Joseph's Kidnapping

by Randy Rawls

  Both the MMV and the car in the right lane started weaving, in trouble.

  “Lookout,” Wanda shouted. “They’re going to crash.”

  I glanced at my speedometer. The needle hovered at 110 moving upward. This was stupid. I released the accelerator and placed slight, but steady pressure on the brake pedal. The anti-lock brakes took over and slowed the Chrysler to a more reasonable speed.

  The sedan in front of me went into a spin and after a three-sixty, ended up on the shoulder pointing in the direction it had been going, rolling to a stop.

  The MMV driver still fought for control, but the swerving slowed, then stopped. Without pausing, he continued on his journey.

  “You’re right,” I said, as the Chrysler continued to slow. “There’ll be another day.”

  I stopped behind the car. A man in cut-off jeans and T-shirt climbed out. “Are you okay?” I called.

  “Yeah, scared the hell out of me and the family,” he responded. “Did you see that damn fool? He coulda killed us all. He drove like he had the devil on his bumper.”

  I didn’t mention I was his demon. I looked into his car. A woman with a white face sat in the front seat. Her coloring had nothing to do with her ethnic origin. In the backseat were two little ones. Their eyes looked like small saucers and as I peeked in, they wailed. Delayed reaction, I guess. The woman turned toward them, making soothing sounds, her color flooding in, proving once again the instinct to mother overcomes all.

  “Thanks for stopping,” the driver said. “Neither the jerk in the pickup or the van seemed to care.”

  I looked down the road where the MMV plowed on as if nothing had happened. The black pickup was out of sight. I said my good-byes and walked to my car on shaky legs.

  “Are they okay?” Wanda asked. She leaned against the front of the Chrysler. “I’d have gone over, but I didn’t think I could make it. I’m shaking like a bowl of Jell-O around a three-year-old. Don’t you ever do that again, or I’ll, I’ll…Well, I’ll think of something.”

  “Sorry. Sometimes I let the fanatic side of my personality take over. Everyone’s alright. Just shook-up.”

  “He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day,” Wanda said, a smug look on her face.

  “Yeah, he’ll be back. We’ll settle it then.”

  * * * *

  We moved at a moderate speed toward the First Monday grounds while I kept one eye on the rearview mirror for my surveillant. I saw many black pickups, but none interested in our activities. The way he was driving when I last saw him, I guessed he might be in Louisiana by now. I hoped, but didn’t expect that I’d scared him off.

  As we drove down Trade Days Boulevard, I saw Dub directing traffic and allowing pedestrians to cross from the parking lots to the concession area. I came alongside him, and he recognized me.

  “Mr. Edwards, park and come back up here. I got some news for you.”

  I turned into the next lot and paid my three dollars, pulling all the way to the rear since there was nothing closer to the road. We cleaved our way through the crowd toward where Dub worked. There were so many people milling about, each anxious to cross the road and shop, that it took several minutes before I attracted Dub’s attention.

  He saw me, called to another deputy to take his place in the middle of the street and swaggered over to us. “Once a month, I remember how happy I am to live in a small town. These city-slickers is as dumb as sheep without a good dog.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Are you their sheep dog?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, reckon I am. If me or one of the other deputies wuzn’t out there stopping traffic, they’d walk out and get hit.” He turned his attention to Wanda. “Morning, Ms. Jamison. Tell Chip I said howdy and Joseph’s doing fine. I checked on him this morning.”

  “Thank you, Dub,” Wanda replied. “What did you want to talk to us about?”

  I noticed how she used us, but decided to let it pass. She appeared determined to deal herself in. I was equally determined to deal her out.

  “Sheriff said you wuz looking for information on Melon,” Dub said. “Well, I can tell you he’s back in the county. I called one of my snitches, and he said he seen him a few days ago. He said Melon wuz bragging about coming into money, then he was going to dust this town off the seat of his pants. Does that help any?”

  “Great,” I replied. “Did he say where he was getting the money?”

  “That’s what I asked. My snitch didn’t know.” Dub looked toward his partner who argued with a tourist. “I’d better get back out there. We have to be extra nice to the jerks.”

  “Okay, one more question. Did he run with Peanut?”

  “Prob’ly, but I can’t say for sure. I’ll check some of my other sources,” Dub said over his shoulder as he threaded his way through the traffic to the center line.

  We stood and watched as Dub quieted the tourist and helped him finish crossing the road. When Dub stopped traffic the next time, we crossed and immersed ourselves into the First Monday flea market.

  “Do you remember what Melon looks like?” I asked Wanda.

  “No, I doubt I’d recognize him. I don’t pay much attention to the hands, I’m afraid. Does that make me a snob?”

  “Depends on why, I suppose. The way I’ve seen you with Frank and Annie, I doubt it though.” I paused. “But with neither of us knowing what he looks like, he’d better be wearing his yellow shirt. Assuming that’s who we saw yesterday.”

  We spent the rest of the day wandering the First Monday grounds without spotting the yellow shirt. Whoever had worn it yesterday had either not returned, or had changed. I found it frustrating he’d change shirts after one day. I did, but he shouldn’t. Messed me up.

  All the walking and searching caused my feet to ache. The food concessions with seats tempted me to eat and rest them, but I didn’t. I’d rather hurt than incur Annie’s wrath by not being hungry at dinner. As for the pain, I swore someday I’d learn not to wear boots when I had walking to do.

  TWENTY-TWO

  We arrived at the ranch in time for another of Annie’s scrumptious dinners. I wondered if I could talk her into going to Dallas with me. Then I vetoed that thought. If I ate her cooking every day, my body would rush through pear-shaped straight to a basketball look. Of course, if I gained enough weight and refurbished my vocabulary with a plethora of four letter words, I might be able to make it on television. Or, maybe radio—you know, foul-mouthed talk show host loved for insulting his guests.

  During dinner, I took time out from stuffing my face to notice Chip’s lack of conversation. It didn’t show at first because Wanda kept a steady stream of chatter flowing. She told Annie about our hair-raising chase on I-20. When Wanda said we were going one hundred-twenty miles an hour, a slight exaggeration, but not much, I looked at Chip, expecting the worst. He stabbed another piece of steak, still lost in his world.

  The attack came from another direction. Annie gave me a look questioning my sanity. I could only shrug, agreeing with her diagnosis.

  That didn’t satisfy her. “Did it do you any good?” Annie demanded, icicles dangling from each word.

  “You bet—”

  “Wanda. I was speaking to Mr. Edwards,” Annie cut in. “If he chooses to commit suicide and take you with him, I’d like to know he at least solved the case.”

  She turned her attention to me and her look told me she was not thrilled. “Will Joseph be home tomorrow, or did you risk Ms. Jamison’s life for nothing?”

  I searched for a suitable answer, but came up blank. She switched her attention to Wanda. “I didn’t coddle you through three marriages to have some big-city idiot show up here and kill you.”

  I wanted to tell her I’d been born and raised in a small town, but she spun on her heel and stomped into the kitchen. We heard a heated diatribe from the other side of the door, which consisted of my total irresponsibility and Wanda’s poor taste in men.

  Annie’s words ceased, and Frank walked into the dini
ng room. “She’ll get over it, Mr. Edwards.”

  He turned to Wanda. “Ms. Jamison, you should know better than to tell her things like that. She still thinks you’re a little girl that needs somebody to care for her.”

  Frank returned to his dishwashing duties.

  “He’s right,” Wanda said. “Annie’s been taking care of me so long, she can’t seem to quit. And I’ve been confiding in her so long, I can’t seem to quit.”

  Chip continued eating, unaffected by the exchanges.

  We polished off slices of Annie’s apple pie with vanilla ice cream then retired to the Texas Room. Chip still had not said anything beyond the most meager grunt.

  “Okay Bro, what’s up?” Wanda asked. “You’re too quiet. That means you’ve got something stuck in your craw.”

  I looked to Chip thankful Wanda asked the question I wanted to ask.

  Chip lifted his head. “Candi came by today.”

  “Oh?” Wanda raised an eyebrow. “You two gonna try again?”

  “Doubt it. She acted bitchy. Said she wanted to show me a copy of the papers before she filed them Monday—suing for two million.”

  “Two million—” I choked, unable to finish my thought.

  “What grounds?” Wanda handled the announcement better than I.

  “The usual crap. Do you remember the O.J. Simpson case? Everything he was sued for, plus a few things from Candi’s vivid imagination. She said she’s not taking any chances this time. With the long list she put together, she’s sure to win something.”

  I’d recovered enough to enter the conversation. “So, what’s the big deal? You knew it was coming, and you knew she’d throw the book at you.”

  “No big deal, except we sat and reminisced for a while. She looked great.”

  I pictured the Candi I’d met in the sheriff’s office and again at Dog Town. She must have lost weight, fixed her hair, and obtained a whole new wardrobe. I looked at Wanda, but she didn’t seem surprised. Maybe I missed something when Candi and I locked horns.

  “Bullshit,” Chip said with a chuckle. “She still uses bullshit to anchor each sentence, just like when we were young.”

  “Maybe Ace and I should leave,” Wanda said. “You’re on another of your guilt trips, and I don’t feel like talking you down again.” She stood. “Let’s move, Ace. The Robin Hood will be jumping tonight, and I’ve got a fresh bottle of scotch that’s looking for some expensive ice.”

  I looked at Chip. He hadn’t moved. He stared at his beer, lost in a world of Candi I couldn’t envision.

  * * * *

  During the drive to the Robin Hood BYOB Night Club, Wanda filled me in on Chip and Candi’s track record. Not much I didn’t know except for one thing.

  “Chip’s never gotten over her. No matter how much she beats up on him, he takes it. When she sued after Sandra’s car wreck, Chip wanted to settle. He wanted her to win. The lawyers from the insurance company wouldn’t let him cave. When I saw how he behaved at dinner, I figured they’d talked. It happens every time. He can’t seem to get over her and the guilt he feels because he jilted her.”

  “Is he still in love with her?”

  “I don’t know. Somehow it’s all mixed up in the guilt he feels and the love he once had for her. But I get the feeling if the situation were right, he’d be more than eager to give it another try.”

  “How would you feel?” I asked, remembering Wanda’s earlier comments about Candi.

  She waited several seconds before replying. “If I thought Candi would make him happy, I’d invite her in tonight. All I want is for my brother to have what I wasn’t allowed to have—a loving companion and spouse.” She paused again. “Of course, I’d have to get the hell out of there, or I’d snatch her bald—or vice versa.”

  I chewed on this latest bit of information until we arrived at the Robin Hood. Wanda’s news about Chip’s feelings toward Candi had surprised me so much, I’d forgotten to check for surveillance.

  * * * *

  The band assaulted The Gambler, one of Kenny Rogers’ hits. I was certain the lead singer, the one impersonating Mr. Rogers, had not been given a role in the TV movie, and probably wasn’t even invited to rent the flick. Since Sweeper and Striker head for the farthest point in the house anytime I sing, I figure I’m an expert on bad singing. My expert opinion was this guy couldn’t sing.

  The rest of the bar and the crowd looked the same as our previous visit. Thick cigarette smoke hung in the air and dirty sawdust covered the floor. I didn’t want to venture a guess what caused some of the colors in the sawdust. I looked around and didn’t see anyone who looked familiar although several of the patrons stopped by to say hello to Wanda.

  Wanda produced a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from her huge purse, and we sipped scotch and water again. Nothing wrong with Wanda’s taste, except she could have been converting me to expensive stuff I couldn’t afford. I drained my glass, checking my watch. It showed eleven-fifteen. The night had been uneventful and our water pitcher was low, so I figured it was a good time to leave. Besides, I hoped Striker and Sweeper would have the opportunity to sleep in the second bedroom again.

  Before I could suggest we leave, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hey Dude, we wants to talk to you.”

  The tone of his voice screamed trouble. Without showing my panic, I turned. I’ve learned there’s no need to rush into disaster. Disaster is patient and will wait for you.

  I found myself staring at the biggest belt buckle I’d ever seen—about six inches wide and four inches tall. A steer head with a long set of horns stood out on it—what I’d expect to see on the leading man in a modern Hollywood western. I noticed it held up a pair of jeans under a beer belly that proved the owner got out of the dry county of Van Zandt. I looked up and up and up. Way up there above a huge chest sat a head that appeared well over six feet from the floor.

  Beside the belt buckle, two shorter cowboys stood staring at me with ugly looks on their faces. Their mugs were unattractive, but their grimaces made them worse. I inched my way up to my entire five feet, eight inches. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” My eyes were level with the scruffy neck hair on Mr. Belt Buckle.

  I looked him over, then turned and surveyed the others. I used my cool look, you know, the one that says, I’m not intimidated by anyone. I hoped the knocking of my knees wouldn’t give me away. The little ones looked like they could be twins—six feet, two hundred or so pounds. Belt Buckle might have been their big brother, about six-four, two-fifty. He wore a four or five days growth of beard. It looked so wiry I figured he couldn’t find blades strong enough to cut it.

  Belt Buckle was the one who captured my attention. He wore a light blue work shirt, chambray, I think they call it. The sleeves had been torn or cut off, baring part of his shoulders and massive upper arms. He had a coiled rattlesnake tattooed on his right bicep. On him, it looked more like a coiled boa constrictor that had been fed several rabbits. Instinct told me he was the leader. Instinct also told me he could squash me like a bug on a windshield.

  “You wanted something?” I said, hitching my pants and hoping I sounded tough. “If not, the young lady and I were about to leave.” Maybe they didn’t like strangers in their bar.

  “We jist wanted to tell you we’s friends of Peanut’s,” Belt Buckle said. “That damn jackass kilt him, and we don’t like whut you’re doing. Twarn’t for you, that jackass would be dog food.”

  I concentrated on his right bicep while hoping he was right handed. Experience taught me most bad guys get tattooed on their favorite side. If I saw his bicep wiggle, I was ready to head for the floor, face first—yucky sawdust and all.

  He didn’t appear to notice my concentration. “We tried to let you know in a nice, civil way, but you just wouldn’t take no hint. We’s gonna show you whut happens to city-slickers that meddle in our business. We just want you to know—”

  During his speech, I sensed, rather than saw, Wanda leave her chair and move beside me. I would hav
e told her to get out of there, but never had the chance. There was a flash, a crash, and an oomph from the big guy as he dropped to the floor.

  His performance ceased before it reached its climax causing me to wonder what else he had to say. I took a chance and flashed a look at his two buddies, ready to strike first if they looked threatening, but they were busy staring at their friend. I averted my attention, looked down and saw Mr. Belt Buckle laying on his side in the fetal position, his hands cupped around the parts any man holds most precious. From the look on his face, I guessed he’d lost interest in fighting. In fact, the look on his face told me he’d lost interest in about everything except the pain he felt in his groin. I swear his lips moved in a silent prayer, or, perhaps, other thoughts poured from his mouth.

  Wanda stood over him with a broken beer bottle in her hand, which explained the crash I’d heard. She held the business end of the bottle about two inches from his eyes.

  “You breathe too loud, and I’ll cut your eyes out,” she said. “After you can’t see, I’ll kick your nuts all the way to Dallas. You not only won’t be screwing anymore, you won’t be able to see what you’re missing.”

  I looked at her. This was the woman I’d challenged. I reminded myself not to do that anymore. The guy on the floor appeared to echo my thoughts. He stared at her with a glazed look, fear overcoming the pain in his eyes. His evening had ended in a humiliating way he’d never anticipated. I figured he wished he was home in bed—alone—with an ice pack. Some funny colored sawdust clung to the side of his face—brownish purple, puce, I think they call it. I wondered what could cause sawdust to cling like that, but gave it up when a couple of disgusting answers came to mind.

  Wanda looked at me, then the other two cowboys. Her face wore an innocent expression and her tone of voice said, I do this all the time. Her words said, “Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds so I thought I’d square them. Now, it’s two to one. That’s much better.” She looked at me. “I’ve seen you take bigger guys than these frog poachers.”