Small Town Trouble

by Jean Erhardt

  When I couldn’t take it another second I said, “Ted, did you do the Jell-O trick for Dan and Patsy Dandrich?”

  Mad Ted laughed his nasty laugh. “Hey, I don’t waste the Jell-O trick on pukes.” I heard him light a cigar. I could also hear the clacking of dishes and the familiar sound of general end of the night cleanup in progress.

  Ted pontificated onward. “Dandrich is pond scum and he’s got White House or Bust written all over him. Why didn’t they all just go to McDonald’s for Quarter Pounders?”

  “Dandrich sounds perfect for the job.” I hated politicians. I hated politics. In fact, I hated almost everything that started with P.

  “Dandrich spent the evening sneaking free shots down the front of Nancy’s blouse. And Dickhead couldn’t stop ogling Patsy who looks like an anorexic chicken.”

  “Those lascivious slimeballs.”

  “Reptilian dirtbags.”

  “Pukewads.”

  “Yeah,” Ted said, sounding a little winded. I let him catch his breath.

  “So how did Nancy look tonight?” I wanted to know.

  “Like she always looks.”

  “Wanna expound upon that a bit?”

  “What can I say? She’s not my type.”

  “Ted, pardon my French, but fuck your type. Now, what was she wearing? What’d she have for dinner, et cetera?”

  “God, you’re pathetic.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. She was wearing something blue. She had the Tennessee quail. Dickhead brought in a couple of predictable wines. They all had the blackberry cake for dessert and went home. Jesus.”

  “Now was that so hard?”

  “How do you sleep with a Republican anyway, and a married one at that?”

  “When did you get detail-oriented? And by the way, Nancy is my first married Republican.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He was right. It was bullshit, but that was hardly the point.

  “Ted, be honest. This isn’t about politics. What’s really going on here is that you’re still pissed about Casey at Camp Shawnee.”

  There was a long, long pause.

  “Do you always have to bring her up? That was only a million fucking years ago. And, for your information, Ms. Studwad, I never thought she was all that hot.”

  “Just as well. She didn’t think you were all that hot either.”

  “Thanks for putting it all in crystalline perspective.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  We went on like this for a while. Then we talked some restaurant business and I promised Ted I’d be back in Gatlinburg as soon as things were squared away with Evelyn, at least as squared away as things could ever get with my mother.

  “Hurry home,” Ted said, relighting his cigar. “You’re so much better with fascists than I am.”

  “Guess you could say I’ve got the touch.”

  “Shit,” Ted said, and hung up.

  Chapter 9

  That night I dreamed that Nancy was in her TV studio kitchen processing tart dough in her shiny Cuisinart. The Nancy Merit’s House camera crew was rolling. And just like in real TV life, between the noisy whirrs of the machine, she made very personal eye contact with the camera as she explained and demonstrated each recipe step in her confident, altogether affable Nancy Merit TV persona.

  At this point in my dream, unlike in real life, I come onstage. I tell the crew to pack it up, get lost. Although Nancy is protesting, I see a twinkle in her eye. She knows what I’m up to.

  When everyone is gone, we shut off the studio lights and then it’s just Nancy, the Cuisinart and me. For several long, sensual moments there is only the sound of our breathing and the refrigerator humming.

  Finally, I say, “C’mere, beautiful.”

  At this point Nancy and I proceed to make hot and nasty love all over the set of Nancy Merit’s House. After finding ourselves in a few less than optimal lovemaking locations (beware of a preheated oven), we slide onto the kitchen’s floating island which is fine by me. But Nancy, ever practical when it counts, communicates to me via primal sounds and gestures, indicating that she’s pushing for the floor. Without much fuss I give in. I aim us toward the fluffy rag rug (a gift from a viewer) in front of the kitchen sink which, all in all, turns out to be a very good idea.

  After a much needed breather and not of the capital B variety, Nancy turns to me and sighs the satisfied sigh of a sated, Southern woman. Playfully, she kisses my nose, then smiles, baring her rows of lovely white teeth. Despite my protests, she hops up, throws on her robe and goes back to her dough in the Cuisinart. Resigned, I pull part of the rug over me and settle in to watch a professional at work.

  After some scraping with a spatula and a few more whirrs, Nancy glances over in a sexy way and says, “Get up, Lazybones. Make us two perfect capuccinos.”

  I do and, hips touching, Nancy’s bare foot resting on mine, we lean back against the counter and sip our cappuccinos while a beautiful peach tart bubbles in the oven.

  At that point, in actual real life, my blissful reverie was interrupted by a retching sound. I opened an eye and noted that Bunky had barfed up a grass ball on the pillow next to me. Maneuvering with caution, I gingerly hopped out of bed and performed a nearly surgical removal of the offending green wad which I promptly flushed down the toilet.

  Then I showered for the meeting with Bud Upton.

  Chapter 10

  Clearly, Bud Upton had spent some money on his office décor, but it was not terribly tasteful. It looked like he’d hired the same decorator who’d done all the McDonalds.

  Bud showed us into his inner sanctum and pulled out plush chairs for Evelyn and me, then took a seat in the big leather chair behind his desk. I was relieved to note that the furniture wasn’t made of molded yellow plastic.

  Bud was aging well and was about the same as I’d remembered him—tall, dark and humorless. Maybe that’s how he remembered me too, if he remembered me at all.

  He slid on a pair of half-glasses, straightened his notes and hopped right to it.

  “As standard practice I make it a habit to find out what I can about anyone who offers one of my clients a large sum of money,” Bud said. “I’ve done some checking on our Mr. Larry White and what I’ve discovered is that, well, he doesn’t actually exist.”

  “Huh?” I said, sounding a lot like the waitress at Sparkie’s Lounge.

  Bud took off his glasses. “Ladies, there is no Larry White.”

  Evelyn said, “But that can’t be. I talked to him myself on the phone.”

  Bud offered a small, professional smile. “My source tells me that as one follows the identity trail of Mr. Larry White, it eventually disappears into thin air. However,” he said, raising a finger, “on the brighter side, the money really does exist. And it’s right in the account, just where he says it is.”

  “Huh?” I said again. I felt as if I’d somehow been dropped into an Alfred Hitchcock film, one in which I was having trouble following the plot. It could have been any number of them. In the words of my cousin Abbott, I said, “So what’s the deal?”

  Bud Upton shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, but whoever’s behind this deal wants to remain anonymous. Maybe it’s fishy, maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s a lot of money.”

  “There must be lots of honest reasons why someone would choose to remain anonymous.” There had to be a least a few.

  Bud Upton grinned, the sly dog in him showing its face.

  “There are some.” He pushed back his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can do more snooping around, but it may be, shall we say, less complicated to leave a few rocks unturned. One does have the option to simply take the money and say thank you.”

  Evelyn looked worried. “There’s no way I could I do prison time over this, is there?”

  Bud and I chuckled. “Absolutely not,” we said in unison. Maybe I should have been an attorney.

  “Think it over. Let me know,” Bud said.

  The
meeting with Bud Upton left me feeling like the rug had been pulled from under me and not the fluffy kitchen rug where Nancy and I had mamboed the night before in my dream.

  Maybe it was just my typically obsessive nature kicking in, but I kept wondering who was this guy who called himself Larry White? And why all the secrecy? Why would anyone spend that much money and go to all of the trouble to cover their tracks for the procurement of a failing country radio station in the middle of nowhere? The more I thought about it the less it made sense. Things just didn’t add up.

  These were the questions that hounded me as I drove into town to Sparkie’s Lounge that night to meet Amy Delozier where, as it turned out, another rug was going to be yanked.

  Chapter 11

  Off and on, I subscribe to the theory that zest for life starts to lose its carbonated fizz about twenty seconds after high school graduation. This does tend to make life one long and winding road, which, ironically, was my senior class song.

  A somewhat bleak theory, but all in all, it seems a far better course to face the potential fact, saddle up and ride life’s pony. Even in the worst case scenario, there are still surprises along the trail.

  Take Nancy Merit, for instance. A Southern storm trooper of love, she’d gotten my heart thumping with real verve, like it hadn’t thumped in a long time. Nancy Merit was a woman who made for great general distraction, even when she wasn’t around. Unexpected bonanzas like her cause one to reexamine the whole high school graduation theory. I had to admit that when I didn’t allow the complications of pesky old reality to interfere with what I had going with Nancy Merit, I felt plenty zesty.

  Sitting across from Amy Delozier Smith that evening in a dimly lit corner booth at Sparkie’s Lounge all these years later made me feel pretty zesty, too.

  Amy looked great. I’d almost forgotten her gray-green eyes and her playful smile. She wore casual but expensive clothes and an annoyingly large, humping diamond ring. Her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a short, loose ponytail, giving her a kind of Grace Kelly Goes Kicky sort of look. Maybe I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. She smelled good, too. But something was different about her.

  Amy and I shared a double cheese pepperoni pizza and drank Little Kings while Mario Lanza sang Because You’re Mine. Amy told me the story of her nose job. I just couldn’t understand it.

  “What was wrong with your other nose?”

  Amy drank her Little King straight from the bottle, which kind of surprised me for a dentist’s wife.

  “Nothing, if you like turkey beaks.” She grinned in a way that warmed me all over.

  “Wait a minute. You had a great nose.”

  “Thanks, but you have a lousy memory.”

  She chewed her pizza and eyed me with a wicked little look that made me think she might be flirting. The new nose was certainly adorable, but it made her look a little more like Marlo Thomas than was probably a good idea. I would’ve preferred the original. The whole nose job thing had probably been the dentist’s idea. From the looks of things, I wondered if he’d suggested breast implants, too.

  Luckily, talk concerning Dr. Doug Smith had been limited. She didn’t seem much more interested in the dentist than I was. I told Amy about life in Gatlinburg and the Little Pigeon Restaurant. She told me about teaching French part-time at the community college and playing lots of tennis.

  Right or wrong, as things progressed, I decided that Amy was flirting a little so I plunged ahead. Why not?

  “It’s fantastic to see you again, Amy. Sometimes I really miss the old days.”

  Then she stopped chewing and stared at me as if I’d just admitted that I ate dog biscuits.

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “No, really.” I took a casual swig of beer. I could do casual. “Don’t you?”

  “Mon Dieu!” She took a third slice of pizza. “I hated high school. Ugh, adolescence. Disgusting.”

  I matched her slice for slice.

  “But you’ll have to admit that junior high was worse.”

  Like a hypnotist, I wanted to take her back, way back.

  She considered this a moment, pizza sauce in the corner of her mouth, then she said, “You’re right. High school was miserable. But junior high was hell.”

  “Amy,” I began, and my heart pumped a bit faster as I ventured out into the murky waters of early sexual stirrings, wondering if Amy might take my hand and wade out with me, “I think my favorite summer was the one we spent hanging around your grandpa’s farm. Remember the hayloft?”

  Dum da dum dum.

  Maybe I’d pushed her too far. Amy’s eyes got a little dazed, and she had a funny look on her face. She laid the pizza slice down and wiped a napkin across her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was going to cry, throw up or just what. Ironically, Mario Lanza was singing Because You’re Mine again.

  Apparently Grandpa Delozier’s place had been on Amy’s mind lately, too, but not for the same reason. Over another round of Little Kings Amy proceeded to tell me that there was something going on with the farm that didn’t make much sense.

  The old Delozier property had been passed down to Amy and her brother, Rick Rod, years ago, and, except for occasional renters, it had been practically abandoned for years.

  “There were lots of memories, but neither one of us really wanted the place,” she explained. “Real estate prices were bad so we wanted to hang on to it until things got better. Well, as you’ve no doubt noticed, things still haven’t improved much around here. I kind of put it out of mind, at least, until a few days ago.”

  Amy went on to tell me that a Mr. Larry White had called and offered a very sizeable wad for the Delozier place, like about a zillion times what it was probably worth. This was starting to sound familiar.

  “This is starting to sound familiar,” I said.

  Then I told Amy what I knew and what I didn’t know about Larry White, whoever he was, and his recent offer on WFOG which had brought me to Fogerty in the first place.

  What was this guy up to? Did he plan to buy up the whole town?

  “He seems sleazy,” Amy said. “Even Rick Rod says so. But Doug thinks we’d be fools not to take the money and run.”

  Part of me agreed with Dr. Smith and part of me didn’t. Another part of me wanted to feed him a box of rat poison and watch him dehydrate and turn blue.

  I finished off my Little King. I had an idea. “Maybe we should go have a look around.”

  Amy grinned. “Maybe we should.”

  Chapter 12

  We took Amy’s car, a spanking new Lexus. Sure beat the heck out of my old Toyota. Just past the United Dairy Farmers, Amy hung a left and we rolled out onto State Route 132. It wasn’t quite dark yet. I could make out the scenery, some of it familiar, some of transformed forever, like the spot where the house I’d grown up in used to sit. It was now Kroger’s with a sprawling, well-lit parking lot.

  Just as the not so majestic WFOG appeared on the dusky horizon, Amy turned off the highway and we followed the winding back roads for about a half mile until we came to the Little Fogerty Creek bridge.

  Amy pulled off the road at what appeared to be a well-worn make-out spot and cut the engine. Maybe she wanted to do some more work on her French kiss.

  “The farm property starts here,” she said. “See the fence?”

  I could make out a bramble of barbed wire running up to the bridge.

  “From here the property line follows the creek.”

  “I remember this place. We used to catch crawdads here.”

  “You mean you did. Wouldn’t catch me touching those things.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You were a big weenie.”

  “Thanks a lot, Claypoole.”

  “How do you say big weenie in French? La grand weiner?”

  “I’ll have to look it up.”

  We sat quietly in the car for a while and didn’t speak. The past seemed like a million years ago, the sweet childhood memories, like pieces of a candy-coated dream
slipping over the edge of my pillow and floating away, soon or later to be lost forever. I was beginning to feel a little less than upbeat.

  “Well,” Amy said, breaking into my melancholy. “It’s time for this grand wiener to grab a flashlight.”

  She hopped out of the car and promptly retrieved one of the industrial variety from the trunk. It was probably an anniversary present from the dentist. But I was impressed. The only thing in my trunk was a dwindling case of wine.

  “Let’s go, Tonto,” Amy said.

  I followed her down the winding path to the creek. Amy sure could handle a flashlight. She sure had a cute butt, too.

  “Makes me feel like a Girl Scout again,” Amy said, calling back over her shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t know. Never made it past Brownies. Making pincushions nearly killed me.”

  “Camp-outs were the best part,” Amy said.

  “I’ll bet.” Camping out in the woods with Amy sounded great indeed. “Maybe I should’ve stuck with it.”

  We poked around the creek bed, not having any idea what we were looking for other than crawdads. After we’d had enough of that, we sat down on the mossy bank. We were quiet again for a while listening to the slow ramble of the water as it made its trip over the large, flat stones and discarded tires. Onward it flowed to WFOG and wherever it went after that. The crickets made their happy racket and the moon came up over the hill.

  Amy reached in her purse and took out a cigarette.

  “Doug would kill me if he knew I smoked,” she said, and lit up with a Bic. “But he doesn’t.” She grinned. “Want one?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’ll join you.”

  I took a Nat Sherman out of my shirt pocket.

  “A cigar?”

  “Guess I’m a slave to fashion.”

  “Yeah, right,” Amy said, rolling her eyes.