My Bad Grandad

by A W Hartoin

  He looked at me and heaved the book in. I ran past him and dove in. It hit a rock and I grabbed it as it went under. A cheer went up from the bridge as I trudged out of the creek and stumbled on the rocks. “George? What the hell?”

  “I’m not getting fired,” he said with complete satisfaction.

  I held the dripping book out by its thick cover. “Is that what you think? Are you nuts?”

  “No fingerprints now. They can’t prove that I left the door open.” He smiled at me. He actually smiled.

  “No, now you’re getting arrested, you idiot.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  “Destroying evidence. Accessory after the fact,” I said. “Sound familiar?”

  “What after the what?”

  “It means you tried to help a murderer get away with it.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I shook the book at him. “Yes, you did. No fingerprints.”

  George didn’t answer. He took off running. Why do they run? Where are they going?

  The biker that helped me gave out a hoot of joy and chased him. He might’ve been sixty-five, but he must’ve been a marathon runner because he caught him after a mere ten yards. Cheers and a tremendous yapping exploded beside me on the bridge. Wallace dashed through the crowd. I thought, for a second, that she was going to sic ‘em, but she went for me and bit me on the ankle, growling and tearing up my ruined boot.

  “Not me. Him.”

  Growl.

  “Wallace!” I laid the book down carefully, yanked her off my boot, and held her at arm’s length.

  Bark. Growl. Bark. Bark.

  “Yeah, you’re real tough.”

  “Don’t hurt the pug,” someone yelled from the bridge.

  “I’m not going to hurt her,” I yelled back.

  Not in front of witnesses.

  The biker came back, holding George by the neck. “What should I do with him?”

  “Do you have a phone?” I put Wallace down and she immediately bit my ankle again. Hopeless. I held up my phone. Soaked and ruined. That trip just got better and better.

  “Got it.” The biker called 911 with one hand, still holding George by the neck. He was struggling and turning blue while making squeaking noises.

  “Anybody got a belt?” I yelled to the crowd.

  Ten people held up belts and I held up two fingers. “Two, please.”

  I used the belts to tie up George, who started crying once he could breathe again. “I’m not a criminal.”

  “Maybe you weren’t an hour ago, but now’s a different story,” I said.

  The biker, who identified himself to the 911 dispatcher as Cornell Harris, argued with the dispatcher about the ETA. “I’ve got a freaking murderer here. You’ve got to send somebody.”

  “Hey!” yelled George. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “Quiet down,” I said. “For all we know, you could be.”

  He snuffed and snot shot out of his nose. “Can you wipe my nose?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “This is all your fault.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been blamed for somebody else’s crime, but it still amused me. “How do you figure?”

  “Everything was fine until you showed up,” whined George.

  “I get that all the time.” I shook my leg. “For crying out loud, Wallace, you’ve got me.”

  The pug would not let go of my boot, so I broke down and took off the boot. It was a risk. She might’ve gone for my actual ankle, but she stuck with the boot and started going berserk on it, doing a kind of crocodile death roll with it. Everyone on the bridge was laughing and filming with their phones. Better Wallace than me.

  “How big of a fight was it?” asked Cornell in a sweet-talking kind of voice to dispatch.

  There was a pause.

  “Come on, sweetheart. How bad could it be that you can’t spare one car to get this turd?”

  Whoever the dispatcher was, she was laughing. Cornell had a way with the ladies.

  I hobbled over with my one boot and tapped him on the shoulder. “We can just make him hop back to the Rally Inn. There’s a unit there.”

  “I won’t do it!” yelled George. “You can’t make me!”

  Cornell smacked him on the back of the head, a real bell ringer. “You’ll do whatever she says, monkey butt nugget.”

  Monkey butt nugget?

  “He called me…something!” yelled George. “And he hit me. That’s like police brutality.”

  “We’re not the police,” I said, trying to find a place to stand that didn’t have a sharp, pointy rock on it.

  Cornell gave me a thumbs-up. “She’s sending the car from the Rally Inn.”

  “I’m going to press charges,” said George. “I’ll do it. You better let me go.”

  “Quiet, butt nugget,” I said. “Or I’ll kick you with my remaining boot.”

  George frowned and sat on a large rock before tumbling to the right, unable to steady himself without free arms.

  I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help it. He was just so pathetic and stupid.

  “Girls are supposed to be nice. Sugar and spice,” he whined.

  “Yeah, Xena’s real nice.”

  “It’s like I’ve been wrong about women my whole life,” said George.

  “Ya think?”

  Our prisoner puzzled over his life choices until we heard a siren in the distance.

  “That better not be for me,” he said.

  “Or what?’ asked Cornell before popping him again.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, it’s for you, George,” I said as the police cruiser pulled into the dirt beside the entrance to the bridge and cut the siren. Bennett got out, saw me, and shook his head.

  “What?” I yelled.

  He came down the embankment, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and talking into his radio. “Yeah, it’s her.”

  Cornell nudged me. “You’re well-known.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said.

  “Miss Watts, I knew it would be you,” said Bennett. He said it with laughing eyes and I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t a compliment.

  “Why?”

  “Dispatch got at least five dozen calls about a busty blonde chasing some scrawny guy through the streets, looking like she might rip his head off.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sturgis is lousy with busty blondes.”

  “Not under forty and it seemed like something you would do,” said Bennett.

  “You barely know me.”

  “I know enough. What’s the deal with this guy?”

  George tried to stand up, but ended up wriggling in the dirt. “I’m innocent. Police brutality!”

  Bennett shot a look at me. “You’re not a cop, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Police brutality!” yelled George. Maybe Xena had caused some brain damage.

  Bennett nudged him with his boot. “Shut up or I will brutalize you. Why am I arresting him? I assume it’s for something other than being an idiot.”

  “Hey!”

  “Shut up!” we all said in unison.

  I told Bennett about my theory of the crime, George, and the book. He put handcuffs on George and said, “You are an idiot.” Then he read him his rights. I returned the belts to their owners and posed for pictures. I was hoping nobody would recognize me. But one guy did and he told all the others. Awesome.

  “There he goes!” yelled a woman next to me on the bridge.

  When Bennett was calling it in, George took off again and Cornell chased him. This time, it took five yards. A second before Cornell grabbed the twerp, George tripped on a rock and face planted. Cornell pulled him up none too gently. George had bashed his nose as bad as Raptor, maybe worse.

  “This is better than a show,” said the guy on the other side of me.

  “Let him run! Let him run! Let him run!” the crowd started chanting. George looked up and his thin shoulders shook. I guess he knew that his atte
mpts were so bad they’d become entertainment. Bennett laughed and poked him with the antenna on his radio, inviting him to make a break for it. Instead, George put his rapidly swelling nose in the air like he had dignity. Puhlease.

  Bennett started to walk his prisoner up the hill and Wallace stopped biting my boot. She sniffed the air, ran up, and bit George on the ankle. The crowd erupted in laughter while Bennett, George, and Wallace danced in a circle.

  “Your dog is hilarious,” said the guy next to me.

  “She’s a laugh riot,” I said.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  Sometimes, my sarcasm doesn’t come across. I went down and pried Wallace off George’s ankle. She’d broken the skin a lot. He might even need stitches.

  “I’ll sue you!” yelled George.

  “Not unless you can spell sue, monkey butt nugget,” I said.

  “S…”

  “Too bad,” said Bennett. “That’s the rule.”

  “Dammit,” said George.

  They struggled up the hill and predictably George tried to run when Bennett opened the car door. The crowd snagged him easily. Some guys don’t learn.

  Cornell clapped me on the back. “That was damn entertaining. I need a beer. Care to join me?”

  “Believe me I would, but I have a someone who’s waiting for me,”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “I wish. She’s more like an enemy.”

  “My granddaughter calls that a frenemy.”

  “That’s accurate.”

  We shook hands and he gave me his card. A dentist. Sturgis defied expectations. I gave him my number, but since my phone was dead, it wasn’t much use. He helped me with my one boot off the bridge and asked, “You need a ride?”

  I was about to say yes, but Aaron came zipping down the street on his Flying Flea. He skidded to a halt in front of us and said nothing.

  “Do you know him?” asked Cornell.

  “Wait for it,” I said.

  “You hungry?” asked Aaron.

  “Yeah, I know him. His sixth sense is hunger, mine specifically.”

  “That could be useful,” said Cornell.

  “It is, typically.”

  “And how did you know I was here?” I asked.

  Aaron didn’t answer. He pulled a thermos out of his raggedy backpack with several Styrofoam cups.

  “He’s a chef,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, he’s amazing.”

  Cornell looked doubtful, but he accepted Aaron’s offering of hot chocolate and went into spasms of delight. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  Aaron had outdone himself. There was Chinese five spice in it and something else I couldn’t place. He also had Motrin for my legs. I needed that almost as much as I needed the chocolate.

  “So how’d you know I was here?” I asked again.

  Aaron tapped my cup and I got worried. “Why do I need to drink this?”

  “Drink,” he said.

  This was such a bad sign, but what could I do? I drank. You can’t not drink Aaron’s hot chocolate. It’s practically impossible.

  “Okay. I drank it,” I said.

  He went to pour me another cup, but I said, “No, no. Just let me have it. What happened?”

  Aaron poured Cornell another cup to torment me and then got out his phone. He checked something and then handed it to me. The name on the screen was Osso Buco. Weird.

  “Osso Buco?” I asked.

  Aaron tapped the phone and I braced myself for the worst. And I got it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “MERCY, THANK GOD,” said Mickey. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”

  Please, Lord. I’ve been good. Mostly.

  “Oh hi, Mickey,” I said, all chipper. “Just on vacation with my grandad. Hitting the Metamucil and taking naps.”

  Mickey guffawed for a good thirty seconds. “God, I love you, girl.”

  “Glad to hear it. Gotta go.”

  “Wait a minute. I know you’re in Sturgis.”

  I bent double and put my head on the seat of the Flea. Crap on a cracker.

  “You should’ve told me. We can do Sturgis. The Chip can handle us if we keep a lid on it. Hell, Full Throttle’s brand new. They’ve got the space.”

  Say the right thing. Stop him.

  “Sorry, Mickey. This is a grandad-granddaughter thing. You know how it is. Grandad’s getting older. This could be his last hurrah. He needs a good time, but a quiet time. With me. Just me.”

  “Come on now. Ace isn’t exactly on his death bed.”

  Ace? Oh, no.

  “Well, you know looks can be deceiving,” I said with crossed fingers.

  “He deceived that marine last night. I’ll give you that. Your grandad is a bad ass. He punched that guy like he was punching a clock.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means Ace ought to be working our security. He could be our stealth geezer.”

  “That’s what he needs. A fourth career. Grandma J would be so happy,” I said.

  “She should be. We pay a shitload.”

  “How did you know about that marine?”

  “Tommy sent me some pics,” said Mickey.

  I stood up straight. “You mean you have pictures of Grandad at The Rack and Ruin last night?”

  “And you. And that hot little number you were dancing with.”

  My mind drew a blank.

  “The one with the curly hair and big eyes.”

  “Oh, Raptor. I guess she’s okay. Anyway, can you send those pics to Aaron’s phone?”

  Mickey was smiling. I could sense it. “What’s wrong with your phone?”

  “Just technical difficulties. I’ll get it fixed in no time.”

  “I don’t know. It looked pretty wet to me.”

  Dammit.

  “Is there a video?” I asked.

  “Of course, there’s a video, girl. The whole world’s wired. You running down a street wearing your biker babe gear and no bra is going to get hits.”

  “I’m wearing a bra.”

  “Really?” He paused and then said, “Nina says she’ll take you shopping. You need support.”

  “Fine. Is that all?”

  “The dive into the creek was a nice touch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wade wants that shot of you coming out of the water as our next cover,” said Mickey.

  I ran my fingers through my wet hair. “Never going to happen. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “We have some wiggle room.”

  “That doesn’t sound good for me.”

  “Now Mercy, everything is good publicity. We like publicity,” said Mickey.

  “We like anonymity.”

  He laughed. “That ship has sailed. Let’s get down to it. I want you on stage on Friday at either the Full Throttle or The Chip.”

  “Or else?”

  “We’ll talk wet biker babe cover.”

  “You are a terrible person.”

  “I’m a great person and a better businessman.”

  The business part was true. Mickey was ruthless when it came to the band and promoting. Like a sucker, I’d signed on the dotted line. “How many songs?”

  “Let’s say three and posters.”

  Groan.

  “Are you really not happy?” He sounded almost chagrined.

  “Well, my grandad’s friend got murdered last night and I have to tell him. So I’m not great.”

  “Is that what the dive was about?”

  I gave him a super brief rundown and he got quiet. “A Vet, huh? Any medals?”

  “Four purple hearts, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t get any. Grandad loved him. I’m thinking they went through hell.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got an idea. We’ll make it a benefit concert. All profits to Wounded Warrior.”

  Grandad would probably like that. “I have to clear it with Grandad and his buddies. We can’t do anything,
unless they say it’s okay.”

  “You’re onboard?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice. Not necessarily a good one. Tell your grandma about that job for Ace. That guy is badass.”

  “I’ll tell her.” I wouldn’t tell her, not if I valued my life. “Bye now.”

  We hung up and I glared at Aaron. “Why’d you bring me this stupid phone?”

  “Mickey wanted you.”

  “That’s not a good thing.”

  Cornell finished his third hot chocolate and said, “Was that Mickey Stix? Is DBD coming to Sturgis?”

  “Please don’t tell anybody,” I said. “I’ll get you backstage.”

  “Sold.”

  “Come on, Aaron. Let’s go to the Rally Inn,” I said.

  Cornell held up his hand. “About The Rack and Ruin, I was there last night, too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I saw those guys in the Steelers shirts who were hassling your grandad,” he said.

  “You’re observant.”

  Cornell blushed. “I recognized you. But I’m not a stalker or anything.”

  “Glad to hear it. Do you know those guys? It could be important.”

  “No, but I know the bartenders and the bouncers. I come every year. I can help you find out who they are. You want to meet there tonight?”

  I wasn’t exactly thrilled to go back to The Rack and Ruin, but it couldn’t be helped. I agreed to meet there at ten. Maybe I’d get lucky and we’d find credit card receipts or someone who knew them.

  “Do you think one of those guys killed your grandad’s friend?” asked Cornell.

  “No clue, but I have to start somewhere.”

  Aaron dropped me off at the Rally Inn and I drove a very pissed off Raptor back to The Ornery Elk. Hal had already been sent to the medical examiner in Spearfish and Big Mike had left to tell the rest of the group what happened. Raptor wasn’t crazy about hanging around a crime scene waiting for me. She called me self-indulgent and slow. Like I enjoyed chasing George. My chest and ankles still hurt. I planned on burning my useless bra in the fire pit. That’d teach it a lesson it wouldn’t soon forget.

  Wallace ran off the second I opened the truck door. I ran after her, but quickly gave up, deciding I didn’t care. Wallace liked Aaron’s food. She’d be back. I circled the house, finding Grandad and the rest of the guys at the big stone fire pit in the back. They sat in a circle, sipping iced teas and lemonade. I’ve never walked so slow in my life. Not Raptor, she’d marched right to them and sat there staring at me, arms crossed. I guess I was supposed to do something. I’m always supposed to do something. But it’s rare that anyone tells me what that something is.