Banks drove gravel roads to the farm with Olen’s nephew in the backseat and his dog in the trunk. He told Sheriff Feeler he was taking the rest of the day off to tend to Sandy’s disposal and feed Olen’s cattle.
Sheriff Feeler said that was a good idea.
“Why I gotta ride back here?”
“Keep talkin’ and you’ll switch places with the dog.”
“Man, that’s fucked up. I know he loved that old dog.”
“Then why’d you do it for? You robbed your own kin.”
Jackson didn’t have an answer. He wanted crank and that was the easiest way. “I didn’t think he’s gonna get hurt, man. You gotta believe me.”
Banks spit brown tobacco juice into a Mountain Dew bottle, then returned it to the cup holder. “You’re about as worthless as titties on a catfish.”
“Man, I’m scared of Jerry Dean. Fucker’s crazy, man. He said it’d be easy. My uncle had insurance.”
“You make me wanna puke.”
“He said my uncle’d make good money from it. Said I’d make a lil’ money, too. I just went along with it.”
“Where’s the tanks?”
Jackson went silent for the first time since the gun was in his mouth.
Banks looked into the rearview mirror, and their eyes connected. “The tanks?”
“Jerry Dean took ’em.”
“No shit. Just know I’m only askin’ once.”
“What’re you gonna do this time, shoot me in the backseat?”
“No. I’ll pull over and shoot you—’n’ bury you in the same hole as the dog.”
They turned onto another gravel road and followed the branch to the right, along a country mile of rolling hills and sagging fence.
“Tanks?” Banks said. “Last time.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“I ain’t decided yet.”
Jackson knew you could not trust cops, but either way he went put him in a pickle. “If I tell you what I know ’n’ whatnot, you gonna let me go?”
“If you tell me what I wanna know, I’m gonna let you live.”
Jackson knew Banks from previous occasions and numerous arrests. If he were going to shoot him or arrest him, he’d have already done it. “What if I make you a deal?”
“I’m listening.”
“Jerry Dean’s got some pot plants growin’ on the Gasconade. He’s got a bunch o’—”
Banks cut him off. “I don’t give a damn ’bout no pot plants. I want them tanks.”
“Well, what’s in it for me if I tell?”
“How about not getting shot?”
“If you was gonna shoot me, you’d’ve done it already.”
Banks shook his head. Told Jackson he was wrong. He wasn’t shooting him until he buried the dog; he’d need him for another hour. That hole wasn’t gonna dig itself.
Banks watched Jackson dig a hole and sweat while he sat in the air-conditioning and talked on the phone. When Jackson finished digging to a depth that satisfied Banks, he popped the trunk and the smell of dead hide blew out.
Jackson held his breath, reached down, and scooped her up.
He groaned. Said, “Oh, shit, she’s heavy.”
“Walk her to the hole and set her down gently.”
Jackson did as he was told.
“Now fill it.”
Once Jackson finished, Banks pulled his handcuffs out and told him to turn around. “Put your hands behind your back, shit bird. You know the routine.”
“Aw, c’mon, man. I dug the hole. What more you want from me?”
Banks slapped the cuffs on tight and spun Jackson around and pushed him up against the car.
“What now?” Jackson asked. “C’mon, man. What’re you gonna do with me?”
“You got any dope on you, boy?”
Jackson was appalled. “Hell no. Course not.”
Banks reached down to Jackson’s pocket and felt the glass pipe.
“What’s this? Feels awful hard to me, and I’m pretty sure it ain’t your little peter.”
“That ain’t mine.”
Banks said, “Uh-huh. Course it ain’t.”
Jackson had enough. “My lawyer’s gonna sue the shit outta you, pork. When he’s through with you, you’ll be workin’ the cash register at Fuel Mart.”
Banks shook his head slowly. Said, “You ’spect me to believe a man with a five-dollar truck livin’ in a seven-dollar trailer can afford a lawyer?”
“That ain’t my truck. It’s Jerry Dean’s.”
“Well, that’s nice to know, asshole. But it don’t matter. Jerry Dean’s name don’t come up on the tag. And bein’s possession’s nine-tenths of the law and all …”
“Oh, no, that ain’t mine. Jerry Dean loves that truck. He made me drive it home.”
Banks kicked Jackson’s feet apart and told him to spread ’em. “I ain’t gonna get jabbed with a needle if I reach in here, am I?”
Jackson was beginning to fall apart. He told Banks he could go to hell. “Wait till Jerry Dean gets through with y’all.”
Banks pulled a glass pipe from Jackson’s pocket and held it to his nose. “Smells like a possum’s asshole. How can you boys smoke this shit?”
Jackson kept quiet. Wondered if Banks heard what he’d said.
The deputy searched his other pockets. He found four dollars and a small torch, but no meth.
“Where’s the Bob White?” Banks asked.
Jackson kept a silent tongue, so Banks drove an elbow into his back and applied pressure. “Where’s the dope?”
Jackson squirmed and told Banks he was out of crank.
Banks spun him around. “I’m takin’ you in, peckerwood.”
“For what?”
“Well, where do we begin? Grand theft auto, assault with a deadly weapon, animal cruelty, possession of drug paraphernalia. But mostly just for bein’ an asshole.”
“Stop,” Jackson yelled. “Just lemme go, man. I done whatchya asked.”
Banks bore holes into Jackson’s face with his thousand-yard stare.
“C’mon, Sheriff, you know I ain’t done this. This ain’t me, man. It was all Jerry Dean.”
Banks pulled his pepper spray and held it to Jackson’s face.
“No!” Jackson screamed and turned away. “That shit burns like the dickens, man. It still burns from the last time I got sprayed.”
Banks grabbed him and shoved him out of the way so he could open the door.
“Jerry Dean knows y’all took his money.”
That got Banks’s attention, and he froze.
“Oh, boy,” Jackson said. “Look at that face, man. Somebody’s been a bad cop.”
Banks felt like he’d just been run over by a semi.
“It’s true, then,” Jackson said.
“What money? What’re you talkin’ ’bout, convict?”
Jackson had a used car salesman grin that revealed a face full of meth mouth, bits and pieces of teeth in assorted states of decay.
“You did do it. For real. You really are bat-shit crazy, Sheriff.”
“First of all, I ain’t the damn sheriff, I’m a deputy. Second of all, asshole, I ain’t the one out robbin’ my own kin and killin’ their dogs. So don’t try ’n’ confuse your own white-trash existence with mine.”
“You don’t understand, man. You need me. We both want the same thing.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“See Jerry Dean go back to Algoa.”
Banks was in a tight spot, and he worked hard to bully up a poker face.
“Bullshit,” Banks said. “He’s your dope connection.”
“Yeah, Sheriff. I mean, Deputy, he is. But you don’t understand, man. I want off the shit, I do. It’s just too dang hard. And him comin’ ’round beatin’ on me and pushin’ that shit in my face don’t help none.”
Jackson was desperate, but Banks saw honesty in his words. “Just what exactly are you tryin’ to sell me?”
“I ain’t tryin’ ta sell you nothin’—but I’m gonna
end up dead or in prison myself if he don’t go back. And that ain’t what I want, man.”
Banks removed his Skoal and thunked the lid. “Well, that’s the smartest thing you said all day.”
“That’s because I know it’s true. I want off that shit. I got plans. I’m openin’ a small engine shop. I can work on lawn mowers all day long, man.”
Banks never considered himself a good liar, but he held his own when he asked Jackson what money he was talking about.
Jackson put his head down and looked at the dirt.
“You know, the fifty-two g’s one of y’all took.” Jackson looked up at the deputy. “Man, I’m tellin’ ya, you don’t know what y’all’ve gotten yourselves into.”
Banks shook his head and lied poorly. “I ain’t got no idea what you’re talkin’ ’bout, convict. What would a low-life shit bum like Jerry Dean be doin’ with that much cash?”
“It ain’t all his. He splits it up with his guys, you know?”
“His partners?”
“Yep.”
“And who’re these partners?”
“C’mon, man, I cain’t say.”
“You best tell me.” Banks gave the mace a quick shake.
“All I know’s one of ’em’s a cop. They supply dope to the prison. But you didn’t hear none of this from me.”
Banks was genuinely stunned. “You’re tellin’ me there’s a cop in on this?”
“You mean you really don’t know?”
Banks didn’t answer. He had never considered the idea, nor had he expected it.
“Well, yeah.” Jackson shrugged and turned his palms up. “There’s a cop in on this.”
“A cop …” Banks shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t finish.
“Yeah. Damn, man. There’s a cop involved. Now you know.”
Banks was dumbfounded. “I can’t believe a cop’d be stupid enough to get in cahoots with you idiots.”
Jackson threw his arms up dramatically. “Why’s that so damn hard to believe? You cops ain’t no better’n the rest of us. Hell, y’all’re worse. You think that badge is a right to steal.”
Banks spit brown juice in the weeds. They stood at the edge of the lower forty. Under a pecan tree where Sandy had spent many summers. It was her favorite spot to nap in the shade while Olen worked the land.
Banks looked at the fresh mound of dirt. Made more spit. Told Jackson to be straight with him. His future depended on it.
“Listen, all I know’s what he mumbled last night. He was madder’n I ever seen him. But more’n that … he was worried.”
“Go on,” Banks said.
“We’s smokin’ that shit, you know, gettin’ ready for my uncle—but I was hopin’ he wouldn’t come, I was.” Jackson looked nervous. Tried to swallow but had a hard time of it. “I need water, mister.”
Banks just stared at him.
“So anyway,” Jackson said, “Jerry Dean come by the house, and he’s madder’n a wet cat. He starts shakin’ me down, man. Like he always does. Takes the rest of my dope I got stashed and starts smokin’ it up. Says how you stole his money.”
“How who stole his money?”
“I dunno. I thought it was you. Thought that was why you showed up at my place.”
Banks shook his head. “Well, you thought wrong.”
He felt a cold wave of nausea run through him and spit juice on Jackson’s boot. He drove him back to his mama’s trailer and told him he would see him soon. It was in his best interest, Banks said, not to mention this to Jerry Dean.
Jackson swore he wouldn’t.
Banks spent the rest of the afternoon at the Brandt farm. He fed Olen’s cows and chickens. Saw to it that they had water. By a quarter of five, he arrived at the hospital. Olen was waiting out front. He met Banks at the curb, before he could park.
“You OK, Olen?”
“Just get me the hell outta here.”
“Sure thing, buddy. They did release you, right? You didn’t just sneak out, did you?”
Olen looked at Banks. “What if I did?”
Banks fought a grin. “Well, then I guess I’m helpin’ you escape.”
Olen nodded. “You damn right. Hell with them doctors.”
Banks had a good laugh and encouraged Olen to relax. “You hungry over there, hoss?” Banks asked. “I know that hospital food ain’t exactly home cookin’.”
Olen said he was starving. The food at the hospital was tasteless, and his iced tea had no flavor.
“What sounds good, partner? How ’bout a Silver Dollar?”
Olen said that’d be fine. He hadn’t had a Silver Dollar burger in … He tried to recall but wasn’t able.
“We’ve had many a burger there, haven’t we, old buddy?”
Olen looked back in time, nodded. “Lots of burgers, that’s right.”
The Silver Dollar was a metal shed nailed to a dirt parking lot on the side of Highway 19—a straight shot across from the Swiss processing plant. It had a reputation for the biggest cheeseburgers in a hundred miles. Burgers so monstrous they were served on kaiser buns and held together by wooden spears. They came with a steak knife to saw through the meat. The two had been eating there for years.
While they waited for the food, they chatted with the regulars who crowded their table to hear from Olen Brandt. Seemed the whole county knew what those tweakers done to his dog, and they were angry.
Olen told what he remembered. The death of Tom Cuddy. A wild turkey. A Chevy made of rust. He didn’t tell anyone he’d seen his family, or how badly he’d wanted to join them.
A short, round man with two chins who was stuffed into a pair of bib overalls said, “What color was that truck?”
Olen cocked his head and squinted. “It was”—he paused—“it was yella ’n’ white, I think. With a dark bed, I think. I know it didn’t have no gate on the tail end.”
The fat man shook his head. “I think I know that truck.”
Banks winced.
“Yeah, that’s that Skaggs boy from out yonder at Helmig Ferry.”
Suddenly, the room was filled with deep breaths being taken and hushed conversations. But no one was surprised.
“What’re y’all doin’ ’bout that, Dale?” someone asked.
Banks set his coffee cup down on the counter. Said they were looking into it.
“Well, we can’t be havin’ farmers out there gettin’ carjacked,” said the fat man.
The others agreed.
Banks nodded his head. Said that was true. “I’m pretty sure we’ll catch these turds. Just give us a few days to work the case.”
“What’s to work?” asked the fat man. “That Skaggs boy’s lower than a copperhead’s peter.” He nodded to the two ladies present. “Pardon my French, ladies—but you know what I mean, Dale. That Jerry Dean’s the same one shot that bald eagle a few years back.”
That got everyone talking and sounds of great disgust radiated from the crowd.
Banks knew it was true. Jerry Dean damn near outran Sheriff Feeler one night back when Herb had been a deputy. It was the first year he’d run for office. They were on a straight stretch outside Morrison. Jerry Dean was weaving back and forth across the white line when Herb ran up on him.
Herb followed. Gave him plenty of room. When the swerving got erratic, he lit him up. But Jerry Dean had other plans. He made a run for it, and did a fine job of running until he swerved to miss a ten-point buck and slid his truck into a wheat field.
The cruiser Herb was driving was the one and only car with a video camera so the episode already had the making of a country legend.
The chase ended as Jerry Dean stumbled drunkenly from his truck into the path of Herb’s cruiser and got hit by the bumper and thrown on the hood, his drunken face up close against the windshield.
When Herb searched the truck, he found a dead bald eagle riding shotgun with a wing blown off. Jerry Dean swore he’d found it on the road. Said he planned to glue it back on and turn him loose.
T
he arrest made big news. Because Herb arrested Jerry Dean with a bald eagle and because he hit him with his car. In an election year, that was gold. Herb Feeler was in like Flynn. He traded his cruiser for the sheriff’s truck. Then he strutted into office in a Stetson with a Fu Manchu and took the first of many steps he hoped would lead to the governor’s mansion.
They rode in silence to the Brandt farm. When they pulled in Olen’s driveway, Banks said he’d fed the livestock and tended the chickens.
“I set a dozen or so eggs on the porch. Inside that sun hat on your readin’ chair.”
Olen thanked him. “You didn’t have to do that, Dale. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Aw, horseshit, Olen. Now, you don’t owe me a dang thing, and you know it. I’ve spent my life out here. Givin’ a friend a hand in return’s the least I can do.”
Olen wanted to fill the air with tears, but instead he laughed. He laughed at the thought of Banks on the Allis-Chalmers, in his uniform. Laughed at the thought of Banks in the chicken house.
He looked over, saw Banks had a stern look on his face.
“Before you even ask, yes, that damn rooster tried to attack me, Olen. Thought I’d have to mace him.”
Olen threw his head back and let out a sharp hoot.
They each drank a Coke and watched the fading sun go down from the old man’s porch, where it fell behind the barn in a pink death and burned into a purple ball that became night.
“You gonna be OK out here by yourself, old-timer?”
Olen took a deep breath. Face pale and tight.
Banks gave the old man’s shoulder a firm squeeze. Bid him good evening and promised to call in the morning.
Olen said, “OK.”
He thanked Banks again for all he’d done. When Banks drove away into the darkness, and when the last hint of red taillight began to fade, Olen finally realized he was alone, and he did his best not to cry.
Jerry Dean spent the night on Goat Hill and made a promise to himself never to return. He and the preacher smoked fresh product from a tall glass hookah that pulled the crank through fruit-flavored water that pooled in the bottom of a clear oversized bowl.
It was a two-man operation. One man would light the bowl with a butane torch while the other man hit the mouthpiece. Gravity pulled the smoke down into the water, and they sucked wisps of strawberry meth up the glass neck.
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