by Matt Minor
Dead? Something’s up here, and though I don’t wish to lie to this poor woman, I need to try and find out what’s suddenly kicking around in my gut. So I lie. “Yes ma’am, I apologize for not being forthright. Yes, I am with the police.”
“I knew it. Well, ya’ll already checked around the place. Done tore up the house and shed.”
“We’d like to check his office again if possible, Mrs. Reynolds.” I’m gambling here as I don’t know if he has an ‘office’ per say in his residence.
“Well, okay. Do your worst. Just clean up after yourselves this time.”
She opens the door and I enter. She does not ask if I have a badge. She does not wonder why I am out here alone without a partner. I have to keep up the ruse and think about questions I might have while she is with me, so as not to provoke suspicion. I then realize she’s going to leave me to my own devices.
“Just clean up and lock up when you leave, officer,” she states so languidly that the tiredness of the words themselves compete with the immense black circles under her aged eyes. I guess she assumes I know where the office is. But before I let her retire down the dark hallway, her movements suggest she’s wishing to travel, I stop her with a question.
“Refresh my memory, ma’am, how long has it been since your husband went missing?”
“A week ago today,” she says, and vanishes into the cocoon of waiting death. After all these years, I finally understand that smell that my great-grandmother’s house had when I entered it as a child. The smell of decaying food between dentures—the smell of rot.
Impersonating an officer of the law is a felony, so I am treading on volatile territory here. With Mrs. Reynolds gone, I go wandering through the house looking for what might constitute an office. I deduce, from her behavior that it is in the opposite direction from which she excused herself. Though the house is not too large, and is only one story, the layout is haphazard and non-linear. I continuously look out whatever window might be available to see if anyone might be lurking around outside: actual cops, neighbors, pitiful Mormon kids on bikes. I see no one. I’m wondering if I should maybe move my car around to the side of the house. But will this possibly wake Mrs. Reynolds? What will the neighbors think? I decide against this, deferring to the ancient advice of letting sleeping dogs lie.
I finally find the office. It’s located in a tiny room off the utility, and is rife with the smell of old dirty clothes hanging in the air. I begin quietly searching through a handful of drawers and a single, grey, tall filing cabinet. The stuff looks largely untouched. I recall that Mrs. Reynolds had asked me to, ‘clean up, this time.’ I’m wondering what she was referring to.
What I’m searching for is anything that might be applicable to my recent dealings with him. I find nothing in the desk drawers. I switch on the desktop PC. I hear the hum of tread on asphalt while waiting for it to boot. I move lightly to the nearest frontal window and peer through the blinds. I see the back of a pickup shrink down the road. When I return to the desk, the computer’s desktop reveals little. I search through computer files. Nothing. But Jules was old school…I start thinking.
I vacate the computer for the tall grey filing cabinet. The drawers house the usual information for a middle class household: insurance info, health records, taxes. But in the bottom drawer, towards the back, I see a manila file with the initials ‘BPI’ handwritten with a Sharpie on the protruding tab. This is what I’ve been looking for, as the thick file has information regarding the dogs and Jules’ correspondence with me as well as other as yet unidentified documents. I kill the PC, having found nothing else related. I grab a dirty sock and wipe down everything I’ve handled, including the window blinds. I’m out of here.
My adrenaline is settling as I sit idling at the stop sign at the end of Jules’ street. Hypnotized by the tired pistons that clank under the hood of the Expedition, I gaze back at the deceptively placid road. Bowers Highway beckons in either direction, but I want nothing of it. It seems I’m not yet done dabbling in potential disaster.
I pull the old gal off the highway, through an open gate, and rattling over a cattle guard, I’m whimsically navigating towards a particular destination. Or so I hope. I’m also trespassing big time— in Texas this can be lethal. The dirt road I’m presently on parallels the paved one leading to the Reynolds’, which I’ve just exited. And it’s guiding me towards a thick wood. Luckily, I happen upon a small garage-sized opening in the scattered brush. With the Expedition partially concealed I put her in park, pull my .38 from under the driver’s seat and set out into the forest.
From where I’m traveling, there is no apparent trail like there was when I last entered these woods with Jules. The earth is muddy from this afternoon’s rain. I’m going to ruin my boots. When I’m almost convinced that I’m lost, I spot the slatted image of houses through the trunks. I skim the perimeter till I happen upon Jules’ backyard. Now, I know where I’m at.
The sun is again concealed behind a clump of dark clouds as the thunder rolls. Giving up its disguise, the thicket opens up. The rodeo arena looks unchanged in its decay from when I last saw it. But is it?
I toss a broken piece of a limb over the fence and bleachers and wait…nothing, no barking. Another limb, and again… nothing. No barking. Again, there is no easy entry as the gates are hyper-locked and the fence is too high to scale. The ladder is where I remember it being, concealed under wads of thick, tall grass. It’s heavy as hell, but I manage to get the damn thing leaned against the top rail. Drizzle greets me as I step off a slippery rung and onto a flimsy wooden slat.
I’m aghast! From up here there’s no sign of the pit bulls at all. The bleachers bounce like a trampoline as I make my way towards the arena floor. One, cracking abruptly, splits open and engulfs half of my left leg. I’m in pain up to just above my knee. I lift myself up and out, I’m now reeling in even greater pain. The jeans I’m wearing appear to be intact. No blood is visible. The rain has graduated from a drizzle to a steady stream. Lightning now accompanies the rolling thunder.
The floor of the arena is even absent of the shit, though a trace of it still lingers in the air. I’m looking for any evidence to suggest that my trip here with Jules a few weeks ago was something other than a hallucination. No puncture holes can be located in the ground where I remember the chains being fastened from.
The gray sky is getting grayer. I need a flashlight, but I have left it in the car. I poke around under the bleachers as the pain in my leg starts to worsen. Have I broken something? Fuck!
As the wood slats above my head shower me intermittently with the ensuing downpour, I notice something mangled in the weeds. It appears to be a fragment of cloth of some sort. It’s hard to decipher, but it looks to be from a ball cap. I turn it over and read what looks to be the torn remnants of ‘USMC’! How did the Sheriff ’s forensic people miss this?
An ominous feeling sweeps over me, it is a feeling I have had before while campaigning. It is the feeling that someone is watching me. But from where?
I look around in paranoia as I hop off the ladder with great difficulty. It’s damn near impossible to negotiate it back to its weedy home, but I do.
Something rustles in the brush.
I turn in the direction of the sound and see the fleeting image of…
…Bear Bryant?
Part II
AUGUST
CHAPTER SIX
AZTECA UNIDO ELECTRICO
Azteca Unido Electrico invites you and your guests
to the launching of our new state of the art
Carbon Sequester addition
to the power plant complex in Bowers, Texas.
“Fancy card,” I comment with a bit of sarcasm.
“Yeah, it’s a bit gaudy…kind of like Mexican money,” my boss concedes.
“I don’t know man, when’s the last time you handled our money? Have you seen the new hundreds?”
“Oh, I know. Ben Franklin’s rolling over in his grave. That means Aztec Un
ited Electric, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know, I can read simple Spanish,” I snipe. “By the way, what’s the story with these people?”
“Biggest power plant and power distributor anywhere in or near House District 100.”
“Really, I knew they were big, but the biggest?”
“Yeah, and right here in Wagoneer County. AUE is also one of the only companies that both generates and distributes electricity. With this new addition—I give it a year at most—they’ll be one of the most profitable electric companies in the state.”
“Why, because of this carbon sequestration thing?”
“Precisely. With the new EPA regulations coming into effect soon, this project will put them ahead of the game.”
“What the hell does ‘Carbon Sequestration’ mean anyway?” “I’m not sure. All I know is that when they get it operational, they’ll be pumping the shit underground instead of into the atmosphere.”
“Fascinating. Too bad it’s a foreign company.”
“With all the goddamned regs coming from the Feds, it’s amazing that there are any power plants at all in this country!”
I’m sitting in my boss’ office in downtown Wagoneer, going over the schedule for the next few weeks. Luckily, it’s not too packed and still reasonable to handle. But this won’t last. August is the last stop before the fall campaign season kicks in. And even though my boss is an incumbent and not in any danger, since he started entertaining this ‘Congressman’ fantasy, he’s convinced that “we” need to attend every political event within a hundred-mile radius.
“I’ve got a table at this thing down in Bowers. I need you to go,” he orders.
“Umm…”
“What? What is it?” he asks me both concerned and irritated. But before I can reply he adds, “You look like shit, Mason. What the hell have you been doing? Up all night partying?”
He’s pretty much hit the nail on the head, I’m thinking:
A few days ago, Keith and I sat up all night drinking and smoking weed. I’d never been much of a stoner, in fact the first night I partook of his sizeable stash, I felt really weird. I started getting super fucking paranoid, thinking about and over analyzing everything: From my boss, to Brandy, to Keith, back to Brandy, then Jules and his wife, that whole situation,…and, when I arrived at Ann (which I somehow concealed from him), I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. Keith, to his credit, kept me calm, talking me down and feeding me shots of Jack, which took the edge off the weed; that and the thought of Brenna. When I finally laid down to sleep, I’m was so tanked I passed out.
Then last night, Keith and I hung out listening to his record collection, which is badass. Keith is about ten years my elder, around forty-five. He grew up in the eighties and has some killer albums. His preference back then was what was called “cowpunk.” Cowpunk was the predecessor to alt. country, and was flanked by loose affiliates who enhanced it. Truth be told, after listening to Keith’s records, alt. country as a whole pales in comparison. With bands like the Long Ryders, Jason and the Scorchers, Blasters, Blood on the Saddle, Rank and File, and Keith’s favorite album of all time: REM’s Fables of the Reconstruction, the 1990s could be construed as a footnote. I set to burning them immediately so I could listen to them in the Expedition…
“Hey, what the hell are you doing…daydreaming or something?” my boss chides me.
“Oh, sorry, yeah, I was up last night with some stomach issues. I wasn’t drinking though. Sorry.”
“It’s alright, Mason. For a minute I thought we lost you,” he says with his plastic politician’s grin.
“Yes, I can be there. But I have one suggestion; a request of sorts.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks as if I’ve breeched some protocol. This has been his tone of late. I’m the servant and he’s the master.
“Nothing major, just a few questions first.”
“What questions?”
“Who else are you inviting to sit with us?”
“Oh,” he says relieved. It’s like he thought I was gonna ask to sleep with Brandy or something. “Well, the Wagoneer District Attorney, the sheriff…”
“The Wagoneer Sheriff?” I break in.
“Yes, the Wagoneer Sheriff. I know you don’t like either one of them.”
“For good reason.”
“I’m not arguing that, Mason… I’m telling you the damn guest list.”
“Continue, please.”
“Well, that’s it, other than you and Brandy and somebody from the county judge’s office over in Fort Bryan.”
“What do you mean?” I already know The Judge will be out of town. The boss’ secretary told me the other day when I was inquiring about our political schedule.
“Well, I invited him but I think he’ll be out of town. I thought about inviting someone else, but I really need to keep him in my camp.”
“I think that’s a great idea, sir, with the possible congressional race out there.”
“Yes, I’m glad you can see my logic, Mason.”
“How about his assistant?”
“Yes, his assistant. Do I know her?”
“Yes, sir, you’ve met her on numerous occasions…her name is Brenna.”
“Okay.”
“I want to sit next to her.”
“Ahhh, now I get it…your request,” his grin is broken by laughter.
“Yes, sir.”
“Consider it done. If she’s available.”
“She’ll be available.”
This could not have worked out any better, I’m thinking as I pull out of the office complex and head towards Houston.
Life rarely affords one a second chance in anything, no matter what it is. Except in politics. Politics is like a cat, if one sticks it out, one is confronted with nine lives. People have short memories. People who work in politics have even shorter memories. Good politicians know this and plot accordingly. Where do you think the term, “Politics makes for strange bedfellows,” came from?
I fucked it up once with my ill-advised, gruesome narrative. I won’t make this mistake twice.
But my natural high is short-lived. When I return to the apartment, there is some bad news waiting in my mailbox. It’s a letter from my lawyer who represents me in the case regarding Ann. I’m scanning down through all the legal nonsense looking for…
We regret to inform you that State District Court 12 has found Wagoneer County Sheriff ’s Deputy, Jacob Scarborough, innocent of all charges; as stated below…
As my eyes race the consecutive columns of, to me, crimes against humanity, I’m devastated. But cops can get away with almost anything, especially in shitkicker Texas. In shitkicker Texas, county judges play golf or go hunting with sheriff ’s, D.A.’s, …and district judges. And they are never responsible for any mistake, whether by accident or deliberate. Thus, rendering justice a thing only afforded to the connected. But I was connected, in a way. My attorney was recommended by my boss. Before I go inside, I stuff the letter in a book about the Civil War, which I’ve been carrying around in my briefcase.
It’s hard, but I have to keep my shit together as Keith still knows nothing of the truth of this situation. And like all half lies, I can’t remember what is truth and what is fiction. Obviously, his condition is improving with the weed. I’m about to find out exactly how much…
When I walk through the door, Keith is out of his wheelchair. He’s sitting on one of the kitchen table’s cheap aluminum chairs, his Butterscotch Strat resting on his rail-thin thigh.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim, dropping my tattered briefcase. “What the hell are you doing?” I demand; not in a scolding way, but as one who, having found their friend having suddenly sprouted wings and hovering the ceiling, is both cautiously alarmed, but genuinely amazed. He can’t hear me as he has headphones on and is strumming away at whatever it is on the turntable that I can’t hear.
Keith’s eyes are closed and his head is bobbing up and down to the music
. He doesn’t see me. I stand frozen for a moment. I can’t contain my happiness, when, what is obviously the solo section of the song, he rips into a fit of picking-fret board madness. I’m feeling tears. They struggle to breach their sockets.
“Oh, hey Mason!” Having looked up at last, he shouts as the music is still blaring in the headphones. He then starts singing to the song in his ear, which is “Hot Nights in Georgia” by Jason and the Scorchers.
“Tear it up, bro!”
“Take it away, Mason, you know the words!” Keith jerks the headphone jack out of the turntable and the music hits the air with the force of a burning cotton field.
Keith and I end up staying up all night getting high and jamming on guitars. He convinces me to bust out my acoustic, which is really out of tune and takes some time to tweak. I haven’t played since Ann died. I would have left it back at the cabin if it weren’t so expensive.
Keith and I met nearly twenty years ago when I was still a pup in high school. We kicked around in a band for a while, with him on lead and me on rhythm and vocals. We played all originals. I think we had maybe five songs. It never went anywhere and he moved on to other things and I, well, I kind of gave it up. Ever since college, Ann had always pushed me to start a country band, and from time to time, I would look for pickers. But nothing ever came of it, and life took over as it has a way of doing. Keith and I kept in touch through the years and when he found himself homeless, Ann and I took him in and helped him get back on his feet. When he got sent to prison, there was no question that I would look after his things until he got out. He’s a wholesale fuck up, but he’s a good friend.
And…he’s feeling much better now, and off the pain meds. He did not ask about Ann tonight. Soon his mind will clear and he will sense something’s out of place.
Bowers Power Plant is situated in one of the more beautiful pockets of the Texas coastal plains. Down a serpentine road that winds its way through and under colossal live oaks, one would expect to arrive at some Old South manor at the conclusion of this picturesque journey. Instead, the only columns one discovers are of those piping tufts of steam into the gathering twilight.
