever heard. Do you know that you whine?"

  Oh great, he could openly insult me and I couldn't shoot back because I couldn't shoot back. All I could risk was a feeble protest. Uh...a whine.

  "A man should sound like he has a cock and balls," Carl continued. It was almost a rant. "A man should sound like he's ready to ram it up the first hot chick
he sees."

  Sounded a lot like rape to me. It was likely that Barbara had done a stint on his casting couch. I had a vomit-inducing vision of his flabby body on top of my sister. You don't form fond memories out of images like that. Carl's image as a likable rogue was heading south fast. A jerk with no redeeming qualities makes for a cookie-cutter villain. I think I muttered something to this effect.

  "What was that?" Carl glared.

  "Uh...nothing."

  "You said something."

  "I said, 'be kind, please rewind'."

  "Yeah? OK. Shut up and stop whining." He gave me an inquiring look. "When's the last time you got laid? I mean a real piece of ass, not like your brother."

  Dog barked something that sounded like a warning. Carl grunted and shrugged. It was an enigmatic exchange that meant nothing to me. Hadn't Dog told him about me scaling Ms. Everest? I thought they would have mined that for laughs all day. But what was that about Jeremy? Could my dear brother be a regular patron of Panty Free Zone? It wouldn't surprise me, except that there had been no hint of recognition at the farm house. I recalled the tense moment when Dog had plugged Jeremy with a gunload of blanks. Really bad chemistry from the get-go. Then again, maybe Jeremy had pulled out a gun because he knew too well the kind of people we were dealing with.

  Twice we passed police cruisers. I was so desperate I was tempted to toss my anti-cop upbringing and flag for help. Would Carl really shoot me with that kind of witness looking on? Actually, like a lot of people threatened by guns, I couldn't believe he would pull the trigger. It was all bluff, wasn't it? The problem with bluffs is when they cross the line. The fake becomes the real in a flash, almost by accident. Life on Earth began much the same way, I believe.

  I gave up on the police, who were only marginally better than the goons I was with. I would be exchanging one gun for an arsenal and put myself in a crossfire.

  We passed the nest of government office buildings put forward as evidence that Richmond was the capitol of Virginia and entered Shockhoe. Abraham Lincoln opened a big production in Shockhoe back in 1865, to mixed reviews. But I wasn't feeling very liberated.

  We drove past the front of the PFZ and circled to the alley out back. Oddly enough, my hopes rose as Carl hustled me out the door. Their intention might be to torture some kind of information out of me, but I doubted they would foul their nest with murder. Not only that, with the police raiding the gentleman's club on such a regular basis there was a chance I would be rescued before the proceedings got underway. As I was pushed inside, I caught a glimpse of a notice from the city plastered on the wall. A pesky reminder that Carl's liquor license had been revoked yet again.

  I began to sweat, and it wasn't just nerves. Either they kept the heat on in July or the building was constitutionally sultry. PFZ had opened for an early buffet, and as I was escorted up a narrow hallway we encountered a row of girls busily pulling tiny strips of spandex over their bumps and orifices. It looked as if Carl was too cheap to provide dressing rooms. Dog let out a low growl and they pressed against the wall to let us through. I caught my breath as I squeezed past them. Each patch of flesh that I more or less fortuitously brushed against raised my temperature, until the sweat was gushing. The air was heavy with scents that reminded me of jasmine and thyme. The girls seemed ready to smile in my direction, if only perfunctorily, but when they realized I was under guard they lowered their eyes. I got the impression I was not the first captive they had seen. 'Don't ask don't tell' was implemented fully on the premises.

  There was no sign of Barbara. With $20,000 in hand there was a good chance she had taken the day off. I wondered what my sister did to entertain herself. Go to the opera?

  A bright light ahead announced the stage, but Dog grabbed me before I could step out and make a spectacle of myself. We turned into another dimly lit hallway which opened onto a broad aisle lined with mirrors, makeup tables and wall lockers. I doubted the girls had come to work dressed as they were and wondered where they put their street clothes. The clothes hooks shimmered with filmy skin-huggers, spangled briefs, masks, and costumes. There was a leopard, a lioness, a phantom, plus the standard leather paraphernalia. There was even a costume of a giraffe. What kind of shows did they put on here, anyway? The atmosphere was saturated with pheromones. Under normal circumstances, two whiffs guaranteed an erection and three would send the average male over the top. At the moment, though, any change in underwear that I might require would result from peristaltic fear. I was being escorted deeper and deeper into the bowels of a sex club, past pleasure, past perversion, past Kinsey. I anticipated a realm of unadulterated pain.

  "Damn," Carl complained, wiping sweat off his face. "I shouldn't be doing this by myself."

  Dog, the perennially underappreciated employee, ogled him with incredulous disdain. The traditional comeback of the third-party onlooker went unspoken. It might be hard to find good help these days, but under the circumstances it was a case of 'far-be-it-for-me-to-say-so'.

  We arrived in Carl's bland, functional office. A metallic gray executive desk, dark wood, somber, bare walls. Why plaster it with pinups when all he had to do was step out the door? I found the ladderback chair in front of the desk alarming in the extreme. It was perfectly situated for tough interrogations. A turn of the lamp on the desk would put unwilling guests under the spotlight. 'Where were you on the night of...'

  I wasn't surprised when Dog shoved me into the chair while Carl slid into a high-backed executive chair behind the desk.

  "Think we should tie him up?" Carl asked Dog jovially.

  In response, Dog went to a nearby file cabinet and pulled out a length of rope. Jeez, I marveled, T for Torture. What else was in there? Whips and chains? These guys were clowns deluxe.

  "The cuffs might be neater," Carl sighed, like some back lot prophet dismayed that his acolyte had taken his parable too literally. OK, so maybe they didn't bind and gag all their interviewees, but that begged the question of why the rope was there in the first place. Maybe it was reserved for more refined moments. Maybe it was Carl's personal stash. I would have to check his wrists for rope burns.

  Dog reached into the cabinet and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Didn't they keep any files in there? What next, the French tickler?

  "I'll stay put," I gulped as Dog approached.

  "Not after we start on you," Carl said calmly.

  "What if I cross my heart?"

  "We'll do that for you." But seeing that they might get what they wanted without going to more effort, Carl relented and waved Dog off. The biscuit eater tossed the cuffs back into the cabinet drawer without comment. He knew I wasn't going anywhere, no matter what. Not until I spilled whatever it was I was supposed to spill. Besides, he was distracted when Monique charged into the office.

  Her heart-shaped pasties announced an abundance of love, both above and below. I don't care what the letter of the law says. This gal was naked. Her seamless sensuality gave me a hard rap on the head. From across the room I could smell something like confectioners' sugar. She was a walking funnel cake.

  "It's just a girl," Carl snapped. "Ogling is for paying customers."

  I would have thought employees got first dibs on merchandise, but it was obvious Carl was including Dog in his rebuke. Shoplifting among the staff is a chronic problem for retailers.

  With Dog so obviously losing his focus, I should have used the opportunity to make a break for the door. It would have provided Dog with the perfect excuse to become ensnarled with Monique as he chased me. Carl's gun lay on the desk, but the girl would have blocked his line of fire.

  Yes, I thought of this line of action. But a fine-looking girl in the flesh and in the raw isn't something I have the privilege of seeing every day. You might think I'm being juvenile about all this, but prurience is an instinct as strong as survival, and you can guess which won out. Well, you don't have to guess. I'm telling you. Sex won out. I had sometimes thought that, had sex been a weapon and had anyone bothered, I would have b
een killed long ago. I wondered if I should raise this possibility with Carl. Leave me in this room with Monique for half an hour, and I would walk out a corpse. Not only that, but I would spill the beans, so to speak.

  "You know better than to barge in here like this," Carl said to Monique.

  "Yeah, I know, and I know you shouldn't have me do my set in front of a bunch of pussywhips."

  "What are you talking about?" said Carl, puzzled. "This is the Panty Free Zone!" He seemed offended by the notion that his customers might be ill-mannered.

  "It's lunch time, for crying out loud!" Monique thrust her confectionary buffet in Carl's direction. "These are mostly state employees! They shouldn't be drunk."

  "So write the governor."

  "You don't even have a liquor license!" Monique stormed. "They're sozzled before they get here!"

  Being reminded that his liquor license had been revoked made Carl drunk with rage. He slammed his fist on the desk and howled, "Don't you have half a brain? We're lucky to get any saps at all without that license. Have you or have you not noticed: I've been reduced to serving buffets! The only difference between me and Aunt Sarah is you! So get out of here and get back on stage!"

  Monique was only mildly fazed by her employer's wrath. I suspected some form of protection beyond the presence of Dog, who was fit to be tied on hearing Carl yell at his lady-love this way. She probably could spread tales of his kinky sex habits. Something to do with gerbils, for example. Or maybe he wore his condoms backwards, with the doodads inside. Not out of preference, but stupidity.

  She didn't exactly stare Carl down, but held his gaze long and hard enough to let him know he was only a part-owner of his emotions. Her eyes drifted to Dog, all jittery from a kind of canine angst, a drooling act that could have made him the star of Animal Planet if any of us had seen fit to bring a camera. Judging from her expression, Monique had a bucketful of painful memories from past encounters. She quickly flicked those lovely spangled peepers away from him. They landed on me, the last of the sorry lot.