The Brickeaters
ISBN 9781934170762
Feral House
1240 W. Sims Way
Suite 124
Port Townsend, WA 98368
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Jacob Covey
Interior design: designSimple
Dedicated to my father.
CONTENTS
PART ONE: BLOOD JET
PART TWO: THE STORK
PART THREE: BEAST-LEY
PART ONE
BLOOD JET
Abandoned in a barren corner of nowhere, the old man’s body was found on a blacktop road next to his oxygen bottle. Some would say the dead man’s sorry fate was fixed, that his life was a series of arrows all pointing at this exact spot. After all, with fifty-seven convictions and thirty-six out of sixty-four years spent in prison, Wilmer Graves never aimed at nirvana—not that I knew his name back then.
I was falling asleep on my couch when the news came on. I never watch that crap. To be blunt, I loathe the sensationalism, negativity, and celebrity gossip that passes for journalism in our culture. If my wife hadn’t left me, if I hadn’t had too much bourbon and if I wasn’t desperate for something… anything… to suck up my empty hours, I would’ve been trimming my toenails or eating a kale salad or… well, not stupid and staring at the dumbfuck tube.
But I was. And the thought of an old man dying on the side of a highway, in the middle of the winter, miles from nowhere, alone except for an oxygen bottle tethered to his unnamed nose, grabbed me. Oh yeah, he had a gun, too. A huge .44 magnum just like Dirty Harry’s… and it was loaded. Who was he? How had he gotten there? Would anyone claim the body? There had to be a story—and I needed to tell it.
Needless to say, the mainstream media ignores shit like this. After all, it’s not like Tom Cruise buttfucked the pope or Beyoncé gave birth to an albino rat. No, stories about dead nobodies on the side of the road are history in seconds; I needed more information, but nothing was showing up. All I had at that point was a small item noting the discovery of an unidentified body on a two-lane highway in Henry County, Missouri; an anonymous call had tipped the cops—and that was it.
I had to work fast. A Google search told me that Clinton, a town with a population of 10K, was the county seat; a second search yielded the phone number of the coroner’s office. A call there informed me that the body had been neither claimed nor identified, but the man’s fingerprints had been forwarded to the FBI and they figured to ID him soon.
But sometimes you get lucky. Yeah, sometimes that sack full of filthy lucre falls in your lap—and yeah, sometimes the sack is full of shit, but you gotta look inside. So what the hell, I booked a flight to Kansas City. I figured there were two strong possibilities: nobody claims the body which is then cremated and disposed of—end of story, especially if the body can’t be ID’d. But another possibility was someone coming forward to collect it, giving me a lead into the dead man’s life. The TV news claimed the old man wasn’t homeless, so maybe the stiff had some relatives that would miss him. It was worth a shot.
It took a couple of days to wrap up a few loose ends, fly to KC, rent a car and drive over to Clinton. Being from L.A., the idea of Missouri in January was maybe more appealing than the Siberian tundra, but not much; and, as the wind whistled across the plains and the temperature dipped into the twenties, I began to wonder what the fuck I was doing here. Maybe I should have thought this out a little more. At that point, cruising along the two-lane highway, I noted nothing but endless mounds of snow littering a landscape shrouded in gray. Turning up the heater, an involuntary shiver accompanied a quick glance at my Armani leather jacket and silk sweater. JEEZ! We don’t allow this frigid crap in Southern California.
An hour and a half later, I arrived in Clinton. It had been six days since the body was found and I figured there was a decent chance the FBI had ID’d the body by then, so I went straight to the sheriff’s office. Occupying the dingy, one-room building were two desks, a filing cabinet, a table and a gun rack; an empty jail cell was out back. Inside the room were two women: a cute twenty-something blonde who was making coffee, and a mid-thirties stubby, chubby and perpetually pissed-off lesbo deputy, sitting behind a desk. I went for the young one.
“Excuse me, Miss. I’m trying to get some information on the body recently found on Highway 18, west of town.”
“You need to talk to Deputy Bodie, Mister. Hey Bernie, this guy wants some info on the dead guy.” Deputy Bodie, deeply engrossed in a Weight Watchers magazine, didn’t flinch. I walked over to her desk.
“Excuse me, uh, Officer Bodie, but I understand you found a body out on Highway 18. I was wondering if the body had been ID’d yet? What can you tell me about him?”
Without looking up from her magazine, the deputy responded, “And you are?”
“My name is Franklin Blodgett. The L.A. Times picked up this story from the wire services and thinks there could be a Sunday feature in it, so they sent me to check it out.” It was a lie of course, but I figured the dumb dyke would be so snowed by the L.A. Times’ cred, she’d bust a gut spilling the story. I was wrong.
“You got an ID from the L.A. Times?”
“Uh, no. I’m a freelancer… uh, not on staff. They only give IDs to permanent staff.”
“Yeah, sure. Look, the guy’s name was Wilmer Graves, case number 2896. He was a petty criminal who spent most of his life in jail… which is where he belonged. Died of heart failure but given his M.O. and the sorry state of his health, it’s a miracle he lived as long as he did. I don’t think the, uh, L.A. Times will find much interest in a bum like Graves.” She still hadn’t looked up from her magazine.
“Okay, well, thanks Officer Bodie, but that’s really up to my editor. Can you tell me anything else about Graves? I heard they found the body based on an anonymous phone tip. Did you take that call? Do you remember anything about the caller?”
“I didn’t talk to nobody, I don’t know nothing and I’m busy. Maybe you should come back later… when you have an ID from the L.A. Times.”
“But this could be an important story… and of course I would quote you extensively regarding any information I can get.”
Irritated, Officer Bodie glanced up, looking at me for the first time. Noting my lime-colored jeans, flip-flops, aviator shades and vintage Aerosmith T-shirt, she rolled her eyes and snickered. “Hey, Patty, did you catch the getup Scoop here is wearing?” Looking back at me she continued, “Yeah, well, I guess you’re from L.A. all right,” after which she shook her head and rolled her eyes again. “But hey, we’re busy here, Franky. Come back when you’re real.” She nodded toward the door.
“No problem, thanks officer. I’ll get my editor to fax a letter to this office confirming my relationship with the Times. I’ll be back later. Thanks, again.” Jesus, what a bitch.
Given the dead man’s name, Wilmer Graves, I was able to get a little more info: Graves was a petty criminal of no account who was discharged from Leavenworth prison six months earlier. While his record had remained clean since his latest release, the career crook was suspected of involvement in a string of recent robberies, and, since no one stepped forward to claim the body, nobody really gave a shit.
And maybe that was it. Maybe it was just the story of a two-bit crook who wound up in the wrong place. Graves probably got what he deserved, and if he didn’t, who cared? Nobody except for me, and I had nothing to go back to but an empty apartment in L.A. Louise had left me for a goddam insurance salesman. Okay, maybe I’m no Stephen Fucking King, but I’ve written a couple of books, had articles in the L.A. Weekly, the Reader, L.A. Magazine, Hustler, Men’s Health and several more—and my New Yorker rejections were encouraging as hell. Really!
Enough
whining already. There was a story here. I was convinced of it… maybe it was just a hunch, but I had to find a way to get inside. To let the story start talking to me. Then it hit me—DUH! If the sheriff was tipped by an anonymous call, there had to be a record of it. That phone number existed and the caller knew something. Okay, maybe he just saw the body laying on the side of the road and called the cops, but why didn’t he give his name? Why didn’t he stick around? Okay, maybe he didn’t want to get involved, but it was worth a shot. Find the number, call the guy, see what he has to say.
The next morning I got up early in search of a local clothing shop, eventually settling on Bell’s Barn. A graceless box, Bell’s was typical of what they used to call “dry goods” stores, looking straight out of the 1950s. As evidenced by the handful of elderly women shuffling through its aisles, the future for places like this, in the era of Walmart and Amazon, was something less than nada. If anything I saw its continuing existence as a minor miracle, but perfect for my purposes.
Ignoring the dowdy housedresses, checkered tablecloths and doilies, I wandered over to an aisle featuring work clothes, picking out a pair of Wrangler jeans, a flannel shirt, a Ben Davis jacket and a cloddish pair of boots. It was beyond-the-valley-of-drab garb, but, without much scrutiny, I just might pass for bumpkin. After my pathetic encounter with Deputy Dawg, the least I could do was TRY to look like a local. I paid for the clothes and headed toward the door, pausing to look around in time to catch a cute blonde checking me out. Looking closer, I realized it was Patty—at least I thought that was her name—the young chick in the sheriff’s office. Without the uniform, I couldn’t be sure, but this could be the break I needed; hopeful, I cruised over to the women’s department.
“Excuse me, uh, Patty? It is Patty, right?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, you’re the guy from the L.A. Times, right? Frank?”
“Yeah, well, Franklin actually, but you can call me Frank. Are you off duty today, Patty? If so I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee and ask you a couple of questions. Nothing heavy, but I’d like to get a little more info about the Graves case, if possible. Are you busy?”
“Well, sorry, Frank, I just stopped in here to pick up a nightgown for my mom. I’m on my way to see her in the hospital. She had an operation yesterday.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that, Patty. I won’t bother you, but gee, I hope she’s gonna be okay.”
“Yeah, me, too. It’s not too serious. She has diverticulitis; she should be all right but it takes a couple of weeks to recover from the surgery.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll leave you alone… but, hey, could I maybe get some flowers for your mom? I mean, she doesn’t know me and all, but still, nothing brightens up a hospital room like flowers.”
“That’s nice of you, Frank, but you don’t have to do that. It’s very thoughtful, but my mom is…”
“No, no… It’s no trouble at all. Look, I’m all alone and don’t know anybody in town. I’ll probably only be in Clinton for few days and it would help me connect with the local community, you know, if only in a small way. I could maybe even drop by the hospital and say hi. Everybody likes visitors when they’re in the hospital.”
“Yeah, I guess that would be okay. You know, you’re awfully nice. I thought reporters were supposed to be all mean and cynical.”
“Well, you can’t go by everything you see on television. I’d love to get some flowers for your mom. What does she like? Roses? Tulips? Chrysanthemums? Maybe we could meet somewhere after you go to the hospital and I could give you the flowers.”
“But you see, my mom…”
“I don’t want hear any more about it, Patty. Like I said, it’s really not a problem. I’m sure your mom is a great person. And it’s not like I’m super busy. It would be fun to meet and maybe cheer her up a little.”
Patty paused, reflecting on something, then looked up, her eyes meeting mine. “Okay, sure, I’ve got a couple of minutes before I have to be at the hospital. What do you want to ask? What are you trying to find out?”
“Well, it’s like this. I know an anonymous caller tipped you guys off. I figure the sheriff’s department has to have a record of that call and that record would show the caller’s number. Now maybe there’s a story here and maybe not, but if I could get that number, there’s a good chance I could find out what happened. I mean, somehow Graves’ body got out there on that road and nobody seems to be too interested in finding out how. Do you think you could get that number for me, Patty? Could you help me out… please?”
“I don’t know… I mean, those records are supposed to be confidential and all. I could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out.”
“Sure, sure, you’re right… it’s too much to ask. I can eventually get access to those records but I’d have to have a lawyer and get a subpoena and… but that would take several days, maybe a couple of weeks and the whole thing would be cold as the stiff’s body by then… but you’re right. There’s no reason for you to take chances, no reason at all. Sorry I bothered you.”
“Look… you’re a nice guy. Let me see what I can do. Why don’t we meet at Terry’s Café later this afternoon, after I go to the hospital. Then I’ll stop by the office and see what I can find out? Terry’s is right on 2nd Street near the middle of town… you can’t miss it.”
“Great, perfect… I really appreciate it. What time do you want to meet?”
“How about 4:30? Maybe we can go by the hospital, then, too.”
“Oh yeah, the hospital, of course. Great. I’ll meet you at Terry’s at 4:30. Thanks, Patty.”
Bingo! Jackpot! Home run! It looked like I was finally getting somewhere… and sweet little Patty was kinda cute. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a lame idea…
With little to do until my date with Patty, I decided to check out the spot where Graves’ body was discovered. I had no idea what I might find but I wanted to get a feeling for the place, plus who knows what the Clinton dumb dicks might have overlooked. It took some searching but I finally pinpointed the exact spot where the body was discovered. It was nothing like the spray-painted outlines you see on TV, just a white “X” by the side of the road with the case number, “2896,” written next to it. I drove ten miles in each direction from the bingo spot, but it was deadsville. Some sections of the countryside were wooded but it was mostly cleared farmland. Several houses were set back from the highway and a few roads disappeared into the thickly forested area, but otherwise, it was nada, zilch, zero. This was looking like a waste of time.
Finally, driving west, as I reached the end of my ten-mile radius, I came to the town of Adrian, and decided to stop at the illustriously named Tic-Tok, a small café and lounge. Otherwise bland, the Tic-Tok was nevertheless notable for its curious collection of, what else… clocks—cuckoo clocks, cat clocks, owl clocks, teapot clocks, flag clocks, clocks made out of frying pans and clocks shaped like guitars. The list was both lengthy and random, but they all had one thing in common—none of them worked. The odd assortment of utterly useless timepieces crowding the walls of a depilated diner struck me as the perfect setting for a Twilight Zone episode where everyone constantly resets their watch and no one never leaves.
It was almost lunchtime and, except for a couple of truck driver types, the place was empty. Looking for life, I sat down at the counter. “Whachur poison, mister? Coffee?” The waitress’ name was Hazel, or so it said on the clock-shaped name tag. From the sound of her voice, Hazel harbored a couple of pounds of pea gravel in her larynx. Looking to be in her mid-fifties and well worn, she also displayed a pronounced dent at the base of her throat. No shit—you probably could’ve put a quarter in it. It was hard as hell to keep from staring.
“Sure, uh, Hazel… and throw me a burger on the griddle when you get a minute.”
“…ain’t got nothin’ but minutes, mister. You ain’t from around here, are you?”
So much for the yokel outfit. “No, Hazel, I’m from, uh, out of town. Just passing through.” I figure
d the L.A. origin was probably uncool.
“How do you want your coffee, mister? Black?”
“Uh, no, cream and sugar, please, Hazel.” Her frown screamed WRONG ANSWER. I hadn’t been in the place more than two minutes and already had two strikes against me—one more and they’d be feeding me to the hogs. “So Hazel, isn’t this kinda close to where they found that stiff a few days ago? Kind of weird if you ask me.”
“Yeah, I think they found him up on Highway 18 about ten or twelve miles from here.” As she brought my coffee, Hazel leaned over the counter, dropping her voice to a whisper. Slightly self-conscious, she continued, “Hey mister, don’t tell nobody, but I think the guy was in here not long before he kicked off. I ain’t sure but it musta been him.”
“No way! How do you know?”
She looked over at the two truck drivers across the room idly watching the news on a grainy old TV fastened to the wall and went on, “Well, accordin’ to the paper, the guy was found lyin’ next to an oxygen tank, and sure as shit, the guy in here had a tank and a tube comin’ out of his nose an’ all. An’ he was pretty much the same age as the dead dude. It had t’be him, doncha think?”
“Hmm… yeah, I guess so. Can’t be too many people fitting that description. Do you remember anything else about him?”
“Hell, he was smokin’ like Betty’s Bar-B-Que, that’s for sure… an’ him bein’ on oxygen the whole time. He musta gone through half a pack of cigarettes while he was in here.”
I was a little shocked. I mean, it was a restaurant after all, even if it was Missouri. “Are people allowed to smoke in public places around here? I thought it was banned…”
“Aw, nobody pays any attention to that shit. Okay, you’re only supposed to smoke in the ‘designated area’ which is a couple of booths over there in the corner, but that’s a crock o’ crap an’ everybody knows it. Well, of course, I don’t smoke while I’m cookin’ an’ stuff. I always take a break and go outside…”
The Brickeaters Page 1
