by Rex Miller
“—order before midnight tonight and you'll not only get those wonderful steak knives, but you'll also get, absolutely free, and at no charge, this marvelous potato peeler as well—"
“—remarkable low price of only twenty-nine ninety-nine. With these spectacular new miracle wipers, you will never again have the problem of—"
“—earn while you learn this richly lucrative business from the ground up. In a moment we'll introduce you to the man who pioneered the dynamic no-money-down method of purchasing—"
“—Gabe, I want you to go ahead and rub it all over the hood. That's right. Just rub in anywhere on there. Now, Margo, you rub your side. There you go. Start in anywhere and cover those hoods with wax. We're going to let both coats set under the hot lights, and in a few minutes we'll come back and take a look at—"
“—lost over a hundred pounds with this amazing new product. There was never any between-meal hunger because of the—"
“—many who wished they could play but didn't have time to study the piano. Now you can start in playing songs right away! It only takes—"
One scam after another. Political scams. Snake oil scams. Art scams. Music scams. Costume jewelry scams. Every greed-targeted con job, bogus shuck, and jive sting that had ever been conceived of was right there on that weird tube.
The monkey people scammed each other all day, scammed themselves all night, and in between they watched people scamming one another on a little box. They were idiots!
He turned the channels. Puzzled somewhat, as always, by the obvious insincerity of the hair-care hucksters and car salesmen and televangelists whom he perceived as parts of the same great network of con games:
“God says we must wage war against Satan! We must take back what the devil has stolen. Our ministry must spread to the far corners of the world.” The strange, extremely earnest-looking evangelist spoke with a voice that rose and fell like ocean waves, but now he hardened his pitch and spoke in no-nonsense tones. “Here is what it will take to reach out and take back what belongs to the Lord. It will take ... fifty-two million dollars!"
He switched to another channel where a beautiful dancer moved across the small screen to a driving hard-rock audio track. An incredible montage of graphic images blinked above and behind her. The combination of the music and the imagery was intensely compelling and he turned the volume up. It was sensual, somehow, the way the pulsing rock pounded in tempo with his own strong heartbeat, and without thinking, it brought him to his feet and he was aping the movements of the dancer—Chaingang Bunkowski was dancing to MTV! Almost five hundred pounds of lard and muscle bouncing and boogieing across Mrs. Irby's floor. Another first! Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski rocking out stark naked. What a sight!
He didn't like the next video and he switched channels again and got a man extolling the virtues of B-12 spray packets, switched again and a woman, an actress on one of the daytime soaps, sat sobbing for the camera's eye.
Chaingang had all the actor's gifts, among them observation and memory, talents that he had in enormous abundance. An actor prepares by observing, for example, and his powers of observation were unequaled, but he hated those humans who were the object of observation—yet he found them fascinating. Even when he was not incarcerated, he preferred to spend most of his time alone, having little stomach for personal interaction—and yet so closely had he observed his fellow humans, and so painstakingly had he filed away the memory of their behavior patterns, that he could mimic them precisely—and on cue!
The soap opera actress wept, and Daniel Bunkowski allowed himself to remember the sadness of his past, contorting his fat, rubbery mask of a face in a mocking parody of the close-up on the screen, holding his huge head as she held hers, shaking with sobs the way she was, as he opened the fawcett on a waterworks of weeping. He killed the audio of the television set, and the sound of his crying filled the Irby home.
It was strangely pleasant and he gave in to the emotion, milking it at first as an actor would, enjoying the fact that his dimpled cheeks were covered in real tears and not glycerine. He soon realized that this thing he had never done in his entire adult life, this inarticulate expression of pain or distress known as crying, whether ridiculous or not, was tinged with genuine sadness that such an act was a rare outpouring from all that remained of his humanity.
At precisely 0600, almost to the sweep of the second hand, Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski was up like a shot, charged with electrical energy, moving, quickly waddling through the Irby house doing his cleanup chores. The kitchen spotless, the empty mason jars cleaned and stored out of sight, the shelves re-dressed and rearranged, the house restored to its pristine state, his clothing cleaned and dried, he shaved meticulously, showered luxuriously, and—having made a last top-to-bottom sweep of the house—was out of there by 0800.
The dancing clown bear made its way across the road without incident and deposited his heavy gear in the same patch of wild honeysuckle where the baby mice once lived. He watched the road for a while, halfway hoping to see a vulnerable motorist chug by in a nondescript pickup. Watching the house where he'd taken such a pleasant R & R.
The Bunkowski one-man family picnic had stored fuel away the way a camel stores water for the desert: and it was all he could do to tear himself away from the basement. Mrs. Irby's boned chicken and dumplings, baked beans swimming in brown sugar, barbecued spare ribs in hot sauce, corned beef and cabbage—he didn't need a vehicle, he probably had enough gas to fart his way to his destination. What a feast!
By noon he was well around the long curve of Willow River Road, and nearing Waterton's city limits. The blue feature was marked “Jefferson Sandbar."
After the preceding day's heavy rains, the new day had turned bright, and although the weather was cool, the sun felt good. By midday the breeze had abated. He could see the sandbar now. The river was still as a flat desert of brown glass. Voices carried from around the curve.
He kept moving through the trees, parallel to the blue, taking his time, keeping the brown-colored blue to his right, the road to his left, walking softly and carrying a big stick.
The chain would not come out to play today. Today he had other needs. Other priorities.
There were three of them, and he could see them now. Their voices were clearly audible.
“—wanna go with John when we run ‘em?"
“I don't know. Where y'all a goin'?"
“Jes’ goin’ out to the levee. Nothing to it, ya know? Jes’ turn ‘em loose up there on the top of the levee."
“Mel goin’ with you?” a third voice asked.
“Yeah."
“Okay. I reckon so. When you wanna go?"
“Oh, I dunno—"
He had the SKS out of his duffel. Four magazines, each with about a three-quarter load. This wasn't the Swiss job, but a crude Chinese copy, and he'd had some trouble with the springs in the magazines. But the SKS was light, and he knew the piece. He knew precisely what the 7.62s would do and what the range was. He knew the trigger pull. The recoil. The way it had to be held a hair high and to the left.
Twisting the suppressor onto the threadings, tightening it down with a grip that liked to close the prison shower handles so tight, the washers would split in half. Closer now. Hearing the monkey men discuss their dogs.
“He goes off down the road and that's when Red got hit. I thought I was going to have to horsewhip the hardheaded sum'bitch."
“Elgin's got him two of them blue ticks. Man—they make a fine dog if you—” Easing the bolt back. A boltface that he'd personally baffled down with felt and milk-base glue first, then, when that didn't work, fixing it right with Iron Glue. One monkey-shooter up the spout now.
“—wouldn't have one of them gol-danged beagles. You couldn't give me—"
Trigger pressure now coming out of the woods. What did they think—whoever saw the beast first? This ... apparition stepping out of the woods holding a machine gun, the thing looking like a toy in its huge paws.
Only the
terrain was changed. Only the color of the river dirt. There it was red and green, here it was brown and gold. The same sky, sometimes. Two hundred lightly oiled and wiped rounds for the pig, carried in X-crossed Pancho Villa-style bandoliers. Snake One to Mad Rover. Rough Trade to Magic Silo. Green Giant, this is Heavy Brother. Nitro One, what is my call sign? Quiet Cruiser, this is Jolly Roger Two, do you copy? Read you, Lima Charlie, Magic Silo. Fondly remembered kill zones.
Another magazine facing correctly, cartridges away, held in the left fist which cradles the SKS. He'd been here a hundred times.
Snake One, this is Mike Papa. Sitrep: LZ is hot.
BATBATBAT.
BATABATABATA.
BATBAT. Loud metal clatter against felt-covered boltface. Not wasting a round with the first mag. Dropping two of them in beautifully synched two- and three-round groupings. Taking the third bass-ackwards with the next magazine, in a long quick-trigger burst of semiauto fire. Three greased monkey men down.
He'd done an arsenal job years ago. They were dangerous and tricky, but he'd ended up with all the munitions and small arms he needed. He'd made off with an Uzi, which was all the rage as the most popular SMG. But the grip safety didn't suit him and he'd finally picked up a semiautomatic Chinese knockoff, doing the conversion himself to keep it street-legal. He trusted it, and was pleased Dr. Norman and his superiors had not forced him to scrounge up a piece.
For a few seconds he considered picking up the brass. But he opted on leaving it, stomping as many shell casings as he could see into the mud, kicking some into the river, leaving some.
The wallets first. The first two. The one he'd back-shot had a money clip but no wallet or ID. A nonperson. Keys next. Checking hands for unusual jewelry. Feeling for hidden holsters, stashes, money belts. Moving them quickly and easily to the vehicle that would act as their temporary sarcophagous. An aging orange-brown Toyota with a camper on the back. Perfect.
Textbook ambush. Almost. Almost ... He was a perfectionist. All that spoiled it were the unseen watchers. He really spent some careful time checking it all out, trying to scope out the hidden eyes. They were out there somewhere. Maybe following him through high-tech binocs from the far hills across the road. Perhaps they were out across the water. Wherever they were, they were keeping their distance. But he was almost certain of their presence.
Some suit was filming him with a telescopic lens, maybe sound-on-film, capturing the suppressor clatter of the SKS with a state-of-the-art government parabolic.
But it was of no consequence. After all, taking someone's game and running it back down their throats was what he did. His hobby, you could say. He was a collector. He collected payback.
15
WATERTON CITY LIMITS
There were ten tracts of land, each a complex negotiation in itself, where dual abstracts had been drawn up by both parties, and the contractual boilerplate was mind-boggling to Royce Hawthorne. He promptly became lost in a cloud of easements, adjacencies, parcels, and legalspeak; adrift in a choppy sea of restrictions and covenants.
The tracts were far from equal in size—the smallest being a four-acre divot at the edge of Luther Lloyd's river ground, the largest being the entire Weldon Lawley farm.
Lloyd's was simplest, too, regarding paperwork. Perkins Realty had a slim folder on the deal consisting of map coordinates and title search, general warranty deed with statutory acknowledgments, dual abstract updates, letter of freedom of incumbrances, copy of clerks reply, the bill of sale, the canceled cashier's check, and a couple of pages of notes on the negotiation and purchase.
Each time he'd begin reading, something would throw him. The first sale was a “lot, tract, or parcel of land lying north of County Road ‘598’ and being situated in the NEA of the NEA of Section 9: T915N; R174E of the Third Principal Meridian, Waterton County, Missouri, more fully described by metes and bounds: beginning at a point in the center line of County Road ‘598’ therein distant east 347.83 feet from the northeast corner of Section 11-71-T915N; thence..."
At approximately the fifth “thence,” he would start to fog up.
All of the general warranty deed documents were signed with the formal “TO HAVE AND TO HOLD the premises aforesaid, with all and singular the rights, privileges, appurtenances, and immunities thereto belonging or in anywise appertaining unto the said parties of the second part, and unto their heirs and assigns forever, the said
[Cullen Alberson and Regina Alberson, his wife]
hereby covenanting that they are lawfully seized of an indefeasible estate in fee in the premises herein conveyed; that they have good right to convey the same; that they will Warrant and Defend against the lawful claims and demands of all persons whomsoever. IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the said parties of the first part have hereunto set their hands and seals this the day and year first above written.
(Signed) [Cullen Dale Alberson] (SEAL),
[Regina Louise Alberson] (SEAL)."
A notary public had stamped her stamp in testimony whereof, a copy of the thing had been microfilmed, the instrument had been filed for record in the recorder's office by the clerk of the circuit court and ex officio recorder of Waterton, one Elizabeth Smythe.
On all of these documents the party of the second part was a very well heeled and anonymous buyer calling itself the Community Communications Company, headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia.
He drove to the nearest isolated pay phone and punched in money and the 703 area code for Alexandria, Virginia.
“Jean, what city please?"
“Alexandria."
“Yes?"
“May I have the number of the Community Communications Company, please?"
“One moment ... Hold for the number.” A recorded voice dropped the digits into the long lines:
He hung up and dialed direct. An operator asked for money. He complied and the line rang.
“Communications Company."
“Yes. My name is Royce Hawthorne and I'm phoning long distance about a piece of property your company has purchased. I need to speak with your general manager or president, or whoever acts as chief executive officer for the company. Who would that be, please?"
“You want Guy Kelber. Would you like me to connect you with his secretary?” Royce said yes, and when a female voice identified it as being Mr. Kelber's office, he repeated his message. After a wait of nearly a minute, she came back on the phone.
“Who did you say you were with?"
“I didn't say, but I'm representing a law enforcement agency in regard to the disappearance of a man who had dealings with your company. It's vital I speak to Mr. Kelber.” He kept a hard edge to his tone. He waited, hoping the “law enforcement” bit wouldn't come back to kick his ass.
“Hello. This is Guy Kelber."
He went through the routine again. Kelber had never heard of the land deal or Sam Perkins. Nor had he ever talked with a Sinclair.
“This is the Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia, isn't it?"
“This is the Communications Company, Mr. Hawthorne. You apparently have the wrong firm. Sorry.” Royce apologized and rang off.
He redialed directory assistance. Went through his request from the top.
“Sorry, sir. We don't show a Community Communications Company in Alexandria."
“Do you show a Community Communications Company in Washington, D.C., or is that a different area code?” Knowing.
“That would be two-oh-two, sir.” He thanked her. Dialed. Ran it by another operator.
“We show a Community Communicators in Bethesda. And there is a Communications Company in Alexandria and Arlington, Virginia. But we do not show a Community Communications Company. Would you like to try one of these other numbers?"
He told her yes, he'd try them all. He wrote down the three numbers, including the one he'd just dialed. The Bethesda, Maryland, number proved to be for a school that taught teachers who specialized in learning-impaired students. The Arlington number was a separate li
sting for the first place he'd called. They were in the broadcasting business. Had no land holdings. Yes. Mr. Kelber was chairman of the board. No, he'd never heard of a Community Communications Company of Alexandria.
Royce Hawthorne's adult life, much of it, had been lived on phones, or through events and transactions that had transpired or gone down with the aid of that instrument. He knew people who were very much “into phones.” It was one of those persons he called next, leaving a terse message on a recording, and hanging up.
If there was a more nagging brand of angst than doper paranoia, it had to be “phoneman” disease, a uniquely lethal strain that apparently spawned in the invisible energy bogs that surrounded high-voltage transformers, microwave transmitters, and Lord knows what else, and that headed—like iron to a magnet—for the nastiest dope burns it could find. Telephones and junk—what a combination!
Royce felt it prod him like a hard jab to the kidneys, and he suddenly visualized Happy and a couple of cartel wire-tappers: alligator clips, recorders, headset all in place, tapping into Jefe Hawthorne as he set them up for double-digit bits in the slamarooney. They would not be amused. Happy would not be happy.
Royce's hand was slick with sweat as he reached for the pay phone again, stopped in midair by a frightening apparition, a sight that froze him in the warm noonday sun of Willow River Road. He saw someone or something coming out of the woods.
Shades of Beaudelle Hicks's kid appearing from out of nowhere, but my God—this was the most frightening-looking man Royce had ever laid eyes on, just gigantic, a hulking behemoth moving through the trees, carrying what looked like a couple of large wooden cases under one arm, and a thing like a heavy punching bag slung over one shoulder. It came through the trees, and Royce saw the behemoth look at him just as he saw the huge man moving out of the woods.
This fearsome giant, bigger than anything imaginable, looked at Royce with the most venomous stare he'd ever seen, and it chilled him to the bone.
There was just a beat when it looked like the man was stopping in his tracks, trying to make up his mind whether to come over and kick Royce's ass for the fun of it, but he turned and kept going, moving across the road and disappearing into the brush again.
