“That was amazing, dude.”
“Shut up.” Terry felt queasy.
“You are the man, man.”
“I said ‘shut the fuck up.’” He clenched his fists to keep from vomiting right there. He was caught somewhere between elation and repulsion, a performance-high and terminal embarrassment.
Cal was having no such conflict. “We are going to be rich, thank you, thank you thank –“
“Hello. What’s going on over here in the corner?”
Cal cut his thanks short and Terry looked up into the face of money and knew then what he had to do. Brother Eli in his dorky wig loomed over their table like some fourth grade provocateur in the lunchroom.
He spoke in an exaggerated drawl, “Can I sit down?”
He did so, without invitation, sliding into the booth beside Terry.
“Y’all sure are secretive over here.”
Terry didn’t trust his own voice enough to speak so he just pounded his beer and put his hand on Eli’s thigh. The television preacher reached down for it and gave the hand a squeeze. Then without a word he got up and walked toward the back of the bar and disappeared into the bathroom.
Frantically, Cal fumbled for his camera and spilled his drink in the process.
“Shit shit shit.”
He didn’t bother cleaning it up. Terry started to drain the pitcher of beer. He’d gotten halfway through it in a minute when Cal said, “Better hurry up, he’s likely to change his mind. Here.” He extended the camera to Terry.
“I thought you were gonna take the pictures.”
“Changed my mind. You do it.”
Terry snatched it out of his partner’s hand. “Fine. Get the truck ready. Keep it running.” Cal nodded and got up, making his way toward the front door. Terry checked the camera and made sure it was ready to go.
Looked like a simple point and click model. The flash was on.
He just about knocked over the table when he stood up. His limbs were awkward and he was jumpy with adrenaline. The walk to the bathroom looked like an impossible distance and he thought he could feel the eyes of the whole world on him as he approached. To steady and steel himself he chanted a mantra under his breath.
Money. Money. Money. Money. Money.
He pushed open the bathroom door. It was dim inside and he didn’t see any sign of the preacher. He looked into the mirrored wall above the line of sinks opposite the door and closed it behind him. On the other side of the partition he saw a bank of three urinals and three toilet stalls beyond them. Noiselessly, he crouched down to look for feet. He spied the preacher’s tennis shoes planted beneath the first stall. They were all alone. Terry fumbled with the camera that had seemed so small at the table and now felt huge and unwieldy. He tucked it as discreetly as possible underneath his right arm and tested the position for motion. It was no good, so he tucked it into the waist-band of his jeans, against the small of his back, and draped the tail of his shirt over it.
Keeping his instincts in check, Terry walked toward the occupied stall and stopped just outside the door. A groan that teetered on the edge of a purr said, “Come in here.” He fixed his grip on Cal’s camera with his right hand behind his back.
The door opened slowly and revealed the minister sitting splay-legged on the toilet with his jeans down around his ankles. Brother Eli’s cock was up and gripped firmly at the base by his right hand while his left steadied him by clutching the top of the toilet paper dispenser. Terry’s palms were sweaty and he was afraid he would drop the camera if he didn’t do this quick. “Come here.” Purred the preacher. Terry thought fuck that and began to bring the camera up.
The bathroom door opened at that moment causing Terry to abort the photo and a man stepped half way inside. The intruder turned around to address someone on the other side of the bar. He spoke in a booming baritone “Wait. No, I said I was coming. Just wait for me. Gotta take a shit.”
Terry was paralyzed with panic, but Eli reached forward and grabbed him by the hem of his jeans. “Shut the door,” he whispered and Terry did. Outside the stall the door closed and the big man ambled into the room. Terry felt the preacher reaching for his belt buckle.
Passing the stall the big man pounded his fist on the wall producing a booming matched by his voice “Sorry fellas, I’m about to stink up the joint.” He let a preamble fart fly and giggled, opening the last stall. “Could take a while too,” he added. Terry felt Eli reach inside his pants and squirmed in panic, but Brother Eli seemed to think it was fun and insisted his hand under the elastic band of his underwear.
“Sure picked a classy spot for a hookup,” said the big man, working his own trousers down. Terry heard the belt buckle clink on the tile floor. Terry’s pants were slipping and he spread his stance wide to keep them up, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get them fastened for his inevitable flight from the john. Eli ignored him and wrestled Terry’s prick out of his pants. All the struggling had produced a semi-erect state for Terry and this encouraged Eli who leaned back and began to pump away with his right hand on himself and his left on Terry who moaned in terror.
There was a terrific rip and splash from the third stall and the big man groaned in satisfaction. Terry’s senses were overloaded and threatening to overwhelm him. He looked down and saw that he was now fully erect and that Eli’s concentration was total.
With his right hand he brought the camera up and tried to frame a shot, but the preacher’s flailing hand and his own bouncing member kept blocking Eli’s face from view. He leaned back against the door for a better shot.
Another loud fart echoed through the room and the big man chuckled. “Whew, sorry fellas.”
Terry pressed the button and a bright flash blinded him. Eli’s eyes were closed and he hadn’t noticed, but the big man had.
“What’re you doin in there?”
Terry was panicked, but determined to get the job done. No way in hell he was going through this without getting what he came for. He pointed the camera at the preacher’s face and snapped another photo.
“You guys taking pictures?” came the big man’s voice.
Brother Eli’s eyes snapped open just in time to be incapacitated by Terry furiously snapping pictures and shattering the darkness with the strobe of Cal’s fancy motor camera. The preacher shrieked and stood up.
“Hey, what’s going on?” came from the crapping man’s stall.
Eli tried to pull up his pants, but Terry punched him in the stomach, stealing his breath to cry out. He brought his knee up into the evangelist’s face and the man crumpled onto the toilet.
“Everybody okay over there?” asked the big man. Terry put the camera back in his waistband and began to get his pants right again. Brother Eli was getting his wind back slowly, but the fight had gone out of him and he spent all his energy on crying. Great sucking sobs began to issue from him. Terry finished with his pants and grabbed the preacher. He held the man’s head up and looked into his red face. His hands were already balled in tight fists. He struck the evangelist on the jaw. The minister went slack and Terry hit him again.
“Hey! What’s going on over there?”
He switched hands and struck the preacher on the other side of his face. He clenched that fist hard as he could and did it again.
The big man began to buckle his own pants audibly and fumble with the latch on the stall.
“Faggots better not be doing what I think you’re doing. I know the owner.”
Terry opened the door and walked out. He didn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror as he left.
He pulled open the door and walked straight and purposefully toward the door. He felt all eyes on him and didn’t look at anyone else. Behind him he heard the big man making the discovery of Brother Eli in the stall. The deep rumbling of his voice rang out: “Aw fuck.” Then Terry heard the door opening and the big voice command, “Hey, stop that asshole.”
Terry doubled his pace as everyone turned to watch him. The big voice repeated his command
and Terry heard the man moving in his direction. One guy half stepped into his path. Terry danced toward his interceptor and slammed his forehead into the middle of the man’s face. He felt the nose give and heard several ugly pops as the man slumped to the floor. Terry broke into a run and reached the door.
Outside, Cal was parked across the street in his truck. When the door burst open, Terry was running full speed toward the pickup and jumped into the bed rather than take the time to circle around to the cab’s passenger side.
Behind him a collection of queers filed out and gave short-lived pursuit as Cal fishtailed down the street and disappeared into the night.
The engine sound woke Irm up.
Shit. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Wanted to wait in the house, but wasn’t sure how she’d handle the dog, so she’d opted so stake out the place from her own vehicle. It had started to rain, and after a couple of hours, the soft, insistent thudding had put her under.
Now, she saw the pickup pull out of the drive and watched the tail lights recede from view. Fuck it, she didn’t want to wait here any longer. Irm took the Glock from the dashboard and slipped it under her thigh as she started the engine.
She turned the wiper blades on, but kept the headlights off, and caught her reflection in the rearview. The bruise in the corner of her eye looked much darker in the green glow of the dashboard.
I’m a Fujiyama Mama and I’m just about to blow my top.
Irm cranked up the Wanda Jackson song, winked at her reflection and sang along with the Queen of Rockabilly.
And when I start erupting nobody gonna make me stop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MONDALE
Bob Musil sat across the booth from him and shook his head. “First I’ve heard of it.” Mondale looked closely at his deputy, but couldn’t find any reason to doubt him.
“This has got to be contained. I need to know any time Chowder’s name or my own, for that matter, comes up.” The State’s Attorney’s office hadn’t had any more official contact with the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department that Mondale knew of. He thought the young lawyer might be shaking the branches, just hoping for something to fall, so Jimmy’d held his breath and not brought anyone into the loop about the investigation. He didn’t want to send ripples through the system that might make him look nervous.
Musil was his obvious first contact and was claiming ignorance as far as the ASA’s interest in the sheriff’s office went. Bob had spent twenty years with the force in Castle Rock, Colorado before relocating to Spruce. His wife’s bronchitis was cited as the primary reason for their move. The high altitude trapped the pollution from Denver and the mountains created a basin for the smog to settle in. It was hell on her respiratory system and they’d traded the dry, dirty climate for the muggy, but clean air of the Ozark region.
Mondale’d run virtually unopposed for his office three terms in a row, though he was aware of Bob Musil’s attractiveness to some community elements as a candidate. He knew because Bob told him flat out. Came by his office and told Jimmy to his face that he’d been approached by some business leaders about the prospect of running for sheriff, but he’d turned them down. His goal in Missouri was to be the best number two Jimmy ever had. At first Mondale’d been unsure how to take the directness of his deputy, but over time had come to trust Musil with the most sensitive aspects of his job and office and the deputy had not proved unworthy of any trust or task Jimmy had yet given him.
“If you want my opinion, I’d say he’s messing with you. He’s an opportunist looking for a big score. Probably doing the same thing with a half dozen other weak leads. Hunches. Just playing the odds.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Yeah. Occurred to me too.” He took another sip of coffee. It had turned cold and was unpleasant. “But still. Got my attention. Keep a sharp lookout.”
Musil nodded. “Will do.”
“’Course that goes for Irma Thompson and Tate Dill or anybody else related to Chowder or Darlin’s.”
“Sure thing. If you want me to, I’ll talk to my contacts in Jeff City, see what they’ve heard about Jordan.”
Mondale shook his head. “No, not yet anyhow. If he’s just making splashes, he’ll be looking for ripples coming back his way. I don’t want to give him any reason to keep looking our direction.”
“Alright.”
Etta Sanderson stopped at their table and refilled the coffee. “Sheriff, you look fresh,” she said and smiled at him.
Bob’s head tilted slightly as he reevaluated his boss. “She’s right, Jimmy. You look good. Been exercising?”
Mondale winked at Etta. “Pleasure seeing you is all, Etta.”
“Bull. But you go ahead and say so. Tell anybody you like, Jimmy Mondale. Maybe folks will start talking.”
“They might at that,” he agreed as she cleared their plates and walked them back to the kitchen.
Musil arched his eyebrows at him. “Anything I oughtta know?”
Mondale’s radio crackled and he reached for it, ignoring his deputy’s look. “Yeah, Wanda, go ahead.” He said.
“Sheriff,” came the voice on the other end, “There’s an accident out on Buisness 71. Fatalities.”
“Shit,” he said under his breath. Then into the radio, “Who’s on it?”
“Highway Patrol is on the scene, but I thought you’d want to know about it.”
“Thanks, Wanda. I’m on my way.” Bob Musil was already standing and paying the bill. Jimmy tipped his imaginary hat to Etta as he headed out the door.
The bend in the road was nasty. There were fatalities on that stretch more often than any other in Spruce if not Hamilton County. Last night’s rain would’ve created dangerous conditions to compound the already treacherous curves. It wouldn’t have taken much to send some poor soul off the road.
As Mondale pulled up to the scene, he nodded at the Highway Patrolman. He racked his brain for the kid’s name and settled on Gil, but wasn’t sure if it was his first or last name. Getting out of his car and shutting the door with both hands, he decided either would do fine. “Gil.”
“Sheriff.”
“What’ve we got?”
Gil led him over the tell tale tire marks going round the bend in the road and right off to the lip of the hill where the tow truck was backed up and dangling its cable down to a pickup truck that was twisted around a large Bull Pine.
Mondale whistled low when he saw the wreckage. “Who found it?”
Gil answered without looking away from the bent truck. “Fisherman. Climbed down, but they were already dead.”
“They?”
“Girl and a dog.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Gil looked at Mondale. “Missouri tags, but long expired. Used to be registered to a Terrence Hickerson in Hamilton County.”
Mondale looked back at the truck. “Really?”
“Yeah. Know him?”
“Know who he is, yeah. Woman though, huh?”
“Yeah, young. Blonde. Know her?”
Mondale shook his head. “Huh-uh.” Below, the driver searched for a place to secure his tow cable and Mondale clapped Officer Gil on the shoulder. “Lemme know if they find any I.D. on her. I’m headed over to Hickerson’s place.”
“Alright. Hey, Sheriff?” Mondale turned. “It’s probably nothing, but,” Gil lowered his voice and stepped toward Mondale who followed suit and inclined his head for privacy.
“What?”
“Assistant State’s Attorney, name of Jordan has been requesting information about Spruce and Hamilton County. Asking about bike traffic and stuff.” Mondale went cold. “I only mention it ’cause he asked about you too. Seemed interested in you for some reason. Thought you’d want to know.”
Mondale held out his hand and Gil took it. They shook firmly and Mondale said, “Thanks. Not sure what that’s all about, but I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Sheriff. I’ll let you know when we identify the driver.”
Mondale got into his
car. “Do that.”
TERRY
Cal had driven them back to his Aunt Jeannette’s house where Terry’d gone straight to his liquor supply and damn near emptied it. Cal watched his friend and business partner finish off three near empty bottles of whiskey before taking any himself. He’d driven home watching his rearview the whole way for anybody who might be following them. Branson was more than an hour’s drive through the winding roads and Terry had waited twenty minutes before pounding on the glass for him to pull over and let him into the cab. It had begun to rain and the muggy clime was only intensified by it. Cal blasted the air conditioner to keep from smothering in the heavy air outside.
Cal had looked at Terry expectantly and got the message, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to say word one until he was spoken to. Terry stared sullenly out the window at nothing in particular. There was a cut and a bruise forming on his forehead and the knuckles on both his hands were beginning to swell, making it difficult to hold the camera tight, but he clutched it to his chest like a baby he’d birthed.
Terry had eventually passed out on the floor still holding Cal’s camera in one hand and an empty bottle in the other. When he woke up he was alone in the front room of Jeanette’s place. According to Cal the old bat hardly ever came out of her bedroom except to trip on the rug on the way to the kitchen once in a while. There were large wet spots on his shirt and pants that gave off sharp, acrid odors and didn’t mix too well. He stumbled into the kitchen and vomited proper. He managed to empty himself mostly into the sink and turned on the faucet to rinse it down. Then he bent over and put his head beneath the water flow. He rubbed his face vigorously and turned his mouth up to drink.
After he’d drunk his fill and spit most of the puke flavor out of his mouth, he unzipped and peed in Jeanette’s sink. He was shaking off when Cal came in from the other room.
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