Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  “Damn right.” He tapped his toe to rev the Jeep’s engine. “You got your house keys with you?”

  She did. But Nancy had also brought a spare set, which she fished out of her purse. “The big brass one works on the front or back door; the silvery key’s for the garage.”

  Harper stuffed them into his pocket.

  The girl reached across the open space to rub his hairy fore-arm. “Be careful, honey—just grab the money and get outta there.”

  “You worry too much, Peachy Pie.” He jutted the lower lip, puffed a cloud of gray smoke up to his nostrils—apparently for recycling. “I expect ol’ Hermann will be in the basement, swigging beers and reading his fishing magazines.”

  “That’s where he spends all of his time.”

  Jake Harper sucked in a lungful of carcinogenic smoke. After I get my hands on Hermann’s cash, maybe I ought to stop his clock.

  AS MISS Muntz exited Sunburst Pizza, various terms of endearment were being exchanged between the Buick and the Jeep.

  Nancy squeaked, “Oh, here she comes.”

  “I’m outta here.” Jake Harper released the girl’s hand, departed with a squeal of tires.

  Miss Muntz slipped into the Buick, smiled at the young woman. “One of your young friends?”

  Nancy exercised the bored-teenager shrug. “Oh, just some guy I know.”

  I’d bet a greenback dollar to a Georgia peanut, that was your mysterious sweetheart. The elderly romantic inserted the ignition key, started the engine, consulted the dashboard clock. “We’ll make the dance in approximately seven minutes.”

  “Great.” The anxious teenager glanced at her wristwatch.

  Six minutes and ten seconds later, Nancy sat up straight as a poker. “Let me off here—by the drugstore.”

  “But, dear, it’s still another three blocks to—”

  “That’s okay. I need to pick up a few things.”

  Frowning at a little red motor scooter that was using up an entire parking space, Miss M double-parked. “Have a nice time, dear.”

  “I will.” You can count on it.

  The inevitable reminder: “I’ll return at nine forty-five sharp to pick you up.”

  Nancy Yazzi slammed the car door, jammed her hands into the tight pockets of her Miss Texas jeans, and sauntered off toward the Corner Drugstore.

  Mrs. Muntz sighed. Young people nowadays, they all seem so unhappy. Like they were riddled through with angst.

  During the entire course of her long life, Miss M had never experienced the least bit of angst. Not the most minuscule molecule. And this was no happy accident that could be credited to top-flight DNA or fortuitous circumstance; it was a direct result of Millicent’s Domestic Policy. The lady of the house was always telling her cat that what a body had to do to keep from worrying herself to death about problems was to spend her time solving them. EVERY DAY, MAKE SOMETHING RIGHT. This slogan, which was crocheted on white cotton and mounted in a frame, hung over her 1933 Singer treadle sewing machine. Such prudent proverbs could be seen on virtually every wall in her cozy dwelling, including the pantry and bathrooms. One of her favorites hung over the parlor couch:

  CURSE NOT THE DARKNESS

  LIGHT A SMALL CANDLE

  In this evening’s gathering darkness, had Millicent Muntz touched the flame to a candle wick . . . or a fuse?

  Fourteen

  What Is It About Men and Their Pickup Trucks?

  As has been revealed, Mr. Jerome Kydmann originally hails from Wyoming, Rhode Island, which is no teeming metropolis. And the Wyoming Kyd, despite his shy little-boy smile and gentle way of beguiling the ladies, was—like every mother’s son of a gun on Mr. Moon’s ranch—macho to the core. Why, give any of those roughneck cowboys a set of socket wrenches, a big ball-peen hammer, and a pair of rusty old war plars and he will roll up his shirtsleeves and fix any ailing machine on the Columbine, be it a GMC flatbed, John Deere tractor, or Allis-Chalmers combine. Which is what Charlie Moon did. Provided the Kyd with the necessary tool kit, that is—and turned him loose on a beat-up 1992 F-150 pickup. According to the cowboy mechanic, the worn-out engine soaked up thirty-weight oil like a sponge and would not go anywhere in reverse, and the brakes was so worthless that the driver tossed out a ninety-pound boat anchor to stop the contraption. A bit of an exaggeration, but there are no flies on the Kyd—he’d gotten his orders to turn this heap of nuts and bolts into a dandy truck barely two weeks ago, and just look at it now—all the rust is wire-brushed off, every single ding hammered out and smoothed over with Acme’s Finest Auto-Body Putty, and there’s a thick layer of rust-proof undercoat plus two coats of red paint so shiny that old geezers can see their nose hairs on any fender they want to gaze at.

  All the way from the Southern Ute reservation to the southern outskirts of Granite Creek, Jerome Kydmann did not stop talking about how he’d fixed up this pickup so it was better than new. New pickups did not come with genuine chrome hood ornaments, and the one he’d bolted on was a fine facsimile of a cougar—about to pounce.

  Sarah, who was sitting between the poster-boy cowboy and Aunt Daisy, did little more than murmur and nod. Not that she didn’t appreciate fine pickups and good-looking young men who took a bath twice a week, shaved every other day, and slapped on lots of Old Spice (the Kyd smelled right nice), but she was saddled with a big load of the blues. Sarah didn’t want to talk to nobody about nothing.

  The Kyd was not thin-skinned. Far from it. But the girl’s obvious lack of interest in the admirable results of his mechanical labors tended to be a drag on the one-sided conversation. Which is probably why, from time to time, Daisy Perika would say something nice about the truck, like, “Except for the bird doo-doo that just fell on it, that new paint on the hood sure is shiny.” Or, “That motor sounds good.”

  Even with this encouragement from the Indian woman who rarely had a kindly word to say, the Kyd finally gave up. Just as they crossed over the dashed line on the map and entered the Granite Creek city limits, he shut his mouth.

  Combined with the light rain, this sudden silence enhanced the escalating sense of gloom.

  As the tires whispered along the wet streets, Sarah began to feel sorry for the pleasant young man, and ashamed of her self-centered behavior. By way of apology, she made this observation: “It’s a very pretty pickup, Mr. Kydmann. And it runs really smooth.” She appended this addendum: “You did a very nice job on it.”

  “Why thank you, Sarah.” The driver’s smile went off like a flashbulb in a coal mine.

  To show her approval, Daisy patted Sarah on the knee.

  The teenager resorted to stern self-examination: I’m not a kid anymore. It’s time I started acting like a grown-up. With this resolution, Miss Melancholy began to feel measurably better. She assured herself that by and by, things were going to be just fine.

  John Law

  More precisely, GCPD Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. On this rainy evening in Granite Creek, they constituted one half of the on-duty law-enforcement staff. When the newly painted red pickup passed, both cops took a hard look at the license plate. As Piggy jotted the number down on his duty pad, Knox said, “Is that who we think it is?”

  “Uh-huh. And he’s got a couple a passengers.”

  “Well would you look at that.” Knox shook his head. “That reckless cowpuncher just run a red light.”

  “Looked yaller to me.”

  “Pig—if I say that light was red, it was red.”

  “Okay, Rocks.” Piggy had aimed a portable radar transponder at the pickup. “Mr. Radar says he’s doin’ thirty-nine in a thirty-five zone.”

  “The man is a danger to innocent pedestrians and law-abiding motorists.”

  Officer Slocum jutted his double chin. “Then let’s go get ’im.”

  Knox turned the headlights on, eased unit 240 out of the alley, hung back about a block behind the pickup.

  Fifteen

  Big Rhubarb

  Jerome Kydmann,
who could see a coyote a mile away on a twilight prairie, had spotted the police car as he passed the dark alley and was eyeing it in the rearview mirror. As he eased the pickup into Granite Creek’s downtown business district, the black-and-white suddenly picked up speed, closed on him. When the red and blue lights began to flash, he didn’t even blink. And he didn’t slow down. When the siren made a gut-wrenching yelp-yelp that caused Sarah to practically jump off the seat, the driver’s heart did not miss a beat. A thin, ready-for-action smile creased his youthful face.

  Cool customer, the Kyd.

  Neither was Daisy Perika alarmed.

  Sarah Frank, who had been intermittently hugging her cat all the way from Daisy’s remote home at the mouth of Cañón del Espíritu, squeezed Mr. Zig-Zag so hard that the poor animal let out a yowl. “What was that?”

  Daisy snorted. “Your dumb cat.”

  “No, I mean behind us.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about.” The Kyd sneered. “Just some cops.”

  When they were about even with the Silver Mountain Hotel, the siren yelped again.

  Kydmann pulled the truck to the curb.

  Sarah turned to squint at the flashing lights. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who knows?” As the black-and-white pulled in behind him, Kydmann cut the ignition. “Maybe I got a taillight out.” In the mirror mounted on the driver’s door, he watched Eddie Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum emerge from their unit, approach the pickup from both sides. He lowered his window and advised Daisy to do the same, which she did.

  Knox’s broad, muscular frame blocked Kydmann’s open window.

  Piggy used a five-cell flashlight to illuminate the inside of the cab.

  Daisy swatted at it. “Don’t you shine that thing in my eyes!”

  The chubby cop withdrew the flashlight.

  Knox addressed Kydmann as if the well-known Columbine cowboy were a stranger. “Sir, could I please see your driver’s license and registration?”

  The driver produced the requested items, gave them to the cop.

  Knox shone a penlight on the documents, returned them. “Sir, you was violating the posted speed limit. And you ran a red light.”

  “I didn’t know I was speeding, Eddie. But if you say I was, I won’t argue. But I’m danged sure I didn’t run no traffic light.”

  “I saw you do it.” Knox stuck his face halfway into the cab. “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “Naw, Eddie—I wouldn’t do that. Let’s just say you made a mistake.”

  “And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

  From the expression on his face, it looked like the Kyd was getting steamed. “Maybe you’re a little bit color-blind.”

  “Now I don’t like the sound of that remark!”

  “Okay—then try this on for size: You’re incompetent.”

  Knox’s reply was barely above a whisper. “What did you say?”

  “You’re an incompetent boob—and you don’t hear so good. Maybe it’s time you retired, Eddie.”

  “That does it, big-mouth—haul your butt outta the truck!”

  The cops on both sides opened the doors.

  The Kyd came out swinging. His right hook barely missed Knox’s head but came close enough to knock the copper’s hat off.

  Energized by this example, Daisy let out a wild-eyed war whoop and took a healthy whack with her wooden staff, which landed on Piggy’s shoulder.

  Sarah screamed, hugged her cat so hard that his eyes popped.

  MUCH MORE could be said about the Kyd and Knox struggling and scuffling in the wet street, Daisy getting bear-hugged by Piggy whilst aiming vicious kicks that just missed landing on the copper’s shins, about Sarah’s frightful wails—but to avoid dwelling on gratuitously violent details, we shall skip approximately thirty-eight seconds of the scandalous encounter and fast-forward to the point where the hardy law-enforcement officers have prevailed.

  AS KNOX frog-marched the Wyoming Kyd into the lobby of the Silver Mountain Hotel, the cowboy’s hands were pinned behind his back, his wrists restrained with plastic “handcuffs.”

  Officer Slocum was close behind, helping Daisy up the curb. For this favor, she whacked him one on the leg with her walking stick. Piggy snatched the club away, deftly restrained the old woman with plastic strips on her wrists.

  Sarah Frank, who had snatched her cat from the pickup (which was to be impounded by GCPD!) was yowling, weeping copiously.

  As soon as the arrestees were in the hotel lobby, where a few well-dressed guests and gape-mouthed employees viewed the vulgar scene with no little alarm, Knox stood Daisy and the Kyd back-to-back, used another plastic strip to fasten their wrists firmly together, and bellowed, “That oughta hold you!”

  Sarah warned the police officers that if either one of them so much as laid another finger on Aunt Daisy she would scratch his eyes out. They knew she meant it and she dang well did—literally. We are talking two pairs of cop eyeballs dangling on optic nerves—gouged-out eye sockets oozing blood! Sarah had not been so flat-out furious since a sly-eyed old coyote had attempted to kill and eat her cat. Matter of fact, she was even angrier than that.

  Officer Knox put in a radio call to GCPD dispatch, requested a female officer to assist with the arrest of a “hostile offender” of the same gender. (Watch his happy face droop into a petulant scowl as he is informed by the dispatcher—loud enough for bystanders to hear—that no officers are available.) Worse still, he was advised that he and Officer Slocum were to respond immediately to a silent alarm at the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust. The policeman shouted at the dispatcher, “What’ll I do with these prisoners we just arrested?” Secure them as best as you can, he was advised, and (though not precisely in these words) to make haste to the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust.

  BEFORE HE and Slocum left to put the kibosh a possible bank robbery in progress, Knox used still more plastic strips to fasten the glowering Indian and her red-faced cowboy partner to a sturdy iron gate that deterred thieves’ access to a small room where guests’ luggage was temporarily stored. After the policemen had departed, the hotel lobby was so quiet that a local used-car salesman insisted that he had actually heard a bit of cigar ash fall onto the two-inch-thick red carpet: “Cross my heart and hope to die—it made a kinda little puff.”

  Daisy broke the silence with this command: “Sarah, reach into my purse and get my keys.”

  Though puzzled about how keys might be of any use in the present situation, the girl complied. On the brass ring, in addition to a quarter pound of mostly useless old brass keys, was a Swiss Army knife with black handles. Aha! Sarah opened the scissors and attempted to cut the plastic handcuffs. No dice.

  Daisy explained that while the little scissors were fine for small jobs, such as trimming a cat’s whiskers, they were not up to this task. Sarah opened the blade. No problemo. In about three and a half jiffies, the deed was done and the alleged felons were free as the prairie breeze singing in the piñon trees.

  Seeing as how Officer Knox had relieved him of the ignition keys, the Kyd revealed his intention to “go hot-wire the pickup.” The escapee advised his female conspirators to lie low until he honked the horn, then to hit the street at a dead run, pile into the F-150, and hang on for dear life. He aimed to aim the mountain lion hood ornament toward the Columbine and “not stop for flash floods, earthquakes, or tornadoes!”

  Daisy shook her head, said that she had not lived so many years just to get killed dead by a reckless cowboy who was more likely to wrap that red truck around a telephone pole than get them safely to Charlie Moon’s ranch. She and Sarah would get away the best they could. If they hitchhiked back to her home on the res, the Ute police would protect them from such bone heads as Knox and Slocum, which paleface matukach cops didn’t have no whatchamacallit (jurisdiction) on the res.

  After the Kyd wished the spunky womenfolk luck and showed them his back, Sarah Frank voiced her opinion that the ladies’ room was a good place to lie low while they figured out
what to do next. Daisy, who had urgent need of the facility, agreed, and as soon as her bladder was relieved, she announced that she was awfully hungry and determined to find some eats that would stick to her ribs. Maybe a bean burrito with lots of cheese.

  Absolutely desperate to be elsewhere, and quickly, Sarah suggested that they could find something nutritious at a convenience store in Durango or Ignacio.

  Daisy’s appetite could not wait. Accompanied by Sarah (who was protesting that they should be a long way from the hotel when the police returned) and the male cat (who was purring contentedly), the Ute elder marched out of the ladies’ room, straight across the hotel lobby, and right up to the entrance to the Gold Nugget Ballroom, where a tastefully lettered sign advised potential customers that the dining-dancing area was currently reserved for members of the Rocky Mountain Birdwatchers’ Society. Daisy addressed a tall, well muscled, immaculately dressed man whose apparent assignment was to discourage hungry diners from entering. “Hi ya, spud. Take us to a nice table.”

  Pierre Brigance raised his clefted chin an extra notch. “Excuse me, madam, but I am obliged to inquire—are you a bona fide birdwatcher?”

  “You bet your boots. Why, I’ve watched more birds in my time than you can shake a stick at.” Daisy shook her walking stick at him. “But just between you and me, I’d rather chow down on the handsomest chicken or duck you ever laid eyes on than watch it strut around.” She aimed the stick at her youthful companion. “Me ’n’ this skinny little girl are hungry enough to eat last week’s roadkill.”

  Pierre looked down his nose at the pair. Being a gentleman who kept himself well informed about such matters as alleged felons who got marched into the Silver Mountain Hotel by the local constabulary, the maître d’ was aware that these folk were not genuine birdwatchers. But they were genuine Native Americans, and their presence presented an unprecedented opportunity. With utmost gravity, he inquired, “Do you ladies have reservations?”