Most people had a hard time liking Jason Woods; often gruff and abrasive, and with a hot temper. Jason would fight at the drop of the proverbial hat, and always viciously, the only way he knew how. More than one so called tough guy had tried him and regretted it as they got their first look at the inside of an ambulance. His raucous voice carried across a room, offending men and women alike with his strong opinions, outlandish comments, and profanities so profuse and colorful, they approached that of an art form. To describe him as a man that was a little rough around the edges would be the classic understatement. Yet the young women adored him. His quick smile and perfectly straight white teeth, combined with his bad boy attitude, was magnetic to a certain age group and women looking for a touch of excitement and a hint of danger on a date. The squeals and moans that passed through the thin walls of Mrs. Stapleton’s rented sleeping room would have gotten Jason evicted long ago if the widow woman hadn’t needed the money so bad. Maybe worse than the noise was that impish Jack Nicholson grin, that Jason flashed her with on the mornings after.
Billy Ray couldn’t understand why Jason had stuck around Boise City for as long as he had. It couldn’t be the job; driving a truck for Arnold Gas & Oil didn’t compare to flying down the rocky roads of Afghanistan in a Humvee, watching the cliffs for a Taliban ambush. In fact, it was a mystery why Jason hadn’t signed up for another tour. Like a lot of the guys home from that war, the culture shock of coming back to a nine-to-five and paying bills and worrying about mortgages and listening to a wife bitch about how she needs a new refrigerator, was more than enough reason to yield to the call of combat, the camaraderie, and the addictive adrenalin rush of a fire fight.
Whatever Jason Woods lacked in social skills, he made up for as a soldier. He was ferocious with his weapon, brave but not foolish, and loyal to a fault. If you were down and wounded, surrounded by the enemy, and needed one guy to come and get you, to pull your bloody bones out of there, and drag you to safety, Jason Woods would be your man. And that’s exactly what happened on that day that still seemed like yesterday, the day Billy Ray got shot. The day that he still had dreams about and kept him awake at night. That’s why Jason Woods was a friend and always would be—one that Billy Ray Ledbetter would die for without a moment’s hesitation.
Chapter 11
As Melissa Parker lay awake, shivering in the darkness, waiting for the dawn, she tried to remember just how many days a human could go without water.
Three? Four? Three sounded right. One down, two to go then. So, if its been only one day, why am I so god-awful thirsty? The vomiting, yeah that must be it. Hurling your guts up, then dehydration. That didn’t help the situation did it? Okay little Lissa girl—her mama had always called her Lissa—what are you gonna do about it?
She tried to think, to figure it out, to find some way out of this hell-hole cellar. There had to be a way. It was only a matter of time before she figured it out, that was the hope anyway. But the cold and thirst and that nagging pain in her shoulder and groin dominated any form of logical thought, wiping it from her mind like a chalkboard eraser. For the umpteenth time that night, she readjusted the poncho over her bare legs and feet, wrapping it as tightly as possible, only to wake up trembling from the chilly night air, to find her precious plastic crumpled on the floor.
Once, not knowing the time, she had left the cot and felt her way up the stairs to peer through the crack and listen. Although she couldn’t see it, there appeared to a moon up there somewhere, the silver light on the grass in front of her somehow comforting. She spotted a star, then two more, signs that the world, as she once knew it, was still out there. If not for the bone numbing discomfort, she would have spent the rest of the night on the step, perched like a bird on a limb, feeling so much more safe than down on the floor where the threat of crawly things gnawed at her fears. She stayed until her body said no more. She took a deep breath and descended, a step at a time, feeling her way.
Back on her bed, it took awhile to warm up again, the poncho tucked under her legs. But her feet were freezing.
The candle, I could light the candle, just for a minute, heat my toes.
She reached under the cot for the jar but stopped.
No, I might need the matches for something more important. I’ll make it through the night, darn right I will. Tomorrow, I’ll find a way out of here. I will escape. No doubt about that Lissa, no doubt at all.
About an hour before dawn, a part of Melissa did escape, her consciousness, as her mind relaxed and drifted away to a merciful sleep. She would have slept longer, despite the cold, but once again, the rustle of dry leaves penetrated her mental refuge, yanking her awake, back to the horror.
*****
Much to the disappointment of the black Lab, Sheriff Lester P. Morrison stuffed the kitchen trash can with what was left of his dinner—the remains of some frozen pizza reheated from the night before, and never looked up. Harley knew perfectly well that entirely edible pieces of crust and a smidgeon of pepperoni from that paper plate were going to waste, and yet not one morsel had been offered. The dog’s eyes panned back and forth, sheriff to trash, trash to sheriff, hoping that someone would take the hint.
“Harley, you old fat bastard, keep your thieving nose out of my trash can. You been fed already, a whole can of lean whatever-it-is, and here you are acting like you haven’t eaten in a week.” The amber eyes were as sorrowful a sight as Lester had ever seen. “Okay, okay, I’ll get you a biscuit, but you got to eat it outside. You got the table manners of a boar hog.”
Harley, sensing the upcoming treat, trotted to the front door, his long tapered tail wagging eagerly in anticipation.
After they were outside, Lester began the drill. “Alright now, sit!” The dog obeyed but his body language was clear; why must I suffer through this indignation for one measly little bite?
“Still”
Lester placed the bone shaped biscuit on the dog’s nose and balanced it.
Oh boy, here we go again.
“Wait for it. Waaait…okay!”
With a quarter turn of the dog’s head and almost quicker than the eye could follow, the biscuit disappeared and was in the first stage of digestion before the screen door slammed. Lester went to his easy chair and fumbled with the remote until he got a picture.
“Damn satellite television. Life was simpler when I had three channels and an outside antenna, then some Government outfit comes along and has to change everything to dig-i-tal. Now I got two remotes and don’t know how to run either one of ‘em.”
If it hadn’t been for the lure of receiving the St. Louis Cardinals baseball games, Lester might have turned the TV off and left it that way after the change from analog, but he did enjoy his baseball games, and satellite was the only option if he wanted to keep up with his favorite team. If the Redbirds were playing on this Friday night, he couldn’t find them with the on-screen guide, and settled for Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. At five minutes to ten, Lester’s chin bounced off his chest, a sure sign it was time for bed.
“Come on in dog,” he said, opening the screen. “You pee yet?”
Harley knew the routine and padded off to the foot of Lester’s bed, taking his familiar place on an old and tattered blanket that was beginning to smell really bad. He spun around twice, curled up, and watched as his master went through his own nightly ritual; brushing his teeth, pills (one for cholesterol, one for high blood pressure), and one last trip to the bathroom. By ten-thirty, both man and dog were snoring.
*****
The Moonshiner Lounge wasn’t completely dead, but it would have been hard to find a pulse. Two men with shaggy hair were playing eight-ball at the pool table while an almost cute, skinny, but noticeably braless, girl in tight jeans watched the balls roll around the table, her boredom obvious. The girl had black hair with dyed streaks of blue and green running down the sides, reminding Jason of a parakeet. There were no other customers. The woman behind the bar had a face that looked like five miles of
bad road. She was watching a black and white movie on a TV mounted in the corner and near the ceiling. If she noticed Jason Woods when he slipped through the door, you couldn’t tell it. It wasn’t until the ex-soldier found a stool, grabbed a shaker of salt, and shoved it the length of the bar and into the elbow of the half-asleep bartender, did she snap her head around. She shot him a go-to-hell look, obviously pissed, but realized a customer was a customer, and extracted herself from the padded stool. She didn’t exactly ask for his preferred beverage, but silently tilted her jaw up and out for a fraction of a second. Yeah, I see you. What do you want?
Until that moment, Jason hadn’t given his order much thought but an old adage came to mind: Beer before whiskey, always risky; whiskey before beer, never fear.
“What you got on tap?”
“Coors,” the bartender said, wondering if this guy was worth missing part of her movie, Inherit the Wind with Spencer Tracy, one of her all time favorites.
“Why do so many of you Okies drink that watered down crap?” Jason asked, shaking his head. “There are a lot of good beers out there you know, some with a little flavor to them.”
“Maybe you should go find some,” the bartender said, unsmiling. A red neon light from a beer sign backlit her puffed up bouffant, a bleached blond head of hair, making her look for all the world like a Ronald McDonald transvestite.
But the hour was getting late, and Jason had nowhere else to go. With no wheels outside, he was looking at a mile long walk just to get home—unless he got lucky. He gave the old floozy a nod of acquiescence and said, “Coors it is. When in Rome…”
Jason swiveled on his stool to watch the pool game. The players looked to be in their mid-twenties, both with tats and jewelry. One had a pearl stud in his lower lip and wore a tee shirt with Dallas Cowboys on the front, while the other, a much larger guy with a rangy build, sported a single gold earring. Ear Ring ran four balls in a row and then made a nice bank shot on the eight to win the game. Pearl Stud fished a dollar bill out of his pocket and laid it on the table.
“Better to be lucky than good,” the loser said.
“Go again for another dollar then,” Ear Ring said. “We’ll see how much luck is involved.”
Parakeet let out a blow of air, clearly exasperated at the thought of sitting through another stupid pool game. She reached for her iPhone hoping to get enough signal to check her Facebook or do a Tweet, anything to break the numbing monotony of watching colored balls bang into each other and go in holes. All three were drinking Coors from the bottle.
A few minutes after the start of the next game, Jason fished two quarters from his pocket and placed them on the edge of the pool table, directly above the coin slot, the customary method of challenging the table. Parakeet looked up from her phone, liked what she saw, and smiled. Jason smiled back. Pearl Stud got two turns, missed both shots, and the game was over. Jason inserted his quarters and racked the balls while Ear Ring counted the bills in his shirt pocket.
The available cue sticks on the wall were a sorry lot, some bent, some without tips, but Jason picked the best of the bunch and sighted down its length, checking for crooked.
“Your buddy over there’s right, you are lucky,” Jason said as he applied the blue chalk to the tip.
“Oh, is that right?” Ear Ring said. “How you figure?”
“You caught a good break. Every shot was almost straight in.”
Ear Ring wasn’t accustomed to having his skills on the table questioned. He shot a pretty good stick and he knew it. And who the hell was this guy anyhow? Obviously he was too stupid to know that it takes a good shot to leave the cue ball so the next shot will be straight in. Ear Ring sensed easy money.
“What say we make it interesting? “How bout five bucks a game?”
“How about twenty for three games?” Jason shot back, “Let the girl hold the money.”
Parakeet smiled. Ear Ring did not. He’d been suckered. But to back down now would make him look bad to his buddy and the girl whom he was hoping to get drunk and frisky before the night was over. Ear Ring could smell whisky on the challenger. Might be the liquor doin’ the talkin’ for him.
“You’re on Hot Shot. Rack ‘em.”
Jason took three twenties from his wallet, folded them up, and pressed the bills into the redhead’s hand, giving it a little squeeze as he did. She didn’t exactly squeeze back but he was encouraged by the sparkle in her eye. She had the look. Over the years, Jason had prided himself on the ability to see the look on a girl. It was the way she carried herself, her body language, her smile, her laugh. The way she moved and walked and caught your eye, all signs of a woman ready to play…or stray. Jason was seldom wrong about such things.
Ear Ring made a come here motion to Pearl Stud. “I’m a little short. Loan me forty bucks. Don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few minutes.” Pearl Stud wasn’t so sure about the longevity of the loan but added his contribution to the wad of cash on the table.
Jason arranged the balls in the triangular rack, the one ball at the point, then alternating ring balls with solid colors, and the eight ball in the center. Ear Ring placed the white cue ball to one side and made a practice stroke, but Jason spoke up.
“Hold on there. This is our first game. We lag for break. Or do you local boys make your own rules in this jerkwater town.”
No doubt about it. This rude son of a bitch was getting under Ear Ring’s skin, big time. “What? We only got one cue ball. Screw that.”
“Not a problem, Dude. We can mark the positions with a coin.”
Jason made the point about the lag shot for a couple reasons. One, he wanted to get a feel for the rails and second, to see if the table was reasonably level. Knowing how the table tilted, if there was a tilt, was a big advantage for the homeboy.
Ear Ring made his stroke, the white ball bouncing off the far rail, and coming to rest just past center table. “Aw shit, I can do better than that,” he said. “Not used to doing this silly lag bullcrap.”
Jason said nothing and after carefully marking the previous spot with a dime, made his move. The ball crept down the length of the table, gently touched the back rail, and came to a stop. Ear Ring laughed.
“Us local boys play it to how close the cue ball comes to the near rail, that’s the one your elbow is leaning on, not that one way down there.”
“Not used to the table,” Jason mumbled.
With a wide grin all over his face and getting wider, Ear Ring reared back with his stick and let her fly at the cue ball. There was a resounding crack but very little movement as most of the balls remained in a loose circle with the exception of the one ball and a striped 13. Ear Ring made the one ball in the corner pocket, an easy shot, but the other solids were huddled up like cattle in a corral waiting to be fed. Hoping for some luck, he fired hard at the seven ball, scattering the pack all over the table, but nothing fell.
Jason suppressed his own grin and went to work. His opponent hadn’t noticed the loose rack he’d set. The lag shot for the break had been a ploy. Before joining the Army, Jason Woods had been well known around the bars of Corpus Christi, Texas. His skill on the tables had kept him in decent money, far more than what he was making working as a stock boy at the H.E.B grocery. Twenty-dollar games were common back then and Jason was hoping that cash like that would make old Ear Ring a little nervous. There were a lot of tricks to a good pool hustle and Jason knew most of them. Without showing anything fancy, he slowly worked his way around the table, a cut shot here, an easy bank there, until the eight rested directly in front of the side pocket.
“We’re playing call the pocket, right?” Jason asked, knowing damn well what the customary rules were. Getting your opponent riled up was another hustler trick.
Without waiting for a reply, Jason tapped the cue ball, the eight barely rolling over the lip of the pocket before falling with a satisfying plop.
“Ma’am?” Jason called toward the bar. “Could I get another beer over here? Bring a rou
nd for my new friends while you’re at it.”
Parakeet put one hand over her mouth, trying to hide the grin.
“Just take the money out of that pile of twenties there,” Jason directed.
Jason missed his shot only twice during the following games, not that it mattered, as he was in complete control of the outcome. For the final shot, he smashed the black eight to the far corner pocket with authority, a little kiss-my-ass-and-pay-up slam dunk. Ear Ring threw his cue stick to the table so hard that it caught the attention of the bartender, making her miss a few lines of the movie.
By now, Ear Ring had worked himself into a snit, his face red and quivering. “You’re a pro. You hustled me you ass hole.”
“Maybe,” Jason admitted, chalking the cue stick. Hey, you want to go another three games? You made a few balls that last time.”
“Maybe I’ll just kick some balls, yours, and whip some ass while I’m at it.”
Jason shook his head. “Not a good idea my friend, not good at all. See, right now, the only damage is to your pride and your wallet but take it any farther, it gets more serious and way more expensive. I’m talking hospital bills here.”
“Hey, you jerks take it outside,” the Spencer Tracy fan behind the bar yelled. “I won’t put up with no fighting in here. One swing and I’m calling the cops. I mean it now.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ear Ring snarled. “How about it hustler man, you ready?”
“No, not really. It’s been kind of a long day and I’d like to finish my beer first if you don’t mind. You go on ahead, I’ll be along shortly.”
Jason gave Parakeet a wink and scooped up his winnings. The girl playfully tugged back on the cash as she passed it to the victor. She was still wearing the look.
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 8