by C. L. Bevill
“What did they ask you, Bubba?” Bam Bam questioned.
“They asked if I had killed Johnson the Third, they asked if you had kilt Johnson, they asked if I knew about this general, and they asked ifin I knew the Book Man.”
There was a gasp as Bam Bam took a step back. “The Book Man? Are you for certain, Bubba?”
“Yes, why?”
“The Book Man is the stuff of legends,” Bam Bam said. “Don’t you watch the news? He’s like that fella they dint catch for years and years. You know, the Jackal. Except the Book Man isn’t the Jackal; he’s worse than the Jackal. He likes to blow up anything that he doesn’t like, which is most things. He don’t like white people. He don’t like black people. He don’t like purple people. He don’t like folks from the United States. He don’t like people from other countries, neither. I cain’t think of anyone or anything he does like.”
“He likes bombs,” Dan said. “A fella’s got to have a hobby.”
“You mean, like a terrorist,” Bubba said flatly, ignoring Dan. There were entirely too many people who had been in Pegram County of late who also liked bombs or anything that blew up.
“Yes, I mean like a terrorist,” Bam Bam said. His hands abruptly returned to their original state of movement, and they whirled, snapped, and flicked the state of Bam Bam’s obvious unhappiness. “In my club? Holy poop. I should have never bought that place. Bubba, do you have any scotch about? It don’t have to be good scotch.”
“No alcohol,” Bubba snapped. He stared at Bam Bam. “Whose car was in the lot on the night that Johnson was murdered?”
“Mine, and one of the girls,” Bam Bam said.
“Which girl?”
“It’s a Lincoln Conny,” Bam Bam said, “and I don’t know who it belongs to. It did belong to Granny Goodbang, but she sold it to Cayenne Pepper, who sold it to one of the other girls, and I’m pretty certain that girl sold it to one of the other ones. They laugh about that car because it’s belonged to most of them. They call it the Strippermobile, but just you remember that no one else who isn’t a dancer can call it that.”
“I can,” David said smugly.
Bam Bam grimaced. “Technicality.”
Bubba slumped. “All right, since you’re all here, we’re goin’ to fix this thing.”
“That’s why we came,” Dan said brightly. “We just wanna he’p you, he’p Bam Bam, too.”
“Thanks, brotha,” Bam Bam said. Bam Bam and Dan bumped fists and then David and Bam Bam bumped fists. All three men extended a closed fist at Bubba, and Bubba stared at them ominously.
“First things first. There’s a map in an office inside the mansion,” Bubba said. “We need to look at it. Then we need to pick up my truck at Lake Plooey before someone steals that wood I got for the baby crib. Finally, we should talk to my mother.”
“Why?”
“Not shore yet,” Bubba said. “You think those gov’ment people got eyes on your place, Bam Bam?”
“I expect they do.”
“Mebe we should go ask them ifin they know who kilt John J. Johnson,” Bubba said.
“The Third,” David corrected.
“If they had eyes on the place, then why would they be asking you ifin you done it?” Dan asked reasonably.
Bubba glowered. Of course, if the Department of Homeland Security had known who had killed John J. Johnson the Third, then they probably wouldn’t have been asking Bubba.
“Okay, boys, was there a meeting I wasn’t called to?” asked a new voice.
Bubba didn’t need to turn around to know it was his wife. If the sun hadn’t been out already, then light would have magically flowed into the barn and lit the immediate area around Willodean.
“She’s got a gun,” whispered Dan.
“She’s also got mace,” Bam Bam mentioned.
“And a smashing Spongebob Squarepants robe with matching slippers,” David felt compelled to interject.
“Hey honey,” Bubba said. “Look who dropped in.”
* * *
Bubba did a few things before he left. He convinced Willodean he wasn’t going to get arrested, kidnapped, or abducted again. He would bring food back in the form of the Hogfather’s takeout. (They often made food that people couldn’t refuse but definitely no horse meat was served.) He snatched the map from Miz Demetrice’s study wall, and he swore to himself that today was going to be the day he figured out all of this nonsense for once and all.
Somehow four grown men and a dog fit into the AMC Gremlin. Dan called shotgun, and no one cared or dared to argue with him about it, although Dan and Bam Bam had a brief discussion about moving the bench seat back.
“Cain’t drive it if the seat’s all the way back,” Bam Bam said, “like I said before. You’ll just have to be cramped for a bit. Besides if we put the seat all the way back ain’t no room for Bubba and David’s legs, especially Bubba’s.”
“This ain’t much better than your car,” Dan griped to David.
Bubba unfolded the map he’d purloined from his mother. It had holes in from where Brownie had pushed pins in it while trying to solve a mystery during Spring Break. There was also writing on it from where his mother had attempted to figure out how to break into the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department. (The map had history, to be certain.)
“I can see the hospital,” David announced, jabbing his finger at the map. “I live there.”
“Here’s the town,” Bubba muttered. “Here’s the corner of the FM Route 35 and Stella Road. That would be right next to where Bazooka Bob’s is located.”
“Seems right,” David agreed.
“Kin I see?” Dan asked from the front. He leaned over the crack between the upright sections of the bench seat and looked down. “Looks right. What’s your point, Bubba?”
“There ain’t nothing for a half-mile in any direction,” Bubba said. “Ain’t houses, stores, nothing. Nowhere to park a car.”
“So he walked more than a mile?” David asked.
Bubba thought about the man’s shoes. He’d looked at them, and they hadn’t looked scuffed or soiled. Finally, on his feet he wore the leather oxford shoes that Bubba associated with men in black or the feds or morticians, not necessarily in that order.
“Fella didn’t walk far,” Bubba said.
“Then someone brought him,” Bam Bam said.
“I suspect,” Bubba said. “Fella dint want his car seen in the lot, and ain’t no good place to leave a car around there.”
The AMC Gremlin inched through the underbrush of the back entrance of the Snoddy Estate. It wasn’t the best kept secret, but most outsiders didn’t know about it. Bam Bam had been correct; the road needed a little maintenance or nothing was going to be able to get down it without a flamethrower and bulldozer.
They reached Sturgis Road and Bubba hesitated. “Truck, Ma, or men in black,” he mused out loud
“Truck,” the other three echoed in unison.
“Men in black,” Bubba said firmly. “The Flying W, if you please, Jeeves.”
“Who be Jeeves?” Bam Bam asked plaintively, “and why do he get to decide?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the Gremlin pulled into the Flying W’s parking lot. It was busier during the day. Truckers were parking their rigs as well as gassing them up and washing them. They were also headed inside for some of Mrs. Peabody’s deep-fried meatloaf, which was a special recipe handed down to her from her German grandmother who perfected it during WWII. Certainly, it had been Americanized at one point in time as Mrs. Peabody put a special tomato sauce on top of her meatloaf that was caramelized during baking, but no one seemed to mind that the original recipe had been changed for efficacy’s sake.
“Does meatloaf have meat in it?” Dan wondered. “I mean my ma used to put a bunch of other stuff in it, too. Saltine crackers, oatmeal, and sometimes she’d leave bread outside to get all crusty and she’d bang it into crumbles with her hammer. She’d put that in there, too. Not the hammer, though.”
Precious yipped as if she wouldn’t mind having some meatloaf, too.
“It’s usually got hamburger in it,” Bam Bam said.
“Ham’s good,” Dan smiled. “I’ll just go in and git a bite whilst you boys do your bizness.” He clambered out of the Gremlin and ambled toward the restaurant part of the truck stop. Bubba saw three men shoot him startled looks and scramble for their various vehicles in a concerted effort to get out of the way of Pegram County’s tallest, formerly grumpiest man.
“Should we tell him that ham’s definitely got a face?” David asked.
“I ain’t telling him,” Bubba said. He looked around. “That tractor-trailer is in the last row.”
Bam Bam parked the car, and the three men went to look. There was a big empty spot of asphalt where the tractor-trailer had been. They’d also taken the makeshift pallet stairs. There wasn’t even a single black SUV about to be found.
“It’s gone now,” Bubba said. “I reckon I should have known.”
“Are you certain it wasn’t aliens,” Bam Bam asked, looking curiously at both David and Bubba. “That’s what Ralph Cedarbloom is saying on Facebook.”
“Willodean said Ralph ate some magic mushrooms,” Bubba said.
“Oh,” Bam Bam said. “That’d do it. Silly fella. Ain’t no one eats them anymore. That boy be trippin’.”
“Ralph did,” David said. He sashayed over to the edge of the parking lot and looked. “They left trash. They liked Cheetos, Snickers bars, and Mountain Dew.”
Bubba looked and didn’t see anything that was going to tell him what he wanted to know. All there was left was trash.
Bam Bam rubbed his hands together. “I reckon we should go inside, eat some meatloaf, and then go get your truck, Bubba. Some mysteries ain’t never goin’ to be solved. Maybe if I close up Bazooka Bob’s for tonight and maybe the next week, too, this will all blow over, just like paper in the wind.”
Paper. Bubba shoved his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a Swiss Army knife, two lead sinkers, the little tube he’d found in the bathroom, and the piece of paper that had been near John J. Johnson the Third’s hand. He shoved everything but the paper back in his pocket and extracted the cellphone that had been in the same pocket.
Looking out at a stand of pines that lined the back of the truck stop, Bubba thought for a moment before he turned the phone on. He pushed the correct buttons while studying the phone number, laboriously attempting not to misdial. (Large clunky fingers were never meant for those tiny screens, but at least the tiny device hadn’t started smoking or making noises like an animal was dying.)
“What you doin’?” Bam Bam asked, clearly alarmed at Bubba’s intent expression. “Where’d you git that number?”
“Hamilton Art Industries,” came the answer. It even sounded like the same woman who’d answered it the day before.
“Agent Peterson, please,” Bubba said.
“Who’s calling?”
“Pete Peterson,” Bubba said. “It’s okay. He knows what it’s about. We talked earlier today. Also we’re distant cousins.”
There was a long moment of silence, and the line began to click.
“Did you just call them gov’ment fellas?” Bam Bam asked, horrified. “On your own phone?”
Bubba smiled grimly and nodded.
Bam Bam looked around frantically. “They’ve probably got a satellite watching us right now. Run, Snuggles!”
Bubba reached out with one beefy hand and clamped it on Bam Bam’s shoulder, keeping the other man from fleeing. David didn’t look all that alarmed and stayed in place.
Thirty seconds later, Agent Peterson said, “Hey, Bubba. You calling to tell me something good?”
Chapter 22
Bubba and More Nincompoopary
Wednesday, August 23rd
“I reckon you have some kind of surveillance on Bazooka Bob’s,” Bubba said to Agent Peterson or whatever his real name was.
“I reckon,” Peterson said mockingly.
“But then, Ifin you had, then you wouldn’t be asking me about who kilt that man, Johnson,” Bubba said.
Peterson didn’t respond. Bubba figured he had pinned the proverbial tail on the governmental donkey. If the government people had surveillance on Bazooka Bob’s, it only came after John J. Johnson the Third had entered the building to leave his brief mysterious message with Bam Bam and then to get himself murdered.
“So that was actually a question,” Bubba went on, “although you dint answer me, you did answer me.”
Bam Bam tried to wiggle out of Bubba’s grip and failed. He looked about frantically while David tilted his head, noticeably trying to hear Peterson better. Bubba angled the phone a bit so that the other two could hear the other side of the conversation. Obviously Bam Bam didn’t want to hear anything, so Bubba squeezed the other man’s shoulder until he stopped squirming.
“That was a question?” Peterson asked. “I didn’t hear a question.”
“What if I tole you that Bam Bam Jones was going to shut down Bazooka Bob’s today?” Bubba asked. “Goin’ to be closed tighter than Michael Phelps’s swimsuit.”
Silence ensued from the other end. If Bubba had to guess, he would have said that Peterson was thinking frantically.
“Why?” Peterson finally asked. “No one’s under arrest. The body of which you speak isn’t around apparently, and business is usually pretty good on Wednesdays.”
And the gov’ment people want Bazooka Bob’s open today, Bubba concluded silently. Isn’t that interesting? Maybe even the whole rest of the week while they wait for something to happen.
“Word gets around,” Bubba said. “Folks get tasered and drugged in the middle of a park and then black bagged into a tractor-trailer and handcuffed to a table. Them peoples ain’t given much to et and only cut-rate coffee. When all of that gits associated with Bazooka Bob’s, well, then who wants to keep the place going? Seems like only an idjit would open a place what’s just asking for troubles. Bam Bam ain’t an idjit.” Silently, Bubba might have disagreed. Bam Bam is an idjit. He’s the idjit who dragged me into this mess by hitting me with a scenario I couldn’t he’p but to fall for.
There was more thought-provoking silence. Bubba waited. Bam Bam started to open his mouth to talk, but Bubba put his index finger over his mouth to indicate that he should not say anything. He let the other man go in order to put the finger up, but this time Bam Bam didn’t make a move to scurry away. He just stared at Bubba and then at the cellphone with an appalled expression.
“There certainly is a circuitous way of information flow in this backwoods hole,” Peterson remarked. That very statement confirmed to Bubba that the telephone receptionist in D.C. had transferred the call to wherever Peterson was currently located, which was obviously very much in the local vicinity.
“Yeah, people need a hobby, don’t they?” Bubba asked. “Ain’t a Starbucks around here.”
“What do you want, Bubba Nathanial Snoddy?” Peterson asked.
“I don’t care to be middle named by no one except my mother and my wife,” Bubba said.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peterson said.
“Well, you want Bazooka Bob’s open today…” Bubba trailed off and waited for Peterson to fill in the blank.
“And tomorrow and Friday, possibly,” Peterson finally said. “Everything business as usual.”
“And Bam Bam don’t want to be thrown in jail on account that some fella got hisself murdered in his business.”
“I can see how that would be,” Peterson acknowledged. “Aren’t you worried about that very same thing? Seeing as how you’re frequently getting blamed for killing whatever body you happen to find.”
“That was Monday night,” Bubba said. “I spent all evening with the missus at the meeting at the lodge of Independent Order of Odd Fellows. We’re working on raising money for scholarships.”
“All evening,” Peterson repeated doubtfully.
“With fifty other Odd Fello
ws,” Bubba said. “Good people. Just trying to do right by folks. It was Spaghetti Monday. I he’ped serving the meatballs. I dint even git to go to the bathroom until after midnight. It was a lot of meatballs. Dang good meatballs.”
Peterson made a noise that sounded like a cat being mangled by a WWE wrestler named The Smashing Sledgehammer.
“It would he’p ifin you checked alibis before arresting folks,” Bubba said supportively, “not that anyone generally has done that before.”
Peterson cut off the noise and Bubba waited.
“You want anything else?” Peterson finally asked.
“Clear Bam Bam would about be it,” Bubba concluded. He thought about adding in “world peace,” and “a cease of hostilities in the Middle East,” but that was definitely pushing his luck.
Bam Bam did a fist pump of purest of triumph as he began to comprehend what Bubba was doing.
David hurriedly whispered in Bubba’s ear. Bubba listened and then sighed.
“Also, Snuggles Palomino wants a sincere apology about the way she was treated while in your custody,” Bubba said reluctantly into the cellphone. Then he added quickly, “Plus payment for a new mani and a pair of fishnet stockings sized XXL.”
“Is that right?” Peterson asked, but it was more of a statement.
Precious yipped.
“And my hound wants a case of Milk-Bones. She likes the flavored ones. That comes in five flavors including beef, chicken, bacon, sausage, and turkey. She’ll pick the bacon ones if given a choice, but she ain’t that picky when it comes to the rest.”
“Interfering with the government is a federal offense,” Peterson snarled.
“Who’s interfering?” Bubba asked. “We’re he’ping. Would have he’ped ifin you’d asked before. Ya’ll need to think about asking next time.”
“Okay,” Peterson said finally, manifestly reining in his temper. “What else?”
“You do your thing, clear Bam Bam and then we take care of the whole fella that done got murdered, and mebe you he’p us with that.”
“Officially, John J. Johnson the Third had a car accident in rural Georgia yesterday. It was very sad. It’ll be a closed casket funeral.” Peterson sounded indecently satisfied with himself.
