by C. L. Bevill
Bubba got a cup of tea for Willodean and a glass of milk for himself. He also paused to feed Precious a can of Blue Buffalo Mom’s Chicken Pie. Because he wasn’t actually willing to sample it, he didn’t know if the canned dog food truly tasted like Mom’s chicken pie, but Precious seemed to like it.
Willodean went to put her Sam Browne belt with its assorted weapons in her gun safe. When she came back down, she sat at the kitchen table and sipped her tea. Bubba drank his milk, and Precious finished her wet food. Everything was remarkably quiet except the sound of the hound licking the bottom of her dish.
“So you weren’t kidding when you said there was a dead body,” she said after a while.
“No.” Bubba could have filled in the blanks, but there wasn’t much that he thought he could say. After all, he could A) Blame it on Bam Bam for luring him in with a lone female in a broken down car in need of assistance, who deliberately left her clutch in his cab, B) Blame it on Bam Bam for making Bubba promise to give him 48 whole hours, or C) Blame it on Bam Bam for simply being Bam Bam. None of the three choices of blame made Bubba sound any better of a person.
“I guess you didn’t want to be that person who found another body,” Willodean said. She eyed her tea and then pushed the half-empty cup away from her.
“No, I dint want that,” Bubba said. That was certainly the truth.
“Then the body disappeared.”
“Them gov’ment folks took it.”
Willodean tapped the table. “I’m not angry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m not angry. I think it’s because I know deep inside that you didn’t do this on purpose. It sounds like Bam Bam sucked you in. I’m a little mad at him.”
Bubba covered her hand with his. “I made a few poor decisions yesterday. He’ping someone wasn’t one of ‘em.”
Willodean pursed her lips. “I’m tired. I expect you’re tired, too. Precious is tired. Let’s go to bed. We’ll all be able to talk about this in the morning, er, later today.”
“Still someone’s dead body is about,” Bubba said.
“Yeah, well, we can’t help him, can we?”
“No, cain’t.” Bubba stood up and put the cup and glass in the sink. “Ma knows something. I expect we’ll need to figure this out.”
Willodean smiled at him. A magnificent ray of sun shone through the murk and focused on her lovely head, highlighting her black hair and wondrous green eyes. She blinked and said, “I wish the sun would have come up a few minutes later.”
Bubba sighed gustily. “The sun shines on you 24 hours a day, darlin’.”
* * *
Later that day, Bubba didn’t even have to call in to his job to explain his absence. While he had snoozed next to his wife, Gideon Culpepper had left a message on the answering machine along with twenty-three other people. Gideon’s was the most interesting, however, in that he told Bubba to stay away from the garage until the latest mess was cleared up.
“…I like you, Bubba,” Gideon had said, “but dead bodies seem to collect around you, and we don’t need none of them at the garage. Just take the week off, and we’ll figure out what’s what next week. You know, for when after they’ve arrested you and released you and then there ain’t no more corpses. The way it usually goes.”
There was an abrupt click that indicated that Gideon had hung up instead of saying goodbye.
“I figure one of these days Gideon is goin’ to fire me because I found another dead body,” Bubba remarked to Willodean. She sat in the easy chair and rubbed her belly. She wore a fresh set of pajamas and her best Spongebob Squarepants robe with matching slippers. It was after lunch and both were quietly enjoying a post meal moment of circumspection.
“I think you could sue him for that,” Willodean said. “Also you could start your own garage. Gideon could use some competition.”
Bubba shrugged. “I’d have to do paperwork and such.” He didn’t like paperwork and such. He figured that no one liked paperwork and such, but since they had to do it, they simply did it, but it didn’t mean he had to do it.
Willodean leaned to one side and pulled the curtains from the window to peer outside. “Your mama hauled out of here about 8 a.m.,” she said, “like her tushie was on fire and the nearest water was a thousand miles away. Her Caddy isn’t back, yet.”
“I reckon Ma don’t want to spill her beans.” Whatever those beans happened to be.
“So what’s next?”
“Figure out this story,” Bubba said simply. “Someone kilt that man in Bam Bam’s club. That fella, Peterson, thought it was me, so I guess that means they dint do it.”
“What was the dead guy doing there?”
“He looked enough like Bam Bam to be his twin brother,” Bubba said. “Bam Bam said he was adopted, so I think he was his brother. I’m throwing stuff out here, but I think it was coincidence that something the Department of Homeland Security was interested in led that fella to Bam Bam. He tole Bam Bam that he was in danger and that he needed to talk to him.”
“What was his name again?”
“John J. Johnson the Third,” Bubba said.
“Sounds made up, and who would adopt a child and then name him the Third?”
“Mebe they added the Third so people wouldn’t think it was made up.” Of course, John J. Johnson’s family could have had twins and then given up only Bam Bam, which was depressing at the very best.
“So you think it was coincidence that led Johnson to Bam Bam and then what happened?”
“Someone kilt him, right there in the club,” Bubba said. He listened to a few more messages. One was Roy Chance who was the local newspaper editor. Bubba suspected that Roy wanted to chat less about the occurrences of the previous evening and more about how Bubba didn’t really see him at Bazooka Bob’s. That message was followed by one from a TV reporter from Dallas who wanted to know about certain rumors. Apparently, enough people had started tweeting and FBing to make the media take notice that something weird was happening in Pegram County again. A third message was from a former FBI agent who’d fallen in a hole and broken her ankle. Former Agent Hornbuckle wanted to know if Bubba could talk to Miz Demetrice about getting permission to hunt on the property for the missing gold as Hornbuckle had just obtained a new map of the location.
“Who’s selling maps?” Bubba snarled. “I’m goin’ to kick their butts so hard their grandchildren will feel it.”
Willodean put both hands on her belly. “That thing will die down soon enough.”
“You taking today off?” Bubba asked and shoved the answering machine away from him. It was old, and it didn’t say anything he wanted to hear. Supposedly he was to use his cellphone all the time and get rid of the landline, but he couldn’t bring himself to take that step yet.
“John said I should before my blood pressure caused me to have a stroke,” Willodean said mildly.
“Have you taken your medicine?” Bubba asked immediately. “Have you checked it with that machine Doc Goodjoint sent home?”
“Yes, and yes, it’s fine.”
Bubba sat on the floor next to Willodean’s feet and took one in his hands pulling the pant leg up to examine her ankles. “Ain’t swollen now.”
“That’s mostly at the end of the day,” she said.
Precious scampered down the hallway and bayed at the front door.
“That’s just like a doorbell,” Willodean said. “I love Precious.”
Bubba glowered. “I dint hear a car.” He got to his feet and peered out the same window she’d looked through. “Could be treasure hunters in the woods or mebe it’s them gov’ment men again.” Then he straightened up. Something had suddenly occurred to him. “How did John J. Johnson the Third get to the club?”
“What?”
“Bam Bam said the parking lot was empty except for his car and one car that was broken down,” Bubba said. “That means that someone dropped Johnson off or he walked, right?”
Willodean shrugged. “There isn’t much around Bazook
a Bob’s which was why Bob Shufflebottom picked that location. No churches or schools or anything else to protest him putting a strip club there.”
“I guess,” Bubba agreed absently, “but seems like something I ought to know, or Peterson ought to know.”
“If Peterson knew that Johnson was going to the club, that is,” Willodean said. “We don’t know that at all. Maybe that’s why Peterson is so intent on this.”
“I think something’s about to happen,” Bubba said. “Don’t like it much, but Homeland Security does mostly work against…”
“Domestic terrorism,” Willodean answered. “The Patriot and Freedom Acts at work.”
“Is that why the phone’s bin clicking?”
“That would be the NSA or possibly your mother,” Willodean said with a smile.
Bubba craned his neck. “Best to git dressed and see what’s outside.”
“Do I have to get dressed? I liked going around in my jammies yesterday,” she said.
“I liked you in your jammies, too,” Bubba said leeringly. He leaned down to kiss her. “I’ll git dressed and be back in a few minutes as soon as Precious and I scare whoever off.”
“I should probably get my gun,” Willodean said and considered, adding, “also my mace.”
Bubba laughed as he took the stairs three at a time. Two minutes later he was wearing jeans and his favorite “Bun in the Oven” shirt with the arrow on it. He cleaned everything out of the plastic baggie the agents from Homeland Security had put his stuff into, sticking everything in his pockets without paying much attention to them. The last item in the baggie was his cellphone. He shoved the phone into a pocket, hoping it wasn’t out of juice because he’d forgotten to charge it.
A minute later, he called to his wife, “Ifin I don’t come back, it’s because aliens got me.”
“That isn’t funny,” Willodean called back. “Maybe just a little.”
Precious bounded behind Bubba, happy to be outside with her master, happy to be on their way to somewhere.
Bubba’s face wrinkled as he realized Ol’ Green was absent. It was likely still sitting in the parking lot at Lake Plooey, and hopefully no one had taken the wood out of the bed. If he had the rest of the week off, then he could truly get a head start on that crib. He’d have to get a ride to the lake to pick it up, though.
He looked around, scanning the vicinity for intruders, interlopers, murderers, government people, or aliens, and found nothing alarming.
Precious froze for a moment and slowly started stalking toward one of the back buildings. Bubba watched for a moment and followed. Someone was hiding back there, and he suspected that no matter who it was, he wasn’t going to be happy.
As it turned out, it wasn’t just one person, but three, and no, Bubba was not happy.
Chapter 21
Bubba and the Three
Nefarious Nincompoops
Wednesday, August 23rd
With a great thud, Bubba threw open the outbuilding’s doors and stared inside. (It was originally meant to be a barn, and sometimes it was used as a barn, but mostly it was used for this, that, and the other, like the storage of the three table saws that he meant to try out in his attempt to make a baby crib. Also stored there were three moldering bales of hay, an outboard motor, a broken canoe, a wicker peacock chair, a battered brass diving suit (Bubba didn’t have a clue where that one had come from), and a stuffed moose head (which had likely appeared with the brass diving suit).
And there were three men as well, all trying to hide behind things and failing spectacularly.
Bam Bam Jones held the stuffed moose head in front of his face and pretended that most stuffed moose heads were generally held by medium tall African American men wearing Yankees jackets and leather pants with blue knee-high boots. (Haven’t you seen that before? Apparently, it’s frequently done in other parts of the world.)
David Beathard had slid behind the peacock chair but peeped out showing his strawberry-colored wig and bejeweled eyelashes. His barely covered butt stuck out on the other side of the chair.
Finally, Daniel Lewis Gollihugh had managed to conceal two-thirds of his seven-foot-tall body behind the three moldering bales of hay, which was an accomplishment that should have been celebrated. He’d ducked his head down and covered it with his arms before he moved one to see who had thrown open the doors.
Precious growled for about ten seconds before Bubba said, “Hush.”
No one moved.
“I kin see all of you,” Bubba said. “Don’t need glasses yet.” Yet, but every time my eyes cross I figure I’m doin’ damage to them, and crossing my eyes happens more and more these days.
Bam Bam put the stuffed moose head down with a great thump. Bubba was mildly surprised that stuffing didn’t explode out from the head. “Good thing, too,” Bam Bam said. “That bad boy was getting right heavy.”
David stepped out from behind the peacock chair. Bubba saw that David had changed from the leather bustier into a strapless mini-dress that was equal parts red, blue, and purple blobs of color. Matching high heels were worn on his manly sized feet, and fishnet stockings covered his legs. Bubba would have made a noise if his throat hadn’t suddenly closed up with the shock of it all. Goin’ to need some kind of cleanser for my eyes, he thought, and very deliberately looked at the last member of the trio.
Dan leaned up, up, and up and grinned wryly, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Sorry, Bubba,” he offered. “Bam Bam done tole us there were federal peoples about. We parked on the back road and walked in, but then we heard someone fussing about in the trees, and we ducked in here. We thought it was the gov’ment, and well, I don’t think they’re interested in me excepting my parole officer has bin acting a little weird lately, but I cain’t afford to not be cautious. Them folks just don’t understand that I’m a Buddhist now, and I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Plus, I knew you’d have something good to et. Mebe a little ham sammich? You done recall I don’t et nothing what has a face. Ham don’t have a face, am I right? And cheese, American is processed, so I know it don’t have a face and plenty of mayonnaise, because it’s made of…what is mayonnaise made of?”
“Oil,” David said. “Oil and eggs.”
“Well, there you go,” Dan said. “Ain’t no face on an egg. It’s just an egg. Plain, slightly rounded surface without eyes, nose, or a mouth. Ain’t that the truth? Buddha wouldn’t have a problem with that. Purt shore.”
“How did you know about the back road?” Bubba asked suspiciously.
“That came up around the time the film was being shot,” Bam Bam said proudly. “That fella you all hired to paint the house used to use it to avoid the DEA. He done tole me about it. Handy road, but I think I scratched one side of the Gremlin on a fallen tree. You should take care of that tree.”
It’s three half-baked stooges, Bubba realized. And they’ve come to haunt me in perpetuity. “Do you know that them fellas from the gov’ment took me in last night and questioned me at length about John J. Johnson the Third and some other things I don’t know diddly squat about?”
Bam Bam scratched his chin. “I might have heard tell about that.”
“It was on Facebook,” Dan added helpfully. “Did you know there’s a ‘What’s Going to Happen to Bubba Next?’ page? There are over five thousand likes. Might have gotten two hundred since yesterday.”
“Is there a ‘Please Stop Explaining to Me?’ page?” Bubba asked.
“No,” Dan replied with obvious confusion. “Why would there be a page like that?”
“Seriously Bam Bam, did you know about those gov’ment people?”
“Well, David might have mentioned a little bit of it,” Bam Bam allowed.
“You know I was there last night and this morning, Bubba,” David said. “I had those plastic wrist cuffs on. I broke a nail. I got a run in my hose, too. Those kind of stockings are ruined if you even get a little run in them.”
“Did they taser you, David? Did they drug you?”
<
br /> “Call me Snuggles,” David said, and both Dan and Bam Bam chuckled. They both stopped immediately when Bubba looked at them darkly.
“No, I dint know about them government fellas,” Bam Bam said. “Since this all happened, I think you’re right. My brother must have bin one of them. Mebe he knew that my place was about to be hit by them, and came to warn me.”
“That’s a stretch,” Dan said. “I mean, you said that dead fella was from Washington, D.C., and this is rural Texas. Don’t get much more rural than Pegram County. That’s a mighty big coinkydink, my non-Buddhist friend.”
Bam Bam made a face.
“What questions did they ask you, David?” Bubba asked.
“Not much,” David said. “They were too busy with you to pay much attention to me. I think they knew that I wasn’t exactly in the know. How would they know that? I’m not certain if I knew that. Do I know that? Wait, I’m confused.”
“They knew who you were,” Bubba said. “David Beathard, recent resident of the Dogley Institute of Mental Well-Being, not Snuggles Palomino, exotic fan dancer.”
“Fan dancer?” Dan repeated thoughtfully. He eyed David. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the figure for it. My ex-wife, Dreama, was an exotic dancer. She had this thing with a dozen coconuts, a can of lighter fluid, and five fire extinguishers.” His eyes went misty. “Too bad she divorced me for that fella from the circus.”
“I thought you were married to Trixiebelle,” David said.
“I was married to Trixiebelle and then we got divorced and then we got remarried,” Dan said. “She’s up to Dallas visiting her sister, so I got a bit of time on my hands. Don’t you dare tell her what I said about Dreama.”
“Cross my heart,” David said.