AHMM, September 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Here, who asked you to stick your bib in, anyway? I've already put down one bloke today, and I can bloody well do it again. You haven't got a weapon, but I've got this. And I can tear you apart with it before you can say ‘Ned Kelly.’”

  He was getting ready to leap to the attack when the voice of Sheriff Heddles behind him stopped him almost in mid flight. “Hold it right there, Chickering.” Heddles and Stull, both with drawn revolvers, swarmed around him from behind. Heddles relieved him of his weapon and Stull bore him to the ground facedown.

  "Like I said,” Heddles remarked to Auburn, “we do things differently out here in the country, but we get the same results in the end.” While Stull cuffed the prisoner, Heddles stepped closer. “You almost got yourself rubbed out, Sergeant. But I like the way you kept him from hearing us coming."

  He didn't thank Auburn for assembling evidence of Chickering's guilt and inducing him to confess within earshot of two lawmen. He also neglected to mention that he and Stull had trailed Auburn into the cornfield in the conviction that, after all, he and not Chickering had probably murdered Jack Glosenby.

  * * * *

  Next morning Auburn gave Lieutenant Savage a detailed report on his experiences in the country. “But I never did get the information on those clippings,” he said. “And I have to report to Lerner County courthouse on Monday for Chickering's arraignment."

  "So,” said Savage, “more moonshine and another visit to that farmer's daughter? Or will you be consoling the grief-stricken widow this time?"

  "You're stereotyping again, Lieutenant."

  Copyright © 2009 John H. Dirckx

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THERE YOU GO, SUNDANCE by Dan Warthman

  "Are you going to marry her?"

  Billy Feathers hasn't thought much about his relationship with Heather McCahill, certainly not about marriage, and he doesn't start now.

  "I guess,” he says. Doesn't look up. Fiddling with the cable box.

  He's a scrawny man who slouches several inches off his height. Long stringy hair, goatee, mustache, narrow, droopy face. His head, seemingly too heavy for his neck, bobs when he's agitated. A large mosquito tattoo perches on the heel of his right hand, proboscis extended, a drop of blood caught on its tip. Don't let it bite you, he likes to warn people who offer to shake his hand.

  "She seems like a nice girl.” Billy's mom hasn't met Heather; she's only seen her in the car a couple times with Billy.

  "Huh?” Billy says. More a grunt of acknowledgment than an interrogative.

  Billy's computer skills got him into college, but his gaming skills and obsessions, combined with an overall dearth of curiosity, prevented him from succeeding. Nevertheless, his talents are prodigious enough that, despite his lack of schooling, he can generally find work whenever he wants. Currently, at twenty-five, he is employed by the cable TV company as a master troubleshooter on the Internet side of things, except that, at the moment, he hasn't gone to work for over two weeks and is waiting to be officially fired so he can collect unemployment.

  "What does she do?” Billy's mother asks. “Her work, I mean."

  "Heather?” Billy asks.

  "That's who we're talking about, isn't it?” his mom says. Going into the kitchen to zap her coffee in the microwave and to open a fresh pack of Parliaments.

  "Office worker.” Billy raises his voice to carry into the next room. “Except she's on worker's comp. Carpal tunnel...” He can't remember the word “syndrome."

  "That sounds like a decent situation,” his mom says, coming back into the room, cigarette between her lips, several drops of coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup. She has long fingernails and a smoker's rasp.

  "I guess,” says Billy, though he wonders if she means the job or the carpal tunnel.

  "Are you almost done?” she asks. “Wheel of Fortune is coming on."

  * * * *

  Later that night, he says to Heather, “My mom thinks we should get married."

  "Really?” she squeaks. “Did she say that?"

  "I think that's what she meant."

  "I'm so excited.” Heather, in an overexuberant response, claps her hands, then covers her mouth, then presses her palms to her chest. She sounds like an air raid drill that is just beginning. “We should to start planning immediately. We'll choose new names."

  "New names?"

  "Made up names,” she says. “Like being reborn."

  Billy isn't crazy about this idea. Five or six years ago, his mother started going to church and ended up getting herself reborn, the result of which, Billy's dad moved out. You don't want to be like him anyhow, his mother had said, someone who deals with dead fish. Jesus was a fisherman, Billy noted, and anyhow, he added, they're lobsters, not fish, and they're alive, not dead.

  He tells Heather, “I'm an atheist.” She looks puzzled, so he explains that he doesn't think atheists can be reborn.

  "No, silly, not a religious rebirth. Just, you know, like reborn in love. In marriage."

  It still sounds weird to Billy, but Heather burrows against his chest and snakes her hand under his shirt.

  Heather is, in her own words, buxom and voluptuous. In the opinion of most others, she is aggressively chubby, with emphasis on aggressive. She wears long, loose fitting skirts, baggy pullover blouses or sweaters, depending on the season, and Birkenstocks, with or without socks, again depending on the season. She enters a room with a whooshing, flat-footed authority that attracts attention but fizzles by the time her skirt comes to rest against her unshaved legs. In summer, like now, her feet have tan lines that she thinks look sexy.

  Billy likes being touched, and Heather is big on touching. She flattens her always moist palms on his back and then slowly peels them off like adhesive tape. Most of all, though, he likes it when his mustache tickles her and she rubs her nose and shakes all over like a wet dog or a tub of Jell-O.

  "You'll have to shave that thing for the wedding,” she says, inclining her face.

  "My ‘stache?” He smiles, curls the index finger on his left hand, brushes the hairs to each side.

  "You look like the Sundance Kid when you do that,” she says, sitting up straight.

  Billy repeats the move and then asks, “Who's that?"

  "The Sundance Kid?” Heather pushes him away, studies his face. “Maybe that will be your new name.” She tries it out. “Sundance.” And then she pulls him to her bosom and squeezes tight.

  His ear bends painfully under her arm and his neck twists, so that breathing is difficult. He gasps into a coughing fit.

  The next day, Billy Feathers asks The Jims—Jim McDermott and Jim Menke, his two best friends from high school and from dropping out of college together, one of whom, if not both, he's already decided, will eventually stand as best man at his wedding—if they could steal a diamond ring for him to give to Heather.

  "Billy Billy Bo Billy,” Jim Menke says, dropping into a crouch and springing out of it with his left arm raised for a high five.

  Billy giggles, slaps Menke's hand.

  "Ouch,” Menke says, as he always does, rubbing his hand, pointing to Billy's mosquito tat. “That thing stung me."

  Big Jim McDermott rumples Billy's hair.

  The Jims have legitimate jobs with an insurance company, McDermott as an adjustor, Menke as an investigator who chases down and photographs people faking claims. But on the side, they are accomplished and fearless housebreakers.

  They don't let Billy pay for beer that night.

  "Put your money in your pocket, lock it,” Menke tells him. “Lock it and clock it."

  "Think you can get me something?” Billy asks as their little party breaks up.

  "Something for nothing,” says Menke.

  * * * *

  A few days later, Billy gets an early morning call from Menke.

  "Meet and greet at Yassie's. One hour, one shower."

  The Jims are waiting for him, drinking a beer.

  "No work?” Billy asks. H
e orders a Coke.

  "Day off, pay off,” Menke answers.

  Big Jim McDermott leads them to the corner booth, produces a small metal lockbox, keys it open, exposes an array of about a hundred rings, plus a few handfuls of bracelets, necklaces, brooches, pins—gold and silver, diamonds, and other red and green and yellow stones. He dumps everything onto the table, spreads the loot with his fingers.

  "Jeez,” Billy laughs. They all laugh.

  "This is a first for us,” says Big Jim.

  "The first and the worst,” Jim Menke says.

  "Taking down a jewelry store,” McDermott whispers.

  "Any store, really,” says Menke. “We don't do stores or whores."

  "We don't do battery."

  "But we had to get a little tape action going on this one,” Menke says.

  They tell Billy the whole story. A while back, Menke pulled a few days on a workers’ comp surveillance in Lewistown and spotted this jeweler, not the subject of the surveillance, every morning at seven entering his shop through the back door, punching in the security codes, unlocking the door, going inside, and then leaving ten minutes later to walk to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and a powdered sugar. Never bothering to reset the alarm.

  "Fat guy with confectioner's up and down his shirtfront.” Menke brushes his own shirt. “Eee-yew. Sticky."

  "Had to tape the guy to a chair,” McDermott says.

  "Duck tape. Quack quack."

  "Taped his eyes so he wouldn't see us."

  "No eyes, no IDs."

  The Jims laugh.

  "Jeez,” Billy says again, staring at the pile of rings and joining in the laughter.

  "Take what you want,” McDermott tells him. “Pick a few, give the little woman a choice."

  "A choice would be very noyce,” says Menke, forcing a rhyme and making a squawking noise, something like a mallard. “And awful thawful."

  "Take your time, it's all too hot to move right now, anyhow."

  "Sizzling."

  Billy, dazzled by the vastness of the selection, has difficulty deciding. With The Jims’ help, he chooses four rings, though he worries that Heather will quiz him on how he had been able to obtain so many. In fact, he knows she would be suspicious about even one. Billy isn't good with money, and one of Heather's vows has been to reform his spending habits, which she describes as “lavishly futile."

  * * * *

  "The Jims know a guy in Bangor.” Billy tells her the story that the three of them worked out. “And he let them bring a few to look at. We don't have to take any of them,” he adds quickly. “The guys just wanted to do something for us."

  Heather knows nothing about diamonds or settings or anything else to do with jewelry. If the truth were known, she hadn't expected—or even wanted—an engagement ring. But looking at their glinting facets in the stark summer morning light makes her squirmy. She slides a different ring onto the tips of all four fingers of her left hand.

  "I want them all,” she coos. “Every one of them.” Splays her fingers on the dashboard.

  Billy is pleased with her response. But he can't tell if she's serious about wanting to keep all of them. He's not sure The Jims would go for that.

  They spend the rest of the morning driving around. The one she ultimately selects is a gold band with a large diamond in an eight prong setting. It's loose on her finger.

  "No problem,” she says. “We'll go see the jeweler, get it fitted properly."

  "Bangor,” says Billy, “it's kind of a long way."

  "Two hours. We can go sightseeing."

  "Can they do that, fit rings?” Billy asks, trying to sound doubtful.

  "It's easy,” she tells him. “I think they heat it."

  "Maybe I can heat it in the microwave,” Billy jokes. Heather makes a high pitched chortle. But Billy frets about this development.

  "Tell her the guy's on vacation,” says Jim McDermott.

  "Tell her he's dead. Eek!” says Menke. “He could be. Maybe he is. Who knows?"

  Menke is short, five seven, but extremely muscular. McDermott is tall, over six feet, angular, and the real spokesman for the duo.

  "Maybe you could tell her,” Billy says, looking at McDermott.

  "That might be the smart way to go,” Menke agrees, also looking at McDermott.

  McDermott grumbles his displeasure with this plan.

  * * * *

  The next morning Billy takes Heather to the Sideways Diner on Commercial Street. By prearrangement, The Jims are already there. Billy, acting surprised when he sees their car, says to Heather that she can thank the guys in person.

  Heather knows The Jims only from things Billy has told her, and she has concluded that they are shady characters. She objects to Billy's hanging out with them, though not so much because she disapproves, which she does, but mostly because she doesn't like Billy's devotion to them and because she feels certain they aren't very smart. How could they be? Insurance inspectors or whatever they are. Of course, Heather doesn't think anyone is as smart as she is.

  "Meet The Jims,” Billy says, head juddering like a dashboard ornament. “This is Heather."

  "Heather the tether,” Menke says, making an esoteric reference to marriage in general.

  "Billy says the ring doesn't fit,” says Jim McDermott, already certain he doesn't trust her.

  "It's easy to fix,” Heather answers, holding her hand out to display the shimmering stone. She pushes her thumb against the band to show that the ring is too big. Nevertheless, she likes wearing it.

  "I'm thinking maybe you could pick one that does fits,” says Jim McDermott. “You know, save the aggravation."

  Heather doesn't like his tone, but before she can say anything Billy chimes in.

  "That's a good idea.” Gently, he nudges Heather, coaxing her into the booth, across from The Jims.

  "Excellent idea,” adds Menke. “No hits, no runs, no errors.” Heather looks at him. “Hey,” says Menke, arching his eyebrows, putting his hands up. “A look to cook."

  "That way we won't have to trouble the nice fellow who let us borrow them,” McDermott says. The other two men nod their agreement.

  "Yeah, it might be kind of...” Billy gets stuck.

  "Thoughtless,” Menke helps.

  "Yeah, thoughtless to keep bothering the guy,” Billy finishes.

  "You stole these rings, didn't you?” Heather says, locking her eyes on McDermott.

  "Whoa, ho ho,” says McDermott. “Let's not go in that direction, okay?"

  "Ooooooooo!” Menke howls, his voice rising in pitch. “That stings.” He picks imaginary prickles from his powerful forearms. “Burdocks."

  "Where'd you come up with that idea, honey?” Billy says, trying to sound amused or amusing or in some way placating. He is shaking his head as though trying to elude an angry hornet.

  "Uh,” she flutters her eyes and holds her hands up to the sides of her face. “How about the newspaper? Lewiston?"

  "Oow, a detective,” says Menke. “Assembling the facts."

  She hasn't really assembled or even thought about any of it. It just hit her, listening to the men trying to talk her out of getting the ring size adjusted, which she knows is no big deal, and remembering the story, which she hadn't read, only the headline, of the robbery from yesterday's paper. She wonders if Billy knows the truth. She wonders if this is the truth.

  Menke breaks the silence. “How about if you put some electrical tape on it to make it fit,” he suggests. “That way if your fingers get bigger, you'll have room to grow into it?” He flares his fingers, pretends to struggle with a stuck ring. Heather glares at him.

  McDermott picks up his coffee cup. “What's your name?” he asks. Heather turns her glower to him.

  "These looks!” Menke notes again.

  Billy shrugs and raises his palms to show he wants no part of this conversation.

  "What's my name?” Heather sneers.

  "Billy says you're changing your name."

  "Evelyn,” she g
rowls, sounding like she's calling someone, summoning a waitress, causing people in the restaurant to look. She looks at Billy, who hasn't heard this yet. “My new name is Evelyn."

  "Evelyn?” Menke says. “That's my grandmother's name.” Heather gives him a dirty look. “It is,” he says.

  "Evelyn,” McDermott says in a tone of amused exasperation.

  "Evelyn, oh, Evelyn,” Menke says, like a backup singer.

  "These rings,” McDermott continues, but then pauses to sip his coffee. “These rings are symbols..."

  "Of an eternal glove,” Menke chirps and laughs at his own wisecrack. Billy snickers, almost squirting coffee out his nose. “So to speak,” Menke adds.

  "Symbols of the joy we share with our best friend, Billy Feathers. Symbols of the joy we wish and want to share with both of you. Billy and Evelyn. Evelyn and Billy.” McDermott floats his hand back and forth over the table, vicarlike. “Just don't make it so difficult, okay?"

  "My new name is Sundance,” says Billy. No one says anything. “Right, Heather?"

  "Evelyn,” Menke corrects.

  "I mean, Evelyn."

  Heather's eyes bore into Billy until he grins and looks away.

  They sit quietly for several long moments, until Heather-Evelyn closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and through pursed lips, exhales in a long slow hiss.

  "Fine,” she says.

  Everyone relaxes. Billy, from his position next to her, winks at his buddies. Then he puts his arm around her and kisses her cheek. Parts his mustache with the back of his index finger.

  "That's my trademark move,” Billy announces. Repeats it, twice. Smiles sheepishly.

  Heather is thinking. She says, “Maybe I can look at a few others, see if I can find one that fits."

  "Absolutely,” McDermott agrees. “Pick out a new one.” He flags his hand in the air. “Keep the old one as well—"

  "In case you put on weight,” Menke intones.

  Anyone who knows Heather could see that she feels superior to all three of these ninnies and that she is hatching some kind of a plan.

  * * * *