Peckerwood

by Jedidiah Ayres

  Lilly’s eyes opened halfway and he held her face near his own. They smelled each other. She moved her mouth, opened and closed it twice and that was all. She closed her eyes again and he kissed her and handed her over to proud papa. Then he knelt over Elizabeth lying in her recovery bed and whispered. “So proud of you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you, Dad,” she answered.

  He replayed the scene non-stop on the drive home. He had elected to leave while he was ahead. Give everybody some space and not push his luck.

  He pulled out his phone to hear his messages. His mailbox was full. Everybody thought they had important things to tell him, but they were wrong. Chowder had left three messages of escalating urgency. Bob Musil said that they needed to talk right away, and Julie Sykes was demanding he return her call. He thought he’d start there.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Hey, I thought you might be working.”

  “Jimmy? Yeah, I’m on my lunch break.”

  “Good. Listen, lemme take you to dinner tonight. I’ve been a jerk and I want to make it up to you.”

  She chuckled, a little unsure of herself. “Yeah, you’ve been a pill.”

  “Look, Lizzy had her baby last night and I’m on my way back from Kansas City right now.”

  “Oh my god, Jimmy, you’re a grandpa.”

  “You still want to have dinner with me?”

  “Yeah, of course. We’ll celebrate.”

  “Alright, I’ll call you when I’m back.”

  They agreed to talk later and Jimmy crossed one item off of his to-do list. On to the next. He got Musil’s voicemail. His deputy must have been working the late shift last night and been asleep at the moment. “Bob, it’s Jimmy. I’ve been in K.C. Liz had her baby last night. Lilly Eileen.” He choked on the name, but caught himself and recovered quickly. “She’s seven pounds, six ounces, twenty-one inches, and perfect. Give me a call when you’re up. I’ll be back soon.” He started to hang up, but added, “And Bob, listen, I’m uh, I’m good. I’m better now. Don’t have to worry about me. Thanks.”

  He punched in Chowder’s number and turned the radio up as Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine” began. He was humming along when Chowder’s gruff voice cut through. “Called you fifteen hours ago.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “On my way. Hour and a half wherever you want.” They made arrangements and hung up. Jimmy rolled his eyes. Touchy.

  TERRY

  He woke up in his cell feeling thick. A pain behind his right eye was his compass, but he was unable to make satisfactory sense of his surroundings. He tried to sit up, but was unable to correctly gauge his vertical and over-rotated, catching himself on his elbow lying on the other side. The weight of his head was like a bag of bowling balls and he dipped forward. He snapped his head up and used his hands to help steady himself.

  The light inside was oppressive and he squinted to minimize it. “Hello?” he croaked, barely audibly. There was a scraping sound on the floor as the policeman sitting outside his cell moved his chair.

  “Hey, you’re alive.”

  “Water?” Terry said, as if he were unsure such a thing existed.

  “Sure thing, buddy. You’re in luck, there’s a drinking fountain in your cell, there. Go ahead, help yourself.”

  If his thirst were not so severe, he wouldn’t even dignify the policeman’s sarcasm with a glance, but the suggestion of a cold drink was too much to resist. Of course there was no drinking fountain in the cell. The policeman had been referring to the toilet, which, in his present state, did look appealing. Really, it was pretty clean and he was sure the water would be cold.

  Fuck it.

  He bent over the bowl and heard the policeman chuckle. He cupped his hands and reached into the cool water and splashed his face. It did feel good. The next dip, he came up with a handful that he turned and splashed on the man in the chair.

  “Shit!” cried the deputy.

  Terry laughed. “I want my phone call.”

  “Good fuckin luck, shitbird.” The policeman wiped water off of his face and got up to leave the room.

  “Hey, I want a phone call and a lawyer.” But Terry was already alone again.

  MONDALE

  He was pulling off of the main road onto the dirt path winding into the woods when Bob Musil returned his call. Jimmy picked it up. “Bob.”

  “Jim, where you at?”

  “Almost home. What’s up?”

  Mondale could hear his deputy cupping his hand over the mouthpiece for privacy. “We’ve got a problem. Hickerson and two of his buddies robbed a liquor store halfway to Neosho last night. Cal Dotson and Heck Moeller were killed by the owner.”

  Shit. “What about Hickerson?”

  “He crashed his car, suffered a concussion, but he’s alright. We’ve got him in custody.”

  “What’s the problem, then?”

  “He’s not keen on doing any time.”

  “No?”

  “He’s offering us Chowder Thompson.”

  Shitwhore.

  “Says he knows all about Chowder’s drug business and prostitution.”

  Mondale parked his car and shut off the engine.

  “Jim, you there?”

  “How long before you kick him loose?”

  “Dunno. He’s squawking for a lawyer. We’ve got him isolated. I gotta go now, so meet me at the Come Back Again in an hour, we’ll hash it out, but we can’t keep a lid on him much longer.”

  Mondale folded the phone back into his pocket and opened the door. He looked around him realizing that this land was once the wild west. And that it still was.

  He said aloud, “The hell we can’t.”

  CHOWDER

  The place was a grassy, shady fishing spot outside of Spruce on the northeast edge of Hamilton County. It required a ten-minute hike to reach and that was the main reason they’d used it as a meeting place for so long. The remoteness discouraged spying. Here they could speak frankly and not worry about being seen together.

  Chowder had his knife out, methodically stripping a tree branch when Jimmy Mondale appeared. Chowder dropped the smoothed stick and stood. “You picked a hell of a time to go AWOL.”

  “Keep your pants on, I’m here now and ready to work.”

  “Put your house in order, then. ASA is coming for you.”

  “Pencil-dick politician. He got anything?”

  “Just a whiff, far as I know. But sooner or later he’s gonna approach the right person.”

  “Who is there outside your family and my deputy?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Fine. Meantime, that dipshit with the mangled hands is offering you to the government to keep his ass outta jail.”

  Chowder looked down and realized that the decision had been made long ago. “He’s gotta go. Too bad the whole world saw you wreck his beat-off mitts the other day.”

  “Much as I’d like to do it myself,” He looked imploringly at Chowder, then added, “we’re gonna need witnesses to say I was elsewhere.”

  Motherwhoring shit-ass week.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TERRY

  His head was clearing, unfortunately. As the painkillers wore off, the more sober he grew, the more he regretted it. Cal was dead. Shit, that sucked. Layla was gone, his truck was totaled, his fingers were useless and there was a powerful itch between his shoulders he couldn’t reach.

  The sorrier he felt for himself the stronger he grew. When he got out of here, he was going to fuck some shit up. He was going to burn down the world. He’d been bluffing with that whole Chowder Thompson thing. Just wanted to get out so he could split. He’d visit Cal’s aunt Jeanette and get the cash out of her diaper bag then maybe he’d grab Wendell and they’d hit the road, hold up gas stations all the way to Mexico. Put some hair on the kid’s nuts. He’d turn out alright after all.

  What the shit was taking so long? His lawyer oug
htta have been here by now. Must be sending some hotshot from Jeff City on account of the case he could bring against Chowder.

  That must be it. Still hungry. Still thirsty.

  MONDALE

  He was still officially on personal time, but it didn’t raise any eyebrows when he showed up at the station. He hadn’t thought to bring a picture of baby Lilly and was kicking himself for that, but he got plenty of “grandpa” comments and slaps on the back from the day crew. He smiled at them until he’d shut his office door.

  A moment later, there was a knock followed by Bob Musil entering his office. Musil shut the door and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on kneecaps, and waited for Mondale to speak.

  When they’d finished their pow-wow the deputy left.

  The afternoon disappeared in a haze of small tasks he’d put off for too long. Vacation time, what a joke. Still, he felt better getting things done. It was going to be a long day and whatever he could eat up time with, helped.

  CHOWDER

  Hettie let out an involuntary gasp when her husband emptied the bag of cash on the bed. “What’s it for?”

  Chowder said, “Emergencies.”

  “What’s going on, hon?”

  “Pack up.” He indicated the pile of cash. “It should be plenty to last us.”

  “Last till when?”

  “I’m not sure, Het. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  TERRY

  They finally cut him loose around eight in the evening. His lawyer never showed, which was fine with him long as he got out. One of the deputies drove him home. They left through the station’s back door and that probably should have sent up some red flags, but he was just glad to be going home.

  Wendell wasn’t there when he came through the door. There was hardly a sign he’d been there all week. Kid was damn near invisible. He’d have to call Beth’s house in the morning and hope the kid picked up. If not, he could steal a car and pick him up at school, maybe. Regardless, his plan was to take his son on a real old-fashioned crime spree and for once he felt a swell of pride. Wendell had done well driving that first time he’d used him. Terry’d come out of the convenience store walking fast, the grocery bag lifting off the back of his head and another small bag in his left hand, two-hundred thirty-six dollars inside. A small score, but Wendell’s first and he hadn’t chickened out. Of course he hadn’t, he was a Hickerson and had Terry’s genetic code running through him. He could be taught. Terry just needed to give him some time and attention. Now that Cal was gone, that’s exactly what he was going to do.

  He found a half-full bottle of scrip meds for pain and swallowed four with a glass of tap water. Kid had finished off his beer. Good for him. That was more like it. He turned on the TV and flipped to channel fifty-one. There was Brother Eli wearing extra make up and sounding something less than his old self to Terry, but nonetheless doing a new program. He was talking about repentance and judgment, Sodom and Gomorrah, Jerusalem and Nineveh, send money and all manner of Bible places Terry didn’t quite follow. He watched until the meds kicked in and he passed out sprawled across the couch in Layla’s favorite spot.

  MONDALE

  He stepped out of his house at seven-thirty and locked the door. He was going to pick up Julie and take her to the Red Lobster in Springfield for dinner. He’d dressed in slacks and a jacket, then had decided that it made him look old and he changed into pressed blue jeans and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He’d wanted to leave his piece at home, but felt naked without it and ended up settling on an ankle holster. He hoped Julie wouldn’t play footsie and blow his toes off.

  When he turned to step off the front porch he saw Tate Dill watching him, leaning against a car parked across the street. He stood and waited for the skinny jackoff to walk over.

  “Evening, Sheriff.”

  “Tate. The hell you doing at my house?”

  “Need to talk to you.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “The future.”

  CHOWDER

  He came in through a jarred window in the back of the house. It was dark inside and smelled like a thousand kinds of decaying organic matter. The bedroom was empty, and he moved to the front room where the TV was on. He looked down at Terry Hickerson sleeping like innocence. Innocence trying to stuff busted fingers down the front of its pants.

  TERRY

  Something foul-tasting was being stuffed into his mouth. He tried to get his hand there to remove it, but it was useless, tied behind his back. What the fuck? He opened his eyes and saw Chowder Thompson standing over him with evil writ on his face.

  MONDALE

  Julie would just have to forgive him.

  CHOWDER

  He pulled over, popped the trunk and hauled the wriggling peckerwood out by his belt. The eyes were wide and he was straining against the socks taped inside his mouth. As much as Chowder wanted to just get this over with, he figured there was no harm in hearing the asshole’s last words.

  PART III

  Dennis Jordan rounded the last corner to the homestretch of his morning run. His mind was clear and his conscience clean. Nothing like some physical exertion to wipe his psychic slate.

  After his three-mile jog, he stripped down and hopped in the shower.

  It was nearly seven A.M. and he needed to be in Springfield by nine to take testimony from a protected witness. Toweling off, his thoughts turned to Spruce and a reflexive smile spread across his face. He was immensely enjoying fucking with the policeman and the gangster. He’d be happy to prosecute either one of them, though without cooperation from one or the other it was going to be more work.

  Charles Thompson’s daughter Irma was a constant source of good material too. He’d been trailing her since Tate Dill had run into trouble in Olathe on a possession with intent bust and claimed he had important information to trade. Jordan’s office had been called and with his nose for a solid resource, he’d made the drive himself and negotiated Tate’s release. Dill hadn’t been very forthcoming, but Jordan had sensed a potential goldmine and cut the little shit loose to scurry back to his hidey-hole and carry on fucking up. Meanwhile, Jordan kept his informant top secret. The only name Tate had really talked about was Irma Thompson, which had meant dick to Jordan, but Tate had claimed she was the daughter of a former Buccaneer and forever badass named Chowder Thompson who’d been running a quiet little business in the Ozarks for over a decade now. Tate had insisted that Irm was worth looking into, as she was eager to take up where her daddy had hung up the outlaw life.

  Whatever. Jordan had looked into it, ‘cause he liked to play the angles. If it didn’t cost anything, why the hell not? He’d dug up records for Spruce, for Charles Thompson’s businesses and property, tax records for the town and the leading citizens. He’d looked at arrest records and found Tate Dill’s name attached to only one in his adult life, for possession of an illegal substance, which Dennis found hard to imagine. He’d met the little prick and seen his type often enough to know a habitual offender and opportunist when he encountered one.

  So, he’d dug deeper. And he’d done it alone. As a politician, he was always looking for footholds and secret ones were always better.

  And Irma Thompson had not disappointed. Her style was fast and sloppy-loose. She made her father look like a model of restraint and maturity. He’d staked out the Bait ’N More personally, and when she’d left in the middle of her shift that night, he’d tailed her all the way to her own stake-out of the Hickerson character. On the way there, a heavy rain had commenced and she’d sat outside his place, maybe waiting for a break in the storm, for a long time before the excited sounds of a dog and the slamming front doors of the pick-up parked in the drive had got her attention. He’d followed Irm following the truck out of town and stayed with her when she passed it up. Before long, she had turned around and he’d been forced to keep going, so as not to draw attention to himself. When she’d disappeared in his rearview, he slammed on the brakes and nearly went off the road,
but recovered and turned around, killing his lights.

  He thought he’d lost her until brake lights popped up, out of nowhere, a hundred yards in front of him. She was driving dark too. A moment later, the pickup came around the bend and Irm hit her brights, scaring the piss out of the oncoming driver, who swerved on the wet road and went right over the side a second later.

  Turned out to be the sheriff’s girl in the truck, and that was the wedge he was driving between his quarry: one’s child had killed the other’s. If Chowder didn’t come to him in the next twenty-four hours ready to cut a deal, he’d take that information to Mondale and then sit back and watch the fireworks. He wouldn’t need proof - there was enough tension in their relationship already. All he’d have to do is whisper to the high-strung sheriff and step back.

  He hung up his towel the way his wife liked him to and came into the bedroom where his clothes were waiting for him, pressed and ready to go. From the back of the room, a gruff female voice startled him and he turned to see Irma Thompson lurking in the bedroom doorway. She said, “Morning, counselor.”

  He recovered without looking too foolish, no grabbing desperately to cover himself up. He worked hard enough at it, he knew he looked good. His nakedness was nothing to be embarrassed about. “Ms. Thompson? Did we have an appointment?” He flashed his Paul Newman smile, but it went unappreciated.