by Edward Lee
The Writer went back outside into the humid night, reflecting all that he'd experienced. He fumbled with the pump, not well-versed in such procedures, put the nozzle in the hole, then squeezed, but nothing happened. Am I doing something wrong here? he wondered. When he looked back up at the pump, the tiny screen read: SEE CASHIER.
The Writer walked back inside. Balls stood at the magazine rack, thumbing through a glossy publication with the odd title, Crazy For Crackers!
"Hey, Writer? You like graham crackers?"
The Writer stalled. "Why, yes, I supposed so... though it's been some time since I've had any. Why do you ask?"
"Check it out," and then Balls showed him a page in the magazine. A naked woman grinned over her shoulder as her hands reached back to spread her superior buttocks. She was expertly expelling a long dribble of semen from her anus, under which another naked woman held a graham cracker.
"Bet'cha wouldn't eat that graham cracker, huh?" Balls chuckled.
The Writer's face ballooned in disgust; he rushed back to the cashier and told Pimple Face, "I seem to be having some trouble with the pump."
"Oh, yeah. The credit card machine's down... "
Balls sneered over. "Come on, hoss! Git'cher shit together. We'se in a hurry."
"Don't worry, it happens all the time. Just wait a few minutes and then try the pump again."
Technology, the Writer thought and went back outside. He waited, leaning against the car and staring at the U-Haul in tow. No one would ever believe what's inside there...
Had he been more observant, he would've noticed the lit sign just a block down the road, CRICK CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT, but there was also something else he was unaware of:
He'd given the pimply faced guy a credit card bearing the name Reginald Hildreth, which was not the Writer's name.
Balls walked outside, smirking.
"That thing workin' yet?"
The Writer squeezed the pump handle again. Nothing happened. "Not yet, but I'm sure it will be shortly...
(X)
There's got to be more to police work than this, Sergeant Stu Cummings thought and audibly groaned. The midnight shift in THIS hick town?
"What'choo moanin' and groanin' about, Stu?" Courtney asked. "You do that a lot, ya know."
"Tell me about it."
Courtney was the Crick City Police Department's night dispatcher. She was also—if the rumors were genuine—the chief's secret paramour on occasion. Her face beamed like a beautiful beacon, in spite of the 200-pound body and 5'4" frame. She'd made a play for Stu himself once or twice, but...
I didn't leave the city for that shit, he thought. It was all the same everywhere, he supposed. His idealism hadn't worn off yet. "Courtney, I've been here two years and I still haven't solved a crime more major than a domestic dispute or drunk driving. I'm turning to porridge in this town."
"Well, you could'a been a cop in the Big Apple but then... you'd probably be dead by now. That or on the take."
Not me, he thought. "I just want some real police work, you know? This redneck stuff is boring me shitless."
"Watch that, cutie. Rednecks got their good points too," and then she grinned rather salaciously and winked. "End of our shift, you'n me, why we'se could grab a bottle'a shine, check in ta the no-tell motel'n have ourselfs a fine ole time... real redneck style."
Stu just laughed and shook his head.
He looked around the drab booking room, eyed the wall calendar, and then the clock. It was past two in the morning. Six more hours of sitting around, came the grim realization. I just want to make a difference, but that's not ever going to happen here, not in this hayseed burg... Then, without thinking, he reached under his desk and knocked on wood.
"You do that a lot, too. Bet'cha don't even realize it."
"What—oh, knocking on wood?"
"Yeah. I'se know what'cher knockin' for, and don't worry, I didn't tell the chief you up'n applied to another department. Ain't heard back yet?"
Stu shook his head. Two months ago he'd submitted an application for transfer, to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He'd go from this boring Gomer-Pyle duty to busting gun-runners and pulling stings on radical militia groups. That's real police work...
"Nope," he finally answered. "And you know what bites me in the ass hardest? I aced the exam, then they called me in for three interviews and they all went great. The recruitment officer told me there was a ninety-percent chance I'd get hired. The only hold up was federal quotas or some shit like that. Said I'd know in two weeks if I was in."
Courtney flipped a page of some soap opera magazine. "When was that?"
Stu sighed. "A damn month ago."
"Hate to tell ya this, Stu, but most'a those ATF guys? Mostly all they do is bust stills and chase ‘shine runners."
"Sure, Courtney, but half of those guys transporting illegal liquor also transport drugs. I'm dying to bust drug dealers. And if you do a good job, they promote you to the even more important duty, like investigating skinhead militias and dropping the boom on gun-runners that supply arms to terrorists."
Courtney smiled the way a mother might at a naive child. "You're such a boy scout, Stu, and that's a good thing. But I also hate to tell ya that a lot'a them ATF guys are on the take."
Stu's face hardened on her. "I will never go on the take, Courtney. Never."
Courtney decided not to push it. "Well, at least yer on the list, sweetie. You'll get hired eventually."
"God, I hope so."
She giggled. "‘Course, when that happens, you'll break the hearts'a ever gal in Crick City... mine included."
Stu smiled. "Believe me, Courtney," he lied. "If I wasn't dating Kathy, I'd be all over you like a cheap suit."
"Don't tease me like that, City Boy!" she laughed.
He struggled to change the subject. "Hey, day-shift said the chief was all pissed off about something today."
"Oh, yeah, his dang tickets. He thinks someone stole 'em."
Stu lit a Blue Devil cigarette, then kicked his feet up on the desk. "Tickets?"
"The Annual Big Stone Gap Testicle Festival—"
"What?" Stu gaped.
"They'se real hard ta get, but the chief pulled some strings and got on the invite list—"
"Courtney! What the hell is a testicle festival?"
"Oh, a'course, you're from the city. Ever heard'a Smoky Mountain Oysters?"
Stu winced at once. "Oh, shit, you mean like fried goat balls?"
"Yeah. Only these are bull balls, and they'se dang good, too, I've had 'em a bunch'a times. They dip 'em in corn batter and deep-fry 'em in a big kettle. Taste sort'a like meatballs only a little crunchy."
"Jesus," Stu muttered at the thought.
"Anyway, ever two years they have this big whupdeedo in the fairgrounds near the Gap. It's a privilege ta be on the guest list 'cos five thousand people show up."
Stu blanched. "That's a lot of bull balls."
Courtney giggled. "Yeah, I guess it is. Tickets are, like forty bucks, but the county exec gets ten free ones and invites a few folks. That's why the chief's so bent out'a shape. He's all set ta hob-knob at the festival with the county exec and his cronies."
Stu didn't get it. "If he got invited, what's he pissed off about?"
"'Cos he ain't got his tickets yet. He thinks someone stolt 'em out the mailbox."
"For God's sake," Stu sputtered. "See what I mean, Courtney? We got a world full of drug dealers, rapists, child molesters, and murderers, and all our chief cares about are his tickets to a bull-ball party so he can be seen rubbing elbows with a bunch of redneck politicians. Jesus... "
Courtney closed her magazine and got up. "Come to think of it, I plum fergot ta bring in the mail today. Maybe his tickets come in," and then she waddled out the station door.
Stu rubbed his face, depressed. I should've just joined the Army...
When the phone rang, he picked it up before the end of the first ring. A call! Finally! Please, be something
hot...
"Sergeant Cummings, Crick City Police," he answered.
"Hey, Stu?" came a guarded male tone. "This is Corky, over at the Exxon."
Shit! A robbery! He stood right up, reaching for his keys. "Someone sticking the place up?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I just got this guy here trying to fill up, but when I ran his credit card, they said it's been reported as lost or stolen... "
Stu exhaled dismally. Shit. That's all? "Did he run off with the card?"
"No, no, that's just it. I jived him about the machine being slow... "
"Good thinking, Corky. Keep stalling the guy and I'll be right there."
Stu hung up and jogged outside for the town cruiser. Courtney's large breasts joggled in her bra as she walked back up toward the station.
"You get a call, Stu?"
"Yeah," he said getting into the car. "Might be a stolen credit card beef up at the Exxon. I'll be back in a few."
"Be careful!"
Stu drove off. He lead-footed it down the street, headlights out, and squealed Adam-12 style into the gas station. God, that was fun...
Parked at the pump was a close-to-mint ‘69 El Camino with a U-Haul hooked up to it. Damn nice car, Stu couldn't help but think. When his cruiser had fishtailed into the lot, two guys leaning against the car looked over in dismay.
Stu got out and hit the thumb-snap on his holster. You never know...
A geeky looking guy in a white button-down shirt and glasses stood next to another guy with long hair, a John Deere hat, a redneck goatee, jeans, and shit-kicker boots. What's wrong with this picture? Stu thought. The two were an odd couple, indeed.
Stu's steel-toed police shoes snapped on the pavement as he approached.
"Good evening, Officer," greeted the guy in the white shirt. "Is something amiss?"
"Amiss?" Stu spoke with authority. "You tell me." He gave them both the dead-eye. "Both of you. Keep your hands in plain view, and don't make any sudden movements." He shot a harder eye to the Long-Hair. "Tell your buddy to get out of the car. Slow."
He looks like a convict, was Stu's first impression. Nevertheless, Long-Hair did as he was told, stiff-upper-lipped. No, no, I definitely don't like this guy's face...
A dopey, fat ‘neck with a buzzcut got out and stood with his cohorts. "Huh-huh-howdy, sir. We-we-we ain't done nothin' wrong."
Stu let them see his hand on his holster. "This your car?"
"Yes, sir, it shore is."
"What's gonna happen one minute from now when I run the plates?"
"Nothin', sir. I gots my insurance'n registration right here... "
Stu studied the three of them. "Which one of you used the stolen credit card?"
Oddly, the two rednecks both looked to White Shirt.
"Stolen?" White Shirt whispered.
"Make it quick, guys. If I hear one word that sounds like bullshit... I'm busting all three of you."
Silence.
"Sir, there's been mistake," White Shirt stepped up. "I used the credit card." Next, he looked at it with a puzzled expression. Then he sighed. "And you know what? This one's not mine. I know what happened, Officer. About a month ago, I found a man's wallet in the parking lot of the Qwik-Mart in Luntville, and I returned it to him immediately. It was a man in a Rolls Royce, and he even gave me a $100 bill as a reward for returning the wallet. But after he drove away, I discovered that one of his cards had fallen out of it... "
"And you've been using it ever since," Stu said.
"Oh, no, that's not the case at all, sir. I had every intention of calling the credit card company the next day to report it misplaced but I simply forgot."
Stu tapped his foot. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"
"I assure you, sir. I'm not prevaricating in the least."
"Prevaricating, huh?" This was starting to stink. Stu glared at Long-Hair and Fattie. "You two guys looks like townies—" Then he glared at White Shirt. "—and you look like a librarian. Something's not right here. You three guys know each other?"
"Actually, no, sir, not really," White Shirt stepped right up again. "I was walking home tonight and these gentlemen kindly offered me a ride, and in their generosity, I thought it only fair for me to buy them some gas."
"With a stolen credit card?"
"No, sir," he said, slightly weary now. "I intended to use my own card but I used this one by mistake." He raised the card in emphasis. "This card, that I found and intended to report lost."
"But forgot to?"
"Precisely."
Stu's eyes flicked back to the rednecks. "Is that true?"
"Aw, yeah, it shore is... sir," answered Long-Hair. "We'se just offered him a ride's all."
"Don't really know him," Fattie said. "We'se was just bein' neighborly."
Stu ruminated further. I don't have probable cause to bust the rednecks or do a search. "Mind telling me what's in the U-Haul?"
"Just some old furniture'n stuff we'se movin' to my Daddy's house down the way," Long-Hair said.
Hmm. Stu kept tapping his foot. Make the decision. "You," he said to White Shirt. "Turn around, hands behind your back."
He took the credit card, did a quick pat-down, and cuffed the guy. "Don't move," he ordered. He walked right up to Long-Hair till their faces were an inch apart.
"You look like a con," he said.
Long-Hair didn't bat an eye. "I don't know what'cha mean... sir. All I been doin' tonight is mindin' my own business... "
I don't know what's wrong here, Stu realized, but I don't have anything to take them in for. "You boys be on your way." He started back toward White Shirt but paused to take one last glance at the shining El Camino. "Nice car, by the way."
"Why-why—thank ya, sir!" Fattie enthused. "Just you have a good night!"
Stu walked White Shirt to the cruiser. "In the car, and—" He pulled a small, very old book out of the guy's back pocket. He looked at the title, bewildered.
"The Account of the Incubi of Vasr Monastery? London, 1787? What the hell is this?"
"It's a grimoire, Officer, since you asked. For your information, I'm a Harvard graduate, and one of my fields of study involves antiquarian literature. I'm also a nationally published novelist. Perhaps you've heard of me. My name is—"
"Just get in the car," Stu said, and pushed the guy in back.
He drove back to the station, disappointed. "I'm going to have to arrest you for the credit card. When we get to the station, I'll read you your rights and give you a piece of paper to sign stating that you understand your rights."
"That's fine with me, sir," the guy said, quite cheerily.
Stu lit a cigarette. Still. There's something funny. "So what have I got? A Harvard grad with a two-hundred-year-old book in his pocket hanging out with two redneck deadbeats in a hotrod at two in the morning?"
Oddly, White Shirt seemed relieved. "Well, since you're arresting me, I guess I'll have my day in court."
"Yeah, you will. And you know what else? You don't seem to care in the least that you're going to jail."
The guy smiled in the rearview. "Perhaps it's my predestination. All experience is life, Officer, and all of life is experience, and the truth of that experience is what I crave, to infuse into my novels. My books allegorically bid the question: How Powerful Is The Power Of Truth?"
Great. A wack-job...
The man rambled on. "I don't mind the experience of arrest, for I've never been arrested before. It's something I can later write about... in truth; and I'm certain I'll be exonerated once I have some discourse with the judge. As for the personages I was cavorting with previously?" The man paused, smiling meditatively. "Good or bad, all people are part of the truth of the world, sir. An unlikely trio indeed, I'll admit. But as a writer, I learn from everybody."
Stu was sick of the chatter. "I guess on that note I'll remind you that you have the right to remain silent."
"Of course, but one last thing, if I may, in response to your query. Isn't it possible that pe
ople, good or bad, can be symbols for something else, something much more esoteric, even daedalic? Almost like characters in a work of fiction, but fiction with a meaning extant between the lines. You can only hope that it's a worthy work, hmm? See, I'm a writer but in a much deeper sense, I'm a seer. What I long for more than all else is to see. And, alas, I've seen much tonight, and for that I give great thanks... to God."
"Are you on drugs? You don't look the type but if you are, things will be easier on you if you let me know in advance."
"The only drug I'm on, sir, is one that's quite legal."
"Yeah?"
"Irony... "
Stu smirked as he pulled into the station. "I think you're a weirdo, and you're getting on my nerves. I need you to be quiet."