Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Men, we will assemble here in the open before patrolling down to the woodline." Logan's fingers traced patterns until they reached the graying fringe above Mickey's ears.

  The top of Mickey's head began turning red and he said, "Dang you, Logan, can't you just come in and sit down like everyone else?"

  Men shuffled chairs, automatically making room for Logan and Mickey to sit together.

  "Hey, Logan, you inherit money? That's a lot of car."

  "Nope, me and General Motors went together on it. You know how it is."

  Mickey sounded disgusted. "Damned fool needs a truck. Now he'll be borrowing mine all the time."

  Logan said, "Mick, I had to get a nice car because our end of the valley is shamed by the wreck you drive around. People don't like to drive our road because of all your trucks, manure spreaders, and junk equipment cluttering the area."

  "Some call it farming equipment, Dell."

  "Well, I'm against it. I'm passing a petition requiring ugly old stuff like you own to be kept out of sight, in hollows maybe."

  "Yeah, write that up, Logan. It'll likely go as far as your other scribbling."

  Logan flushed, "Look, Mick, I've got one going now that...." A man interrupted.

  "You still trying to be a writer, Logan?"

  Mickey snickered, "Oh, he's a writer. His trouble is getting to be a published writer. Fact is, Logan's approaching a record as the world's most unpublished author."

  Logan disguised his irritation poorly. "I'm still learning how to do it, Weston. The book I'm doing now...."

  "If you were farming, you'd have been out of business ten years ago. You ought to try to get on with Capital Products or maybe the late shift at Masland."

  Logan fought to hang on. "What I'm writing is...."

  Chairs scraped and men rose. One spoke for all.

  "Can't think of a better time for leaving."

  One slapped Logan's shoulder, "Tell Mickey. I'll bet he's dying to know."

  Logan's coffee came and he stirred in a monumental dose of sugar.

  "God, Logan, you've got a sweet tooth."

  "Keeps me strong and snake quick."

  "Your arteries must be clogged like old sewer pipe."

  "Not mine. I could still do the hundred in, oh, ten-five, probably."

  "Logan, you never could do ten-five."

  The subject swerved. Mickey said, "Come on to the cemetery. I want to check the graves."

  Logan was willing. "Go in my car. Junk trucks shouldn't be running through cemeteries."

  Mickey said, "I'll leave a tip, you pay the bill."

  He grinned when he heard Logan's loud complaining at the cash register. He had devoured a full breakfast before Logan had arrived. Made up for Dell's military campaign on his baldhead.

  The graves looked good and they got out to walk a little. Mickey swung his door closed, and Logan groused about it.

  "You have to slam the damned door, Mick? You rattled the whole machine."

  "So what? It's just a car."

  "Well, I wouldn't mind having it nice without you slamming around. You've probably got chicken poop all over your clothes and onto the upholstery. God, you ought to ride in the trunk."

  Logan kept on, "Look at this place. A cemetery is like a trophy room, winners have the biggest monuments. But it's also like bowling; there's a trophy for everyone—the non-winners, the place and shows even get stones, or at least plaques."

  "They keep it nice, Logan."

  "Well, you're not going to find me in here, Weston."

  "Oh, where are you going?"

  "Haven't decided. Might have my ashes spread across the county."

  "I'd rather have Gypsy Moths.

  "But you won't do any of that, Dell. You'll be planted under some huge, ugly pillar that'll insult the eye. People will look and wonder, who was Logan Dell? But nobody will know and I won't tell."

  "You won't tell? I'll outlive you!"

  "Us smaller men live longer."

  "Yeah, but us real Perry Countians live longer yet."

  "I've been a Perry Countian for more than fifty years and nobody but you even knows different. Who cares anyway?"

  "All of us real Perry Countians care, Weston. We have to guard against foreigners slipping in, pretending to be real and all."

  Logan was smug. "Sorry to say, Mick, you just don't have the blood."

  On the road back to The Curve and Mickey's truck, Logan guessed, "Bet you don't know how many books are in the Bible."

  "I doubt many people do."

  "Well, there are thirty-nine in the Old Testament and twenty-seven in the New."

  "So what?"

  "It's just information, Mickey. Don't be testy because you don't know."

  "I've already forgotten."

  "Ah hah! It happens I've a way to remember so you'll never forget again."

  "I want to forget."

  "No, you don't. Now just fix this in your noodle. Thirty-nine books in the Old, right? And three times nine is twenty-seven, telling the number in the New. Got it?"

  "That's wonderful, Logan. Just when'll I use this gem of information?"

  "You'll use it, Mickey. You're always sneaking around trying to impress people with your college education."

  "That's a lie, Dell."

  "We'll see."

  "I've already forgotten the rule."

  "We'll see."

  Mickey left his boots in the hall and came onto the carpet in his socks.

  His wife was just hanging up the phone. "Have a good morning, Sis?"

  "Fine, Mickey. Got the wash out. Lunch will be about noon."

  "I stuck Logan for breakfast."

  "Watch him. He'll get even."

  "Say, you know how many books are in the Bible?"

  "Sure, thirty-nine in the Old Testament and twenty- seven in the New."

  "Dang it. That Logan already told you."

  "Uh huh. He said to be ready, because you'd be asking me before lunch."

  Mickey laughed. "Old Pearl Harbor Dell. He's always laying traps. Let's move to Florida and tell him we're heading for Alaska."

  "You'd miss him too much. Anyway, when we pulled into Orlando or wherever, there he'd be ... wondering why we drove so slowly."

  "It's the truth, Sis. We're stuck with him till we die.

  "Heck, he'll probably be sitting next to us in the Celestial Chorus. A man should be careful when he picks a friend."

  Mickey was clattering in the closet.

  "What on earth are you doing?"

  "I'm just getting some vacuum sweepings. I'm going to scatter them over his new car."

  Mickey peeked out a window. "Hot dog. It's going to drizzle. It'll all mix in. This'll kill him."

  Sis watched him go wondering at their antics. They were sixty years old and they acted like children. It would never end as long as they lived. She prayed they all had a lot of years left.

  +++

  1988

  "Damn it, Mick, I forgot my wallet."

  "How could you forget your wallet? A man just doesn't forget his wallet. You don't have your driver's license? You don't have any money? My God, Logan, you ought to check into a nursing home. How're you planning to eat today? I'm not paying because you forgot for the one hundredth time."

  Logan looked down his nose. "If you obey traffic laws you don't need a license, Mick. Anyway, a man doesn't need money to eat."

  "I'll remember that when I'm eating and you're watching, Logan. Haven't you heard they're not giving out free lunches anymore?"

  Logan appeared a trifle bemused, which made Mickey uncomfortable when Logan was driving.

  "Eating is no problem for a thinking man, Mickey. In fact, I think I'll have a salad bar, maybe a burger, and iced tea to drink."

  Mickey's lip curled. "No dessert?"

  "It comes with the salad bar."

  "All for free?"

  "Won't cost a cent."

  "You're nuts, Logan."

  Looking ahead, Logan said,
"McDonalds' on the right, Wendy's on the left. Wendy's has a salad bar, we'll go there." He wheeled across traffic and parked.

  At the door, Logan said, "Go ahead and order for yourself, Mick. I'm going to the men's room. Sit in no smoking," he directed.

  Mickey's burger took only a moment. He picked a table and looked around. Logan was starting at the elaborate super bar with appropriate plate, plastic fork, and spoon.

  When he came with a good plate full, Mickey said, "You had money, Logan."

  "Nope, this is free."

  Before Mickey could respond, Logan poked through a tray on a table and went off to the ordering counter. He came back with a single cheese and a drinking cup.

  Mickey asked, "How'd you do that? You didn't go near the cashier, I watched."

  Logan answered, "It's an old trick, Mick. We men of the world know lots of them."

  "Cut the bull, Logan. You had money."

  Logan appeared hurt. "Would I lie to my best friend? I forgot my money."

  Mickey was clearly disbelieving.

  "All right, Mick, I'll explain, but don't spread it around. Us adventurers cherish our expertise." Mickey groaned.

  "While you were waiting in line, I picked a used plate off a table and washed it good in the men's room. I got utensils to look natural and went through the salad line. Hell, Mick, nobody knows who orders what in these places. If you've got the right plate, you go through."

  Mickey appeared dumbfounded. Logan went on. "For my burger, I just picked up a receipt and told the counter girl I didn't get my single with cheese. They don't argue, Mick. It doesn't pay. They just hand over."

  Mickey asked weakly. "And the iced tea?"

  Logan looked a trifle rueful. "Well, I just asked for water. After a bit, I'll go up and they'll give me a tea refill for the asking. If I was in a hurry I could just pour out the water but it's best to wait a bit."

  Mickey was shaking his head in awed horror. Logan filled in the silence.

  "You should only do this during busy times, Mick. When they're busy, no one has time to look around or remember."

  "Logan, you just stole the whole meal!"

  "Of course I did. There aren't many free lunches around, Mickey."

  Logan began to grin. "I only did it to prove I could. Why don't you go up and explain to the cashier and pay for the food." He looked serious. "I wish you wouldn't push me into these misdeeds, Mick.

  "Tell you what, I'll wait in the car while you're explaining and paying."

  +++

  Logan's old Buick crunched to a stop well off the berm. The engine dieseled before choking to an ill-tuned silence, and night quiet closed around the car and its occupants.

  At 2:00 AM, Route 22 lay graveyard still. A few lights, tiny as candles, marked the cabins of Leshville across the Juniata. Newport's sky glow lightened the western horizon.

  The car's dome light silhouetted the pair as they left the car and Logan spoke with exasperation.

  "Damn it, Mickey, get on out. You'll tell the whole world we're up here."

  "The whole world is asleep, Logan. Like we ought to be. This has got to be the dumbest idea you've ever dragged me into."

  "We can't help it, Mick. This has to be done." Logan led the way through briars and weeds to the base of an over-large billboard.

  Everyone driving the river road knew the sign. It announced, "Big Bill Swartz, the best pre-owned cars in Millerstown."

  The message was singularly unimaginative. What was unfailingly irritating was a monumentally large portrayal of Big Bill's fat, round, grinning face which dominated most of the billboard.

  Painted in white, the huge bald head raked the dullest sensitivities, and assorted bullet holes could be detected between the eyes.

  Logan Dell had hated the sign since it went up. He threatened to use his shotgun on the abomination and swore if his chain saw would start, he would take the thing down.

  Mickey Weston agreed in principle, but there were a lot of disgusting signs. He ignored Logan's rantings.

  Mickey got through the pickers and bumped against Logan. He whispered as though spies were about and kept glancing toward the road.

  "I can't believe we're doing this. My god, suppose a state cop comes by?"

  "No cop will come by. If a car passes, just freeze still and they won't see us."

  "I can't see a damned thing."

  "Quit griping and climb up." Logan bent his knees and Mickey's foot settled on his thigh. Their hands gripped, as they had so many times before, and on three Logan heaved and Mickey's small body went up. A knee on a shoulder, then a scramble until Mickey stood upright, hands braced against Big Bill Swartz's fat features.

  It was an old skill, learned in a gym class. Probably everyone else had forgotten how, but Mickey Weston and Logan Dell had always teamed up. How to do a shoulder stand was not the only trick they remembered.

  Logan shifted a little under his friend's weight and complained, "God, you're getting heavy. You ought to diet or something."

  "Shut up and stand still."

  Logan braced his hands against the sign and waited. Then he chuckled. "Hey Mick, what do you think the police would do to a pair of old buzzards caught painting a mustache on Big Bill's kisser?"

  "Shut up, I'm working."

  Logan twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. "Well, get done. How long does it take to spray can two lines?"

  Headlights reflected from the trees and immediately struck the face of the billboard. Mickey groaned, "Oh hell."

  Logan's voice was unperturbed. "Paint while you can see. Then freeze when the car gets close."

  "God, it's the cops. Damn you, Logan."

  "It isn't the police. Just get done will you? My shoulders are breaking."

  They stood like a pole, blasted in the glare of the fast moving car. It swept by and the dark again swallowed them.

  "I can't see a thing. That light took my night sight."

  "You're supposed to shut one eye, you jackass." Logan groaned. "Just get done before my shoulders give out."

  An eternity later, Mickey gasped, "Ok," and Logan got him down.

  When his feet hit, Mickey started for the car and Logan had to hustle to keep up.

  "What in hell is the rush, Weston?"

  "You want to linger at the scene of the crime, go ahead. I'm getting out."

  "If you'd moved this fast before, we'd already be gone. You hang onto the can?"

  "Of course I've got the can. It's got my fingerprints all over it."

  "The FBI isn't going to investigate, Mick. It'll just be a laugh."

  "Big Bill won't laugh!"

  "If you don't slow down and relax. I'll confess to him that you did it."

  They clambered into the Buick and Logan ground the starter. He let up and pumped the floor pedal.

  Mickey groaned, "This has got to be the worst getaway in the history of Perry County crime."

  "It'll start."

  "Big Bill will come to tow us in with his wrecker."

  The engine began to chug and finally surged with power. Logan bumped onto the pavement and flicked on the headlights. He drove west at his usual fifty miles an hour, never more, rarely less.

  "What took you so long painting?"

  "Hell, I couldn't see which way the can was spraying! I had to try a few squirts until I figured it out."

  "Probably messed the whole sign up."

  "Nope, I painted a nice 'Frito Bandito' mustache. Took a full arm's length each way. The mustache is a beauty. We'll come out tomorrow and get a photograph."

  "Sort of fun, wasn't it, Mick? Like the stuff we used to do when we were young."

  "Logan, how old are you?"

  "Same as you, of course, just touching seventy."

  "Well give that some thought when you're not scheming, will you? We could be great-grandfathers. We're old, Logan. We're not supposed to be out defacing private property."

  "It was fun though, wasn't it, Mick?"

  "Yeah, it was fun." Mickey was
silent before adding, "Hope you don't feel too bad about your hat, Logan. I accidently gave it a squirt getting down."

  The Buick lurched and veered as Logan felt around.

  "Dang you, Mickey, I liked this hat."

  Mickey's voice was smug. "Too bad, Logan. It won't do to wear incriminating evidence. They'd get you sure. Better burn your boots, too. You probably left prints inches deep."

  "Nobody'll be looking, Mickey. God, the older you get, the scarier you are."

  "Yeah? Well who else would get up in the middle of the night to paint a mustache on Big Bill?"

  "You're right, Mick. Aren't too many suckers like you around."

  The Buick rumbled across the Newport bridge, turned left past the square and headed toward Bloomfield.

  After a minute Logan said, "You know we still do that shoulder stand pretty well. Doubt there's another pair of old fossils around that could do it."

  "Only reason we can is that we've been doing it since we were kids."

  "Takes a good man to hold someone as awkward as you, Weston."

  "Awkward? Dang you, Logan...."

  End

  About Roy Chandler

  Roy F. Chandler retired following a twenty year U.S. Army career. Mr. Chandler then taught secondary school for seven years before becoming a full-time author of more than sixty books and countless magazine articles. Since 1969, he has written thirty-one published novels and as many nonfiction books on topics such as hunting, architecture, and antiques.

  Now 87 years of age, Rocky Chandler remains active and still rides his Harley-Davidson across the continental United States.

  He divides his time among Nokomis, FL, St Mary's City, MD, and Perry County, PA.

  Rocky Chandler: Author, Educator, Soldier, Patriot in 2012

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Reading order of fiction books in the Perry County Series

  Friend Seeker

  The Warrior

  Arrowmaker

  The Black Rifle

  Fort Robinson

  Ironhawk

  Song of Blue Moccasin

  Tim Murphy, Rifleman

  Hawk's Feather