Bad Reputation: The Complete Collection

by Matt Hader

  Dwayne could not repair their weakened relationship from behind bars, so he decided that he needed to let her go in hopes that she could move on and live her own life. Dwayne imagined Waynelle now as a wealthy housewife, doting over two children and driving around town in a big SUV of some sort. The image warmed his heart.

  As the Lake Geneva cop pulled up to the sally port of the police station, Dwayne faced an extremely unsettling and confusing vision. Standing next to the maroon 1970 LeMans, now parked in the lot of the police station, was a guy named Tubby Turner.

  Tubby was a crooked-toothed rail of a man. He stood six feet-four inches tall and weighed a mere 143 pounds. His real name was Tilman Tilford Turner, but his cousin, injured ex-Kentucky trooper Tommy Deaton, gave him the not-quite-literal nickname when they were kids. Dwayne recollected that the bird-like Tubby was always armed with a chrome-plated .44 revolver.

  Dwayne knew that Tubby was Trooper Deaton’s cousin, and the last time he remembered seeing him was when he groped his girlfriend Waynelle in the town of Jackson. He also recalled making quick work of the skinny and dangerous man that day. Dwayne swiftly tugged the .44 revolver out of Tubby’s hand; pistol whipped him with the gun, and then followed that up with a couple of lightning-fast gut punches. After the dust settled, Dwayne popped opened the pistol’s cylinder and unloaded it into the dirt. He tossed the gun aside and said, “You walk wide circles around Waynelle from here on out.”

  That was over 17-years ago.

  What in the hell was Tubby doing here, on this day, at this time? As the cop car was just about to pull fully into the sally port, Tubby smirked at Dwayne, made the universal gun-in-hand signal, and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Dwayne, now dressed in a baggy, ill-fitting orange jump suit, experienced an odd mix of emotions. A burly Walworth County deputy who manned the property cage handed him back all of his personal belongings. Dwayne’s mind raced the entire time he was in the jail, wondering why Tubby was there the day he entered the institution. And why in the hell he was released only two days after his arrest and incarceration.

  Heft-wise, the entirety of Dwayne’s belongings didn’t amount to all that much. There was a tattered faux-leather wallet, a knock-off Timex watch, and the clothes he wore upon his arrest. But when the deputy lifted a bundle of $50s and $20s wrapped tightly in a clear plastic police evidence bag into view, Dwayne’s only thought was that he had to get the money back to John Caul. It wasn’t Dwayne’s loot, so there was no way that he could keep it for himself. He’d get the dough back to John and then figure out what Tubby was doing at the jail.

  “I don’t get why you’re lettin’ me go free,” said Dwayne, confused. “It’s Salisbury steak night, and all.”

  The deputy ignored him and went about completing his paperwork.

  Dwayne quickly counted the money but had trouble concentrating. He tried like hell not to allow any confusion to seep through. What in the world was going on? He figured that he would’ve been locked up here in Wisconsin for at least five years after copping to being the very prolific “Baby Face Robber.” Now they were giving him all of the money back, too?

  Dwayne finished counting. The stack was $750 short.

  “You should count five thousand dollars,” said the deputy.

  Dwayne hesitated, and then said, “Yes, sir,” knowing the amount was wrong. The clerk at the upscale hotel must’ve lightened the load from the original $5,750. Thinking back to the day when he returned the money, he recalled the prissy clerk quickly moving around the hotel’s front counter and out of view for a moment after the police arrived. He must’ve taken the money at that time. Dwayne really didn’t want to go back to the hotel and hit the clerk up for the additional $750, though. The poor jackass probably needed his share after what he’d been put through. Twice.

  The deputy motioned to a sheet of paper on the counter between them and handed Dwayne a pen, “Sign here saying you’ve received your property, sir.”

  Dwayne signed, tucked his folded clothing under his arm and picked-up the stack of bills.

  “Still don’t get why I’m being let go,” said an adamant Dwayne.

  “Right. Well, we finally got the old surveillance tapes from the previous robbery, sir. You’re not the man. You’re much smaller than the real Baby Face Robber, and the amount given back was incorrect,” said the deputy.

  The deflated Dwayne just stood there. “Huh,” was all he could muster.

  “You have a ride, sir?” asked the deputy.

  Dwayne was lost in thought.

  “Sir?” said the deputy.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m all set, officer,” said Dwayne.

  An hour-and-a-half earlier, Dwayne used his allotted phone-call to solicit a pick-up. He called his sister, Amy. “Take your time, sis. They’re saying that it’ll take a while to process me outta this place,” Dwayne had said.

  All throughout his ordeal in Walworth County, Dwayne couldn’t believe how courteous the jailers in Wisconsin were. In the Kentucky penitentiary where Dwayne served 17 of his 20-year sentence for felonious assault on a police officer, the treatment would best be described as, well, “less than.” With the near-daily gang fights combined with complacent prison guards who were unwilling to break up the brawls, it was a wonder anyone got out of there alive.

  Dwayne was normally a comical and friendly sort, but his short-lived freedom following his release in Kentucky confused and confounded him at times. He was in search of something to guide him toward clarity in the autonomy department, but it hadn’t arrived yet. He thought that if he hooked back up with Waynelle in Jackson it could be the tonic he needed, but that was just not to be. Not yet, anyway.

  ***

  Dwayne stepped from the Walworth County jail, now dressed is his civvies and with the five Gs crowding his pants pockets. He inhaled deeply and let his mind drift momentarily. There were two tasks at hand. He knew that he had to get the money back to its sort of rightful owner, John Caul, and then figure out what in the hell Tubby was doing in Wisconsin. Those two jobs alone gave him enough purpose in life to remain out of prison - for now.

  He snapped out of his daydream and watched as a lone Harley rider sped past on the road outside the corrections facility. His mind lazily drifted back in time to his youthful days in Kentucky when he would build “Frankenstein” bikes made from a medley of junkyard parts and then rocket up and down the holler roads.

  Dwayne broke from his reverie and noticed that the burly deputy sat at a picnic table having a smoke break. Dwayne nodded to him and asked, “Officer, did I have anyone come and try to visit me while I was inside?” What Dwayne was really wondering was if Tubby had come calling while he was locked up. Seeing the rangy Kentuckian two days before was extremely unsettling for Dwayne and had been eating at him. Something strange was in the air. He felt it in his gut.

  The deputy shook his head and said, “The logbook was clear for you, sir.” He then nodded toward the side parking lot, “Your ride is here, sir.”

  Dwayne turned and saw that his sister Amy’s car idled in the parking lot. Dwayne smiled his thanks to the Walworth County deputy and thought, “See. Polite sumbitches.”

  As he circled Amy’s car and opened the passenger door, a chrome-plated .44 revolver aimed at his belt buckle.

  “You are slipperier than a minnow’s dick, but here we meet again,” said Tubby with an Appalachian twang and a demented smile. “Hop in, partner. Let’s ride.”

  Dwayne hesitated, stood up straight, and caught the attention of the cigarette-smoking deputy. Tubby added, “Get the fuck in, or die. Your choice.” Dwayne painted on a fake smile, waved goodbye to the deputy, who politely waved back, and got into the car.

  “Put those on,” said Tubby, as he nodded to a pair of handcuffs in the center console. He slid the car into gear and they dro
ve away.

  “Tubby, where’s my sister?” asked Dwayne, trying to remain calm.

  “They call me “T” now. Just T, okay? She’s fine. Just a little tied up. This ain’t about her,” said Tubby. “Man, look at you. The years have not been your friend, friend.”

  Dwayne knew that if Tubby handcuffed him, he wouldn’t have a fighting chance in hell of getting away. Cutting to the chase, Dwayne quickly surmised the situation. “Tubby, that was all a long time ago. Your cousin Deaton’s moved on. No need to rip open them wounds again,” said Dwayne.

  “This ain’t entirely about Deaton,” said Tubby. “Cuffs. Now.”

  Once his wounds healed, all those years ago, ex-trooper Tommy Deaton landed a cushy job at a Jackson bank. Following a year working as a teller, and another as a loan officer, Deaton was promoted to vice president. He walked with a limp from his violent run-in with Dwayne, but the ex-cop had an eye for making profit and the bank rewarded him for his talents.

  When Tubby heard that Dwayne was briefly in Jackson looking for Waynelle after his release from prison, he advised his cousin, ex-Trooper Deaton, that he was going to take Dwayne out for good. “No one does that shit to my cousin and lives,” said Tubby.

  Deaton pleaded with him and said, “Tubby, I’m making five times more money at the bank, and I don’t have to deal with all that bullshit. Don’t screw this up for me.”

  But Tubby, like many of the prideful residents of his small Appalachian hometown, never appreciated being told what to do.

  Tubby maneuvered the car left out of the jail’s parking lot and looked for a spot to pull over and dispatch Dwayne. There were several clumps of wooded areas along the road, each of them separated by wide spaces of open farmland. Tubby figured he’d find a stand of trees a mile or so down the road to use as cover, get Dwayne out of the car, shoot him in the head, and be on his way.

  “Deaton told me to stay the hell away from you,” said Tubby, sucking a bit of beef jerky and Cheeto remnants from between his teeth. “But he ain’t my boss. This car handles like shit, man. Put the cuffs on, brother, or I’ll pop you while I’m driving. I’ll shoot you in the fucking eye, I swear. Don’t give a shit about no mess. Ain’t my car.”

  To make his point he let his foot off the accelerator and jabbed the barrel of the pistol into Dwayne’s ribs. And that’s when Dwayne sprung into action. He turned away from the gun barrel, swung the cuffs in a whipping manner, and slapped Tubby hard on the bridge of the nose. The strike made a loud audible clinking noise – metal against bone. Tubby screamed, let go of the steering wheel, dropped the gun, and grabbed at his face as the blood flowed. ”What the hell, man!” screamed Tubby.

  Dwayne shoved his left shoulder in tight next to Tubby, grabbed the steering wheel and guided the gliding car off the road and into an abandoned barnyard’s gravel lot. He got up and over the middle console, levered his left foot in between Tubby’s legs and jammed on the brakes. Tubby’s head snapped forward and his face bounced off the steering wheel.

  Dwayne put the car into park, found the gun on the floor, grabbed it and said, “Get out, you idiot.”

  Tubby, wild-eyed, bleeding profusely from the bridge of his nose and from his nostrils, shoved his way out of the driver’s door with Dwayne right on his heels.

  “You can’t stop true love, Dwayne. You can kill me, but you can’t stop true love.”

  “Tubby, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s T now, god damn it! Call me T! I do what I say I’m gonna do, brother. Always have. I told Deaton once you got free, I’d take you out for good. Then I’m gonna head out west to Calif-” Tubby stopped himself cold from saying any more. He made a face like everything was okay and that Dwayne didn’t hear his last remark. If he had known how to whistle, here’s where he wished he could casually blow out a tune.

  Tubby had the bad habit of nervously talking way too much, especially when faced with tense situations, like a brewing fist fight – of which Dwayne and Tubby had the displeasure of participating in a time or two in the distant past.

  “Keep talking, Tubby,” said Dwayne with a knowing smirk. “We’ll figure this all out right here.”

  Tubby learned over the years that he did, indeed, have a major case of verbal diarrhea under stress. This time, however, he really needed to keep his mouth shut. His eyes darted left, then right – finally settling on a target.

  Tubby lowered his head and readied himself for an assault. “Tubby? Don’t,” said Dwayne.

  Tubby angled away from Dwayne and ran headlong into the side of Amy’s car, denting the back quarter-panel and instantly knocking himself out cold. It was the only defensive move he could make to keep quiet.

  “God, you are a stupid son of a bitch,” said Dwayne. He rifled through Tubby’s pockets looking for clues. He found a sizable roll of cash, a cell phone, and a room key on a plastic chain for a cheap motel on Route 14 in Balmoral, Illinois.

  Dwayne left the cash, the gun, and Tubby lying in the gravel lot. He scrolled through the cell phone’s call history but there were only five calls displayed, all to and from “Mom.” When he checked the texting history, though, Dwayne lost his breath momentarily. He ignored several texts that were from “Unknown” - because one of the texts was from “Waynelle.” It read: ‘Ollies got me! Californias so fer away T.’

  Unfortunately, Dwayne knew a thing or two about Ollie Turner, Tubby’s brutish older sister, and how she operated. Tubby’s sister was even more ornery than Tubby. She once served hard time for manslaughter in the beating death of an ice cream stand operator who gave her a vanilla instead of the chocolate cone she ordered. The text seemed ominous to Dwayne, but it had a smiley face emoticon at the end and that confused him. Dwayne called Waynelle’s cell phone, waited a moment, and then heard her speak for the first time in many years. Her cute and sexy voice oozed from her outgoing message. It said, “Hey, ya’ll. Please leave a message when the little beepy thing beeps. Bye-bye!” When the phone beeped, Dwayne disconnected the call. He pocketed the phone and the cheap motel room key and got into Amy’s car and peeled away.

  ***

  An hour later, Dwayne slid the car to a hard stop in the parking lot of the Kid Crew franchise in Balmoral where his sister, Amy, worked. He launched himself from the driver’s door and barged into the whimsically decorated building, screaming, “Amy? Amy, are you here?”

  “Yup,” she said, quietly, from behind the colorfully painted front counter. “Untie Me.”

  Dwayne rushed over to free her from the front counter support post where she was tied hand and foot. “He’s a moron, but I think he’s serious about taking you out,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, sis,” said Dwayne as he untied her. “Sorry you got in the middle of this.”

  She hugged him and said, “He was going to shoot me if I didn’t give him my car. Did you kill him?”

  Dwayne shook his head and said, “He’s fine. But now I know why I didn’t find Waynelle in Jackson. I think that sumbitch hijacked her.” He rubbed his forehead and continued, “After I got out of the pen, I went looking for her, but she was gone, so I came here looking for you.”

  “Waynelle Stidham?” asked Amy.

  Dwayne hesitated - nodded.

  “Oh, no, Dwayne, don’t get caught up in that Jackson bullshit.” She stood, stretched, and said, “How did he know where you were?”

  Dwayne had pondered that same question throughout the ride from Wisconsin to Balmoral, as well as for the past two days while he was locked up in Walworth County. “It’s been eatin’ at me, too, sis.” The only local cop he knew, the type of individual who could have that type of access to law enforcement information, was Jimmy Caul, John’s brother. But why would Jimmy, the Balmoral cop, tip off Tubby? That didn’t even make sense.

  For the second time in just one day, Dwayne�
�s recidivism was pushed to the back burner, and the freedom-loving proactive side of his psyche overruled once again. He had to find out what happened to his old flame Waynelle Stidham. Deep down, he knew that he still loved the woman.

  In the text message Waynelle sent to Tubby, she said that Tubby’s sister took her. The Tubby and Ollie combination was just too much to ignore. That was that, Waynelle was in serious trouble, and Dwayne had to find and save her from the Turner clan.

  ***

  “He’s probably at the park, man. He cuts the grass on Tuesday,” said Larry, the cook at Dink’s Diner, as he placed an artfully presented plate filled with a colorful Denver omelet into the kitchen pass-through. “Order up!”

  “Of course, the park by the shitty motel,” said Dwayne to no one. “Should a gone there first.”

  “Hey, Dwayne! You escape?” asked Lou, the owner of the diner in his broken, Greek-influenced accent. “I thought you’d be-”

  “Yeah, me too, Lou. Sorry, but I gotta go and find John right quick. Take care, ya’ll,” said Dwayne.

  “Check out the Kid Crew, man. It’s looking great,” said Larry. “Really coming together now. Opening soon.”

  Dwayne nodded absentmindedly, stepped past a few diners in the booths and was out the door.

  A half-mile away, Dwayne walked past what looked like an unmarked cop car situated in the far corner of the park’s large lot. The driver’s window was rolled down, and as Dwayne turned, he saw someone in the car staring at him: a tough-looking and physically fit man wearing a casual blazer and stylish sunglasses.

  “Afternoon, officer,” said Dwayne.

  “Keep walking, dick-head,” said Shane Thompson, a detective with the nearby Paladin police department. Thompson knew that John Caul was the “Baby Face Robber,” and he made it a habit of following him from time to time to see if John would lead him to his stash of ill-gotten cash. Thompson wasn’t there to arrest Caul. He wanted the money for himself. So far, things had not worked out for Detective Thompson – but that hadn’t stopped him from continuing his pursuit.