by C. L. Bevill
“Wrists,” the first one said. He indicated that Bubba should put them in front so Bubba did. They led him into another little room but one with a table and a single chair that were both bolted to the floor. The first man unlocked one of Bubba’s cuffs and directed him to the seat where Bubba sat down in obvious compliance. On the metal table was a small hook to which the man locked the freed cuff. The second man sighed and put the Taser weapon away into a holster.
A third man who was about six feet tall and had grayish-brown hair squeezed past the second man and put a tray in front of Bubba. There was another bottle of Dasani water and a sandwich that looked like it had been purchased at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. It was wrapped in plastic but looked a little squishy. There was also a red apple sitting on one side of the sandwich and a Hershey’s Chocolate bar on the other.
“What, no coffee?” Bubba complained.
The third man left without saying anything.
Bubba drank some of the water and unwrapped the sandwich. It had likely been ham and cheese or some kind of meat and cheese. He poked it tentatively because it did not appear to be fresh and asked, “Did you buy this at Bufford’s?” He didn’t wait for an answer but added, “Because I wouldn’t et anything from Bufford’s that dint come out of a can or a package that Bufford dint make. I ain’t rightly shore I would et anything out of a can, neither. George Bufford has a nasty habit of dumpster diving for the food he sells at his grocery store.”
The first man winced and then his face nearly instantly went back to neutrality.
“Ifin you start having a case of Montezuma’s revenge, I would prolly get myself to the doctor’s,” Bubba recommended. He ate the apple while they watched, discarded the core on the tray, and examined the candy bar for an expiration date. He made a noise when he found one that wasn’t too far off from the present day and ate the candy bar, too. When he was finished, he pushed the tray with the uneaten sandwich on it away from him. “Ya’ll are welcome to the sammy, but seriously, don’t buy nothing from Bufford’s except gasoline, and even that might be iffy.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, “George has been known to siphon out of old tanks that have bin sitting for years.”
The first man pushed away from the door and leaned on the table in front of Bubba. “How do you know John J. Johnson?”
“The Third?” As if Bubba knew a John J. Johnson the Second or even a plain old John J. Johnson. (But he did recollect that he had met a John Johnson at his wedding. That one had been a reporter and Caucasian, and likely not related to the Third.)
“That’s right.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t know him. Never met him.” Bubba went to scratch his chin but forgot his right wrist was cuffed to the table. He switched to the left hand and finally got to rub the correct spot.
“You called Hamilton Art Industries,” the man said.
Was there a question there? Bubba decided there was not. “Are you shore there ain’t coffee? That Taser do put a man out of sorts, and caffeine might fix me right up. Mebe some aspirin, too.”
“You said your name was Pete Peterson. You used your own cellphone. You asked about John J. Johnson.” The man went down a list like he was checking items off. “You spent a considerable amount of time at Bazooka Bob’s.”
Bubba set his shoulders into place. He didn’t like the road down which they were traveling. It looked to be a dark one with shadows increasing at both sides. These people were from the government and likely worked with John J. Johnson the Third, and they weren’t like Sheriff John and Big Joe. They wouldn’t be happy with his answers, and they wouldn’t mind bending the Constitution or any of its Amendments in order to get the answers they were seeking.
“What’s your name, fella?” Bubba asked the first man.
That man stared at Bubba. “Coincidentally, it’s Peterson.”
“Maybe we be related,” Bubba said dryly, “although I don’t recollect anyone on that side of the family with a corncob shoved up their butt.”
Peterson chuckled. “You’re in a world of hurt. We’re going to put you in a prison and then we’re going to put the prison under another prison. You’re not going to see the light of day for the next twenty years and that’ll only be if some Supreme Court Justice decides to hear your case. You’ll be begging to talk with us then.”
Bubba had been in jail many times before. He’d been threatened more times than that. Peterson was blowing the order of the police procedure on this thing. It spoke volumes about his level of insecurity. “I don’t think so,” Bubba said. “What is it that you really want?”
Peterson considered Bubba and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Who killed Johnson? Was it you or was it Nehemiah Clement Jones AKA Bam Bam Jones?”
Bubba’s lips pressed together. It wouldn’t be good to say anything to these people, even though he was absolutely innocent of any wrongdoing except agreeing to help Bam Bam figure things out before calling the police. “Where’s my dog?”
“Dog’s fine,” Peterson said. “She’s in the outer office with my men. She likes bacon.”
Bubba knew this ploy, too. It was a see-how-nice-we-can-be ploy and it often transmogrified into a we’re-just-good-people-trying-to-do-a-job tactic. The next thing they would do was to offer him something in order to tip him over the edge of cooperation.
“And David? You treating him all right?”
“You mean Snuggles Palomino?”
“Ifin that’s what you want to call David,” Bubba said. “You know he resides at the Dogley Institute for Mental Well-Being, so he ain’t responsible for anything except bein’ crazy.”
“We’re aware of Mr. Beathard’s proclivities,” Peterson said. “Let’s talk about Bazooka Bob’s and what’s happening there. Then maybe we can get you that cup of coffee. We have French roast and Blue Mountain beans. One of my guys makes a mean cup of joe.”
“Bazooka Bob’s is goin’ out of bizness,” Bubba said. “My mother is he’ping the employees find other jobs and such. Not certain what will happen to Bam Bam, but he’s the resourceful type.”
“It’s going out of business,” Peterson repeated. “Is that why you set up the network with the goods going through it? Is that why you’re supporting General Buchman? You might know him as the Book Man. What do you know about the big event?”
“The network,” Bubba said. “What goods? Who’s General Buchman?” The only general he knew was the post commanders when he had been in the military, and they hadn’t been on a first name basis or even a last name basis.
“Is that how you’re going to play this, Snoddy?” Peterson said. “We don’t like hardball around our part of the country, but it doesn’t mean we don’t know how to play it.”
Peterson stared at Bubba some more. Bubba understood he was supposed to be made uncomfortable by the stare, but he wasn’t made uncomfortable at all. Instead, he was getting amused. The only things that didn’t amuse him were that he knew Willodean was going to worry if she wasn’t already worried and that David might be freaked out by being held by government peoples of unknown origin. (Precious was probably getting petted to the point where she was about to fall over.)
“I like softball,” Bubba said conversational. “How about that coffee? French roast sounds proper, although I’d take the other kind, too. In fact, just bring me both.”
“Tell us what you know about John J. Johnson the Third,” Peterson said. He leaned forward and pressed against the table with hands flat on the surface. Bubba wished the table wasn’t bolted to the floor, so he could have given it a good kick, but it was, so he didn’t.
“According to you, he’s dead,” Bubba said. “Sounds like you believe he was murdered or such.”
“It was a .40 caliber bullet that took Johnson out,” Peterson said. “Do you own a weapon that uses .40 caliber bullets?”
“Nope.” Upon the perception of imminent fatherhood, Bubba had given any and all of hi
s weapons back to his mother with the instruction to her to lock them up in her gun safe. The gun safe was the size of a minivan, so he knew that they could all fit, except possibly the cannons. He didn’t want any weapons that fired bullets in his house with his baby. The only exception would be Willodean’s service weapon, but she had a gun safe that she used for all of her police accoutrements on a nightly basis, so that was good.
Peterson sighed and started again. When the man ran out of steam, Bubba asked, “Did you leave my Chevy truck in the lake’s parking lot? Because there was a load of wood in the back that I’m goin’ to use for a baby crib. My wife is just about six months along. Cain’t use that old crib from my mama’s attic on account that the slats are too wide apart.”
“Your wife is six months pregnant,” Peterson stated. He looked at the other man at the door. It was the unnamed African American man with the green eyes. That man shrugged. “She wouldn’t be a police officer by any chance?”
“Shore. Sheriff’s deputy. Don’t let her size fool you. She’s hell with her mace, and she can shoot the flies off a hog’s back at a hundred feet. I try not to tick her off lately. She doesn’t get the best night sleep because she has to pee twenty times a night.”
Peterson made an expression that was not dissimilar to having just consumed a lemon. Possibly he had swiped one of Cayenne Pepper’s fruits from her twirling lemon show.
Chapter 16
Willodean Has a Worry
Wednesday, August 23rd
Willodean woke up at 1 a.m. By 1:20 a.m., she had called Miz Demetrice, Miz Adelia, the Loyal Order of Moose, the fire department, Big Joe, and Sheriff John in that exact order. By 1:30 a.m., she’d called the hospital and the hospitals in two neighboring counties. Let it be forever known that that was the evening Willodean Gray Snoddy was unhappy, and people would speak of that early morning in furtive whispers lest Willodean be reminded of her distinct, memorable unhappiness which was the stuff of legends. By 1:45 a.m., she’d used her position as a law enforcement officer to call in a BOLO on Bubba Nathanial Snoddy and his 1954 Chevy 3100 truck. Mary Lou Treadwell, another 9-1-1 dispatcher, had been somewhat skeptical, but Willodean wouldn’t take no for an answer, and thusly the Be On the Look Out was duly submitted.
By 2:00 a.m., there was a crew of interested and supportive parties gathered in Bubba and Willodean’s living room. They all tried to ignore Willodean’s Boba Fett bathrobe that couldn’t close properly over her protruding belly and the Bigfoot slippers on her feet, and attempted to be as helpful as possible. Miz Demetrice and Sheriff John made a timeline of when Bubba had last been seen. Caressa, Bubba’s aunt from Dallas and Miz Demetrice’s older sister, who happened to snore like the sound of a cat throwing up a hairball and who happened to be visiting, got Willodean a glass of milk. Bubba’s first cousin, Dick Wood, who had stopped on the way from Beaumont, Texas to Oklahoma for a horror movie convention, offered to drive up and down the roads looking for Ol’ Green.
“Bubba dearest was at Bazooka Bob’s with me until what was it, 6 or 7?” Miz Demetrice paused to smooth her white hair into place. “The sun was about to set. That had to be about 7:30? Then he said he was going to talk to someone about something secretive.” She adjusted the cornflower-blue robe that matched her eyes so that it didn’t gape. “We should get some tea for Willodean, not milk. Maybe some herbal tea.”
“Herbal tea makes me barf,” Willodean said. “Bubba said he was helping Bam Bam. We should wake Bam Bam up and ask him what in the name of Cheerios is up.”
“What were all ya’ll doing at Bazooka Bob’s?” Sheriff John asked. “Ain’t no reason for ya’ll to be there.”
“They have a great buffet,” Willodean said absently.
“They need a union,” Miz Demetrice said at the same time. “Also new jobs.”
Sheriff John stared at Willodean. “Ya’ll having problems, Willodean? Is that why Bubba was at a strip club?”
“I thought it was an exotic dance club,” Caressa said, “where they dance exotically.”
“Same thing,” Dick said. “Why dint Bubba ask me to go?” He paused and added derogatorily, “Cousins. Can’t shoot ‘em, can’t murder ‘em.”
“Bubba was helping Bam Bam,” Willodean said slowly. “He wasn’t there for the strippers.”
“You know those girls work hard,” Miz Demetrice said. “They practice for hours to do their half-hour routine. There’s one girl there who twirls lemons.”
“What does she do with twirling lemons?” Sheriff John asked. “Just for reference, of course,” he said when he realized that all of them were staring at him suspiciously.
“I trust Bubba,” Willodean said.
“Okay, Bubba left the club around 7:30 p.m.,” Sheriff John said. “I’ll get out there and see ifin I kin find his truck. Mebe he ran off the road or broke down. Mebe his cellphone is dead.”
“It does roll straight to voicemail,” Willodean admitted reluctantly. She patted her belly reassuringly.
“We’ll find him,” Sheriff John said. “Ain’t like him.”
“That is exactly why I’m worried and why we’re all here.”
“Okay, I’m off to roust Bazooka Bob’s,” Sheriff John.
“Wait a minute,” Willodean said and waddled for the stairs.
“You ain’t getting dressed to go with me,” Sheriff John said flatly.
“No, I’m not getting dressed,” Willodean called as she carefully went up the stairs. She came back down a minute later with her Sam Browne belt belted around her hips over the Boba Fett robe. (There had been an extension added to the belt, but that will not actually be discussed here or evermore.) “I just wanted my weapon and my mace,” she said in a fake cheerful tone as if this sort of thing happened every day of the week. “Maybe we should call the National Guard. They let us use the helicopter the last time Bubba vanished.”
“And then that colonel said never to call again because that there that dynamite got shrapnel on the side of his shiny flying thing,” Sheriff John said.
“It was a Huey,” Willodean said. “It wasn’t that shiny, and it’s older than I am. It might be older than you are, John.”
“Call me later,” Miz Demetrice said to Willodean and pecked the younger woman on the cheek. “I shall be making phone calls, so be patient if it’s busy.”
“Thank you, Demetrice,” Willodean said and followed Sheriff John out to his official vehicle.
* * *
As it turned out Bazooka Bob’s was still open at 2:30 a.m., although it wasn’t really open for business. What it really meant was that the doors were unlocked, and women were flocked around the tables avidly listening to a man using a microphone on the stage, and since he wasn’t dancing or half-naked, one might assume that it was for some other reason than exotic dancing. Willodean thought the man looked vaguely familiar, and she perceived he was speaking on the topic of gainful employment. He had all sorts of tips and concerns. Several of the women took notes, and a young man who was plainly a dishwasher was recording the talk on his iPhone. In the meantime, Bam Bam Jones sat in a corner appearing vexed. (He wasn’t taking notes, and his eyebrows were knitted together in a fierce frown.)
Despite the fact that there was no active exotic dancing, there were a few customers who seemed to be just as amused by the impromptu job fair as they would have been by a woman with twirling lemons. However, that might have been because Willodean didn’t care if they were amused.
The first thing she had noticed before Bazooka Bob’s being open was that there was a distinct lack of a 1954 Chevy 3100 truck in residence. She was almost certain there wasn’t going to be one because if Bubba’s phone had died (and it frequently did because he forgot to charge it) he would have used the phone at Bazooka Bob’s to call her. That was an alarming thought. but she stuffed it deep down inside her where it wouldn’t distress her until later when she would have a free minute to fall apart.
They approached Bam Bam, and he looked up with a fresh spurt of
alarm crossing his face. He threw his hands in the air and said, “I dint do it!”
Sheriff John paused. “Dint do what?”
“I dint do…whatever it was that you came for,” Bam Bam said lamely. Willodean wasn’t fooled. Bam Bam had thought for a few moments that Sheriff John and Willodean had come to arrest him for some reason. Some very particular reason.
Willodean put her hand on her service weapon, a fact that Bam Bam did not overlook based on how his eyes followed the path of her hand. “What was Bubba helping you with?” she asked very deliberately.
“I…ah…uh…something personal,” Bam Bam said weakly. “Family matter, you know.”
Sheriff John looked around. “Ya’ll losing all your dancers?”
Bam Bam hesitated and then nodded. “Cain’t keep our heads above water.”
Sheriff John nodded. “Yep, Bob Shufflebottom’s not the most honest of fellas. We’ve had three papers to serve on him this week, excepting that boy abandoned his house. The neighbor said he bought an English/Spanish dictionary and headed out about the time he sold the place to you.”
“Are the financial difficulties the personal matter?” Willodean asked.
Bam Bam hesitated again. “Is your name Earl Gray? Because you be one hot tea,” he said, and it was the puniest tone that Willodean had ever heard and the most recognizable attempt of distraction she’d ever seen.
“Do you know what I can do with mace, Bam Bam?” Willodean asked.
“Oh, you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “You be six months pregnant. Mace cain’t be good for the baby.” He smiled tenuously as if he was trying to impart how friendly and cooperative he was.