Bubba and the Curious Cadaver

by C. L. Bevill

  Of course, Willodean wouldn’t shoot Bubba. He acknowledged that to himself, but she might do worse things. Like, for example, cook for him. Willodean was purely one of the worst cooks ever. She could mess up a bologna sandwich. And ifin Willodean is mad at me, I might very well get a bologna, banana, and pickle sammich in my next lunch, or even worse. Might be kitty litter in it, and we ain’t got a cat.

  “I got a phone,” Bubba said. He did have a phone for a change. He’d hadn’t broken the model he had for at least three weeks. Either cellphones were getting tougher, or he was getting more adept at using them without crushing them. The fella at the Verizon store was beginning to get savvy because at the last visit he had balked at selling Bubba the unlimited warranty.

  The woman stood straight up and looked Bubba in the face. “It’s only a few miles down the road,” she said.

  Down the road, Bubba thought with a bit of confusion. He couldn’t think of anything that was a few miles down the road from their position. He drove this way frequently, usually on an errand to the Cedarbloom’s which were increasing in frequency as Charlene began to quickly deteriorate in health. “You kin call someone, and I’m telling you that you shouldn’t trust a stranger. Besides, I kin just take a quick peek under the hood and figure out what’s wrong.”

  “It’s out of gas,” the woman said rapidly.

  “I got a gas can,” Bubba said.

  “And the battery’s dead,” she added.

  “I got jumper cables, too,” Bubba said.

  “There was smoke coming out from under the hood,” she said hurriedly. “Black, icky smoke. Smelled like death and broccoli farts, although I wouldn’t have a clue how the broccoli got in there.”

  “I’m a mechan—”

  “I don’t have time for this,” the woman interrupted. “Ifin I don’t get to work, they’re going to fire me for certain.”

  “A few miles down the road,” Bubba said wearily. “It ain’t got food, do it?”

  “Shore,” the woman said with a blindingly white smile. “Chicken wings, French fries, and there’s these little sausage/cream cheese/pepper things that get deep fried. They call them armadillo eggs.” She smacked her lips. “I would et them all day long, except I would gain all the weight right in my hips.”

  Bubba couldn’t help himself. He glanced down at her hips. “Um,” he said, “I wouldn’t know about that.” He quickly looked heavenward. This was beginning to be one of those days, and his stomach had stopped the death threats and was now commencing with the cold silence of doom indicating imminent implosion in a similar fashion to what a black hole would do to a planet that wandered into its path. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go. By the way, I’m Bubba Snoddy.”

  The woman nodded. “I thought you might be,” she said and then corrected herself. “Someone talks about you, and I thought it might be you. Ain’t many big tall fellas about with an old green truck and a cute little doggie.”

  Precious let out an offended wail.

  It took about a minute for the woman to angle herself into the passenger side door. The truck was a little elevated for the tightness of her skirt. She did a little shimmy and a little wiggle and then popped in, all the while talking sweetly to Precious. Precious played hard to get for about ten seconds before allowing herself to be stroked in the right spot under her jowls.

  “And where is it that you want to go?” Bubba asked as he got into the driver’s seat.

  “Bazooka Bob’s,” she said cheerily.

  “Ba, ba, ba,” Bubba said. “Oh hell no, I cain’t be goin’ there.”

  “You have to drop me off,” the woman said. “I’m on at 3 p.m., and it’s a quarter till. I have the twirling lemon act. My stage name is Cayenne Pepper.”

  “Miss Pepper,” Bubba said, “ifin my wife finds out I was within fifty feet of Bob’s, she’s goin’ to kill me.”

  “Just drop me off,” Cayenne said charmingly, “what could it hurt?”

  Chapter 2

  Bubba and the Suspicious Bazookas

  That Might Have Belonged to Bob

  Tuesday, August 22nd

  To say that Bazooka Bob’s was anything but what it was would be like someone saying that the sky wasn’t really blue. The business sat just off the FM route; it was contained within a large building that looked like it was the manufactured type plunked down on a cement pad. The ginormous sign that towered above the building was neon and was well known to blink brightly at nighttime. (Some said that even the International Space Station astronauts had commented on it, but no one had confirmed that rumor.) The sign under the neon was the most vivid striking paint combination that any business owner could have selected; purple, orange, lime green, and neon yellow amalgamations made up the three-feet-high words. They were so strikingly visible that the neon might not have been necessary at night.

  The parking lot was extensive, yet only about a dozen cars were parked near the entrance of the building. There was even a disabled persons ramp so that the common everyday Joe or Josephine in a wheelchair might come in and enjoy the business’s offerings. Clearly, Bazooka Bob’s did not discriminate those of special needs.

  Bubba parked between a 1970s-era Dodge tow truck and a rusted 80s-period Chrysler K car. Cayenne didn’t wait for Bubba as she wiggled out the side with a sideways shimmy that made him look away. She trotted for the front door on her high heels, making it look deceptively easy. The multitude of rings clicked and jangled as she went. She tossed her burgundy hair over her shoulder and called, “Come on in, Bubba. Wings are on me.”

  Bubba blinked at the woman as she went. Then he blinked at Precious. Then he blinked at the front of the establishment. Bazooka Bob’s had been located in its present position for the last ten years. Bubba had once come when he’d been sixteen. It was about the same time he’d gone to the Red Door Inn. Although the two businesses were similar, the legality of each were in direct opposition. To be perfectly frank, Bazooka Bob’s was what was known as a gentlemen’s club. It even said so on the sign just below the neon. It also said “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and “Free Buffet on Tuesdays!” but Bubba wasn’t concerned with those. Bob’s had moved ten years previously because there had been a question of whether the church it had sat next to had been there first or not. There was a law about certain businesses being in close proximity to churches, schools, and daycares.

  Three churches had picketed Bob’s, and the church members had taken photographs of every individual who had entered or left the business. Then it had been only a matter of time until the owner, also conveniently named Bob, had decided to move it out of city limits and onto a piece of property that precluded anyone else horning in on his business. Having lost his battle with the churches, Bob had moved everything lock, stock, and bazooka, to include the neon sign.

  The last Bubba had heard about Bazooka Bob’s was when Daniel Lewis Gollihugh, who was the tallest, formerly meanest man in Pegram County, had torn up the place looking for one of his ex-wives, who happened to be a former adult entertainer. (Had that been Dreama, Berry, or Trixiebelle? He couldn’t recall.) That had been about the time that Bubba had come back from being in the U.S. Army, so his mind had been on other things. In any case, both Dan and Bazooka Bob’s had survived to tell the story another day. Barely.

  Precious whined at Bubba and brought him out of his reverie. He glanced at his dog. She was likely hungry, too, and the day was hot. He retrieved the dog biscuits from the glove box and gave two to Precious, who took her bounty in a way that gave credence to her reputation as the royal queen of Pegram County.

  With a sinking feeling, Bubba saw that Miss Cayenne Pepper had left her sequin-covered clutch purse on the bench seat next to Precious. Plainly, his choices were limited. He could take off now and pray that no one with a gossiping tendency saw him or his truck anywhere in the vicinity of Bob’s. He could mail Cayenne Pepper’s clutch to her c/o Bazooka Bob’s, but then he would have to go to a post office two counties over to safely mail it in anony
mity. Alternatively, he could toss the clutch out of the door and hope someone found it in the gravel parking lot. Or he could throw it at the front door and pray that a decent individual would find it and be good enough to return it for him.

  Oh but Bubba, a voice from deep inside of him said, that poor girl is going to need her wallet to fix her car. She’s going to need money to pay for a tow or to use her AAA card. And you would be such a bad boy for just up and driving off simply because you don’t want Willodean to know you stopped at Bazooka Bob’s. Even if it was all innocent like. In-oh-cent!

  The real question was whether Willodean would shoot Bubba before he explained that he was just helping a lady out. She might pull out that well-used mantra of “Remember what happened the last time you tried to help a lady, Bubba?” Truthfully, Willodean didn’t mean it to sound like that; she would be disappointed if he didn’t help someone stranded on the side of the road. Still, that only went so far.

  Bubba pulled out his phone. His stomach shrieked at him, and Precious took that moment to go to the far side of the truck because the stomach’s sound was obviously bothering her oversized ears. He dialed Willodean’s phone and waited. After a few rings, her voicemail picked up. It didn’t surprise him because she was working. She was, after all, the cutest pregnantest sheriff’s deputy in five counties, and she liked her job. She was always busy patrolling and doing paperwork, although Bubba wasn’t crazy about the patrolling part. However, she kept saying that all the criminals had a healthy fear of her lately. Bubba didn’t have the heart to tell her what he’d done. He’d systematically warned every single man and woman of voting age and who had been known to participate in various criminalities that he would burst their heads like melons if they laid a hand on Willodean Gray Snoddy while she was active in her law enforcement capacity. Even if they laid a pinky on her. Just to put the cherry on top of the big sundae threat, Dan Gollihugh had spread the word that he would be backing Bubba up in that regard. (That was actually a carefully worded fib as Dan was a practicing Buddhist of late and technically disregarded violence unless he well and truly lost his temper.)

  The voicemail trailed off, and Bubba smiled at the sound of Willodean’s voice. Before he even thought to leave a message he pondered her black hair, which was just like the color of a blackened burger freshly off the grill, and ready to be slapped on a toasted bun with Colby jack cheese. With a sigh, he considered other parts of her. Her lips were the shade of a beefsteak tomato just before it was sliced up and served on that same burger. Her eyes were the color of the leafy green lettuce that would blanket the tomato. Her belly was the rounded half of a freshly baked biscuit that needed to be rubbed gently at the end of every day with butter, er, lotion. And…

  Bubba shook his head to clear it. He said into his phone, “It’s Bubba. I’m done with my errands, but I stopped to help a lady who broke down on the side of the road, so I’ll be back a little later. I reckon I should stop for something.” Chicken wings with a side of armadillo eggs, mebe. “I love you,” he finished. There. I covered something up. Mebe it was even my sit-upon. Did I need to say where I he’ped the lady to? No, no, I did not. I’m good. Mebe.

  He reached over, retrieved the clutch, and climbed out of the truck. It was too warm to leave his dog in the truck even with the windows open, so he beckoned at the Basset hound, and she carefully slid/fell/careened out of the door, prancing about happily in the parking lot. She stopped to sniff the Chrysler K Car and then marked it because everyone knows that even female dogs mark things, too.

  Bubba’s shoulders might have been slumped as he crossed the parking lot to the front door of Bazooka Bob’s. Deep inside he didn’t want anyone to see him. Deep inside he hoped that if they did see him they would know that Bubba Nathanial Snoddy wouldn’t bring his dog to a gentleman’s club. Deep inside he hoped they would know that it couldn’t possibly be Bubba Snoddy when he had just married the beauteous sheriff’s deputy in an elaborate ceremony about four months before. Certainly there had been excitement galore with a disappearing/reappearing dead body, but all had turned out well in the end.

  Precious danced ahead of him and put her paw proprietarily on the door. It was a plain door without windows or glass, and all Bubba could do was to go inside.

  Thusly, Bubba entered Bazooka Bob’s Gentlemen’s Club with Girls, Girls, Girls, and Free Buffet on Tuesdays.

  * * *

  Bubba opened the door and entered, carefully allowing Precious to follow after him. The foyer of the place was the cashier’s booth, but the booth was empty. After the door shut behind him, he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He could hear loud music playing and recognized a song by the B-52’s. He went through another door and found a black light wonderland. There was a stage that formed a large U, and there were several lesser stages along the exterior walls. A booth by the front contained equipment for a DJ, and the bar was spread out along the far wall. Only a few people were drinking at the bar, and on the stage one lone woman was twisting to the strains of “Love Shack.”

  It was gloomy, and to be honest, no one cared that Bubba had entered. No one was yelling and pointing at him. They weren’t even looking at him in a sideways way that would indicate that they were about to text the local Methodist minister what Bubba N. Snoddy had been up to. Precious made an odd noise, and he glanced down to see that she had sidled up to his leg. She was unmistakably aware of their precarious positions and was ready to take necessary cover.

  For a long moment, Bubba didn’t know what to do. He glanced at the customers and was slightly shocked to see several men he knew, and some of them were married. They looked at him and then did a second glance. One of them even put his hand over the side of his face as if he could block Bubba from seeing who he was. (I kin see you, the not-so-honorable Mayor John Leroy Jr.) Foot Johnson, a janitor at the public buildings, sat with Jasper Dukeminer, who was a local juvenile delinquent who was not really juvenile. There was Fred Funkhouse, who was a U.S. Postal employee from Nardle and was sitting with Forrest Roquemore, an elderly man who was related to the Christmas Killer. Farmer Scoresby sat by himself and was cheering the dancer on gleefully and holding up dollar bills all spread out like they were a hand of cards. Then there was a dark-haired man wearing a panama hat made of straw and sunglasses as if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

  Bubba didn’t really want to register each and every customer. He wanted to be doing a thousand other things. He could be eating something instead of standing inside a murky gentlemen’s club wondering when his tushie was going to be caught doing something completely blameless.

  Mebe I’m misjudging Willodean, he thought hopefully. Willodean ain’t unreasonable. She’s just pregnant and not sleeping great. Having to pee a dozen times in the middle of the night dint help nothing no how.

  All the same, Bubba didn’t want to upset the apple cart. The apple cart was piled high with Granny Smiths, Red Deliciouses, Fujis, and McIntoshes. Ifin a fella were to put just one more Ginger Gold or Pink Lady on top, it might just fall right the heck on over. Apples sound pert dang good right now, he told himself. I could et one or two or ten.

  “BUBBA!” someone yelled. A woman skipped over to him and gave him a quick hug. Her long blonde dreadlocks flipped all round her head. It took him a moment to recognize Kiki Rutkowski. She had been a neighbor of Willodean’s before Willodean had married him and moved into the caretaker’s house on the Snoddy Estate. She grinned up at him, and he noticed her ZZ Top/Lynyrd Skynyrd concert t-shirt. Fortunately for all involved, she was wearing jeans. Bubba wouldn’t have noted that except that Kiki had a habit of going commando, which had a habit of making him turn all kinds of shades of red.

  “Hey Kiki,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He winced internally. Kiki also had a habit of a wide and varied employments. He knew that she had been a process server, a fortune cookie wrapper, and a professional murder victim in Pegramville’s First Annual Murder Mystery Festival. Working at Bazooka Bob’s wouldn’t
be a real stretch.

  “I’m taking a summer course in sociology, and my topic for my paper is the mystique of the stripper society,” Kiki said.

  “I reckon,” Bubba said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. (“I reckon” was a good answer to most unfathomable statements. “My goat won the tri-county fair award for best spitter at a ten meter pace.” “I reckon” seemed to be the only answer for that. “My mother’s cousin’s favorite cabana boy ran off with an iguana lizard and $10,000 of the cabana’s money in order to invest in snail racing in South America.” “I reckon” worked very well. “No one understand the innate mysteries of the universe as seen through the eyes of a Bavarian midget wrestler who has the clap.” “I reckon” was about the only thing that could be said to that.)

  “After all, exotic dancers are objectified by today’s society. Most of these women need a job just like anyone else. But instead of being congratulated on finding honest work, and it is honest, they’re denigrated and subjected to wretched double standards.” Kiki glowered at him. “Does Wills know you’re here?”

  “I just he’ped a woman whose car broke down,” Bubba said and held out the clutch. “She accidentally left her purse in my car.”

  Kiki glanced at Precious and then back at Bubba. “Hmm.” Her expression was slightly suspicious. He could even read the words wriggling about behind her eyes. If her car was broken down, why was she in your truck? Huh?