Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  I settled for a Lone Star. When I put two dollars on the bar, the barkeep said, “On the house. Boss’s orders.”

  “Consider it a tip, then.”

  He checked to see if DJ was watchin’, then pocketed the bills. When he moved down the bar to take another order, he took RD’s pi’ture along. In a few minutes, one of the bar’s regulars pushed his MGD down the bar toward me an’ said, “Hear you’re lookin’ for Ash Jackson.”

  I said, “That’s right. Seen him?”

  “No, but I saw his truck over in Okra. Out front of Calamity Jane’s.”

  “Sure it was Ash’s truck?”

  “Big, new, shiny, black 250, with mudders an’ a beefed up suspension, a blue garter on the rearview, a Landoll in the back window, an’ a bumper sticker that says: INSURED BY SMITH & WESSON?”

  “That’s it. How long ago?”

  “A week, maybe.”

  Calamity Jane’s

  The town of Okra’s a kinda white-trash poor relation to West Wheeling. It’s closer to the interstate an’ the city, so it tends to filter out most of the rough trade an’ riffraff ’fore they get down our way. It’s got a XXX-rated movie house an’ a strip joint, but also a first-rate steak house—you take the good with the rest.

  Calamity Jane’s is a Country an’ Western bar on the northeast side, a place where—rumor has it—they don’t think highly of the Law. It’s also out of my jurisdiction. I was countin’ on not bein’ recognized without my uniform. My cover story was that Roger Devon owed me money, an’ I’d pay ten bucks to find out where to collect. I also held out that Ash Jackson had insulted my sister an’ I was gunnin’ for him as well. To make it look like I was fixin’ to wait all night if necessary, I fed a handful of quarters to the jukebox an’ sucked down a couple of beers.

  I had plenty of time to study the place. It had “real” C&W atmosphere—most of which was home-rolled. The restrooms were labeled BULLS an’ HEIFERS, an’ there was a brass footrail on the bar, a pair of long horns over the door to the back room, an’ spittoons scattered ’round in corners. Half a dozen local hustlers was passin’ the same twenty around over a pool table in the back. Two old codgers was playin’ checkers under a wagon wheel chandelier, an’ a older woman, sittin’ at the bar, was drinkin’ herself into oblivion.

  I played Dolly an’ Reba ’til they started soundin’ the same, an’ the Old Style was givin’ me a hangover without givin’ me a buzz. The evenin’ was startin’ to look wasted.

  Then a couple of rowdies come in spoilin’ for a fight. One was the perfect urban cowboy, down to his snakeskin boots an’ matchin’ vest. He started it, puttin’ a arm around the older lady. When he tried to kiss her, the bartender got in the act.

  “Get the hell out!”

  “What’s she to you, Joe, your sister?”

  Joe hitched his thumb toward the door. “Beat it!”

  “Sez who?” the cowboy demanded.

  The second rowdy sneered, “Him an’ his army.”

  Cowboy held up his right fist. “His right army …” Then his left. “… Or his left army?”

  Joe started down the bar to where, I s’pected, he kept his equalizer stowed. The second rowdy must’a been thinkin’ the same thing, ’cause he vaulted over the bar to head him off.

  I looked around. The hustlers had put down their sticks an’ was watchin’ the show. Nobody else in the place seemed either sober enough to get what was goin’ on or inclined to give a damn. So I butted in.

  I stood up an’ swayed like a drunk. “Shay. Joe. ’Bout another …?” I let it trail off, like I forgot what to say. That done the trick. I had everybody’s attention. I leaned over the bar an’ delivered a diversionary left hook to the second rowdy’s jaw, then a hard right to his solar plexus. He dropped like Wile E. Coyote when he’d run outta cliff.

  The cowboy’s mouth fell open. “Who the hell are you?”

  I grinned. “I’m the Marines,” I said ’fore I decked him.

  Joe didn’t waste no time draggin’ the second rowdy out from behind the bar, right out to the parkin’ lot.

  I grabbed Cowboy under the armpits an’ called out, “Anybody know what these good ol’ boys is drivin’?”

  One of the checker players grinned at me. He looked two years older than dirt an’ was missin’ his teeth. “Rusty Ford with the camper an’ the sign that says: WIFE AND DOG MISSING—REWARD FOR DOG.”

  Joe an’ I agreed that neither of our new friends was in fit shape to drive home, so we relieved ’em of their keys—which we hid in their own glove box—an’ left ’em sleepin’ it off in the back of their truck.

  Back inside, Joe broke out a bottle of the good stuff an’ poured me a double shot “on the house.” He poured hisself one an’ we toasted “the Marines.”

  After we’d had a chance to savor the liquor, he said, “You lookin’ for work nights?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  He nodded. “Just a thought.” After another wait, he said, “Dan Underhill might know somethin’ about Ash.”

  “Where’ll I find him?”

  “He’ll be in around eleven.”

  Dan Underhill turned out to be someone I knew—on sight, if not by name. He was outta uniform, too, but I recognized him quick enough, even without his mirror shades. He was one of the stone-faced state troopers—AKA “The Sergeant”—that I do business with regular. Joe introduced us formal.

  “Dan, this here’s my friend,” he told Underhill. “—What’d you say your name is?” he axed me.

  “Vergil.” I wanted to say “Tibbs” but decided against it—in case Joe was a movie buff. “Vergil Smith.”

  Underhill managed to keep his face straight.

  Out of uniform—an’ with me vouched for by my new best friend—”Dan” was a regular guy. My C&W disguise hadn’t fooled him for a minute, but he was decent enough not to blow my cover. An’ he was pleased I was lookin’ for Ash.

  “Something you can lock him up for?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  He seemed hopeful anyway as I explained about our missin’ person, then he shook his head.

  “’Bout ten days ago, I had an unofficial complaint. Guy hadn’t seen Ash, but a few days before that he’d seen Ash’s truck in the lot, here, right before last call. He noticed a girl sittin’ in it, young an’ a looker. He wanted to buy her a drink, but the guy he was with recognized the truck an’ warned him Ash was trouble, even if the girl didn’t turn out to be jailbait. So this fella went about his business, but the more he thought about it, the madder he got, especially with Ash not bein’ an Okran. Since my informant’s married, he decided to let it go an’ just tell me. I’ve been watchin’ for Ash, but he hasn’t been back.”

  Later, I tracked down Underhill’s informant, who described Angie Boone to a T.

  Ash Jackson’s

  Andrew “Ash” Jackson got his name from the rumor his old man killed the ash tree growin’ out in their front yard by cuttin’ switches off it to use on Ash. Ash’s only visible means of support was a occasional odd job of the sort that’s short on effort an’ long on financial gain. An’ he weren’t known to be particular about ethics or legal niceties. He was such a good liar, he even fooled me sometimes, but he had so little respect for other people’s intelligence, he didn’t bother keepin’ his stories straight. If he had, he’d a been dangerous.

  Since nobody I’d axed about him’d seen him, I figured a little visit to his place would be in order. It’s out off County C, a half mile south of the east-west interstate. I headed out right after breakfast. The driveway’s a quarter mile long, unpaved dirt, just wheel ruts separated by foot-tall grass. The grass cleaned off the bottom of my car real well by the time I pulled up to the door.

  I sat in the car a while. Ash claimed to live alone, an’ his truck weren’t there, but just in case he had relatives stayin’, I wanted to give ’em time to git ready for visitors. Folks in these parts are the soul of hospitality, but they don�
�t take kindly to surprises. An’ they all have guns.

  The house’d been white once, prob’ly ’fore Ash was born. It was a small, wood frame affair with a porch across the whole front, shaded by the roof overhang. The house faces north, an’ moss completely covered the roof, which’d been shingled, but so long ago you couldn’t tell what color it’d been. After about five minutes, by which time I’d taken note of everythin’ there was to notice in the front, I got out an’ moseyed up to the front door. No one answered when I knocked. By this time, I was pretty sure no one would. The grass in the drive didn’t seem to have been disturbed in some time, an’ there weren’t any other signs of recent activity. Ash must’a been outta town.

  There wasn’t any fence or NO TRESPASSING signs around, so I sauntered ’round back, lookin’ in all the windows that didn’t have the shades pulled. Inside, I could see a big-screen TV an’ a state-of-the-art CD/stereo. Out back was a satellite dish. On the back porch under the eaves, in a padlocked cage welded together out of rebar, there was a gas-powered generator to run the equipment when County Power’s lines was down. Ash wasn’t doin’ too bad.

  I went back to the front an’ left a note shoved between the screen door an’ the jamb. It said, ASH, LOOK ME UP ASAP. DEPUTY SHERIFF DETERS

  Rye Willis

  Time I got back to County C, I was sure Rye knew more about Ash an’ the missin’ missionary than he’d been givin’ hisself credit for, so I decided to go straight to the horse’s mouth an’, if necessary, stick my flashlight down his throat. Rye’s place is as far out in the sticks as Ash Jackson’s, only on the other side of West Wheeling, so it took me the better part of an hour to get there. I ignored both the NO TRESPASSING sign an’ the one that said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.

  Mrs. Willis, Rye’s ma, was hangin’ the wash out when I pulled up in the yard. I took my time gettin’ out of the car so—in case there was anythin’ lyin’ around I shouldn’t see—they’d have time to get it outta sight. The house was as old an’ the same style as Ash’s, but newly painted an’ freshly shingled. There was a round table an’ two Adirondack chairs on the porch.

  When I finally come up to her, Mrs. Willis nodded an’ said, “Mornin’, Sheriff.” She kept clippin’ the clothes onto the line with spring pins. “This a social call?”

  “Not exactly, Ma’am. I need to talk to Rye.”

  “You gonna arrest him?”

  “Not if he cooperates.”

  She sighed an’ said, “I’ll get ’im.” She walked over to the porch an’ hefted a twenty-two that was leanin’ against the front doorjamb, an’ fired three shots into the ground. She put the gun back an’ said, “Might as well set an’ wait. Can I get you somethin’?”

  I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs. “I’d be obliged for a drink of water.”

  She nodded an’ went in the house. She come back with a tall, cold glass. The Willises have a well with the sweetest water in the state. If they ever lose the recipe for shine, they could make a fortune sellin’ their water to city folks an’ yuppies. I said, “Much obliged,” an’ drained the glass an’ give it back to her.

  She set it on the table. “I got to get back to work. Rye’ll be along directly.”

  He was. I saw his head poke out from behind one of the outbuildings, then disappear. Shortly afterward, he come out of the house with a brown an’ tan gallon jug an’ a glass. “What brings you out this way, Homer?” He poured his glass an’ my empty one half full from the jug, an’ picked up his glass. “Here’s to old friends an’ good likker.”

  I picked up my glass an’ nodded, an’ we both had a swig. It was some of his best stuff an’ it burned down to my tailbone. Then I proposed another toast. “An’ friends who don’t hold out on friends.”

  I thought he went a shade pale, but it could’a been the sun goin’ behind a cloud just then. He did look plenty uncomfortable. “Aw, Homer, you know I wouldn’t—” He slugged down the rest of his shine.

  I sipped mine an’ let him squirm a little while the likker done its work. Better’n truth serum, Rye’s brew. He refilled his glass an’ topped mine off.

  Finally I said, “I ain’t sayin’ what you tole me weren’t the truth, Rye, but it sure weren’t the whole truth.” I leaned towards him an’ lowered my voice. “I need to know what happened to that missionary fella.”

  This time, I was sure he went whiter. He swallowed an’ said, “Ash’ll kill me.”

  “You’re gonna have to decide if you’re more scared of Ash or me.”

  “Well, Homer, worst I figger you’ll do to me is shut me down …”

  I could see his point. Ash mightn’t be so forgivin’. So I hung a carrot in front of his nose. “How ’bout if I treat what you tell me as confidential? Ash wouldn’t have to know less’n we haul him into court on murder charges, an’ we won’t do that unless we’re sure we got ’im.” Then I showed him the stick. I said, real softly, “You know you want to be cooperative with the Law, Rye.” I didn’t have to mention his business’d suffer if he wasn’t.

  Rye looked like his best horse just foundered. I let him think about it long as he needed.

  Finally, he said, “Ash told me the missionary fella was turnin’ Angie Boone agin him, fillin’ her head with funny ideas. He said he was gonna run ’im outta the state.”

  The way Rye looked at me when he stopped talkin’, I could tell he was figgerin’ whether or not I’d buy that that was all there was to it. I said, “Rye, you ain’t even close to a decent liar, so don’t waste my time tryin’. Just gimme the facts.”

  He let out a big sigh, then got on with it. “He made me go with him to the mission that night, made me wait in his truck while he went in to persuade the missionary fella to get outta town. After a while, I see the guy’s car pull up next to the truck. Ash’s in the passenger seat, an’ the missionary fella’s drivin’. Ash tells me to follow ’em, an’ we proceed back to his place, where my truck’s parked.”

  Rye stopped an’ said, “I gotta have another drink.”

  “You gotta finish your story first.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s all there is.”

  I waited.

  “We get to Ash’s. He tells me I can go. So, I went. I never seen that missionary fella again, an’ I ain’t seen Ash recent, neither.”

  “If Devon,” I said, usin’ the missin’ man’s name for the first time in our conversation, “was alive an’ well when you last seen him, Rye, how come you’re so damn jumpy?”

  “I didn’t see nothin’, mind you. When we get to his place, Ash tells me what happens next is none of my business an’ to get lost. So I get in my truck an’ drive off.” There was more; I waited. Rye finally got to it. “Just about the time I get back to County C, I hear a shot. Just one.

  “Sounded like Ash’s old Winchester.”

  Grandpa

  “Grandpa, if you was tryin’ to make someone disappear in the county, where’d you put him?”

  Grandpa gave me a funny look, then shrugged an’ said, “Mine.” He meant one of the dozen abandoned mines hereabouts.

  “What I figured, too. Where else?”

  “Goode Swamp.” It took him a lot of breath to say that much, but he weren’t done.

  I tried to help out. “If I was tryin’ to make his car disappear, too, I’d drop it somewheres off Car Wrecks.”

  Grandpa nodded, meanin’ his whole upper body swayed forward an’ back.

  “Thanks, Grandpa.” He nodded again, just his head this time, an’ held up his coffee mug.

  I said, “Name your poison.”

  “Coffee.”

  I half filled the mug an’ put in milk an’ two sugars like he liked.

  He croaked, “Obliged.”

  I waited ’til he’d had a slug.

  He said, “Sump’n else?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, hunh. What’d you want?”

  I figured I might as well get it over with, so I just spit it out. “I’d like your permission
to court Miss Nina, sir.”

  Grandpa made a sound like, “Humph.” Then he started to shake like he was havin’ some kind of fit, then he started on a coughin’ jag, an’ I knew he was laughin’ his head off. I just stood there an’ waited ’til he got his breath an’ hauled out his bandanna. He wiped the tears from his eyes an’ hawked into it an’ put it back in his pocket. When he started to answer me, he started laughin’ again, an’ it was some time ’fore I could make out what he was sayin’.

  “Boy, if you’re fool enough to try courtin’ Nina, God help you. I sure as hell ain’t gonna get in yer way.”

  Car Wrecks

  Car Wrecks is a two-mile stretch of county highway runnin’ along our local river, which is a tad wild at that point with zigzags an’ ten or fifteen streams feedin’ it by way of ravines an’ steep-sided gullies. The half of ’em that the road crosses have bridges of one sort an’ another. Between the zigzags an’ the bridges, there’s plenty chance for careless or suicidal drivers to kill theirselves; plenty of ’em take it. An’ with all of it, there’s plenty places a car can go off the road an’ never be found. Over the years, killers an’ car thieves’ve learned to take advantage of this handy feature. I guessed that if Roger Devon’d disappeared by accident, suicide, or murder, there was a good chance it was into Car Wrecks. So after talkin’ to Rye an’ Grandpa, I had lunch, then got a rope an’ my binoculars an’ headed out there. I decided to be systematic; I started at the end closest to Ash’s place.

  After a month, most of the clear signs of a car goin’ off the road’d be gone. The trees had leafed out; grass had growed taller; the couple good storms we’d had had washed any tracks away. Huntin’ for a wreck consisted of parkin’ my squad where it’d be least likely to get hit, an’ walkin’ along the shoulder with my field glasses lookin’ for man-made stuff down in the gullies. Every time I spotted somethin’ I couldn’t identify, I’d climb down for a look-see. To make things easier next time I hadda do a search, I hauled a lot of stuff up to the road. It was hot an’ dusty work. My knees an’ knuckles got skinned, an’ my uniform was trashed. It took me two hours to go just half a mile, coverin’ only the north side of the road. I’d just crossed to the south side an’ started back toward my car when I spotted somethin’ large an’ gray, an’ mostly hid by brush down below.