Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  “Shit Terry, c’mon. You know where the can is.”

  “I don’t believe you have any place being upset with me, man. I believe you should get on your knees and kiss my ass for what I did for us last night.”

  “So?”

  “Gold.”

  Cal clapped his hands. “Hot damn. Let’s get it printed.”

  Terry held his hand up. “I’ll see to that.”

  “No, c’mon, Terry. It’s my camera.”

  “And it’s my dick, so shut the fuck up.” Cal’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Terry cut him off. “I said ‘shut the fuck up.’”

  Cal drove them back to Terry’s place. Eventually they were heading out to Cuba where Cal had a contact he wanted to use to develop the pictures. Terry had no problem with that idea. The thought of a stranger handling the sensitive material didn’t sound too smart.

  When they pulled up into his driveway, something struck Terry as odd, but he couldn’t put a finger to that particular mental itch just then. He opened the door and went toward his bedroom for a change of clothes, having leaked a variety of digestive fluids onto his current outfit during the course of the night. He stripped naked and hopped into the shower and jumped when the cold blast of water hit him. Warming it up took too long, so he took cold showers when he was in a hurry, which he was most of the times he decided he could stand to bathe.

  Stepping out, he stood dripping onto the dirty shirt he’d left on the floor and reached for the clean one he’d brought with him to the bathroom to dry off with before slipping it over his head. Then he bent over the sink and squeezed water out of the handfuls of hair he could grab. Next he put on a different pair of jeans and the same socks he’d worn the night before.

  He stopped at the fridge and poked through its contents: ketchup, Vess Grape soda, a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag (which he grabbed), and three cans of Stag (which he pocketed). As he was about to leave he remembered to scoop some dry dog food for Layla into her dish and called out to her that breakfast was ready. He was mildly surprised she hadn’t come to see him yet, but figured she was out in the woods somewhere gnawing on a root or a squirrel skull.

  When he climbed back into Cal’s truck, feeling a thousand percent better, he tossed the driver a can of Stag and cracked one for himself. Cal wheeled them out of the drive and they were on the highway five minutes later. Twenty minutes after that, Terry looked at Cal and said, “Where the hell was my truck?”

  CHOWDER

  His cell phone was about to vibrate itself right off the dresser and all the loose change and his keys, resting atop, were buzzing along with it. Sounded like a bee-hive rolling down a gravel road. He turned over and grabbed it. Hettie was moaning beside him, “Fuck’s sake, Chowder, turn it off.” His fingers were clumsy with sleep and he couldn’t operate the tiny buttons. He squeezed it and jabbed at the controls randomly until it stopped humming. Holding it flat against his face he barked, “What?”

  Tate Dill’s voice answered. “Sorry Chowder, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

  Chowder sat up straight and Hettie pulled the covers he’d displaced back over her. “What’s going on?”

  “You weren’t here when I came in this morning.”

  “At the shop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s Irm?”

  “Not here.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Place was empty when I came in. Doors unlocked, lights on, but nobody home.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Just wanted –”

  He hung up on Tate. He dialed his daughter’s number as he strode naked out of his bedroom into the front of the house. The patient chirping of the ring tone aggravated him as he split the blinds on the front window and peeked outside. Nobody there.

  Irm’s voicemail picked up and Chowder growled, “Call me back. Now.” He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He reached in for a glass of black coffee brewed yesterday and left to cool overnight. He palmed two peeled hardboiled eggs and popped them into his mouth, washing them down with the coffee. Back in the bedroom, Hettie murmured inquisitively and he said, “If you see or hear from Irm, call me.”

  He slid into his jeans without underwear, careful to tuck himself well into them before zipping up, and grabbed a long t-shirt. He bent forward to lace his boots over his swollen feet and grunted with the effort of reaching them while his hair hung gray and greasy in his eyes. With one hand he pushed it backward over the top of his head and instinctively made the motion to tie it into a tail, though it hadn’t been long enough to do so in a decade.

  He slipped into his leather jacket and kicked open the front door tapping a Camel between his lips. Climbing into the cab of his truck, he paused to light it and crawled under the steering wheel with minimal effort. He started the engine, flipped the cell phone open again and dialed the shop.

  Tate answered on the third ring. “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I can tell. Office was locked up and the safe wasn’t touched. Cash drawer was empty, but I found it all inside the safe. I’m doing an inventory now, but don’t see anything obvious.”

  “Call me if you do.”

  He hung up and called Darlin’s. Big Randy answered. “Hey.”

  “Irm around there?”

  “Nah. Haven’t seen her all night.”

  “How’d we do last night?”

  Randy made an audible shrug. “Meh, average.”

  “Lemme know if you see Irm.”

  He pulled off the paved road onto a private gravel drive and disappeared into the wild. The tangle of trees created an immediate green canopy completely enveloping him and the narrow road twisted sharply with large chunks of rock and rotted tree stumps pocking the way. The path rose and fell continually and sometimes dropped away completely at the edges. His speed dipped to an average of fifteen miles an hour and he followed the aimless trail for ten minutes, fording a trickle of a creek and passing over a narrow wooden bridge, before pulling over to a cleared shoulder and exiting.

  From the glove box, he removed his Colt and held it loosely in his right hand as he headed up the hill he’d parked beside. The ground was loose here and there and he had to use his left hand to grip sapling trunks and pull himself up. At the crest, he paused, looking down on the small cabin’s back-side.

  The windows were covered from the inside. A septic tank was rusting in the back yard and the satellite dish mounted on the roof looked like it could be knocked over with a thrown rock. Nothing moved around the cabin and after a moment, Chowder descended the hill toward it.

  The wood porch creaked loudly when he hefted himself upon it and the wood groaned with each step approaching the front door. He opened it and the hinges took up announcing him where the porch left off. Inside, the wood floors were scuffed and dusty and a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room.

  From the kitchen he heard a scraping movement that stopped abruptly a second later. Chowder called out, “Who we got in here?” as he moved toward the kitchen and the sound. The smell inside was worse than any lock-up he’d ever visited. The harsh chemical odor seared his nostrils, and he wiped at the corners of his eyes.

  The kitchen was lit with two long fluorescent bulbs, each at half strength, that seemed only to illuminate the dirt worked into the yellow tile of the floor. A green Formica table with dull metal legs was pushed up against the yellowed refrigerator and covered with crumpled squares of tinfoil and burn marks. A dirty yardbird Tate had hired was sleeping on the floor beneath the table, a white cake of dried spit flecking the five-day growth of his beard. Chowder kicked the table and knocked over an empty two-liter pop bottle. It bounced on the grimy tile next to his hip. The passed out shit-scab hardly twitched.

  Chowder walked over to the sink and filled a chipped glass he found on the counter with tap water. He splashed the man’s face with it, but did not wake him. Instead a dark stain began to spr
ead from the crotch of his already questionably marked jeans. “Shit’s sake,” muttered Chowder, then he went to the basement stairway.

  Going down the narrow wooden stairway, Chowder leaned heavily on the rail, which bowed between supports with every step. In the basement the lab was clean and orderly in the middle of the room, with a border of junk strewn along the walls. There was a four foot cleared path around the work area and he walked all the way around it, absently inspecting the scene for anything out of place. Twice around and everything seemed in order. Chowder headed back upstairs.

  In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and removed the big plastic tub of instant coffee crystals. He unscrewed the lid and took a big whiff. Dunkin’ Donuts had ruined the cheap shit for him permanently, but if he made it triple strength, he should be able to choke it down.

  The electric coffee maker was coated with a brown film that didn’t rinse away in the sink, but he made a pot anyway. While it was brewing, he stood near the machine trying to dislodge the crank-house smell from his nose, but the alternative the instant crystals offered was a weak and flimsy one that dissolved into the astringent atmosphere without a trace.

  As it brewed, Chowder checked his cell phone. Reception was spotty in the area and he thought perhaps he’d missed a call from Tate or Het, but he had not. The passed-out asshole on the floor began to mumble something, then sat up like a switch had flipped, choking and gagging on some phantom irritant. He passed through three distinct stages of panic in five seconds, before his demonic twitching dissipated, and he gazed up, reasonably sober, at Chowder.

  Chowder poured a cup for himself in a green mug with a logo for Chowder’s Bait ‘N More chipping and fading away on the side. He grimaced through the first sip and stared back at the man on the floor. “Pissed yourself.”

  The man blinked again, then looked down at the wet spot on his jeans. “The hell are you?” he asked.

  Chowder ignored the question and instead fired back one of his own. “Who’s watching the shop?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re in charge, here.”

  “I was jus-“

  Chowder splashed the steaming coffee in the dirtbag’s face.

  The man screamed and threw his hands up defensively too late. He swiped at the scalding liquid, throwing it to the floor in tiny splashes.

  “Shit, fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit.” The yardbird reached the far end of his vocabulary and circled back. “Fuck, shit. Fuck.”

  Chowder poured himself another cup of coffee. He reached over the top of the man’s head toward one of the squares of tin foil with a trace of powder left in a crease. He dumped the powder into his coffee and swished the liquid around before tasting it. His phone rang and he took one more sip of the coffee before setting the mug back on the counter and reaching into his pocket. He saw Irm’s number appear on the screen and answered. “Bout time.”

  “You called?”

  “Don’t start. Get your ass out to the cabin.”

  “Thought I was fired.”

  “You got a mess to clean up.” He closed the phone and looked at the man on the floor. This was exactly the variety of shit that he didn’t need in his life anymore. He made up his mind about a few things right then.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TERRY

  Cal took them to a house in an old neighborhood. In Cuba there weren’t other kinds. The place was sturdy looking and neat. Terry distrusted it immediately. “You sure about this dude?”

  “Oh yeah. Used to teach school and shit, but not anymore.”

  “No?”

  “Nah. Runs a fence through a pawnshop now. Cleans money some, and still does photography stuff.”

  “How’d you meet him again?”

  “Pawned some shit. Got to talking.”

  Cal killed the engine and the front door of the house opened. A man in his late forties, thinning brown hair swept back and wire-rimmed glasses giving his face a harmless quality. He raised his arm to Cal and opened his door. “C’mon.”

  Terry followed Cal up the steps to the front porch and shook hands with the man who Cal introduced as Frank. Frank had them come inside and offered something to drink. Cal said he could go for an iced tea when the options were given and Terry shook his head. Inside it was as clean and tasteful as out. Terry wondered at the dark wood furniture and clear windows letting the abundant sunlight in at slanty angles. A tabby cat dozed in a sunspot on a chair parked near an oak dining table. The house smelled fresh too, like chicken pot-pie and vanilla. Terry’s unease grew.

  Frank brought Cal his iced tea in a glass with a wedge of lemon in the top and Cal accepted it, smiling broadly, thanking his host. “So,” said Frank, “You’ve got something for me?”

  Cal took a gulp of the tea and nodded. “Yep. Got some film we need developed. Can’t take it to one of those one-hour places, but we do need it real quick.”

  Frank nodded like this was a normal day for him. “Sure. Well, usually it’s a hundred for a roll, but you get the friend rate. Seventy-five.”

  “Dollars?” said Terry.

  Frank nodded. “My time is worth that.”

  “The hell, man?” Terry looked at Cal.

  “Dude,” Cal assured Terry. “Frank is good. This is a good deal.”

  “Says you.”

  “Think about it. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just slip the kid at Walgreens twenty bucks to do. Frank’s…” he searched for the right word, “Discreet.”

  Frank nodded and held his hand out for the camera that Terry still guarded close to his chest. “That’s a nice looking camera you have, Mr. Hickerson. Can I see it?”

  Terry gave Frank his best hard stare, but the affable expression never changed and he finally handed it over. “Mmm,” said Frank, accepting the camera. “Image is everything, huh?”

  Cal snorted. “I picked that one up from you, remember?”

  “Oh yes,” said Frank. “Said you needed one with a motor and high speed shutter.” He raised his eyebrows. “Let’s see how we did.”

  MONDALE

  Terry Hickerson’s house looked abandoned. The tarp serving as the east wall on the southern room was frayed and faded. He peeled it back and called for Terry. The fragrance of the room was mildew and bacon grease. “Hickerson. You there?”

  He pounded on the front door thinking there was a good chance that Terry was sleeping off a drunk. When he tried the knob, he found it unlocked. “Terry, door’s open, I’m coming in.” It was dark inside though there was no covering on the windows. Scratch marks on the floor and the layer of fine brown hair coating the couch caught his eye and he remembered Gil saying there’d been a dog killed in the accident, too. Shame.

  He toured the shack and found it unoccupied, though there were dirty, wet clothes on the bathroom floor and water still on the walls of the shower.

  His radio crackled and Bob Musil’s voice asked for his forty. Mondale left by the front door and circled around the back of the house. He answered Musil. “I’m at the Hickerson house. Nobody here. Anybody seen him yet?” The side of the house featured a large unorganized wood-pile, which, aside from housing a nest of yellow jackets, Jimmy figured, heated the home. There’d been a wood burning stove in the front room, he recalled, though in the winter the shack must stink to hell, because the pieces of scrap and tree branches collected here were wet and rotting. Some of them had once been furniture and there was even a disintegrating cork-board sticking out of the middle of the heap.

  Musil came back. “Negative. We’ve got a bulletin out. We’ll find him.”

  The grass was up to his knees and the ground full of holes and mounds. He picked carefully through it, stooping to duck jutting branches from a walnut tree leaning on the roof. He scratched his cheek on a branch and cursed as he rounded the corner of the house. “Roger. Who’s on now?”

  “We got Townsend just coming on.”

  “Send him out. I’m going to stick around till he shows up. I want to speak to
Hickerson just as soon as he pops up.” There was a brick barbeque pit sticking out of the overgrown lawn in the back. Mondale poked through the old ashes, finding the edges of burnt garbage and pop cans. From beneath a half melted forty ounce Styrofoam cup a spider scurried for the cover of an unraveled Pringles canister and the sheriff kicked a cement block over revealing a deep wet rut where worms and roly-polys socialized.

  “Roger that. I need to see you soon as you can get back here, Jim.”

  “Sure. Send Townsend out and I’ll see you in a jiff.” He put the radio back on his hip and looked around the back yard. He moved toward a rusted tool shed with a half open sliding door. Inside it smelled of gasoline, oil and wet grass, though the lawn mower was buried in the lawn and he couldn’t imagine when it had last been cut. Garden tools that had once belonged to Terry Hickerson’s father sat on shelves and hung on nails in the wall and he casually inventoried the collection.

  He wondered what Musil needed to talk to him about. Officer Gil’s confirmation of Dennis Jordan’s looking into him was consuming his thoughts. It irritated him and distracted everything else he was processing. He needed to talk with Chowder soon, but he couldn’t afford to be seen talking to him any more.

  What bothered him most at the moment was something Musil had said. He’d called him ‘Jim.’ Not ‘Jimmy,’ not ‘sheriff,’ just ‘Jim.’ He didn’t like the sound of that.

  CHOWDER

  Irm arrived at the cabin huffing. Chowder watched her crest the hill and then awkwardly descend. The physical effort broke down some of her attitude. When she reached him, he gestured for her to sit with him on the porch, which she was obliged to do. They sat in silence for a moment while she caught her breath. He dug at the skin under his fingernails and dabbed some blood off his arms with his t-shirt.

  “The fuck did you go last night?”

  “Had something to do.”

  “Hey. Look at me.”