Possum Surprise

by Robert Tacoma

  “I heard a car horn out front. My wife handed me some divorce papers, grabbed a suitcase, and ran outside. I never saw her again. The company that owned the garbage truck sued me and won. I lost everything. Their lawyer was my wife’s new husband. As soon as I could, I left Dayton, Ohio and headed south. I stopped here one night and got powerful drunk. Been working here since, trying to pay off the bar tab from that night.”

  The little man took another good pull off the pitcher, belched long and hard, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I figured it was something like that. You got any peanuts?”

  Harry took out his wallet. The only thing in it was an old, worn snapshot of his ex. He stared at the picture with tears leaving shiny trails down his dusty face.

  The big guy finished the last of the chips and spoke for the first time, suddenly all excited.

  “Hey! Hey, George! Tell him about the rabbits!”

  “Calm down, Lenny. I’m sure this man don’t want to hear about no rabbits!”

  “Sure he does, George!” A massive hand grabbed Harry’s arm, shaking him out of his wretched memories. “Mister! As soon as we kill a man, we’re going to do a few jobs, then get a place of our own out in the country! Isn’t that right, George? An’ we’ll have a garden and bunny rabbits and everything!”

  The front door opened and bright sunlight momentarily flooded the dingy room. A handsome, dark-haired young man around twenty years old stepped inside. He let the door slam behind him, and slowly pulled off the headphones he wore. The bar was so quiet you could hear the theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly coming from the headset. The young man let his eyes adjust to the gloom for a few seconds as he looked around.

  “Harry? You in here? I’ve got a delivery!”

  Earlier George had noticed the thick layer of dust on his pitcher, the table, chairs, and everything else in the bar.

  “What kind of delivery you got, boy? Don’t look to me like this place does enough business to need much deliveries.”

  The young man looked over and saw Harry with two strangers. He smiled a shy smile.

  “Oh, it’s not what you think. I only have a load of illegal aliens out in the truck. I stop by every week with workers for Mr. Burke’s donkey ranch.”

  “Well, shit. In that case, I reckon we’ll just take the money in the register, a case of tequila, and a six pack of diet Coke.” George pulled out a big chrome .357 magnum and pointed it at Harry. “Better make that ‘to go’.”

  Ten minutes later the two strangers were gone, the illegals were delivered, and Old Man Burke was on the phone.

  “Raddick, this is the mayor! Get your fat ass over here to my bar right now! Two crazy fuckers just robbed me and I heard them say they’re going to kill a man…Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think that was their names…Oh, so they’re the ones out to kill that pesky possum rancher? Well, in that case, never mind. You going to be out to Buck’s place later for the barbeque?…Well, I reckon I’ll see you out there then.”

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  20

  The Trap

  At the crack of noon the possum ranchers started dragging out of bed. With Hazel still in jail, the men did his work as well as their own each night and it was starting to wear on them. What was widely acknowledged as one of the most physically demanding and dirtiest jobs in south Texas had become even harder.

  The first man up found his pants, stumbled into the bathroom, spit, shat, showered, and shaved before finding his way back through the bunkhouse full of snoring and snorting to go outside and squint up at the blazing sun prior to checking the Dalton trap. Within the hour each man but one had gone through a similar routine and wandered over to the front porch of the main house to wait for Taco Bob to come back from town. Pete looked at his watch.

  “He musta gone in not long after we all hit the hay this morning. Mumbles woke me up when he got back, said Taco took the truck. Mum looked pretty beat and was not happy.”

  None of the men looked at all happy. They slouched, slumped, and sauntered around the porch. To pass the time they exchanged detailed descriptions of various aches and ailments until the talk bordered on actual whining. This was highly unusual behavior for the proud and tough possum ranchers – but everyone has their limits.

  “Man, I sure could use a short one.”

  This outburst got Jones some mighty mean looks since they hardly had money for food lately, much less whiskey. Mumbles had made some bust-head homebrew the previous fall that was so bad no one would drink it. The last of it had been choked down two days earlier. Jones realized too late his blunder and tried to cover.

  “I mean, if I had some I’d be more than happy to share.”

  “Yeah, and if frogs was princes we’d all get kisses.”

  Before anyone could ask Smith what that meant, a dust plume came up in the distance. Jones jumped up.

  “Pete, you want me to run over to the bunkhouse and wake up Mumbles? Tell him Taco Bob is back?”

  “Nah, you better let him sleep.” Pete set his steely gray eye on the dust rising in the distance and adjusted his eye-patch. “I shore hope he’s got some good news.”

  ♦

  “Men, I ain’t got no good news.”

  They already knew by the way the boss walked from his truck over to the porch that things were bad. Taco Bob had been up all night ranching with his men before heading into town. But he looked more than just worn out – he looked like a man defeated.

  He sat in his rocker on the porch and rubbed his hands over his face once before continuing.

  “Remember I told y’all yesterday how Raddick said something about Mad Possum Disease? Well, even though we checked every possum on the ranch last night and they’re all fine, the bank won’t even talk to me about a loan. Since I own this place free and clear, those vultures down at the bank are always wanting to loan me money. But now they’re saying unless they get a written health certificate from the state they ain’t loaning money to any possum ranches.”

  Jones jumped up. “Well, we just got to get one of those certificates then!”

  Taco Bob came up with a sad smile for his eager young employee.

  “The inspector says he’s already booked solid for the next three weeks at least with running tests to find out why some of the cattle on Kracker’s ranch are allergic to shampoo and conditioner.”

  Jones tried again.

  “Three weeks ain’t so long.”

  “Well, that ain’t really the bad news anyway.” Taco Bob slumped down in his chair. He looked each man in the eye before going on. “I had to take a short-term, high-interest loan from Old Man Burke to keep the ranch going. And with that Mad Possum rumor going around, there ain’t likely going to be much of a market for possums for quite a while. It ain’t looking good, boys.”

  The men were all lost in their own dark thoughts and didn’t notice Hop come up to the doorway.

  “White Devils! No water in kitchen! Well lun dly!”

  Normally an announcement of this magnitude would have gotten the men’s attention. But the only response was sad looks from tired and haggard faces. Hop shrugged and went out to the tool shed, leaving the men alone with their anguish.

  No one said anything for a long time. Finally, Jones spoke up.

  “Where’d Hop go with that shovel?”

  Horse raised his head like it weighed almost more than he could lift.

  “I reckon around back to dig a new well.”

  Horse went back to his own bleak thoughts. The only sound was the wind blowing dust through the trees and an occasional muffled Chinese cuss word coming from the back of the house.

  Taco Bob sat up straight and started to say something about getting himself a nap when they heard a loud thud.

  Out by the front gate, the trap was down.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  21

  Possum Surprise

  “It might just be a varmint, some critter after all th
at food.” Taco Bob was whispering, trying to keep his men calm as they crept up on the box, which now was indeed down. Mumbles had been awakened when the men ran back to the bunkhouse for weapons. He now pointed to fresh footprints from the front gate to the box. The men spread out around the packing crate. They were heavily armed.

  “Okay, let’s just be real quiet.” Taco Bob motioned to Pete to come closer so he could whisper. “Y’all’s trap worked, what do we do now?”

  “Damn if I know. But I do know them Daltons are known to be bad about shooting folks for no good reason. Trapping them boys in a big box might get ‘em a tad upset.”

  Taco Bob gave this some thought as he looked around at his men, all nervous and pointing every manner of guns at the box. He was about to ask Mumbles the same question when Jones, who looked scared to death in spite of holding a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun, sneezed and accidentally squeezed off a round of buckshot. All hell broke loose as every man opened up on the box.

  Taco Bob yelled for everyone to hold their fire and they finally did – when they ran out of ammo. The air was full of smoke and the giant packing crate full of holes. The men pulled back and crouched down for a quick discussion. Taco Bob pointed at Jones’s gun.

  “Gimme that and crawl over there and check if you can see or hear anything.”

  Jones looked like he was going to wet himself, but slithered up to the box, put his ear to it for about two seconds, looked in one of the numerous convenient holes, and slithered back.

  “I can’t see anything inside but a shot up table and chairs, but I heard something crunching, like someone eating corn chips.”

  Taco Bob stood up. He knew.

  “Let’s get this box up, I think I know what’s in there.”

  After the men had cautiously put eyes and gun barrels to holes in the crate, Horse grabbed one end and slowly stood the box up. Mumbles set the post back in place to hold the box.

  In the far corner was a hastily-dug shallow trench covered with empty snack bags and a shot-up magazine. The bags moved, and sitting up out of the trench holding the magazine was none other than Skunk Johnson.

  “Damn if y’all didn’t go an shoot hell out of Miss March!”

  ♦

  Skunk and Mumbles almost got into a fight twice before Taco Bob could get everyone back to the house. Skunk wore raggedy clothes and was bruised, bloody, dirty, and smelled bad – he was back to normal. They sat out on the porch so Taco Bob could find out what was going on.

  “I suppose you lost all the money you got from the magazine.”

  “That money got stole is what happened!” Skunk wiped his nose on his sleeve. “That damn Kracker and some of his men got me in a card game and cheated me out of every last penny!” Taco Bob looked at Mumbles, who just shrugged. Mumbles had learned from his twin brother how to play to win at cards. He’d looked for Skunk all night but never found him.

  “How’d you get so beat up?”

  “As I was leaving the card game I got jumped. Got my ass tore up pretty bad.”

  Pete was dying to ask.

  “What about those two good-looking women?”

  Skunk hung his head.

  “Them’s the ones gave me the ass-whupping. Stole my motorcycle, too.”

  “Mhn? Mn mnhn mnn!”

  Skunk sprang to his feet and launched himself fists-first at Mumbles. Taco Bob nodded to Horse, who grabbed Skunk in mid-air and held him. Mumbles sat back in his chair and rolled himself a cigarette while his cousin flailed fists and feet while spitting and screaming. After a few minutes Skunk ran out of gas and Horse dropped him back in a chair.

  In the meantime it had come to each man that their last hope for getting their hands on some money was gone. As despair and hopelessness crept slowly but surely back into their hearts and souls, several of the men let out a sigh like air coming out of an old tire. Except for Skunk, who was oblivious to everything around him, as usual.

  “Y’all got anything to eat around here?”

  Hop had taken a break from digging the new well to put together another of his miraculous dinners. He started banging on the triangle not two seconds after Skunk’s inquiry.

  The possum ranchers shuffled on into the house with a now grinning Skunk close behind.

  “You boys don’t mind if I have a li’l bite to eat, do you?”

  No one said anything, so Skunk had a seat at the table and everyone concentrated on the evening spread, which consisted of oak-leaf and acorn salad, potato-eye soup, pond frogs on the half shell, and rice. There was also a small bowl of Possum Surprise, a favorite among the men. Hop said it was an old, secret, family recipe.

  Everyone ate his fill to get ready for another long, hard night of ranching. The only one at the table smiling and cutting up was Skunk. He looked around the table at all the sour faces.

  “You boys need to lighten up some. How ‘bout this? A three-legged possum walks into a bar an says, ‘I’m looking for the man what shot my paw!’”

  Several groans drifted up from the table. Hop made a loud snort sound before leaving his usual post at the doorway and going back to the kitchen. He was right back, though, with several pies, which the men made quick work of. Skunk was so full he had to use his fingers to force down the last slice of pie.

  “Damn, Hop! That Possum Surprise is about the best thing I ever chewed twice and swallowed! What’s in it?”

  “No tell!”

  “Well, it’s damn sure fine. You know, you should enter it in the cooking contest at Possum Gras sometime!”

  The mention of the town’s annual blow-out got several of the men to glance up. One or two even had something resembling a small smile trying to get started on their faces, until Skunk continued.

  “Speaking of the Gras, I reckon y’all heard about them dipshit cowboys getting drunk and setting the pavilion on fire and it burning to the ground.” No one said anything; a couple of the men looked at Skunk, the rest kept eating. “Well, while them damn cowboys were cheating me at cards they were saying how since there weren’t no pavilion there’s talk around town of having the Gras at the big new farmer church this year. You know, the one on the other side of town: the Church of the Most Holy Tractor.” Skunk held his plate up and licked off a few crumbs. “Course, the Gras being at the church means there ain’t going to be no drinking allowed this year.” Those few souls at the table who’d taken some small amount of joy at the thought of an upcoming wild-ass Possum Gras went back to scowling and picking at the last of their food.

  Skunk held up one finger, then farted and belched at the same time.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot. Them cowboys said the State put up a nice reward for the Dalton Gang: cash money, dead or alive.” Everyone at the table looked at Skunk. “Since I’m a little short at the moment, I might just see about catching them scoundrels myself. In fact, I seen a suspicious van parked in the bushes not far from y’all’s front gate when I – ”

  There was loud scraping of chairs as all the possum ranchers stood as one and ran from the room. A few minutes later a hasty strategy session was held on the front porch, guns were checked and loaded, and one by one the men slipped out into the gathering gloom of the coming night.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  22

  Doc

  Doc didn’t really like to work when he was upset, but it was either that or get drunk. Actually, getting drunk had been his first choice, and he’d been crossing the street to Pedro’s when he remembered his last big blowout. It’d left him with a three-day hangover and several empty bottles of Old Millwater, a locally popular and inexpensive libation of uncertain origin but unquestioned potency usually referred to as Old Malaria, so named for its aftereffects.

  So Doc got two quarts of beer instead and went to work. He sipped beer and wrote tales of mythical beings and creatures of the night, he wrote great passages of gripping social commentary with plot twists and surprise endings to boggle the imagination. But it was hard to stay focused.

&nbs
p; Doc pushed his chair back from the desk and ran his fingers through his hair. He stretched and looked at the ceiling, then scratched his beard and tried not to think about the one thing that kept coming back into his mind. But he did think about it: the way Dottie had looked in her office.

  “Damn woman! I thought she was different! I can’t believe she let that puffed-up cowboy bullshit her like that!”

  Doc did some muttering about women in general, but was soon lost in thought. His mind drifted to the realtor’s lovely brown hair with the blond highlights, and the way she had of smiling with one corner of her mouth upturned so you had to look at her sparkling brown eyes to tell if she was laughing with you. And that body! The first time Doc had seen her she was a little on the chubby side, but it seemed like every time he’d seen her since she looked slimmer and stronger. The woman knew how to dress, too. Doc wondered if it was just his imagination or if lately she’d been wearing clothes that seemed to draw the eye to her nicely proportioned cleavage. A small groan escaped as that mental image easily overtook Doc’s troubled mind. Someone knocked on the door. Doc’s head snapped up.

  “Go away! I’m busy!”

  Seemed like Taco Bob or one of the others always came by just when he was finally getting some work done. Doc rolled his chair in front of the computer and was about to launch himself back into the psychological and social implications of a teenage vampire working a job she didn’t like at the mall, when he heard a muffled female voice at the door.

  In three seconds flat Doc was across the room and had his head against the front door looking in the peephole. Sparkling eyes, a wry smile, and the real-time version of the wonderful mental image his mind had just been envisioning. Doc ran around the room like a madman.