by Phil Truman
Jo Lynn hurried around the creep and pushed by Poncho. “Yes, everything’s fine. This man just needs some more ketchup. I’ll get him some.” She hurried behind the counter and pulled a fresh bottle of ketchup out of the lower cabinet. She slapped it down on the counter between the little creep’s and the big man’s plates. The big brute looked up at her with his same cold, emotionless expression. The little creep returned to his seat, still giggling. “Thanks, puddin’ pie,” he said to her. Then he squeezed a half a cup of ketchup onto his plate.
Jo Lynn moved to her right toward the L in the counter where the cash register sat. She stopped where the tubs of clean flatware sat under the lunch counter and started pulling out the utensils and rolling them in paper napkins. She wanted to have her hands on knives and forks in case she needed a weapon.
“Nice place you got here,” the big one said. He looked around, even over his left shoulder to the back corner booth where Carl Broadnik sat.
“Thanks,” Jo Lynn said. She continued rolling forks and knives into napkins.
Poncho had gone back into the kitchen, but he stationed himself at the order window, watching. Jo Lynn imagined that he still had that meat cleaver in his hand.
“You the owner?” the brute asked. His little weasel buddy kept looking at her, grinning his rotten teeth grin.
“Uh-huh,” she said. Her hands shook, and her heart pounded. Fear formed a solid knot in the pit of her stomach.
“Not a whole lot of business today,” the big guy said, looking back at Mr. Broadnik again. “I bet that casino has took a lot of your customers.”
“Oh, it’s usually slow this time of the day,” Jo Lynn said. Then she realized her mistake, and quickly added. “But we get a lot of regulars coming in starting about now. Usually get some police coming in for their afternoon break.”
“What time you get off, sweetcheeks’,” the weasel said. “Maybe we could come back at closin’ time.”
Now Jo Lynn was really getting scared. “I don’t think so,” she said to the weasel without looking at him. She wrapped her fist around a fork and held it.
The big guy slapped the back of the weasel’s head knocking his Confederate flag bandana do-rag off. “Don’t pay any mind to him, darlin’. He’s just stupid.”
“You might be able to help us,” the big one continued. He pushed his dish aside and put his elbows on the counter. He made a fist with one hand and popped its knuckles with the other. He spoke with a soft voice. “We’re looking for an old Army buddy of ours we heard lives around here. Goes by the name of Goat Griggs.”
Jo Lynn certainly knew that name, but she’d never met the man. During her years-long friendship with Lorene, through the Buchanans’ foster care of Sunny, she’d learned all the details about Goat and Squeaky Griggs. She knew that Goat had served time, but never in the Army.
“Last I heard he was in prison,” Jo Lynn said.
“Is that right?” the brute said trying very hard to show surprise.
“That’s a shame,” the weasel said shaking his head, giggling.
“Well, we knew he had a daughter. Does she live around here? Maybe she can help us find him.”
Sunny had a lot of things about her Jo Lynn didn’t like. But, mainly, she didn’t like her flings with Punch; not that Punch was all that innocent. Despite that, there was no way in hell she would tell these creeps where Sunny lived.
“I haven’t seen her in years,” she said. “I don’t know where she lives.”
“Oh, I think you do, darlin’,” the big creep said. “And sooner or later I think you’ll want to tell us.”
He looked at Jo Lynn with eyes so dark and cold that it shot a frozen shard of terror right to her very core. She backed into the farthest corner behind the counter.
The front door bell chimed and in walked Officer Charles Emerson DuFranc, all six-foot- five, three-hundred pounds of him decked out in his street blues. In addition to the service pistol in its holster, his belt bristled with ammunition pouches, compartments for handcuffs, pepper spray, and a 100K volt taser. A two foot long black nightstick hung from a loop on his left side. Gold wire-rimmed reflective shades covered the eyes in his broad black face—one of Tsalagee’s finest.
Charlie DuFranc let the door close behind him and stood at the end of the lunch counter looking at the two men sitting, eating their lunch... or at least they had been until DuFranc came in. Both of them looked back at the black and blue mountain whose nametag read “Sgt. DuFranc.”
DuFranc removed his shades and looked at Jo Lynn, who looked visibly relieved. “How’s it going, Jo Lynn?” he said.
Jo Lynn sighed and smiled. “Hey, Charlie. It’s good to see you. What can I get for you?”
Officer DuFranc sat at a table with his back to the row of booths along the windows. He faced the two men sitting at the counter, their backs to him. “Believe I’d like to have one of your cinnamon rolls, Jo Lynn, and a glass of milk.” He glanced back at Carl Broadnik, who also looked relieved, and gave him a hi-sign. Charlie had attended Mr. Broadnik’s biology classes his junior year in high school, and had been his study hall enforcer-lieutenant during his senior term.
Nine years earlier Charlie DuFranc had been the biggest sports figure to come out of Tsalagee High in decades. A gifted athlete, he was highly recruited in three sports, and accepted a football scholarship to the University of Oklahoma. But, after a series of injuries, he had to give up playing. He completed his degree in Criminal Justice, and returned to his home town to join the police force. So there he sat in Arlene’s some five years later doing exactly what he wanted—to serve and protect...and eat Jo Lynn’s cinnamon rolls. During his playing days, Charlie had been a svelte two-sixty. After a steady five year diet of Jo Lynn’s cinnamon rolls, he came in at a little over three hundred.
Officer DuFranc studied the two men as he carved into his cinnamon roll. The casino in town attracted all manner of humanity like a garbage can did flies, so the duo’s appearance didn’t shock Charlie. Bikers had come to town before, and these guys looked like bikers. Not the yuppie kind—those urban professionals, who liked to shed their weekday stock broker, lawyer, doctor, CPA pinstripes to put on the chic leather mantel of weekend societal rebel, and who had the wherewithal to purchase big glossy Harleys to prove it. No, Charlie meant the hairy, scary, tattooed, scarred-up, and often, smelly outlaw kind who rode in on intentionally noisy choppers. These two certainly fit the profile, but the real outlaw bikers usually traveled in packs of five or more, like organized predators. He just found it unusual and highly suspicious that these guys had come into Arlene’s. Most out-of-towners, even the bikers, stayed in or near the casino, and rarely ventured into the old business district.
It didn’t appear that these two had done anything wrong, so far. But they sure looked capable of it. Officer DuFranc believed in an ounce of prevention. The little one looked back over his shoulder at Charlie, grinned at him, and then turned back to his meal. Charlie decided that was a good invitation to do a little friendly interrogating.
“You fellas in town for the casino?” he asked.
The big one spun around on his stool and looked at Charlie. He used his left pinkie to pick a piece of food away from his gum and upper right incisor. “Yeah, we’re here to do some gambling,” he said. The other kept his back to Charlie, and started giggling.
“Those your bikes out front?” Charlie asked, not the least intimidated by the big thug’s demeanor.
“Yeah, why?” the big one asked.
“We got a bulletin about some stolen bikes, so I ran the plates.” That wasn’t a total lie. They did get a bulletin two weeks ago about stolen bikes. These two bikes didn’t fit the description. Still, he did run the plates.
“According to the data base,” Charlie pulled a notepad from his breast pocket, and flipped it open. “...those bikes outside belong to a Randell V. Brown and a Chauncey H. Threebuck from Oklahoma City.”
He closed the notepad and put it back in his
pocket. “You fellas got some ID I could see?”
The big one stood to pull his wallet out. The little one remained seated continuing to eat his fries. Charlie stood, too, and put his thumbs in his belt. The big guy extracted his license and handed it to DuFranc. Charlie studied the license, and then handed it back to Brown. He looked at the little guy’s back and said, “And you, sir?”
The little guy dug for his wallet and fished out his license without standing or turning around to look at Charlie. Then he spun on the stool keeping his left elbow on the counter, and extended his right hand with the license held sideways between two fingers. “Here you go, dude,” he said with a grin. Charlie walked the three steps over to the offered license and took it. He read it and handed it back to Threebuck.
“Looks like those aren’t the stolen bikes we’re looking for,” Charlie said. He remained standing, looking at the two. Brown pulled a ten and a five out of his billfold and laid them on the counter. He punched Threebuck on the shoulder with the back of his hand and said, “Let’s go.”
“How long you plan on being in town?” Charlie asked them when they got to the door.
Brown looked at him and thought for a minute. “Not sure,” he said. Then he looked at Jo Lynn. “I guess ’til our luck runs out,” he said.
Officer DuFranc nodded and said to them, “You have a nice day.”
Once the duo went out the door and got on their bikes DuFranc looked at Jo Lynn.
“Did those two do anything? Threaten you or anything?” he asked her with genuine concern.
“Oh, Charlie, those guys are bad news. They really scared me.”
“What did they do?” he wanted to know.
“Well, they didn’t really do anything other than just talk nasty to me, and make me feel like they wanted to do something. I don’t know... they’re just creepy.”
“Well, I can’t arrest anybody for being creepy, until they do something to break the law.”
“I know, Charlie. But I do appreciate you showing up. I’m not sure what they would’ve done if you hadn’t. They were asking me about Sunny Griggs. They wanted to know where she lives.”
“Did you tell them?”
“Of course not. But that’s when they kind of threatened me.” Her hands were shaking when she wiped her nose with a napkin; tears rimmed her eyes. “The big one said something like, ’I think you’ll tell us sooner or later.’ The look he gave me was... just evil. I’m afraid they might come back later tonight.”
Charlie put his hand on her shoulder. “You gonna to be alright?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I ain’t been this scared of a man since... since I was a girl.”
“Well, take it easy. I’ll hang around here a while longer.” He grinned at her. “Gotta finish my cinnamon roll. I’ll keep an eye on the place the rest of my shift. I’ll get one of the other guys to watch things this evening. We’ll get a squad here at closing time, too. Make sure you get home awright. I know who these two are now and I’ll check ’em out some more.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she fell onto his chest and tried to wrap her arms around his neck as much as she could. “You’re so sweet.”
Officer DuFranc was surprised and felt immediately uncomfortable, but he lightly patted her on the back. “It’s okay. Don’t you worry.” He looked back at Carl Broadnik who smiled at him and gave him another hi-sign.
Chapter 14
Red Randy and Threebuck Sign Up
Threebuck swung his bike around the corner where the two country roads crossed, and braked to a stop when he got into the full shade of an elm tree. Red Randy rumbled up beside him and stopped, too.
“Recognize anything?” Red Randy asked.
“Hell, no.”
“That place has got to be around here somewhere. Why don’t you remember?”
“Well, why the hell don’t you? You was there, too,” Threebuck countered.
“Griggs was leading the way. Guess I just wasn’t paying much attention. All these little farms out here look the same. ’Sides, I may’ve been a little stoned.”
“A little?” Threebuck snorted. “Hell, you had two joints before we left The City. Plus them beers we had at lunch. We was all a little loaded, I’d say.”
“We gotta find that Griggs woman,” Red Randy said. He scanned the horizon.
“I don’t figure she knows much more than we do,” Threebuck said. He spit into the ditch on his right.
“Maybe not about the treasure,” Randy said. “...but Goat may have told her who cracked that old man’s head before he lit out.”
“If he did, why ain’t she turned us in?” Threebuck asked.
“Don’t know. Mebbe she’s protecting Goat. As far as the law is concerned, he’s as guilty as we are. Then again, mebbe she don’t know nothin’. Either way, we can’t take the chance. We got to find her and see that she has a little accident like that old man.”
Threebuck nodded thoughtfully. “That cop sure was a big mother,” he said.
Randy chuckled. “He scare you, did he?”
“Naw,” Threebuck said some with annoyance. “Hell no. He was just kind of... impressive... as cops go.”
“If we don’t find this Griggs woman, we might have to pay that pretty little café lady another visit. Only next time we’ll do it when her cop boyfriend ain’t handy.”
Red Randy and Threebuck had ridden by Sunny’s place—the Buchanans’ place and the scene of the crime—at least three times. But they didn’t recognize it. Sunny had been out in her back yard tending to her herb garden the first two times they rumbled by, but not in the riders’ lines of sight. The noise from the bikes got her attention, but by the time she got up off her knees to check it out, they’d gone down the road and out of sight. The memory jumped up of Goat’s warning words to her to avoid his associates, and she felt a sudden chill.
* * *
Red Randy lay stretched out on one of the motel beds looking at the photocopy of the letter. “We ain’t going to get anywhere unless we find out what ‘W. S.’ and ‘S. T.’ mean,” he said to Threebuck.
Threebucks sat in one of the chairs by the grumbling A/C unit drinking a beer and watching “Wheel of Fortune.” Three empty longnecks sat on the table next to him.
“Fishing pole dancer,” he said to Pat Sajak after Vanna touched the first bright square, which produced an “F.” The clue was “Before and After” and the exposed letters appeared as:
F_ _ _ _ _ _ _O _ _ _ _ _ R A _ _
“I’d like to solve the puzzle,” said the Asian-looking middle contestant whose nametag read Vu.
“Okay,” Pat said.
“Future Shock Therapy,” Vu said. Lights flashed, bells chimed, Vanna smiled brilliantly while clapping with moderate enthusiasm, and the audience went bananas.
“Stupid freakin’ gook,” Threebuck said.
“What did you say,” Red Randy asked.
“I said, he’s a stupid freakin’ slant-eyed gook.”
Randy lowered the paper in his hand and looked at the TV. “No, you dumbass, before that.”
Threebuck looked at Randy, and furrowed his brow. “I said, ‘fishing pole dancer.’ I thought the puzzle was ‘fishing pole dancer’ but that stupid—”
“Wait just a damn minute. That just might be it!” Rand said. He looked at the paper again. He had just had an Eureka moment.
“What might be it?” Threebuck asked with mild interest. He took another sip of his beer and continued to ogle Vanna in her tight sequined gown.
“Do you remember that poster in the window of the café, and the grocery store?”
“What poster?”
Red Randy swung his feet off the bed and sat on the edge of it holding the photocopy with both hands and looking at it intently. “There was this poster... hell, they’re all over town now that I think about it. It was advertising some kind of catfish tournament coming up this weekend at a place called the “Eagle Branch Fishing Hole.”
Threebuck looked
sideways at his partner. “What, now you’re going to enter a fishing tournament?”
“Shut up and listen to me.” Red Randy said. “The fella who wrote this letter wrote it to his Cherokee friend. He said he’d use code words, write it in a way that only his friend would understand. It says here that they almost drowned at a place near a bent sycamore tree. I’m thinking that piece of water might be this Eagle Branch Fishing Hole. We need to go there and find this crooked sycamore tree.
“Well, what makes you think this Eagle Branch place is where that sycamore tree is?” Threebuck asked. He picked up the TV remote and started surfing.
“It’s these code letters, stupid,” Randy said. He pointed to a place on the photocopy of Ed Reed’s letter. “The Cherokee words for Eagle Branch are Wehali Stewayi. When you spell them out like they sound using English letters, they start with W. S.
Randy scratched his chest and kept looking at the paper in his other hand. “I’m thinking we need to enter this fishing tournament. That way we can talk with some of these locals and look around some without anyone getting suspicion,” he said.
* * *
Red Randy and Threebuck sat on their bikes in front of Applegate’s Drug Store, and read the poster in the window. At least Red Randy did. Threebuck had fallen into a sneezing fit and pulled off his Confederate flag do-rag to use as a sneeze catcher and handkerchief. The three foot by three foot poster taped to the inside of the drug store window had a green background with a large angry looking catfish curled in the upper left quadrant. To the right of it in six-inch high gold letters were the words “12th ANNUAL TSALAGEE NOODLIN’ TOURNAMENT.” Under that in small but bold black letters: “Saturday July 12th at 7 a.m. Location: Eagle Branch Fishing Hole. Entry Forms available inside.”
“Let’s go sign up,” Red Randy said, and dismounted his bike. Threebuck sneezed twice more and swore three times.
Applegate’s Drug, which sat on the corner of Main and Elm streets, was Old School in terms of drug stores. The inside of the store ran long and narrow with display shelves of sundries along the outside wall. A long two-sided display rack sat in the center with greeting cards on one side and magazines on the other. A ten-foot long—and unused—soda counter stood along part of the other wall. At the very back, the pharmacy window spread across the entire width of the store, through which you could see the ghostly figure of Bud Applegate standing filling prescriptions or shuffling back and forth amongst the shelves of pharmaceuticals.