Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  “Ow, fucker.”

  Chowder frowned and rubbed his jaw. “Who you calling fucker, cow?”

  “Pencil dick.”

  “Bitch.” He pulled the sheet down exposing his own inked torso and grabbed his penis. He squeezed it and wagged it at her. Hettie punched him in the stomach, then got on her knees on the bed and bent over, taking him in her mouth. Chowder let go of himself and ran his hands through her hair, kneading the back of her neck and shoulders while she worked on him.

  While he watched her head bob, he straightened himself and she responded by digging her head further beneath his gut. As her head disappeared from view, he focused on that big ol’ ass of hers waving higher in the air. He clamped onto it with both hands, pushing her gently, but firmly, down. His grip tightened, then he slapped it and she grunted in response. He felt just a hint of teeth at the base of his pecker and it sent a shiver through him that ended with Hettie getting up and retreating to the bathroom to spit and gargle.

  He lay back and briefly enjoyed his cleared head. Leisurely, he skimmed the edges of his consciousness for something worth fixing on. He thought about Hettie back when they’d met. That snake tattoo had just about been the sexiest thing he’d ever seen and it held a power over him from the first time he saw it. When she’d told him she was pregnant by him he’d married her the next day and when Irm had come along, it’d seemed like the most natural progression of events to quit the Bucs and make a home somewhere.

  The plan hadn’t come all at once and they’d been in no rush to conceive one. Hettie told him that he was in charge and she’d go along with whatever he said. The underlying, but unspoken understanding was as long as you say the right thing. That’s the way it’d always been between them. Even when she was mad at him, and he’d given her reason to be a time or two, she never said anything but how he was in charge. He was the man. His was the responsibility to lead and hers was to follow. But damn, when she said it, it didn’t have the effect of making him free. Rather she’d bound him to her more tightly. She never busted his balls about other women long as he didn’t rub her nose in it and when he did eventually leave the Bucs, ten years later, and took her and Irm to the Missouri hills without a word of what he had in mind, she never complained.

  She was a hell of a woman and he was a lucky man.

  He was more than lucky, though. He was good. He ran a good business. Chowder’s Bait ’N More was a money-maker on its own, but Darlin’s had made it a cornerstone of the local economy. Now some shitweasel was trying to bring him down and he needed to put a name and face on that threat quick. Until he knew for sure, it remained between him and the sheriff, the only two he could be a hundred percent sure of.

  He couldn’t even tell his wife or daughter. Not that he believed Irm or Hettie would ever turn on him, but he couldn’t be sure how they’d handle the knowledge that somebody was talking to the government.

  There was a sound from the bathroom that he registered as the top popping off of a pill bottle and then the running faucet. The door opened and Hettie stood there, hair pulled back in a tail, breasts supported by her round gut looking angry, hungry and mean. She held a green plastic cup of tap water in one hand and a little blue pill in the other.

  Chowder rolled over and pulled the sheet over his head. Hettie’s voice was full of authority. “Oh hell no. You don’t get off that easy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MONDALE

  The stretch of 71b that led south from Neosho toward the Arkansas border was a gold mine for speeding tickets. The two lane highway wound through the hills with speed limits jumping from sixty-five to forty-five, then up to fifty-five every few minutes with a traffic signal or two thrown in to further complicate things. A cruiser placed around any bend or in the parking lot of a convenience mart was a sure fire money-maker for all of the hamlets dotting the map, including Spruce.

  Mondale sat in his own prowler along the path to Pineville for hours. The sun had set on him and he’d not issued a single ticket. He’d sat in silence and now in darkness going over the situation with the ASA endlessly.

  Mondale’d just about punched the little shit when he’d expressed open suspicion of him. But he hadn’t, and wondered now if he should’ve. What he’d done instead was call him an arrogant little prick and ask him to leave.

  As soon as the lawyer had left the building, Jimmy told Wanda he was leaving and had blown off Bob Musil who approached him in the parking lot with a flat upraised hand. Deputy Musil swallowed whatever he had to say and let Jimmy go. He’d not answered any radio calls the rest of the day, finally switching the damn thing off when he parked.

  Some things had become clear in the meantime. Dennis Jordan didn’t have anything on him. He’d never tip his hand like that if he was sitting on good information, he’d just have him arrested at the right time. It was also clear to Mondale that he had to take another look at his partner. Their fates were tied so closely that he couldn’t afford to be lax in any part of their operation. Chowder was a damn good businessman and had muscle enough that Jimmy’d been able to steer clear of his side of the business and let the big man run it how he saw fit, but something was wrong and Jimmy couldn’t feature it being on his end. Outside of Deputy Musil, whom he trusted implicitly, there wasn’t anybody with any idea what he was up to.

  Lights appeared around the bend followed quickly by a familiar pickup truck. Jimmy recognized Tate Dill through the window and Tate nodded at him as he passed. He watched the truck disappear around the next bend. His fingers flexed instinctively and he blinked. Jimmy started the car.

  Tate pulled over after a couple of miles when he noticed he was being followed. Mondale hadn’t hit his lights or siren and Tate didn’t look nervous sitting there, but Jimmy’s hairs had been standing since the truck had passed him. He left his headlights on and exited the vehicle.

  The dark was complete now and nothing could be seen outside the cast of the prowler’s beams. They were pulled over to the gravel shoulder of the narrow highway with an incline to their left and a sharp bank on the road’s right side. The tall trees could be heard waving in the breeze, but not seen towering over them. The crunch of his boots as he stepped sounded sharply over the low purring of the vehicles’ motors.

  He could see Tate’s elbow hanging out the open window and resting on the door. Inside the truck, Jimmy saw him adjust the rearview mirror. The prickly sensation on his skin moved, but didn’t go away and Jimmy fought his instincts to have a hand on his hip by his gun. He wanted to keep this casual.

  Tate’s left arm moved as he drew parallel to the window and he saw Tate take a drag from the joint he held. Tate nodded at the policeman while he held his breath. As he exhaled he said, “Hey, Sheriff, how you doing tonight?”

  “Evening, Tate. What’s going on?”

  Tate, still exhaling with his lips, turned in and shook his head gently. “Nothin. Beautiful night though, huh?” Mondale looked into his unfocused, red-rimmed eyes, but saw no sign of nerves.

  “The hell are you doing?”

  Tate looked ready to repeat what he’d just said. Jimmy pointed at the joint. “I mean with that.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Tate offered it to the Sheriff.

  “Turn off the engine and get out the truck, Tate.” Tate blinked and did a double take. “Now.”

  “What’s up, Jimmy?” He turned off his engine and opened the door and Mondale backed up to give him room to step out.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the hood.”

  “Sure, Jimmy.” He was confused, but still didn’t sound concerned. “What should I do with this?” He indicated the joint.

  “Drop it.”

  “Okay.”

  Mondale took his flashlight out and ran it over the interior of the pickup while Tate leaned on the hood, staring at the fading cherry on the joint’s tip between his feet in the gravel. Finding nothing worth looking at, he returned his attention to Tate. “Turn around.”

  “What’s going o
n, Jimmy?”

  “I’m the damn police, Tate, not your friend.” This registered only an uncomprehending stare from Tate Dill. “So pot’s still illegal, shithead.”

  Tate slumped. “Oh, man. C’mon, Jimmy, you weren’t flashing lights, I just figured it was a social stop.”

  “Hey,” he slapped the back of Tate’s head. “We don’t have a social relationship. What are you doing out here tonight?”

  Tate shrugged innocently. “Just driving, Jimmy. Going to work.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, now you’re going to jail.”

  “What? Why are you being such a prick, Jimmy? C’mon, I gotta go to work. Chowder’s gonna kill me if I’m late.” Jimmy looked at him hard. His eyes were more confused and scared than angry. Mondale’s hair began to lie down again. “C’mon, Jimmy, please. If I did something that pissed you off, I’m sorry, man, but I don’t know about it, really.”

  “Shit.” Mondale relaxed and gestured at the joint on the ground. “Pick that up.” Tate did. It had gone out and he held it sideways, pinched between his fingers uncertainly. Mondale raised his eyebrows and Tate cocked his head.

  “What?”

  “It don’t work unless you burn it.” Tate got his lighter out of his pocket and placed the joint in his lips. He got it lit and offered it to the sheriff. Mondale accepted it and took a quick hit. He held it at his side then and after another moment, took a deeper hit before handing it back to Tate. “Take it easy.”

  Tate took the joint and watched Mondale walk back to his vehicle. “You alright, Sheriff?”

  TERRY

  The inside of Terry’s truck smelled like someone had pelted it with a bottle of cologne. Between the two of them, they’d spritzed on more vapor-aids and hair treatment in one night than the rest of their lives combined. Terry insisted that they crack the windows as their hygiene fumes were threatening to overwhelm him and succeeding on at least making his head hurt.

  Cal’s wisps of red hair were clumped together with gel and Terry could see freckles abounding across his shiny white scalp. His own head-top hair, too long by six weeks, was curling at the ends and separating from the upward tending mass on the back of his neck. Terry tugged at the base of his skull constantly while he drove.

  “You look fine,” said Cal and smiled at his friend when Terry turned to glare at him.

  “You saying I look like a queer?”

  “No.”

  “Well that’s too bad. Cause that’s exactly the look we’re going for, right?”

  There was a moment’s pause then Cal quietly said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m trying to look good to a queer, not look like a queer.”

  Terry sneered and shook his head sadly. “Afraid I’ve got bad news on both fronts.”

  The bar was a non-descript, aluminum-sided ranch-style with a gravel parking lot out front and an abandoned gas station across the road, twenty miles outside of Branson. It looked like one of the hard-rode titty bars with wood-plank walks and railings seen in old cowboy movies, that you’d find tucked away just off the interstate every ten miles or so, except for the lack of lighted signage to draw anybody’s eye. Not even a neon Budweiser to call attention to it. If not for the two vehicles out front, and the half-dozen more around the back, it looked closed.

  They parked at one of the dry pumps across the two-lane and studied it. “You sure that’s it?” asked Terry.

  Cal nodded. “I know. You’d expect it to look fruitier outside, but that’s the place.”

  After ten minutes of pre-game 40s in the truck, they approached the building. Indoors it wasn’t any fruitier. It was dark and cleanish, but still a saloon. Juke in one corner next to a Mortal Kombat machine, video-poker on the bar and a couple pool tables in the back. They took seats at the bar and ordered more beers, then looked around at the other clientele. “I dunno if this is gonna work,” said Terry. “A photo of this place’ll look like a picture of any other bar. We need something really really like super-gay if we’re gonna blackmail anybody with it.”

  Cal nodded then pointed out. “Notice there aren’t any women around, though.” Cal re-checked, then continued. “Speaks loud and clear.” He raised his eyebrows in support of this point.

  Terry counted the entire female population of the place up to zero, then asked, “How many women you ever seen back home at The Gulch?”

  Cal dismissed the thought. “That’s different.”

  Shaking his head, Terry said, “Not in a photograph, it’s not. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “No way, I’ma finish my beer and have another.” Cal’s pride was hurt. “Since this place is so much like our place, I don’t see why not.”

  “Don’t get pouty. It was a good plan, but let’s stick to liquor stores and bait shops for now.” The bartender eyed them warily and Terry signaled for another pitcher. “’Sides, who am I kidding? Like we’re really gonna drive all the way out here and not see Yakoff? I don’t think so.”

  After the second pitcher, Cal needed to take a leak. “Come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Think I’m gonna let myself get cruised in a queer piss shack? Uh-uh, I need back up.” They found the restroom and Cal put his ear to the door before opening it. Hearing nothing untoward, he went through, but asked Terry to stay back and stand sentry. “Changed my mind. It’d look bad, both of us going in together.” Terry nodded and slumped against the wall.

  He’d never been to a gay bar before. Heard of them, but never been. Not that he’d spent much time thinking about it, but this really wasn’t what he’d imagined. Buncha blue collar types mostly, letting their wrists dangle a bit, but otherwise pretty conservative. There were a couple of grease monkeys just coming in, headed for the corner to shoot pool. There was a businessman, fat and bald, but dressed sharp and letting his money talk to the young blonde on the far side of the bar. Dynamics seemed familiar. Still, he figured if he were a queer he’d probably just stay at home and jerk off looking at himself in the mirror.

  When he returned from the bathroom Cal was more than a little befuddled to see Terry talking up the mechanics shooting pool on the far side of the room. Terry seemed not at all put at odds with his surroundings which Cal found unsettling, but his curiosity won out and he put on his easiest smile as he approached.

  Terry and the one mechanic were talking about trucks and transmissions, one and then the other pantomiming shifting from reverse to first and on up. Unless it was code of some sort. Homo-jackoff sign language. That would be like Terry to learn the vulgar bits first. Only.

  “Hoah, Terry, you ready to go?”

  “Nah, c’mon, let’s stay awhile, this here faggot is my cousin Stuart. We knocked over one of my first grocery stores together with his dad’s squirrel gun.” Stuart mimed aiming the gun awkwardly at Terry who opened a mock cash register and began pulling out bills.

  Cal looked uneasy.

  “Don’t worry, they know we’re not into sex with each other. It’s cool.”

  Terry and Stuart shot pool for a half-hour, and, after failing to find conversational common ground with Cal, the other mechanic relocated to the bar, leaving Cal sitting alone on a stool along the wall, when Terry’s laugh rang out loud and familiar. He was responding to something Stuart had said.

  “The fuck out.”

  Stuart’s fingers made the Scout’s Honor sign. “Swear.”

  “No. ”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many of our cousins did you blow?”

  “I ain’t telling you.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it’s maybe a private thing, or don’t you know anything about those?” Terry, well into his drinks, doubled over giggling and Stuart looked as if he were enjoying the reunion as much as his cousin was. “Hey, played your cards right, could’ve happened for you too.”

  Terry choked on his drink and spit it on the floor. “How about now?” he barely managed.

  Stuart stood straighter. “No chance, cous
in. I’ve got standards.”

  “Hey, Cal, take a picture of me and Stu.” Terry put his arm around his cousin and they straightened up and grinned for Cal who framed them quickly in the camera he’d brought for extortion purposes. The flash brought some nervous glances their way, but they were ignored.

  The three of them shot pool for another half hour. Cal listened to stories about their family and childhood, early heists and updates on various folks fallen by the way. When he returned with a fresh pitcher, Terry’s eyes glinted and his posture was conspiratorial. He suggested they find a seat and Stuart led the way to a table where they sat and drew the circle tight.

  Terry looked at his cousin and told him why they were there.

  “So, who should we pay attention to here?”

  Stuart looked back and forth between them. “Are you serious?” Terry nodded solemnly. “You want me to suggest someone for you to blackmail?”

  Terry looked at Cal, then back to Stuart. “Look, we don’t know anybody here besides you and we’re not gonna do nothing to you or one of your friends, but if you could help us out, we’d appreciate it.”

  Stuart sat up straight. “Fuck you, Terry. I’m not going to do that. What do you think I am?” Terry and Cal exchanged puzzled glances then Cal spoke up.

  “If you give us a good lead, we could cut you in. Y’know, sort of like a finder’s fee.”

  Terry nodded. “Consultant’s fee, damn straight. What do you say, cousin?” Stuart looked back and forth between them for a sign that this was a joke, but Terry continued. “Like I said, we don’t wanna mess with you, but” he leaned in closer “maybe there’s somebody you’d like to mess with? Somebody deserves it?”

  Anger flared briefly behind Stuart’s eyes, but it was eventually replaced by wonder and then resign. “Okay.”