Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  Layla, his father’s terrier mutt, nuzzled him insistently when he’d settled into the cracked pleather recliner in front of the squat stove. He’d grabbed a beer from the cold box and cracked it with his left hand while giving Layla her requested thumps with his right. Satisfied, she’d returned to her place on the couch and stared at him while drifting in and out of sleep. When he’d finished the first, Wendell gave a moment’s pause before opting for a second beer. The school day, he’d decided, was already a loss. His mom was going to be pissed, but that was nothing new.

  He’d taken her car before. Just meant she had to walk or get a ride to work. She’d get over it soon enough. She’d be a lot more worked up if he brought it back with Terry sleeping inside. After the second he sucked down a third and settled in for a nap.

  He woke two hours later to Terry smacking him on the side of the head. “Just go on and help your own self, then. Just go on and take my last beers, why not?” His father seemed upset regardless of the obvious moral low-ground. As if he weren’t beat to shit by a girl and banned for life from Darlin’s.

  Wendell didn’t say anything, but got out of the seat and relocated to the spot Layla had napped in. She trotted happily through the room, excited to have the whole gang together. She licked Wendell’s dangling hand and went back to Terry’s side and awaited whatever great idea he would have about what they should all do.

  “Chowder says you shouldn’t go back.” Wendell offered, hoping to inspire some sheepishness on his father’s part. Remind him of the morning’s circumstances and why his face was slurpy-colored and his mouth lips looked like pussy lips – all weird shades of flesh and not quite made to close right – and why Wendell was over there and not at school in the first place. Plus where was his tooth?

  “That so?” said Terry, settling on a grape Vess that he kept in the cold box for mixing drinks, if he happened to bring that type of woman home. “Well, Chowder Thompson can lick my nuts. This is a free country.” He gulped the soda, grimacing against the flavor, while searching for the sugar and caffeine. Finished, he crushed the can and threw it at Layla who appreciated the attention. “Nobody tells your old man where he’s not welcome.” He smiled his most radiant, bloody smile at his son, trying to instill in the boy a sense of moral outrage at the idea some mere mortal would dictate a damn thing to a Hickerson.

  Wendell knew the look. He’d practiced his own in the mirror at home. He knew exactly what it was meant to convey and, despite misgivings about his father’s philosophy and fiber, felt a swell of pride pushing out from on top of his stomach.

  “Where’s my truck?”

  Wendell shrugged.

  “You see it when you picked me up?” Wendell shook his head. Shit. Probably Cal had made an escape in it. They had an understanding about scrapes like that. First sign of trouble it was every man for himself. “Your mom know where you are?”

  “She might guess.”

  Terry nodded slowly. “She might at that.” He smiled. “You’re gonna catch hell, son.”

  Wendell beamed. “Yep.”

  “C’mon. Let’s get some food, then.”

  Layla rode between them, which his mom would kill him for later, placing her muddy paws all over the seat and then jumping in back and painting the windows on either side with saliva and snot. Terry cracked the windows and Layla shoved her snout into the crevice, licking the top of the glass and barking enthusiastically every time they stopped.

  His father insisted that Wendell drive as he had a headache anyway. “Can’t crawl back inside your momma’s cold womb and live, boy. You don’t drive by now, probably never will.” His father lit a cigarette, another thing Wendell would catch hell for, and closed his eyes. “Why don’t you find us some tunes?”

  Wendell was overwhelmed with excitement and responsibility and nearly dropped them over the side of the mountain, trying to find a good radio station. He pulled the wheel too sharp, overcompensating for their drift, but his father never said a word. Never even glared at him. Wendell found a southern rock station and paused, his fingers hovering over the dial, waiting to hear confirmation or dismissal of his choice. Terry just sank lower into his seat and placed his left foot on the dash. Every few seconds, he would mumble along with the music, his voice rising for the few words he seemed to know and dropping down again immediately after. “...fly like an eagle...into the future...”

  Wendell was piloting his father’s seemingly improvised directions until they’d passed anything familiar to him. The elder Hickerson bade his son further and further south and east, finally instructing him to circle on back to a convenience mart they’d just passed.

  “Slow down, boy. Keep going, keep going.”

  They idled across the street on the road’s gravel shoulder like tourists consulting a map until the lone car in the parking lot drove away.

  “Okay. Easy, now, like I told you. Pull up and keep it running. Give the horn a blast if anybody’s coming.”

  Terry pulled a plastic grocery bag out of his back pocket and slipped it over his swelled-up head. He pulled it taut over his face with his left hand and used the index and middle finger of his right to poke himself in the eyes, gouging small holes therein. He produced a pistol from the back of his waistband, checked it was loaded and he was out the door.

  MONDALE

  He still wasn’t back to his usual self by the time the Assistant State’s Attorney made it to town. The visit from Eileen and the phone calls with Shirley had wrecked him for a week or so. Figured eventually he’d bounce back. Or crawl anyway. But he was still in a shit mood.

  The ASA was a young guy. Political animal. Mondale understood. Chowder Thompson would make a good-looking trophy to mount behind the desk in his office. Was even a time, years ago, Mondale may’ve even been inclined to help him do it. But he’d grown the hell up.

  Chowder Thompson was more than a necessary evil, he was citizen number-one as far as Jimmy was concerned. The taxes from Darlin’s last year, funneled through the bait store, had paid for the day care program at the high school as well as improvements to the courthouse and computers for the sheriff’s department. Like what he did and supplied or not, Chowder was good for Spruce.

  Between himself and Chowder, they’d got vice regulated and out of the way of those inclined to frown on it. They’d kept regional outfits as well as bike gangs and the new crop of Mexicans pushing north from taking a piece of Hamilton County. But this crusader with the fancy suit and airs of moral rectitude wanted to bring all of it down. Jimmy’d be damned if he’d let that happen.

  “Sheriff, thanks for taking the time to see me. Dennis Jordan, pleasure.” He extended a clean, smooth hand toward Jimmy, who took it and gave a good show of returning the smile.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Sheriff, I won’t keep you long, but I wanted to put a face to your name, as I’ve been reading it so often. Don’t you find that you learn so much more from talking to someone face to face than from reading about them in a deposition?”

  “How’s that, exactly?”

  The young lawyer took his hand back and sat down across from him. “As I explained on the phone, I am looking into Charles Thompson.” He didn’t wait for Jimmy to acknowledge that he had heard. “As Sheriff of Hamilton County I’m sure you’ve had occasion to know of Mr. Thompson and his activities.”

  “I know Chowder, sure. I know he used to ride with the Bucs, I’m sure had some wild times, but far as I know, these days he’s just a business man. I’ve had no problems with him.”

  Dennis Jordan cocked his head slightly and smiled coyly. “Forgive my bluntness, Sheriff, but I just don’t believe that.” He straightened in his seat and Jimmy leaned back in his. “I don’t believe Chowder Thompson is an upright citizen and I don’t believe that you think so either.”

  Mondale laced his fingers and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. He put his chin to his knuckles. “Well, I suppose that’s your constitutional right.”

  “It is
. Well put, Sheriff. Have you heard any of the old stories about Mr. Thompson’s time with the Bucs?”

  Mondale shrugged. “Never been too interested in rumors.”

  “No, of course not. Can’t go prosecuting anything based on rumors. But surely they’ve grabbed your interest now and again?”

  “Seems the Bucs ran crank and dope, maybe some weapons. ATF, DEA, FBI never made anything of it. But, like I said, just rumors and Chowder’s not been with the Bucs in nearly fifteen years. I haven’t heard any rumors about him attending any churches recently, but that’s his constitutional right.”

  “Sheriff, can I tell you one of my favorite rumors about Mr. Thompson?” The young lawyer didn’t wait for Mondale’s consent. “Apparently the Bucs had something of a sensitive spot about federal informants – got really paranoid sometimes – anyway, one time they’d discovered a possible informant among them and they left the Q&A to Mr. Thompson.” The lawyer leaned into the story, emphasizing with both hands. “First thing Chowder did was take out his buddy’s left eyeball with a spoon. No questions, he just figured that rumor alone was enough to take that much action on. Then he fries it up like an egg at the campfire and eats it with Tabasco sauce.” Dennis Jordan smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know about you, but that kind of autonomy sure could get me a better record. I bet you could use a little more legal wiggle-room sometimes too, huh?”

  Both men were silent a moment, then the attorney continued. “Point I’m making, Sheriff, is that Charles Thompson will never pay anything back, legally speaking, for that little rumor, but it’s one of many that I’d like to see him go down for. What I need, and what I’m going to get, is hard evidence to prosecute him on and I’m going to put him and anyone else he’s working with away for a long time.”

  Mondale nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s one I heard too. Never asked him about it though.”

  The attorney smiled again. “Like you say, they’re just rumors. You have to hold on to them loosely. But I’ve made my mind up about Charles Thompson.”

  That movie-star grin dropped all warmth as it grew wider. “What I’ve not yet made up my mind about, Sheriff, is you.”

  Jimmy stiffened and said, “How do you mean?” with what he hoped sounded like an absence of panic.

  “I’m trying to decide if you’re just a backwater hick with a badge, sitting on his thumbs oblivious to the criminal enterprise of Chowder Thompson or…” his smile dropped, “…or if you’re his partner.”

  Cocksucker.

  TERRY

  He’d spent the next few days recuperating. His face looked like ground beef that had maybe been stepped on a little bit. His nose had broken, but he’d had worse, and his missing tooth added an extra wicked dimension to his smile. The swelling pulled his skin tight and the bruising turned shades of purple and high-yellow before settling into a baby-shit brown, but the truth was he looked far worse than he felt. He’d passed out chuckling while that big dyke beat on him, offering nothing but token defense. The earful he’d gotten from Beth after Wendell’d taken her car again was more unpleasant than the whuppin.

  He didn’t bother checking with the plant, as he was sure his job was forfeit by Wednesday, so Thursday he went looking for Cal again. He was pretty sure his pal had the keys to his truck and for that oversight would buy at least the first round.

  Before his walk, he showered, shaved and put on fresh jeans and tucked a neatly rolled t-shirt into his back pocket. When he got to town, he put the shirt on and stepped into the drug store. He nodded to Sylvi at the cash register and proceeded to the newsstand. He grabbed a girly rag then made his way to the phone. He dropped a quarter in the slot. He knew the number by heart.

  “Yeah?”

  “Cal Dotson there?”

  “Hold on.” From the far end, he heard the clunk of a receiver hitting the counter and a far away voice call, “Dotson. Phone call.” Another voice said “Who is it?” and was answered, “Don’t be giving out this number, asshole. Gonna cut you off.”

  He heard the fumbling sound of the receiver lifted and then, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Terry?”

  “You got the keys to my chariot?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah no shit, oh shit. Come get me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Blaylock Drug.”

  “Why aren’t you at work?” Terry didn’t answer. He let him think about it a minute. “Oh, shit. Yeah, yeah I’ll be right over.”

  He hung up and leaned back against the wall, opening Swank. Terry thumbed over to the letters section and rolled his eyes while he read one about a guy who caught the neighbor ballin his old lady, so he goes over and fucks the neighbor’s wife and then the four of them started getting together for group gropes. He wondered if it was a true story. Probably not.

  Every time he picked up a smut piece, first thing, he scoured it for signs of Ponch’s work. Ponch always signed different names, but used certain phrases and words in all of his work as a sort of signature. He found nothing resembling the Mexican scribe in Swank.

  He felt the disapproving eyes of Sylvi on him from across the store and looked up. She was pretending to do busy work, stocking gum and dusting fixtures, but she shot him glances every few seconds to let him know he was being watched.

  From the front of the store came the bell sound announcing someone entering. Sylvi spoke up, for Terry’s benefit, no doubt. “Mornin, Sheriff.”

  Terry smiled, putting his tongue into the previously toothy void and licking his lips. He looked up and saw the sheriff pacing through the store, coming straight toward him, far as he could tell. Here he comes, thought Terry, King Fucker can’t quite smell the princess on me, but he knows something is different.

  Mondale gave Terry a slow nod, “You look like you saw your wife recently.”

  Terry’s smile was harmless, but his eyes were radioactive.

  The sheriff passed him by, on his way to the refrigerated drinks, “You give Beth my best, if you see her.”

  “Sure, thing, Sheriff. Likewise,” he added with a salacious wink at the sheriff’s back.

  Mondale seemed tense, but he turned around and nodded with cautious geniality at Terry. “How is your family, Hickeson?”

  “Oh real good, Sheriff, thanks for asking. My boy, he’s about that age now, sticks his pecker in any keyhole he can find. I try and teach him safe sex, though. Be careful of splinters, I always say.” He dropped his smile as indication of the seriousness of the subject he was about to broach. “Now, Sheriff, I ain’t pointing fingers, but if you have any complaints about molested animals, pets and such around town, you let me know. I’ll look real close at the boy. You know how they go there for a few years.”

  His smile returned and he added, “How’s your family? Thought I saw your little one round here a while back.”

  There was a tap of the horn from Cal’s truck outside. Terry waved him in from the front window. Cal left the car running and came in the front door, making the bells jingle. He skipped a beat when he saw the sheriff, but nodded gentleman-like at Sylvi and said, “Ma’am.”

  “Give me five dollars,” said Terry. Cal didn’t ask why, just handed over the dampest, limpest Lincoln Terry’d ever handled.

  He paid for the magazine and on his way out the door he called to Mondale, “If you see her, tell her that I thought she looked good, Sheriff. Real good.” He winked. “I bet they make you proud.”

  Some days were just beautiful.

  Terry’s freedom from the oppressive bonds of employment had given the world a rosy hue. After he filed for unemployment, Cal drove them back to The Gulch to get their shit straight.

  “I’m telling you bro, Branson’s full of rich faggots.” Cal did most of his best thinking after a couple of pitchers. “I’m telling you we need to find us one and squeeze him.”

  Terry took the high road for once and didn’t touch that one. “How do you suggest we do that?”

 
; “We just find one that’s well to do and got sense enough not to want his habits known and then threaten if he don’t give us a bunch of money that we’ll tell everybody he’s limber of butthole.”

  “Uh-huh.” Terry turned it over for a few minutes then said, “And why would anybody believe us?”

  “We’ll have pictures.”

  Terry did not like this development. “Count me out. I may be pretty, but I ain’t going to seduce any pervert no matter how much money he’s got.” He killed his mug and poured some more. “And I sure as hell don’t feature taking any pictures of your hairy nuts on some dude’s chin.” Terry shuddered at the image he’d just given himself.

  Cal choked on his Bud, a thin trickle escaped his nostril and lost itself in the stubble of his upper lip. “Don’t even say it, man. It ain’t even like that.” Cal wiped his mouth and nose on the shoulder of his shirt, as the sleeves had been trimmed away long ago when Cal’s upper arms had a bit more in the way of defining features. “Nah, there’s this place, this bar where they all get together and pretend it’s normal. I seen it once.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Listen to me, all we gotta do is get some good pictures of somebody inside.”

  “What’ll that prove?”

  “What country do you live in? It’ll look plenty queer and that’s all we’ll need.”

  Terry leaned back in his seat. He felt himself slipping into deep thought so he took another shot to nip that in the bud. “Huh.”

  CHOWDER

  Hettie’d gone to fat years ago, but she still had it. When she turned over, the sheet slipped off her hip. Chowder looked at the serpent inked into her side, faded now and stretched some, it coiled round betwixt her bosoms and under the right one then down her ribs, hooking on the hip, tracing the hitch of her ass cheek, passing between her legs and up so that her inner thigh featured the head, fangs bared and ready to take your dick off. He reached out and smacked her ass hard. The cellulite jiggle might’ve lasted forever, but she sprang up out of slumber and coldcocked him instinctively.