Header 2

by Edward Lee

  “Yeah, that’s Marshie, all right. Got tramp’n backwoods whore written all over her. And them big tits on her? They’se implants. Bet she’s got almost as much money as him after inheritin’ Thibald Caudill’s fortune.” He chuckled, however grimly. “Hon. That fussy cracker hose-bag is what we call a ‘sperm-GURGLER’, yessir! With money’re without, low-life trash is low-life trash. What she is is like a spittoon in a bar, only it ain’t spit that’s been fillin’ it up all these years. It’s cum.”

  Veronica winced. “Helton, please…”

  “Oh, sorry. Pardon my coarse language.” But his eyes widened when he looked harder at the photo. “And that there’s his mother, you say?”

  Veronica nodded. “Adele Vinchetti. She’s 62.”

  “Looks dang good fer a gal her age, huh?” Helton rubbed his crotch without conscious forethought. “Bet she’s got them fancy implants too.”

  “And every other kind of cosmetic surgery,” Veronica supposed of the shapely, Sophia-Lorenish-looking woman in the photo. “She’s very, very rich. Owns a brownstone in the Upper West Side according to the city tax records.”

  “A brownstone? The hail’s that? Who wants brown stones?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she snapped. “You wanted me to locate some of Paulie’s relatives, so I did.”

  Helton scratched the brush-like beard. “These pictures is fine but, hon, we need an address.”

  Another jiggle of the keys, then Veronica pointed. “The good old AOL White Pages, Helton.”

  “Huh?”

  “12 West 75th Street and Dessorio Avenue.”

  “The hail?”

  “Adele Vinchetti’s address.”

  Helton stared fixedly, then:

  “EEEEEEEEEEEE-ha!” He leaned over and—

  Veronica’s face shriveled.

  —planted a big wet halitosis-tinged kiss on Veronica’s cheek.

  “Git yer butts back in here, boys!” he yelled out the side door. “We’se going on a trip!” and when Dumar and Micky-Mack re-entered the truck, their faces were full of wonder.

  “Gather ’round!” Helton trumpeted. “Veronnerka done struck gold again! She up’n got the address fer Paulie’s mother!”

  In unison, Dumar and Micky-Mack railed: “EEEEEEEEEEE-ha!”

  “And she lives in…” Helton looked down. “Where she live, hon?”

  “In a multi-million-dollar brownstone she inherited from her late husband, Paul Vinchetti, Jr.,” she said. “It’s in Manhattan, Upper West Side.”

  Micky-Mack was jumping up and down. “Manhattan? Where the hail’s that?”

  “New York City.”

  Micky-Mack stopped jumping up and down. He, Dumar, and Helton all traded glances that could only be called ominous.

  “New York City?” Dumar inquired. “The New York City?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Sheeeee-it,” Micky-Mack whispered. “That’s big as even Pulaski, ain’t it?”

  Veronica winced. “Pulaski is hardly a big city, Micky-Mack. It’s a town. It’s got a population of ten thousand. New York’s got a population of ten million.”

  More ominous glances back and forth.

  Dumar stammered. “But we ain’t never…been to any big cities.”

  “Well, we’se shore as shit goin’ ta one now!” Helton roared. “And we’re gonna git our proper revenge on Paulie’s Maw!”

  “EEEEEEEEE-ha!”

  Veronica pressed her palms to her ears. “Helton, please! You’re gonna let me go first, right? You’re not going to make me ride all the way up to New York City with you? Right?”

  “Aw, don’t worry none about that, missy. We’ll make the ride comfortable for ya as possible.”

  Veronica began to cry.

  “Start the truck, Dumar!” Helton ordered in glee. “We’se a-goin’ to New York City, yessir!”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 11

  (I)

  But before they’d even gotten out of town, it occurred to Helton and his kin that they didn’t have a clue as to how to drive to New York City. All Veronica had told them was this: “Take West Main Street to Count Pulaski Drive, then merge onto Interstate 81. It’s about 500 miles, an 8- or 9-hour drive,” and after that, still handcuffed to the table, her despair, shock-induced exhaustion, and sheer dumbfoundment as to her predicament had shrouded her in a deep, troubled sleep. “Shit, Paw,” Dumar said at the wheel. “Where the hail we goin’?” And Micky-Mack: “I ain’t even been out the county ‘cept fer couple times in my life.” Helton looked back to see Veronica asleep and curled into a ball. “Well, after all Veronnerka’s done fer us, it ain’t right we wake her up, so…” He spotted something through the windshield. “Pull in there, son. We ain’t dopes. We’ll just up’n buy ourselfs a map.”

  “Great idea, Paw!”

  It was a Hess station they pulled into, one complete with the ever-present convenience store. Micky-Mack was instructed to fill the tank and check the oil, while Helton and Dumar strode into the store. A bell rang, and upon the toll of that bell, a bosomy, remarkably-figured woman in her mid-‘20s looked up from the register and promptly frowned. “Well, hey there, missy,” Helton greeted. “We’se fillin’ up that big piece’a crap lookin’ truck out there, but what we also need is a map—”

  “Are you blind? Map’s up front in rack,” the registress snapped. She had dark, shiny hair, penetrating eyes, and a Russian accent. The stunning body and face, however, took second seat to the glaring frown. A name-tag read KASHA, and she wore a tight t-shirt emblazoned with the face of Vladimir Putin, not that Helton would know who the fuck that was. Nipples like cucumber slices printed against the shirt as the immigrant clearly wore no bra.

  “Nice nips,” Dumar whispered.

  “Yeah, son, that may be, but I can tell at a glance she’s about as friendly as a mad dog.” Helton examined the Rand McNally map rack while Dumar deputed himself to procure several sodas.

  After some minutes of squinting, it was discerned that no maps of New York City existed on the rack.

  “Hon?” Helton inquired. “These here look like just county maps’n such. What we need is a map that’ll show us how ta git ta New York City.”

  Kasha’s frown smoldered. “New York City! How stupid can you be?” the richly accented voice cracked. “Why would gas station in little shit Virginia town have New York City map?”

  Helton stood, taken aback. “Well, I don’t rightly know but I thunk ya might have some, say, in the back.”

  “You thunk wrong! Now why not you just pay for gas and leave? I don’t like you redneck types in store!”

  Helton stilled himself. “Ain’t no call ta be nasty, missy. We’se just tryin’ ta get directions.”

  The woman’s face turned pink with aggravation or even hatred. “This shit place and shit country! I should have stayed on potato farm near Magnitagorsk—”

  “Well, then just you go back ta Mag-neeter-gorsh, missy, ’cos if’n ya don’t like America, then ya can pack yer blammed ‘taters up yer butt!” Helton could not refrain from objecting.

  A hostile laugh and a jiggle of her outstanding breasts, and Kasha asserted, “You big dirty rednecks—oh yes!” and she pronounced “big dirty rednecks” as beeg darty redneeks. “This country full of nothing but shit people! That all I see all day! If it not you rednecks, it the welfare people or the farking old people or the drug add-eeks or the—” and she used the plural form of the N-Word.

  Helton steeled himself against the desire to open up a can of whup-ass, but instantaneously, a better idea surfaced. “Well, gal, you certainly got’cher dander up ’bout somethin’ but I’se guess we all have our days like that. How ’bout we just pay up’n git?” He extracted a 1966 $100-bill just as Dumar approached and set several sodas down.

  “Oh! Oh!” Kasha raged next. “Here come another redneck now! My God, I hate rednecks. You big fat redneck, and you-you little skinny scrawny redneck!”

  “Well, hold o
n there, gal,” Dumar responded. “We ain’t said nothin’ ‘gainst you.”

  “Oh, fark you! Fark both of you! In my country, Mother Russia, shit people like you get put in forced-labor camp! All you useless, shit people!” and it needs to be mentioned belatedly that she pronounced the word shit as “sheet.” She leaned forward—awesome mammarian-carriage swaying in the tight shirt—and exaggeratedly sniffed the air. “Oh! Oh! And you smell!” She mimicked coughing. “You smell like shit!”

  Dumar began, “Paw? Are we gonna—” but Helton smiled and staid his son’s remark, then whispered very lightly, “Pull the truck ’round back.”

  A knowing glint came into Dumar’s eyes, then he departed the store.

  “Here ya go, hon,” Helton went along and gave her the hundred. “And since yer havin’ such a bad day, wine-cha keep the change?”

  She grimaced at the bill. “Oh, fark! Even your dirty redneck money smell like shit!”

  “But first ring me up fer one’a these here Cherry Ice Slush drinks,” Helton quickly added and lumbered to the machine at the rear of the store. He dawdled there, holding an empty cup, then cast a cruxed glance back. “Missy? Sorry, but—shee-it—I cain’t make out how ta work this fancy machine. Seein’ how’se I just left you some sizeable change, how’s ’bout you showin’ me?”

  “Oh! Oh!” Her hands visibly shook. “How stupid can fat dirty redneck be to not know how even to pour ice-slush drink!” Her face was now past pink as she shot from around the counter and stalked to the machine.

  As she did so—it needs to be mentioned—her breasts bobbed spectacularly up and down.

  She snapped the cup out of Helton’s hand. “You just put farking cup under spigot and—”

  No more words escaped the hostile woman’s mouth after Helton clacked a big redneck knuckle against her temple. She fell limp as a stuffed doll (mind you, a stuffed doll with great breasts) and Helton dragged her out the back of the store.

  (II)

  “Fuck,” Deputy Chief Malone said, and then, again, with emphasis. “And I’se mean fuck.”

  The stoop-shouldered and large-adam’s-appled Sergeant Boover nodded. The ambulance had just pulled away, and among its contents was the dead body of resident Clifford Giller, an old VFW-type cantankerous prick nonetheless well-known in the community. When Mr. Giller had noticed his adorable, week’s-old puppy missing from his yard, he’d immediately spied the crowd forming at one of the more decrepit slum-houses down the street. He’d investigated, of course, only to discover, to his incontemplatable horror, the severed head of his beloved pet mounted barbarously on a stick in the front yard.

  Whereupon, he suffered a massive thrombotic stroke and died on the spot.

  It had taken a half-dozen more police to dispel the very-displeased crowd of local residents who’d gathered at the scene. Departing comments included, “What good’s a police force who don’t do nothin’ ’bout dog-killers?” “Whole world’s turnin’ ta shit, it seems, and the county cops’re letting our humble town turn ta shit with it,” “It’s our tax dollars payin’ their salaries! And while they’re eatin’ their fuckin’ donuts, our lovin’ pets’re gittin’ tortured by drug dealers!” and the like.

  Fuck ’em, Malone had thought. He didn’t even eat donuts—a blood-sugar issue—but what irked him more than whining residents was the prospect of someone killing puppies, because, see, he liked puppies far more than he liked people…

  The house had been found empty, its tenants—clearly illegal-immigrant heroin dealers—having fully comprehended the message so loudly planted in the abysmal front yard. Puppy parts, blood and fur, etc., were found in back, with much more evidence that the innocent animal had indeed been tortured and mutilated. Malone winced at the thought, acknowledging just how delighted he himself would be to turn the tables and torture the human who’d instigated this atrocity.

  And it was all making Malone look quite inept.

  “Smack, smack, and more smack,” he muttered, watching other officers close the scene. “Vinchetti just keeps gittin’ richer whilse we just keep lookin’ like horse’s asses.”

  Chewing tobacco made a bolus of Boover’s left cheek, about the size of his adam’s apple. “So you really think it’s one of Vinchetti’s movers who’s the dog-killer?”

  “Just a hunch, but…yeah. Every time some outsider comes into his territory, this happens. That’s some callin’ card.”

  Malone walked droopily back with Boover to their cars. He glanced dazedly at the now-vacant tenement-house just as a gloved evidence technician removed the puppy’s head from the stick and placed it in a plastic bag.

  “So what about this big plan of yours, Chief?” Boover said in a tone that possibly could’ve been sarcastic. “Your plan to catch the puppy-killer?”

  “Shit takes time, Boover. You know that. I’se waitin’ on a delivery—”

  “Delivery?”

  “Yeah,” Malone said, choosing to keep his cards closer to the vest. He felt edgy; he snapped his fingers. “Gimme some’a yer Red Man, huh? I’se havin’ a nic fit like nobody’s business and I’m fresh out.”

  Boover spat some juice, frowning. “Fuck, Chief. You make more money’n me. Obama just upped the price a buck a bag and ya know what for? To pay health care for kids whose folks’d rather spend their welfare cash-relief in bars than work! Just keeps uppin’ taxes for pork-barrel spendin’ and White House fuckin’ doll houses and plantin’ tomatoes on the South Lawn!” Naturally, Boover pronounced “tomatoes” as tum-ay-ters. “Don’t that grapehead know that every tax he ups is another dollar out’a the economy! Best way ta fix the economy is lower taxes which’ll create more jobs and more jobs means more surplus revenue!”

  “Boover, I happen ta like President Obama”—Malone pronounced “Obama” as Obe-bamma. “So’s just quit’cher yammerin’ and give me some chew.”

  “Buy your own fuckin’ chew, Chief!”

  Malone stared in shock.

  “Or better yet, get Obama ta buy it fer ya ’cos he’s been a fuckin’ millionaire for years! He made four million durin’ his last year in the Senate. How’s a junior senator make four million when his fuckin’ salary ain’t even two hundred grand? I ain’t got the money to give you free chew!” Boover stared Malone down, blinked, then exploded laughter. “Shit, Chief! Cain’t ya take a joke!” and then he passed his superior his six-fuckin’-dollar bag of Red Man.

  “You got a odd sense’a humor,” Malone replied, then thumb-packed a quarter of the bag’s contents into his cheek. Immediately thereafter, the radio squawked in his cruiser. “Get that will ya?” the chief mumbled.

  Boover stalked to the cruiser, but at the same moment, local resident and disputatious pain-in-the-ass Mitzy Crooker hustled by with her yapping dachshund on a leash. “Dood Malone!” she called out and actually shook her fist. “It’s us tax-payers payin’ fer yer damned chew!”

  Go soak yer head, ya old fuck, Malone thought but pretended not to hear her. He spat a plume of chew-juice just as Boover addressed him. “Shit, Chief. That was the station. Dang if you ain’t got two deliveries waitin’ on ya.”

  Malone’s eyes lit up. “Was one from—”

  “Some place called B&T Digital in Tennessee.”

  Yeah! “Was the other one from—”

  “The Pulaski Animal Shelter. You got a brand-new puppy waitin’ for ya,” Boover said.

  (III)

  A slight detour took Helton and his kin back toward their neck of the woods. The open back roads were indeed a gratifying sight. Helton didn’t like the unnatural look of Pulaski, or any other city for that matter, but then he shuddered at a dread thought: I’se wonder what NEW YORK City’s like?

  He pushed the contemplation away, then looked aside and saw that they were passing a tract of land owned by good ole Nuce Wynchel. In fact, Helton spotted Nuce and his boy Tube out yonder diggin’ post holes for the fence he’d been wanting to put up. Helton waved, then Nuce and Tube waved back.

  But it
was the next tract of land that was Helton’s goal, and in a few minutes he was parking the bunglesome black truck in the middle of Fuchson’s pasture. “Here we is, boys. Micky-Mack, bring the girl,” and then the youngster dragged the barely-conscious Kasha out. The sun shined, the cool breeze blew, and Micky-Mack and Dumar rubbed their crotches with vigor. In close proximity were several cows chewing their cud. The animals couldn’t have been more disinterested in the presence of the truck or these ungainly people.

  “Dang purdy body on the bitch, that’s fer shore,” Dumar said. “And I’se just love them nips stickin’ out.”

  “Want me git the hole-saw, Unc? Huh? Huh?” Micky-Mack urged in anticipatory glee, but that glee was not long-lived when—

  SMACK!

  —Helton’s big open hand landed hard across the youngster’s face. He fell down, dangerously close to a sizable deposit of cow manure. “Gawd DANG, Unc! That plumb hurt worst’n the rest! What you do that fer?”

  “To unclog yer fuckin’ ears, boy ’cos ya obviously ain’t been listenin’ to a word I been sayin’.” He wagged a finger back and forth. “Ya don’t throw a header on a gal just ’cos she bad-mouthed ya. That’s the kind’a thing Caudill used ta do.”

  “Yeah, Micky-Mack,” Dumar joined in. “Like Paw been sayin’, headers is only done to revenge a horrible, horrible crime.”

  “Right. So’s we ain’t havin’ a header, we ain’t killin’ her, and we ain’t even fuckin’ her,” Helton issued. “That’d make us lower down than her. You understand?”

  Micky-Mack got up, rubbing his face. “Yeah, I reckon I do….”

  “Now whine’choo boys wake our li’l friend Kasha here up?”

  The situation’s tenor changed quickly as penises were extracted from flies and dual streams of backwoods urine began to crisscross over the girl’s face. When she started to rouse, her mouth opened in objection but, lo, was expeditiously filled with pee. Aghast and shiny-faced, she leaned up on her hands, coughing, and once her head had been drenched, the seemingly endless streams lowered with pinpoint precision to drench her tight Vladimir Putin t-shirt. The wet fabric sucked up against the ample orbs and elucidated every detail of her areolae and papillae. This was a wet t-shirt contest redneck style.