Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel

by Warren Williams

  Ear Ring grabbed the girl by the arm and yanked her from the chair. “We’re going.” Then to Jason, “I’ll see you later.” Pearl Stud dutifully followed the pair out the front door and the bar quickly grew quiet, the only sound being Spenser Tracy explaining something about monkeys.

  Jason took a seat at the table, drained his glass, and thought about his options. There was little doubt in his mind that Ear Ring would be waiting somewhere on the street or in the first alley, his buddy ready to back him up. But would he have a gun? Probably, hell everybody in Oklahoma owns a gun…or two…or three.

  “Ma’am,” Jason called out. “I’m gonna have to take off, much as I hate to. I’ll just put these pool cues back in the rack first.”

  The woman glanced his way for a moment, but didn’t say a word and went back to the Monkey Trial on TV.

  Jason picked up the two sticks, made sure the bartender wasn’t looking, and slipped one down his pants leg, the tip between his ankle and shoe. He covered the butt end with his shirt.

  “Bye now,” he said over his shoulder and waved as he stepped outside, “Been good talking to ya.”

  The streets of Boise City at midnight were as if civilization had been wiped from the face of the earth. Not one soul on the sidewalks, not a single vehicle traveled the street. Stores were dark, saving their electricity for livelier hours. A yellow cat, the only visible sign of life, strolled across Main taking his own sweet time. There was no sign of the pool players, yet Jason had the sensation of being watched. Stepping into a darkened doorway, Jason removed the purloined pool cue from his jeans and bent it across his knee about two feet from the tip. With a sharp tug and a snap of wood, he had a weapon. He gave his palm a satisfying whack and liked the feel of it. Again, he inserted the stick down his pants and along his leg, this time cinching his belt to hold the weapon secure.

  Jason began the long walk to Mrs. Stapleton’s sleeping room noting that just two blocks down, the street lights were turned off—Boise City’s way of saving on electric bills. That’s where it would happen, if it did. And it did.

  He heard the tires roll up behind him, easy to do since it was the only sound on the street. There were no headlights. Ear Ring jumped from the passenger side while Pearl Stud slammed an old Ford Bronco II into park and then joined up with his pal. The girl looked on from the back seat, her face a mixture of fear and excitement.

  “Did you really think I was gonna let you steal my money sum bitch?” Ear Ring growled. “Now, hand it over. We can do this hard or we can do it easy, your call.”

  Jason breathed a sigh of relief, there were no guns in sight.

  “Okay, I choose hard,” Jason said and grinned.

  Ear Ring blinked his eyes, not believing the nerve of this jerk, and took a step forward. Jason whipped out the broken cue stick and when Ear Ring raised his forearm in a defensive move, Jason shattered the man’s ulna with such force that the cracking bone could have been heard across the street, had there been anyone listening at that time of night. The consequent scream of pain was audible two blocks away but no one heard that either. As Ear Ring writhed on the sidewalk clutching his splintered arm, Pearl Stud, from somewhere deep inside, mustered up the courage to make a lunge at the stranger. It was yet another foolish move as Jason feigned a blow to the man’s family jewels, and when Pearl Stud dropped his hands, used the jagged end of the stick to slash the man’s cheek, splaying flesh and spraying blood. Then, just for good measure, Jason gave ol’ Pearl a bonk upside the head with the heavy end of the cue, dropping him to his knees where he slowly toppled over.

  The girl, still watching from the Bronco II, had her mouth open and eyes wide. Jason walked over to her and said, “Friends of yours?’

  “I know ‘em.”

  “Uh, listen, this might seem like an odd question considering…you know… that,” Jason said, indicating the carnage on the sidewalk, “but do you think you could give me a ride home?”

  The girl panned between the brash young man with the grin and her two acquaintances, one of whom was wiping the blood from his face with his Dallas Cowboys tee shirt while the other sat on the grass with his head down, making whimpering noises.

  “Okay,” Parakeet agreed. “If you don’t hit me with that stick.”

  “Deal.”

  It was less than an hour later, and to her great annoyance, that Mrs. Stapleton heard the all too familiar moans of pleasure emanating from her rented sleeping room. She made a mental note to add ear plugs to her shopping list.

  Chapter 12

  At just a few minutes past two a.m., the jangle of the phone signaled that sleep—at least for the human in the house—was over.

  “Harley, what person in his right mind would be calling me this time of night?” The dog didn’t move. “Sheriff Lester P. Morrison here,” Lester said with a sigh, swinging his feet to the floor and dreading what was probably coming next.

  “It’s Nelda, Sheriff, you know, from dispatch.”

  “My gawd, Nelda, don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I work the night shift, Sheriff, just like I’ve done for over a year now. I sleep in the daytime, when I can that is. Now hush up and listen.”

  “Go ahead if you must. Jesus.”

  “There’s been a wreck. A one car accident out on Highway 287 about ten miles southwest of Conrad. Another driver called it in.”

  “Nelda, I’m sure sorry to hear that, but why are you disturbing my beauty sleep? That’s a job for the Highway Patrol.”

  “I know that and I called them first. But they’re dealing with two other wrecks right now, one of ‘em an overturned semi that’s leaking some kind of flammable all over the road. Said it might be an hour before they could get to this one and to call you. I got an ambulance and a tow truck on the way. Don’t give me a hard time, you old buzzard, I’m just doing my job.”

  Lester softened. “I’m sorry, Nelda, but you know me, I can be sorta cranky in the middle of the night.”

  “No kidding? You want me to call Billy Ray or not?”

  “No, it’s his weekend off. I can still investigate a wreck by myself, despite being an old buzzard. Let the boy sleep. I’ll check back with you when I’m on the scene.”

  “All right, but be careful. Lots of things going on out there tonight. Must be a full moon.”

  Lester mumbled a few choice obscenities to himself, then dressed and headed for the front door. Harley raised his head, hoping that a late night snack might be in order, but it was not to be.

  “Guard the fort, dog. I’ll be back. Gettin’ too old for this shit.”

  Nelda had been right about the full moon. The countryside shimmered under the lunar glow, almost bright enough to drive without headlights.

  Maybe that’s what that poor fool in the wreck was doing, Lester thought as he turned south. He shook his head. Clear skies, dry pavement, how could anyone smash up a car on a night like this? Probably drunk, that’s usually the case, especially at two a.m. I’ll know in a few minutes I guess.

  Once again, his thoughts turned to Melissa.

  Where in the hell is she? Kid like her, should’ve come home by now, especially if the fuss was nothing more than a family feud. Got to be more to it than that. Albert? I bet he figures in it somewhere. Crazy bastard. I’m guessing sexual abuse or rape. That’d be plenty of cause for a young girl to not come home, keep on runnin’. But where would she go? Her purse and school I.D. were still in her closest. Is Mrs. Parker telling all she knows? Doubt it, especially if Albert’s involved, scared of him like she is, the man being a domineering jerk and stupid to boot. Damn fool stunt he pulled at the farm, pointing that shotgun like he did. It’s a wonder Billy Ray didn’t shoot him between the eyes. Would have been justified too.

  The highway was as straight as a painter’s plumb line and with no headlights as far as the eye could see prompting Lester to up his speed to 75. He hit the switch for the red and blue’s on top of the pickup—lest some late night drinker didn’t see him coming—b
ut left the siren off. Lester hated that noisy bitch of a siren. Twelve minutes later and just after topping a small hill, the familiar flashing lights of an accident scene were making shambles of the once beautiful night sky. Lester parked on the side of the road, left his emergencies on, got a half dozen orange traffic cones from the bed of the truck, and spaced them up and down the highway. A car had come to rest in a field, leaving a path of uprooted brush and weeds from the edge of the blacktop and across a shallow ditch before taking out a couple sections of barbed wire fence, one of the posts having left a deep vertical crease in the front end. Spotlighted as the car was from the ambulance and wrecker, it had the appearance of a ghostly metallic dragon, defeated in battle, with steam spewing from what was left of the radiator. It didn’t take much of an investigation to determine the primary cause of the wreck. A whitetail deer had taken out the entire windshield of the Chevy Cavalier, its lifeless body wedged halfway inside the car, legs and hooves now pointing out and up, toward the stars. Evidently, the Chevy, with its low-angled hood, had slipped beneath the belly of the animal on initial impact, leaving the glass and the driver to take the brunt of the massive collision.

  The EMT’s had the victim on a gurney, strapped down, and loaded in the ambulance. A young woman, not unattractive, with spiky red hair and wearing a dark blue shirt with a medical emblem on the sleeve stepped out and sprinted toward the sheriff. Lester didn’t know her name but had seen her before in situations such as this. Her clothes were covered in blood.

  “It’s a one car, one passenger wreck Sheriff. We have a young male in bad shape with multiple facial lacerations, and likely with neck and spine injuries. He has a pulse but he’s unresponsive. That’s all I got for you right now. We’re leaving,” she said and raced away.

  “Thank you darlin’, Lester called out. The woman gave a backward wave, and jumped into the waiting ambulance, barely finding her seat before the siren wailed and the driver punched the gas. With the ambulance out of the way, a tow truck with Showman Wrecker Service and Body Shop in white lettering on the side, pulled into position to make the hook up. Charlie Showman stepped down from the driver’s seat and walked around the wreck. He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket and began removing the barbed wire from the little Cavalier while checking for other potential problems. He decided to ask for help with the most obvious.

  “Sheriff, do you think you could help me get that deer out of there? No sense hauling it back to the yard to stink up the place.”

  “You don’t want to keep the carcass?” Lester asked. “Should be a lot of good meat there.”

  “Naw, I still got venison in the freezer from last year’s hunt. Besides, the little woman’s not all that crazy about deer meat. Say’s it has a whang to it.”

  “Has she tried it made into summer sausage with that spicy cheese mixed in? Don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like it that away.”

  “Yeah, she’s tried that too. No accounting for taste I guess. Give me a hand, we’ll jerk it out of there and leave it for the coyotes. At least something can benefit from this mess.”

  “Sure thing, Charlie. How about if I shove from the inside and you pull from the hood?”

  “That’ll work.”

  Only it didn’t work, not at all. The deer, a big doe and in her prime, was jammed tight. After several minutes of struggling and cursing with no visible progress, both men were drenched in sweat; their uniforms stained red with animal blood, or human blood, or both.

  “Well piss shit,” Charlie said, that being one of his favorite vulgarities. “I quit. I’m takin’ it in like it is.”

  “Go ahead,” Lester agreed, breathing heavily but trying not to show it. “Let me take a quick look in the glove box, see if there’s any insurance or registration in there, get a name of the owner. That ambulance took off so fast, I didn’t have time to check that poor man’s pockets.”

  The passenger door, slightly sprung out of alignment from the impact, opened with a pop. Lester did a quick search of the rear seat with his flashlight, then reached for the glove box, but stopped. A duffel bag was lying open in front of the passenger seat, the contents scattered across the floorboard. There were tee shirts, socks, and underwear, but it was the black and orange football jersey that got his attention. A shiny 81 reflected off the beam.

  “Aw shit,” Lester said.

  Chapter 13

  Earl Redman was on his third cigarette and second cup of coffee when he heard his name being called—and quite rudely—from the bedroom.

  “Earl, you up yet? Answer me damn it! I can hear you banging around out there in the kitchen.”

  Earl took another sip of lukewarm coffee and a long drag off his Marlboro, ignoring the screeching from down the hall. Earl wasn’t quite ready to deal with his wife this early in the day, although it was past ten in the morning. His routine was to sleep till at least nine (hopefully later) but it seldom worked out that way. Marilyn, his wife of forty-four miserable years, not counting the first three, began with her list of daily demands from the moment she heard his feet hit the floor, even if only to go to the bathroom.

  Earl had lain in bed as long as could get away with it, staying as quiet as possible, and hoping Marilyn didn’t hear the loud farts from the pork and beans he’d eaten straight from the can the night before. He’d locked the doors on the Pirate’s Den shortly after one last night, the bar being disappointingly empty of customers despite it being a Friday night and the Boise City Bobcats playing a home game. He hadn’t bothered to clean the place up, knowing that he should’ve, but he’d been tired, physically and mentally worn out. Dealing with that damn sheriff again, him showin’ up and running off J.O. like he did, had weighed heavy on Earl’s mind. He hoped that would be the end of it.

  Earl was fairly confident that the Saturday crowd would make up for the poor showing the previous evening. Despite the bar’s poor location on a lonely rural road, the Pirate’s Den had its group of regulars and just enough thirsty travelers to keep Earl in business. Much to his pleasant surprise, the motorcycle crowd had taken a liking to the place. Somehow, the word had gotten around that the Den was laid back and loose on rules and if a biker should happen to get a little drunk, or a lot drunk, the owner would more than likely let him, or sometimes her, sleep it off on the old ratty divan out front without calling the law. Luckily, the two-wheeler crowd, for the most part, was non-violent with only the occasional shoving and pushing from a disputed shot on the pool table. The simple truth was that most of the bikers who stopped by for a few cold ones were ordinary citizens with ordinary jobs who just happened to enjoy riding motorcycles. Some out-of-towners made a weekend of it, riding in from Oklahoma City or Tulsa or Lawton and visiting the Black Mesa State Park. Black Mesa itself, the highest “mountain” in Oklahoma, measured a less than impressive 4975 feet but drew its fair share of visitors. Some hiked the trail to the top but a lot of the bikers took one look, mumbled something about a waste of time, and rumbled back down the road in search of a friendly bar.

  All bikers weren’t alike of course. There were those rare occasions when the bar filled with rough looking men, bearded and tattooed, all riding noisy Harley-Davidson’s that made enough racket to shake a filling loose. Their leather jackets had names on their backs like Outlaws or Mongols. Those boys made Earl nervous. But so far, no one had been shot, or knifed, or beaten, and bikers being bikers, did drink a lot of beer, filling Earl’s register with more profit than he usually made in a week.

  The bar business was a living, albeit a meager one, and with Marilyn’s medical bills piling up, the future of the Pirate’s Den was shaky at best. At 62 years of age, full Social Security was a ways off and Earl had no other income. A second job, even if he could find one at his age, was out of the question considering the hours he put in at the bar just to keep the doors open.

  “Earl! You gonna bring me my coffee or what?” Marilyn’s request came in loud and clear with all the subtleness of a bulldozer.

&nb
sp; “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

  Earl filled her favorite cup; a big green thing with Frankoma Pottery embossed on the side, and carried it to the bedroom. His wife did not look happy, but then that was not at all unusual. Marylyn, all 375 lbs. of her, lay sprawled across the entire width of the queen-sized bed, her head propped up with a half dozen pillows and her tree trunk legs splayed open in an obscene V. Her thin brown hair hung long and loose as if vainly trying to cover her massive breasts, but failing miserably. She was wearing one of her two nightgowns, the light weight one she used for summer and the flannel one for when the temperature dropped below 50 at night. The flannel one would come out of the bottom drawer any day now as September was almost over. The flannel nightgown and a terrycloth robe were in only their second season of use, having been ordered directly from The Shopping Channel. Marilyn didn’t get out much anymore and besides, there were no stores in Boise City that carried her size. In fact, since the last 50 lbs. had slipped up on her, the nightgowns and robe was pretty much her entire wardrobe if you didn’t count the fluffy pink slippers.

  The bed was Marilyn’s favorite place in the whole house with her oversized easy chair in the living room coming in at a close second. An electric motorized scooter sat beside the bed to transport her between the two. Marilyn kept roughly the same hours as Earl, staying up late and watching old movies on the high definition TV until he got home from the bar. She used Earl’s getting up sounds as her alarm clock in the morning. If she worked it right, she could get him to bring her hot coffee and toast slathered with grape jelly while still in bed and then, as soon as she heard the front door slam, doze for few delightful hours before wheeling her way to the TV and an afternoon of watching the soaps and the Price is Right, one of her favorites. Marilyn and Earl had not shared a bed in years and both preferred it that way. Sex in any form was not an option.