Typically, the teenagers responded by turning up the music even louder, then joining in on the chorus of the song. With all three of them dancing around the room chanting “ice, ice, baby,” tension was on the rise. It was a curious scene and one I could have enjoyed, but my hangover was still hanging on so I played it cool, sipping my coffee and eating a little faster.
Meanwhile, not-Dave, his face scarlet and neck tendons erect, was seriously stressed. “Stop it… stop it, you hear!” Unimpressed, the teenagers rocked on, hi-fiving each other in total abandon. At this point, the fat guy appeared to be on the verge of losing it. Wildly waving his arms, he screamed, “OKAY, THAT’S IT! NO JELLY DONUTS! YOU HEAR ME! NO JELLY DONUTS!”
Laughing hysterically, but not missing a beat, the three teenagers instantly morphed their chant of “ice, ice, baby” into “No jelly donuts!” Gleefully gyrating around the room, their voices rising as the tension grew, the kids simply ignored the bulging and irate cook. Surreal and absurd, their rallying cry of “No jelly donuts! No jelly donuts!” crackled through the small space, as the donut guy’s impotent rage vainly attempted to match the teenagers’ youthful bravado.
Then, to my surprise, I recognized one of the kids as Tommy Joe, Patty’s brother. Slinking down behind my vat of coffee, I hoped he wouldn’t notice me across the room and it worked, but not for long. Coffee or no coffee, I couldn’t take much more and was about to make a move for the door, when the donut guy suddenly pulled a gun out from behind the counter. “OKAY!” he screamed, “I WARNED YOU! I WARNED YOU!” Taking aim at the biggest kid, the cook was about to squeeze the trigger, when Tommy Joe lunged, grabbing his arm and causing the shot to go wild as the bullet shattered the front window of the donut shop.
As I ducked under the table, I watched Tommy Joe wrestle the revolver away from the fat guy, then, with the terrified cook cowering on the floor, Patty’s brother pointed the gun right at the man’s head. Jumping up, I screamed, “NO, TOMMY JOE, NO!” Hearing his name, the teenager abruptly looked in my direction, resulting in instant recognition. With the spell of anger and rage broken, the kid stared at the pistol with a puzzled expression, then threw it at the floor, causing the weapon to discharge. Grabbing his head, the wounded cook’s scream was chilling as he lurched forward, passing out on the floor. With a pool of blood slowly gathering around the donut guy’s skull, the teenagers vanished like lizards in the tall grass.
After calling 911, I did what I could to care for the unconscious cook. Finding a couple of towels behind the counter, I wiped the blood away and tried to make the guy comfortable, not that he could tell. While the injury didn’t appear to be life-threatening, the cook’s left ear was pretty much nonexistent, the bullet having ripped it off before bouncing off his skull and embedding itself into the ceiling. The head wound, gruesome as it was, created a mess in terms of blood loss, but it could’ve been way worse.
Waiting for the ambulance, I sat on the floor with the injured man’s head in my lap. I was positive that one of the kids, the one who grappled for the gun with the donut guy, was Tommy Joe, but the way the teenagers were dressed, I couldn’t swear to a positive ID. Plus, it was Patty’s brother; I really didn’t want to rat the kid out, especially since it was an accident. Man, this Missouri shit was just one mess after another.
Ten or twelve minutes later, the ambulance arrived, closely followed by a pickup equipped with a siren and a flashing light. A couple of guys wheeling a gurney immediately entered the shop, followed by the one and only Deputy Dawg.
“Well, well, what have we got here? It’s my major man, Scoop—the Ace Reporter… on the scene again. You get around, don’t you, Slick? But ol’ Billy here ain’t lookin’ so good… givin’ him a head massage or what? Speak up, son, I can’t hear you.”
Well, she certainly hadn’t lost any charm. As the two emergency guys lifted not-Dave, or ol’ Billy according to the cop, up onto the gurney and checked his life signs, I rose to my feet, took a deep breath and spoke, “Look, Deputy Bodie, I just came in to get some coffee and donuts… that’s all.”
“Coffee and donuts, huh? And then what happened? Did tough ol’ Billy pick a fight with you… I don’t see nobody else around. Or did he catch you with a hand in the cash box?”
I didn’t care for the tone of her questions. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re getting at, Deputy, but I was just sitting here minding my own business when three teenagers came in, blasting rap music out of a boom box. Ol’ Billy, as you call him, took offense and it accelerated from there. Just ask Billy… he’ll tell you.”
The deputy slowly looked over at the donut man whose eyes were open, staring blankly at nothing, a major amount of drool quickly collecting at the side of his appallingly open mouth. “Well, as soon as ol’ Billy stops catchin’ flies, he might agree with you, but until then, you’re the only suspect, er, witness, I got, Scoop, so tell me some more. Are you sayin’ these teenagers shot Billy? Were they tryin’ to stick up the shop?”
As the two guys wheeled the cook outside and into the ambulance, I walked back to my table. With her hand on her holster, the short cop’s eagle eye never left me, but I was determined to finish my coffee—even if it was cold. Picking up the cup, I took a sip. attempting to explain, “No, it was nothing like that, officer. The whole thing was an accident… Billy tried to stop them and they started making fun of him. He escalated the whole thing by pulling that gun.” I pointed at the donut guy’s revolver still laying on the floor.
The peace officer approached the pistol, then bent over, inserted a pen in the barrel and picked it. With an eternity of CSI episodes under her belt, the delight inherent in this gesture was obvious. Holding the gun out in front of her, the deputy spoke with deliberation, “Yep… looks like Billy’s gun all right. So you say they shot him with his own weapon?”
“No, no… he pulled the gun, then struggled with one of them. The kid took the pistol from Billy, then threw it away. It went off when it hit the floor. Like I said, the whole thing was an accident.”
“And what did these kids look like? I assume you could identify them if you saw them again?”
Now it was starting to get tricky. Up to this point, I hadn’t lied… yet. I took another deep breath and tried to look calm. “Well, they looked pretty typical, if you know what I mean. You know… dressed like kids from the ’hood… oversized coats and pants, black cap pulled down and sunglasses… it could be hard to ID them for sure.” Staring at my cup of coffee as I spoke, I couldn’t tell if she was buying it or not.
“Uh-huh… I see… kids all look alike these days… right?”
Looking up from the cup, my eyes rose to meet Deputy Bodie’s. “Well… not exactly, but sort of.” I had the feeling she was going for it.
The peace officer paused for a moment, as if pondering our last exchange, then spoke, “Okay, Scoop, that’s enough for now. Let’s go down to the office.”
“What… are you arresting me?”
“Frank, if I wanted you in custody, you’d be lying on the floor, hands cuffed behind your back right now… get it?”
Surprised that she actually knew my name, I took a moment to check Officer Bodie out. She was about four-and-a-half feet tall with a strong resemblance to a bowling ball, short but solid enough that I had no desire to challenge her. “No problem, officer. Do you want me to follow you there?”
“No, I’ll follow you… and take your time, Slick… take your time.”
A short time later, I pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office with Deputy Bodie right behind me. I figured Patty would be inside, and wondered how to react. Should we be formal with each other… casual?… warm?… or what? Our “relationship,” such as it was, was anything but out in the open, which was fine for me; but more than that, I was uncertain about the donut shop thing and Tommy Joe. Apprehensive, I opened the door and went in.
Patty was surprised to see us. “Frank… Bernie? How did you guys get together?”
The deputy responded, �
��There was a shooting over at Dave’s Donuts… not exactly sure what happened, but your friend here seems to be implicated, although he says he was just a witness. Of course, nobody but Billy was around… and he was unconscious when I got there.” She eyed me suspiciously. Implicated?… I didn’t like the tone of this. I was just getting over yesterday’s hangover and already felt like I needed another drink.
Patty was stunned. She looked at me. “Frank… you were involved in a shooting? what… what happened?”
Rolling her eyes, the deputy nodded at me and said, “You tell her, Scoop… it’s your story.”
I repeated the incident to Patty, omitting the part about her brother, but she wasn’t letting go easily. “That sounds like it could be some of Tommy’s friends… you… you don’t think he was one of them, do you?”
Both women were staring straight at me, waiting for a response. “Uh, no, I don’t think so… I mean, you know, they had these caps on and sunglasses and all… and it happened really fast.”
Deputy Dawg jumped on it. “You mean you think one of them could’ve been Tommy Joe… is that what you’re saying?”
I stared out the window. “Well… no… not exactly.” Uncomfortable, I tried to buy some time. Turning to Patty, I asked, “Do you have any coffee… I could really use a cup of coffee right now.”
Smelling fear, the little deputy was not letting up. “Well, what do you mean… exactly?”
Patty handed me a cup of coffee and I quickly took a gulp. It felt like boiling fucking lava gleefully melting my tongue. Closing my eyes against the pain, I swallowed hard and gasped, “Shit! Fuck!,” as it burned its way down my throat. My head was spinning.
“Are you all right, Frank? Do you want to sit down?”
I slumped into a chair and took a moment to compose myself. “Sorry… sorry… I didn’t expect it to be so hot.”
Still suspicious, the deputy grabbed a chair and pulled it over. Sitting beside me, her short little legs dangling back and forth, Deputy Dawg was ready to crank up the old third degree, but Patty got me off the hook. “It’s okay, Bernie, I’ll talk to Tommy Joe about it. I’ll get a straight answer out of him.”
The deputy hopped down and walked across the room. “Okay, but I get the feelin’ Ace ain’t comin’ completely clean on this deal. Billy was unconscious when they took him to the emergency room. I’ll go down there after lunch and get a statement.” Shuffling papers on her desk, the short cop was obviously annoyed.
Patty changed the subject. “So did you guys talk about the bomb crater at all?”
The deputy snorted in disgust. “Bomb crater… bomb crater? HA! Patty showed me your big mystery this morning. You got a lot of imagination there, Scoop.”
“Huh?” Okay, I can appreciate a good skeptic, but c’mon, it was right in front of her. I was getting pissed. “So what did you think it was, Deputy Da… er, Bodie? An excavation for a kiddie swimming pool… an alien landing site?”
“Well, you got me there, Frank… it’s true, I don’t know what that thing is. And yeah, something happened out there. I can see that, but who knows what it was… maybe some farmer’s digging a watering pond for his cattle… or somebody’s prepping the land for biofuel crops… or maybe it was more ‘teenagers’ playing around with fireworks.”
“Biofuel! Fireworks! Are you nuts?” I shook my head, then looked at Patty who just shrugged her shoulders and prompted me to go on. Deputy Dawg was proving a tough nut to crack. Taking a deep breath, I calmed down and continued, “Okay, look… I haven’t been exactly wasting my time here for the past week and, hey… I’m sorry about the whole L.A. Times thing. I have written a couple of articles for them, but that’s all. I only said that to get some information. I was convinced that there’s a story here… and there is!”
At that point I spent the next fifteen minutes laying it all out: Wilmer Graves’ crime spree, Hazel, the waitress in the café near Adrian, Graves and Hendricks driving away in the Cadillac, the farmer and his pig, Ted Hendricks’ total meltdown when I confronted him with Graves’ death and finally, the bomb crater, complete with scraps of a vaporized Cadillac Escalade.
“I mean, c’mon, Bernie… something weird happened off Highway 18 and, okay, I may not have it all figured out yet, but whatever’s out there, it’s not a goddam cattle pond… or teenagers playing with fireworks.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Frank… I checked out those pieces of metal Patty showed me. They could be fragments of an SUV, but this is a pretty cockamamie story you’re throwing at me… I mean, get real… who destroys a brand new car in the middle of nowhere… and why?”
“Okay… okay… I haven’t figured that part out yet, but if you saw the expression on Ted Hendricks’ face… I mean, the kid was scared shitless… of something.”
Pushing away from her desk, the deputy briefly paced around the room before turning back to me. “You know we don’t have any budget for crazy shit like this.” At least she was finally thinking about it. After a short pause, the little cop spoke again. “Okay, so you say this Hendricks guy lives in the ’burbs of Kansas City?”
I nodded. “Yeah, Blue Springs.”
“Okay, I know a guy on the force up in KC. I’ll see if I can get him to pick Hendricks up and bring him down here for a chat. How does that sound?”
“Great, Bernie… thanks. I think you’ll find it pretty interesting.”
“We’ll see… I have to get back to work now.” The deputy opened a drawer and took out a magazine. “Oh yeah, and don’t leave town, Frank… okay?”
“Sure, Bernie, sure…”
“And one more thing… and I’m only passing this on because you’re such a sweetheart.”
Headed for the door, I stopped and turned back, a puzzled look on my face. “Huh… what’s that, Bernie?”
“I got a call from the morgue saying Wilmer Graves’ widow showed up this morning to claim the body. She’s coming by to pick up his effects in a couple of hours. I thought you might like to talk to her.”
After leaving the sheriff’s office, Patty and I went to lunch. Since I wasn’t feeling so swell about Terry’s, we went to Cobb’s Bar-B-Que, a little hole in the wall specializing in smoked meat. Cobb’s had about six tables and seemed to do most of its business as take-out. At this point the place was a little rundown, but with autographed B&W photos of country and western stars hanging on the walls, the joint obviously enjoyed quite a reputation back in the ’50s and ’60s. The photos gave Cobb’s a kind of authentic atmosphere, but the smell of smoke was so pervasive, it made me nervous. I kept feeling like the place was on fire.
Of course, Patty knew the owner, happily greeting the young man as he took our order. “Hi, Junior. How’s Louie doing?”
“Not so good, I’m afraid, Patty. It looks like Louie’s had another setback. The doctors aren’t so sure if he’s gonna pull through this time. Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, this is Frank… he’s a reporter from L.A. Frank’s working on a story about that dead guy we found out on Highway 18 a couple of weeks ago. I’m really sorry to hear about Louie. I hope he makes it. My mom is doing a lot better. I think she should be coming home in a few days.”
“That’s great, Patty. Nice to meet you, Frank.”
After taking our order, Junior went back to prepare the food. Patty said that Louie, his dad, was actually the owner, but his son had taken over when Louie retired a few years ago. When I mentioned the photos, Patty said that Cobb’s Bar-B-Que was famous all over the Midwest; consequently country stars made sure their buses came through Clinton, and Louie always got them to sign photos when they came in. Looking closer I saw pictures of Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Buck Owens, and Jim Reeves along with many others. I was never a country music fan, but it was pretty impressive for a tiny joint in the middle of Missouri.
Still feeling the effects of last night’s bourbon, I needed food. While the meeting with Bernie had ultimately gone okay, dealing with the testy little fart was an emotionally
draining pain. That, plus a week away from home and the constant sensation that the restaurant was on fire made me more than a little edgy.
Not feeling so social, I sat in silence until Patty finally spoke up. “I saw Duane when I went to breakfast at Terry’s this morning.” I had a bad feeling about what was coming next. “He knows about us, Frank. I’m not sure how he found out, but him and Tommy Joe are pretty close, so that could be it. Clinton is a pretty small town, after all.” Yeah, right… too small to hide in and too bored to ignore… people talk, as they say.
“Gee, Patty that’s great news. It does a lot for my sense of security and well-being to know that a highway patrolman the size of a truck wants to kick my ass. I’ll sleep well knowing that I could be reduced to a whimpering puddle by tomorrow morning.”
“Duane’s not that bad, Frank. He can be a little pushy, but he’s just a puppy underneath it all.” Yeah… a puppy with the disposition of a rabid bear.
At that point our food arrived and it was awesome. At least the condemned man ate a hearty meal.
As soon as we finished, Patty and I headed back to the sheriff’s office. As we opened the door I immediately spotted an elderly woman with a walker sitting by Deputy Bodie’s desk, accompanied by a young female companion appearing to be in her early twenties. Aware of my interest in speaking to Graves’ widow, Bernie introduced us. “Mrs. Graves, this is Frank Blodgett, a writer from Los Angeles. Mr. Blodgett wants to talk to you about your husband.”
As the woman struggled to rise from the chair, I walked across the room and extended my hand. “Please, please, don’t bother to get up, Mrs. Graves… it’s okay,” I said. About halfway up she paused, reconsidered, and settled back into her seat. Looking up, she reached out her hand and we greeted each other. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Graves.”
The old woman’s movements were slow and labored but her eyes were bright. “Call me Mildred. I’m happy to meet you, too, Mr., uh, Blodgett?”
The Brickeaters Page 9
