by C. L. Bevill
Willodean stared into Agent Peterson’s face. “You and what army, buddy boy?”
* * *
“Department of Homeland Security,” Willodean repeated. They stood in a small group that included Willodean, Sheriff John, Agent Peterson, and Agent Kirk. There was another agent who hadn’t mentioned his name, but that was all right. Willodean recognized him from the previous day as being one of the passengers of the Chevy Tahoe. “What can Bubba possibly have to do with Homeland Security?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” Peterson said, and it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.
“Bubba Snoddy ain’t a terrorist,” Sheriff John stated emphatically. “Ain’t no way. He goes to church almost every Sunday, and he served his country mostly honorably.”
“Mostly,” Kirk sniggered.
Willodean shot the agent a glare. “His record is good,” she said. “It wasn’t a dishonorable discharge.”
“And it wasn’t an honorable one, either,” Kirk snapped.
“I suppose you read that file,” Willodean stated.
“Of course we did.”
“Then you know exactly why he was discharged,” Willodean said, “and it didn’t have anything to do with political disloyalties or affiliations with organizations that seek overthrowing the U.S. government.” She looked around to catch her breath. She hadn’t seen her husband, but she held a makeshift leash for Precious who was nosing the back of her knee while emitting tiny growls in Peterson’s direction.
“We don’t need the local law enforcement’s permission to conduct investigations into matters that are not of your concern,” Peterson said.
“The witness said that Bubba was tasered,” Willodean said, hoping that no one ask who her witness was or even ask why the witness was in the local hospital recovering from an overdose of psychedelic substances. “Was medical evaluation provided? Did the individual resist your arrest? Do you even have a reason that a Taser was utilized?”
“It was better than mace,” Peterson said slyly. “Oh yes, we’ve heard all about you, Deputy. You and your handy mace.”
Willodean’s fingers twitched to show the supercilious man just how effective she was with mace. She studied Peterson with the interest of a large predator. Certainly the agent didn’t appreciate that she was in her deadliest capacity as a wife and impending mother. Threatening Bubba was like threatening everything Willodean held dear. She couldn’t actually shoot Peterson, she couldn’t threaten him, but there were about two dozen other things she could do, and he was blissfully naïve if he thought she couldn’t.
If Willodean glanced over her shoulder, she would see the crowd of people from the Flying W still milling about. They were all hoping for fireworks on the fourth of July, and they might even get lucky.
Willodean stuck her hands in her pockets. The pockets were gray like the metal of Boba Fett’s ensemble just below the red tie belt that was supposed be the red utility belt of the Star Wars character. The chest area was fashioned like Boba Fett’s olive drab breast plate and even the shoulders were yellow and had the Mandalorian skull embellishments on both sides. If Willodean were to pull the hood over her head, then it was a stylized helmet like the Fett’s. The robe had been a gift from Bubba after they’d binged Star Wars one weekend. (From Episode I - The Phantom Menace to Episode VII – The Force Awakens with a brief foray into Rogue One territory.) They’d even made Han Solo encased in carbonite ice cubes for their Star Wars-themed drinks. (Because of Willodean’s pregnancy both had enjoyed virgin versions of drinks like The Force to Dagobah Swamp Juice to a Tatooine Sunset to a Dark Side Martini.)
The point of thinking about her robe was that Willodean wanted Bubba back safe and sound. “This is about the body,” she said.
Peterson perked up.
Willodean took her hands out of the Boba Fett robe pockets and pulled the hood over her head. She might as well take full advantage of the Fett’s effect on other people. “The body at Bazooka Bob’s,” she explained. “The one that disappeared. Witnesses said ‘plumbers’ took it.”
Peterson didn’t say anything.
“Sounds like obstruction of justice right there,” Willodean remarked. She looked at Sheriff John who nodded. “Should have been reported to the local authorities. Should have worked through regular channels. We could have our witness brought over here to identify these ‘plumbers.’ Pretty certain that the judge would like that. She’s the one I mentioned before. She likes to play poker, but she is one of the most fair and impartial judges I’ve ever worked with. She doesn’t have a lot of tolerance for arbitrary bull hockey.”
Peterson rubbed his jaw with one hand. “We’re within our rights to hold individuals for 48 hours,” he said.
“Sure, but I don’t think any statute dealing with Homeland Security says anything about body snatching or tasering or drugging civilians,” Willodean said. She adjusted the Boba Fett robe. “What do you think, John?”
“I think ifin they’ve got a body in that trailer, then they’re in a world of hurt no matter who they work for,” Sheriff John said. He glanced over his shoulder and made a satisfied noise. Willodean followed his glance and saw two other Pegram County cars pull into the parking lot. They were followed by two Pegramville Police Department vehicles. Big Joe clambered out of one. “Look, fellas, more locals.”
“The city police have no pull here,” Peterson snarled.
“They make good witnesses,” Sheriff John said.
“You’re ruining our op,” Peterson snapped. “Don’t you people understand that?”
“I understand that you’re doing something shady,” Willodean said vehemently. “You could have just come to us, and it would have been worked out, but no, you wanted to play super-secret instead.”
“We couldn’t trust that what should have stayed confidential would have remained that way,” Peterson bit out. He waved at the growing audience. Big Joe had ambled up and was listening intently. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
“Bigger than you know,” Willodean said as she saw Miz Demetrice’s Caddy pull up behind the city police cars. She didn’t know who’d made that call. There were a number of distinct possibilities considering how many people were present at the Flying W in the early hours of a Wednesday morning.
“WHERE IS BUBBA?” Miz Demetrice yelled as she exited the vehicle.
“Now you’re in deep kimchi,” Willodean murmured.
* * *
Miz Demetrice Snoddy had been occupied in the proud and glorious work of activism when she had been sidetracked by pesky family business and also business for a friend. (It turned out that the friend business was the most interesting, if not the most precarious.) The previous few weeks had been a honeycomb of activity relating to Bazooka Bob’s. There had been rumors of workers being ill-treated at the gentlemen’s club, as well as lost hours and tales of despicability. She could scarcely believe some of the stories that had come down the pike. Once Bam Bam Jones had purchased the establishment, apparently things had taken a turn for the worse.
Miz Demetrice couldn’t understand why some of the employees stayed considering the rampant tales that had passed through her ears. But of all people, she should have known that not all stories were true. Once she had made several visits emphasizing unionization and better working conditions for all employees from the lowliest dishwasher to the highest paid lemon twirler, she realized that Bam Bam was doing all he could, and the stories were just an ill wind blowing through.
The only bad thing about Bazooka Bob’s was that it was slowly going out of business and that employees would quickly need new jobs. Miz Demetrice couldn’t pour money into B.B.’s, but she knew people who had ties to employment agencies. Joe Bruce, for example, had once given her a ride in his ramshackle Porsche when Bubba had been intent on getting rid of her. Not coincidentally, he’d happened to be a social worker with an employment agency that specialized in retraining and reeducating people who were losing positions to various reasons. (One
never knew when one could use the odd connection to the people one met.)
Since Miz Demetrice’s late husband, Elgin Snoddy, had been an avid attendee at Bazooka Bob’s in its infancy, it gave her a great deal of pleasure to be the arbitrator of its demise. She didn’t want to put Bam Bam in the poorhouse, but he should have been a little cleverer about what he’d invested in.
After Miz Demetrice got well and truly embroiled in finding jobs for the dancers and the other employees (One had already been hired as a teacher’s aide in an elementary school and was pleased to have put that little-used bachelor’s degree in education to use. Miz Demetrice: One. The flawed system of social inadequacy: Zip.) she had heard from her newly minted daughter-in-law.
Bubba hadn’t come home. He’d been last seen at Bazooka Bob’s helping Bam Bam Jones with some as yet unidentified problem. It wasn’t like Bubba. As a matter of fact, it was the diametrically opposite of what Bubba was like.
Willodean had strapped on her Sam Browne belt and gone with Sheriff John. Miz Demetrice started making phone calls. She had a list of numbers of the employees from Bazooka Bob’s, and she was happy to start there. It hadn’t taken her three calls before she traced Bubba to Miz Adelia’s mother’s house. Then her friend had taken with aplomb being woken up for the second time to tell her that Bubba had headed out to Lake Plooey to talk to Ralph Cedarbloom. Finally, the trail had died off with the conversation with one park ranger whose name was, unfortunately for him, Forest Ranger. Ranger Ranger had related the would-be sinking of the In Decent Seas and the hospitalization of one Ralph Cedarbloom. Ranger Ranger related some of Ralph’s stories about men in black and possible alien abduction to Miz Demetrice.
The culmination of that call prompted a call back to Miz Adelia to inform her that her cousin was in the hospital but expected to recover. Miz Demetrice had called her daughter-in-law back but it had rolled over to voicemail.
Then the other calls started coming in. Elvira Evermoss, a bus driver for the Pegramville Public School system, had been illicitly buying a pack of cigarettes from the Flying W because she’d been cut off from buying tobacco from all of the other grocery stores. (Her husband wanted her to quit; she did not want to quit but then she wanted to quit but then she didn’t want to quit and so on.) She’d witnessed Willodean drawing her service gun (possibly a Light Antitank Weapon the size of an elephant gun) on a man who’d kidnapped Bubba Snoddy, thirteen Boy Scouts, an archbishop, and a former U.S. President. So Elvira had called Martha Lyles, an elementary school teacher who not only enjoyed purchasing lottery tickets but who had helped recommend one of the dancers as a teacher’s aide. Martha had called Ruby Mercer, one of the regulars of Thursday night Pokerama or the Pegramville Women’s Club as it was known to the straights. Ruby had told her sister, Alice, who had told her, Bill Clinton, but Bill hadn’t told anyone. In addition, Alice called Stella Lackey who was a woman who tended to lose her dentures at inopportune times. Stella had told her son, Charles, who lived in New Orleans, and then Susan Teasdale, who was an old rival of Miz Demetrice’s. Susan Teasdale had called Miz Demetrice’s cellphone and left a message because Miz Demetrice was on the line with Mary Lou Treadwell, one of the 9-1-1 dispatchers.
Ultimately, Miz Demetrice drove to the Flying W expecting a climatic event involving Godzilla, Islamic terrorists, Greenpeace, a dozen acrobatic cats, and a group of people who supported free love in all its forms. Instead, she found Willodean with Precious at her side, Sheriff John, several men wearing black suits, and a medium-sized crowd of onlookers, but no Bubba.
At that point, Miz Demetrice quite naturally got nervous.
Chapter 20
Miz Demetrice Has a Secret
Wednesday, August 23rd
Ostensibly, Agent Peterson knew when he was beaten because precisely two minutes after Miz Demetrice Snoddy had arrived in the vicinity of the Flying W Truck stop and Grocery, Bubba Snoddy was expelled from the belly of the beast holding a clear plastic baggie of his belongings. Precious bounced down the makeshift stairs after him.
“We’re going to need to talk to you later,” Peterson snarled at Bubba. He glanced meaningfully at Miz Demetrice, who had the good grace to glance meaningfully at the ground, but not before she realized that her son had noticed both meaningful glances and that his jaw had clamped down in a way that would have suggested he might have to visit the dentist later.
“Don’t leave town!” Peterson threw out and slammed the tractor-trailer’s doors shut.
Everyone was silent for a few minutes and then Willodean leapt into Bubba’s arms. Bubba, being a big man took it very well. “There, there,” he said. “They dint torture me or nothing.” He stood there patting Willodean’s head and looking over her shoulder at all of the people watching them including his mother.
Precious wound her way around Bubba’s leg, and he managed to kneel enough to both pet his dog and hold Willodean at the same time.
Miz Demetrice raised her eyebrow eloquently. Another job well done, and she hadn’t even had to threaten the government people with the usual array of lawyers, governmental connections, or media alerts. She had even been prepared to Tweet her displeasure of the situation.
When it was all said and done, Sheriff John, Willodean, and Bubba conferred about possible laws being broken. Miz Demetrice was left comforting Precious, which Precious didn’t like overly because Miz Demetrice didn’t have treats. Most of the crowd realized that the impending implosion had been averted and all was unlikely to regain its entertainment value. Thusly, they returned to the places from where they had come. Truckers went back inside the truck stop and the restaurant. Elvira Evermoss took her cigarette bounty and headed home in her 1968 Chevy Malibu. The two ladies of the evening resumed their “corner,” and Miz Demetrice thought about what it all meant.
About thirty seconds after Bubba had been tossed from the back of the tractor-trailer, David Beathard joined them, stumbling on his high heels as he went down the makeshift stairs. Peterson didn’t tell David not to leave town, but no one took that as an insult.
Willodean took one look at David and asked Bubba, “This is the dancer you were hanging out with?” She didn’t unwrap her arms from around Bubba’s neck, so Miz Demetrice took that to mean that she was far more understanding than she probably should have been.
“David does a fan dance,” Bubba replied weakly. “He’s got a YouTube channel. You know David. I mean, you know him.”
Miz Demetrice had to admit that David looked good in a leather bustier, but his makeup was beginning to droop. She handed over her compact from her purse, and David immediately began to affect repairs. Some of the rhinestones were falling off and what should have been waterproof mascara, wasn’t really waterproof, causing David’s eyes to be ringed with smeared black makeup.
“Show’s over,” Miz Demetrice called to the remaining onlookers. She clapped her hands together and then made hand gestures indicating that they should all shuffle off. “Bubba’s fine. David’s fine. The hound is fine. Them government people will probably leave presently and leave Pegram County to its business. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
“Did she just quote a song?” a trucker asked.
“Yes, but she’s right. I cain’t stay here. Those people in black scare me. I got a load of electronics and who knows what the government will do to those,” another one said before scuttling off. “They could have aliens in there. I heard that Ralph Cedarbloom saw aliens tonight, so I’m headed off for Dallas right now.”
Bubba slowly stood up and carefully disengaged from Willodean, only pausing to kiss her on one of her lovely cheeks. His cornflower blue eyes, which were the exact same color as the ones Miz Demetrice looked at in the mirror every morning, came to rest on her. She quickly said, “Who needs a ride? David? I imagine your Smart car is at Bazooka Bob’s, right? I need some sleep, so let me just give you—”
“Ma,” Bubba rumbled warningly. “You know these people,” he stated carefully.
“I think we need to have a little chatty chat, woman.”
Oh, Miz Demetrice didn’t really like it when Bubba called her “woman.” It implied that she had been bad. (Whether that fact was accurate or not seemed to be a point that she would rather ignore.) “You need to get Willodean home,” she told her only child. “That baby needs rest. Then again, so do you. You look all tuckered in, boy.” If he could call her “woman,” then she could call him “boy.” It was an unspoken rule in the law of the South and of Texas: peeved elderly women could call grown men “boys” and get away with it ad nauseam.
Bubba grunted. “David,” he said, “you okay?”
“I did break a nail,” David said, looking at his fingernails. “Also, did you know that leather chafes? It looks good, to be certain, but I think I’m going to have to be very liberal with baby oil when I get back to Dogley.” Bubba didn’t actually respond but visibly shuddered.
“I’ll give you a lift to your car,” Miz Demetrice reiterated with a last look at her son and his wife.
“So what in seven hells is goin’ on here?” Big Joe asked Sheriff John. “Are those people in there really men in black?”
“Homeland Security,” Sheriff John muttered. “I reckon our homeland ain’t secure.”
“What do you mean by that, John?”
“I mean, I don’t know.”
Miz Demetrice hustled David to her Cadillac before Bubba could think to ask any more questions and counted herself lucky to avoid the issue for the moment. She had best be long gone from the Snoddy Estate when Bubba crawled out of bed later in the day.
* * *
Bubba Has a Respite
Albeit Conditional
Sheriff John drove Bubba, Willodean, and Precious home and dropped them off without saying anything else. Bubba suspected that John Headrick didn’t know what to say. Over the past few years they had dealt with murderers, people after revenge, people out for money, gold, and prestige, and various government entities that had traipsed over the Snoddy Estate and Pegram County willy-nilly, but this was their first encounter with the Department of Homeland Security.