by A W Hartoin
I spent the two hours to Lesterville with a drooling snout over my shoulder and occasional ear licking. We stopped for lunch and had the best cream of broccoli soup of my life. Even Chuck would’ve liked it and he avoids vegetables like he does commitment. In the parking lot, Pick scarfed Milk Bones and I decided on my next move. The locals were eyeing us and smiling a lot. I guess they didn’t get a lot of giant black poodles with pink ribbons on their ears. But Pick looked adorable and I knew it would drive Chuck nuts to know I’d been running around with his dog, his male dog, in pink ribbons. What the hell? He deserved it. Chuck, that is, not Pick. The dog didn’t care what was on his ears.
After Pick got petted about thirty times, I went to the addresses, but they were a bust, so I’d have to ask around. After trips to the Dairy Queen and auto parts store, I hit pay dirt with a liquor store. Larry had an overdue account with them and they weren’t feeling too kindly toward him. I got his work address, a double-wide on the river. The clerk was chatty and told me that Larry’s mom had been in a serious car accident a couple of weeks ago. He’d left Claire prematurely. He could’ve taken her for more, but even criminals have obligations.
I followed the signs to Swifty Canoe Rental on the banks of the Black River. There were piles of canoes rusting beside a couple of ramshackle trailers with beer signs and what looked like a dead dog by the front door. Pickpocket was barking his head off. The dog didn’t twitch and I had to fight to keep Pick in the car. I walked past the dog, who lifted an eyelid, and went inside.
A beat-up metal desk and chair was the only furniture in a large room with exposed wallboard and wiring. Piles of life jackets and paddles littered the floor. A couple of empty ice cream freezers droned pointlessly and there was a thin layer of dirt on everything. A kettle belched out steam on a wood stove and filled the air with earthy moisture that felt good in my lungs.
“I could go to the other trailer,” I said to myself.
A voice behind me said, “Who are you talking to?”
I turned and it was a man, thirty-five, with a potbelly and thinning hair. He wore an undershirt tank top, sweatpants and flip-flops despite the cold. It took me a second to recognize him as Evan. Larry was in full redneck mode.
“Evan?” I said without thinking.
Larry stood with eyes half open chewing on an unlit cigar. He gave no sign that he heard me.
“Guess there’s no point in beating around the bush. I’m here about Claire,” I said.
“Who?” said Evan scratching his stomach.
“Claire Carter, your wife!” I said more shrilly than I intended.
“Look, girly. My wife’s Sissy and we’re closed for the season.”
“Does Sissy know what a jackass you are?”
“I don’t have to listen to this crap. Get off my property.”
“Your property! Which wife paid for this?” I kicked an ice cream freezer and gave it a nice dent.
“Don’t do that!” yelled Evan. He went to the desk and rummaged around.
“Or else what?” I yelled back.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Please do, scumbag.”
Larry straightened up and held out his hand. There was a revolver in it that looked like it’d been used by Buffalo Bill. He wasn’t exactly pointing it at me, but I didn’t take it as a “let’s be friends” gesture. I pivoted and ran out. When I threw open the car door, Pick leapt out and charged across the gravel lot. The dog that looked dead five minutes ago went bat shit crazy and the two of them lunged at each other with flashing teeth and snarls. Neither Larry or I moved. We watched silently as our dogs danced, he with his hand on a revolver, mine on my heart. Then a spray of blood hit the snow. Larry started yelling, “I’ll shoot that goddamn dog! Get him!”
There was no way I was getting in-between those two. I got in the car and dialed 911. Larry was as good as his word. He fired one round. He could’ve hit his dog, but he didn’t. He hit Pick. The other dog barked and ran. Pick ran in a circle, nipping at his butt and then chased the other dog into the woods. I guess that butt shot wasn’t too bad, but it still pissed me off. I jumped out of the car, picked up a piece of firewood and launched it at Larry. It hit him square in the chest. He dropped the revolver and I dove for it. Being small has its advantages. Larry was slow. By the time he made a move, I had it and was pointing it at him.
“You won’t shoot me. You’re a pussy,” he said, rubbing his chest. His wife-beater tee was stained with blood in the shape of a Bird of Paradise.
“That blood says different.”
“This ain’t shit.”
“I’d be happy to add to it.”
He looked me over, taking note that I wasn’t holding like a sissy. Dad taught me well. “You’re pretty cute,” he said.
“Shut up, shithead.”
He looked at the revolver again and made a break for it. I was surprised. I was more surprised that I didn’t shoot him. Larry ran around the corner of the building and jumped into a Trans Am. He squealed the tires and drove out of the parking lot. I followed him in Dad’s car. If Larry could outrun me, I’d eat whatever was left of Pick.
It wasn’t much of a chase. Neither vehicle went over twenty miles per hour. The ice on the road was begging to send us into a ditch. I followed Larry closely enough to see him flipping me the bird. After fifteen minutes, a county sheriff’s car came around a bend towards us. I started honking and the car blocked the road in front of Larry. Larry jumped out and started running across a field. The snow was up to his shins, but he was making good time.
The sheriff got out of his car, walked over to mine, leaned on the door, and lit a cigarette. I rolled down the window.
“You Watts?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I give him five minutes.”
“Do you think he has a plan?”
“Probably not. Larry’s never been the brightest bulb on the tree, but he can talk a blue streak.”
“He shot my dog…in the butt.”
“Sounds like Larry.”
Larry stopped at the far edge of the field, his arms flapping in the wind. He turned around, flipped us the bird and started back. He’d lost his flip-flops and was more than happy to get arrested. The only thing he said was, “The only woman I’m married to is Sissy.” I told the sheriff the whole story and he searched Larry’s trailer. He found a stack of credit cards owned by women I’d never heard of. It looked like Larry had himself an off-season job and he was damn good at it. The trail went back to Evelyn. She was his first and his most lucrative. Neither she nor any of the other women had reported him. Larry knew how to pick em.
I found Pickpocket in the woods and took him to a local vet. The wound wasn’t serious, and Pick was thrilled with all the attention. Skanky gave Pick a head-to-toe cleaning when I got him home. He was still coughing up black fuzzy hairballs a month later. Pick’s rump was completely healed by the time Chuck reclaimed him two weeks later.
After the paperwork was done, I called Claire and told her the good news. At least I thought it was good news. She cried, not because we caught him, but because she'd been married to a redneck, I suspect. Who knew? Larry put on a good show.
The next morning I picked up my parents at the airport. I told them about Claire. Mom got teary-eyed over Claire’s misfortune and Dad got red-faced over my giving her the transcription. He got over it when he saw Claire’s work and hired her. I went home to dog vomit on the bathroom rug and Pick snoring in my bed. Before I girded up my loins to clean up the vomit, the doorbell rang. It was Claire, dressed in head-to-toe black. She was, I suppose, in mourning.
“Hi, Claire. Come in.”
“No thanks. I was wondering if you’d like to go to lunch?” she said.
“Sure.” Anything to delay the vomit. “Where do you want to go?”
“Whatever you would like is fine.”
“I know what I would like. I want to know what you want.”
She ducked her head and smi
led. “Arby’s.”
“Arby’s? Really?”
“Don’t you want Arby’s?” she said with a worry line appearing between her well-plucked brows.
“Oh I do, but I didn’t think it was your style.”
“Maybe I need a new style.”
“I warn you. I might lick the cheese off the wrapper.”
“Me, too,” she said.
We went arm in arm down the stairs into the frigid St. Louis air to hunt for faux cheddar cheese and a good man. We’d recognize the cheese when we saw it.
The End
<><><>
Mercy's adventures continue,
whether she likes it or not, in
Nowhere Fast
A Mercy Watts Short
Seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday and my doorbell was ringing like a woodpecker wanted in. I looked out for a second time: no one. That could only mean one thing: Sister Miriam, my great-aunt. She was the only person I knew who was short enough not to be seen through a peephole and insistent enough to keep trying.
“I know you’re home, Mercy. Do you know the Hortons?”
I groaned and opened the door. Aunt Miriam charged in like she was in danger of me slamming the door in her face. She stalked around my living room and attached kitchen as fast as her little legs would carry her. She was probably looking for dirt. Luckily, I went on a cleaning binge after watching Hoarders and the place was spotless. No fault to find.
Still, she kept going, circling like a black hawk. Aunt Miriam was in her full nun’s habit, something she did when she wanted to intimidate people and by people I meant me. Aunt Miriam wasn’t a mean person, but in her habit, she was more terrifying than a dark alley on the north side of St. Louis.
“How are you, dear?” she said.
“Just fine, Sister.” Aunt Miriam didn’t like it when I called her Sister. She preferred Aunt, in private. But if she could pull out the habit at seven o’clock in the morning, I could pull out Sister.
“That’s Aunt Miriam to you. Did I wake you?”
She knew full well she did. My PJ’s and ratted hair were a dead giveaway. Besides, who in their right mind got up early on a Saturday?
“No, Aunt Miriam.”
She ignored the sarcasm in my voice and got to the point. “I was just at your father’s.”
Poor dad.
“He said I should come see you.”
Silent groan. “What for?”
“I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle.”
Now we’re quoting Ursula, the Sea Witch. Aunt Miriam was a great fan of The Little Mermaid, Disney style. It would’ve made more sense if she’d quoted The Exorcist. She scared people on a regular basis.
“Why didn’t Dad do it?”
“He says he’s up to his eyeballs in a case right now.”
I knew my father wasn’t up to his eyeballs. He’d been on the golf course five times that week. My father was a private detective and he’d rather be sniffing out a suspect than playing golf any day. He wasn’t interested in what Aunt Miriam was selling and decided to pass it along. I wasn’t a detective. I was a nurse, but being raised by a detective made me qualified for some scut work.
“He always says he’s busy. What’s the problem?”
“So, do you remember the Horton family?”
“No. Should I?”
“You know, the Hortons, Tom and Carol.” She knitted her sparse brows and looked more like a spider than usual. Aunt Miriam was seventy, if she was a day, and weighed about ninety pounds. She thought sunscreen was a marketing ploy and it showed in her paper-thin wrinkled skin. When I was little I thought we were related to Plastic Man, because her scrawny limbs had amazing properties. She could reach an unnatural distance to pop me in the mouth for saying a bad word. “They’re in our parish.”
Right. I went to church twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. And then it was only for the decorations and treats after.
“I don’t know them. Sorry.”
“Dear, I’m really worried about you. You’re forgetting the people in your own parish, your faith.” Her expression hardened. “And what you owe to your fellow man.”
In Aunt Miriam’s world, a little guilt never hurt anyone.
I sighed. “What’s wrong with the Hortons?”
“Not them. Their daughter.” She went and sat, gingerly, on my sofa. She set her favorite black, patent leather handbag on her lap and began picking imaginary lint off her skirt. She had no lint. It wouldn’t dare.
“All right. What’s wrong with the daughter?” Like it or not, I was curious. Some things were inbred. My father was counting on it.
“First your faith and now your knowledge of the world around you.” She made a tsk noise with her tongue, and I felt like a world-class deviant and so early too. “The daughter is missing, of course. Don’t you watch the news anymore?”
“Are you talking about Charlotte Horton?” My turn to be satisfied. I didn’t remember the Hortons, but I did watch the news. Every once in a while. A little.
“Yes and she’s only thirteen. She’s a runaway.”
“Is that what the cops say?”
“I don’t know. Chuck won’t talk to me about it. He says it’s police business.”
“He’s right.” I hated to take Chuck’s side in anything. He was a detective on the St. Louis police force and my cousin by marriage. He was also an annoying, horny pain in the ass. Aunt Miriam didn’t know about the horny part, I hoped.
“I don’t believe a word he says. He just means they don’t know anything. I want you to look into it.”
“Are you crazy?”
Oops.
Aunt Miriam made a growling noise and I went cold. She couldn’t really do anything to me, but she always made me feel as though she could.
“What else have you got to do?” she said.
Work, live my life—you know, stuff like that. “Well…”
“Good. Then it’s all settled. I’ll expect you at church tomorrow. You can give me an update after Mass.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said. Pointing out the obvious was a speciality of mine.
“I’m well aware. What is your point, Mercy?”
“Nothing.” I groaned. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I thought. Goodbye, dear.” Aunt Miriam hopped off the sofa and marched out the door.
After some fortifying coffee, I took a shower and considered my options. I could do nothing and risk being thrown out of the family. That didn’t sound too bad, but Thanksgiving was close and I wanted food. Or I could do it. A couple days poking around and Aunt Miriam would be off my back. I went into the bathroom and blow-dried my hair. Who was I kidding? I’d do it.
I considered my makeup options while pulling on my most comfortable sweats. If I had to go out, I might as well be comfortable. Makeup has always been a question for me. With it, I’m the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Without it, people stare at me and wonder where they know me from.
That day there was a complication. My face was discolored from a problem I had while working on another case for dad. That was three weeks ago. My broken nose and cracked jaw had healed, but left a residue of bruises over my cheekbones and under my eyes. My boyfriend, Pete, who’s usually complimentary, said that I looked like I had Halloween makeup on. I hated putting anything on my squeaky-clean face, but I didn’t want to scare the Hortons either. Aunt Miriam wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t mentioned my bruises. She wasn’t much of a mentioner, especially when she was on a mission. But if I saw the Hortons like that, I’d definitely hear about it. I compromised by slathering on some base and powder to cover the bruises and left the rest of my face unadorned. I found the Hortons’ address in the parish directory, and put it into my phone’s GPS since I have direction deficit disorder. I grabbed a pad of paper and headed out.
Also available for Kindle.
The Perfect Ring
"Cleverly written and an enjoyable, super quick read, ca
n't be faulted for a bit of light entertainment." - The Kindle Book Review
"Had me hooked from the first few lines" - Razberry Juice
Alistair Deacon is on the hunt for the perfect engagement ring for his girlfriend, Emma. When he and his workmate, Dee, find it in a tiny shop in Covent Garden, the old shop woman there makes a startling prediction. Now Alistair may have got more than he bargained for.
***A short story of 3700 words or about 14 pages***