Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “Mr. Mac is in Harrisburg, and maybe the daughter’s home.”

  “A mother-daughter three-way.”

  He returned the box of shock tubes to the truck, along with the rest of the C4. He wasn’t about to leave stolen explosives at the job site, some jackass safety inspector started poking around. He drove out the gate, only pausing for directions from Mr. Mac’s people.

  —o—

  Today Duane and Bugle Boy were set up at the blind curve just before the old coal breaker. It was their best Revenue Enhancement Location; not only was there a half mile straight-away, clearly posted at 35 MPH, but the stretch of road was also right off the I-81, and anyone traveling at seventy miles an miles an hour would just naturally keep it there, fifty feeling like a snail’s pace in comparison.

  Or so Duane had learned over the past six months, aiming the radar gun at anyone unfamiliar with this particular stretch of country road. Not that there were all that many, as most travelers turned right, toward Wellville, where things still happened.

  The first day they’d partnered out here, he explained to Bugle Boy, the fines go up by what the Traffic Code called an ‘Exponential Differential’. He didn’t expect his partner, expert as he might be in the ways of big cities in general, and airports in particular, to understand rural law enforcement, so he put it in the same terms he’d used when LuAnn asked what was so important about manning a speed trap.

  “Exponential means I nail some sucker doing fifty, it’s ninety bucks. Clock him at seventy, it goes up to a hunnert-forty. Half of which goes direct to the Shaleville Police, for Operational Expenses. Which includes my salary.” Bringing the explanation directly into her wheelhouse, he added, “Pays the bills around here?”

  Not that his partner gave a doggie diamond, money being a foreign concept to a dog, unless it involved the scent of cocaine, explosives, or a kidnap victim.

  Duane’s partner understood kibbles, Little Debbie cakes, and—against the rules and regulations governing the Care and Maintenance of K-9 Operatives —any leftovers Duane slipped his partner at the dinner table. Or the occasional can of Old Milwaukee, poured into the backyard birdbath, when LuAnn ain’t looking.

  As Duane lowered his window and set up the Decatur GVP directional gun, Bugle Boy put a big paw on his own window switch, and began sampling the rural air, an atmosphere filled with olfactory molecules entirely different from the ones he was trained to detect.

  A deer browsed a hundred feet off the road. A skunk had been startled last night, and someone was burning garbage. Pork chops and potatoes, fried in peanut oil; Bugle Boy remembered the distinctive aroma, from the kitchen down in Glenco, Georgia, where he and the TSA handlers spent the summer at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, learning the strange ways of the U.S. Government.

  There he would deploy his sad, saggy eyes to cajole tidbits from the female cooks, while the handlers were off on their ‘smoke break’, often as not clogging their nasal chambers with something other than Kentucky burley.

  He liked it out here in the middle of nowhere, with poor, dumb Duane. Nattering away as usual, as though this son of a bitch understood him. The bitch being Mom, otherwise known as Ch. Barberry Hill Bootlegger, Dog rest her dyslexic soul.

  The purebred bloodhound had learned simple commands, and acquired more, living with Duane and LuAnn. He also had a dictionary filled with thousands of olfactory identifiers, and was adding new ones daily, out here in the middle of nowhere.

  The lack of excitement on this job was such that Bugle tended to repeat himself, out here in the middle of nowhere, with poor, dumb Duane, and he usually passed the shift contemplating the vagaries of the human condition.

  Like Duane’s wife, LuAnn. Her obvious jealousy of Bugle Boy wasn’t helped by Duane’s ignorance of her fecundity. The woman was about to come in season, as the females of her species frequently did, and dumb-ass Duane hadn’t a clue.

  Didn’t know it was time to do his duty, mount the bitch, start Duane Junior on the long and complicated voyage from vagina to womb, then back to birth canal, resulting in a squalling, pink, hairless creature that all too soon would be pulling Bugle’s magnificent ears, poking stubby little fingers into his eyes, crawling around the kitchen, and eating his kibbles.

  Humans. You gotta love ‘em; it has been several hundred thousand years since they were considered fair game.

  Bugle Boy yawned, wide and loud, let a small fart slip out unnoticed, until Duane caught a whiff, said, “Dang, Buge, LuAnn been sneaking you burritos again?”

  Oh, gee, Duane, you can smell my farts, but can’t tell when your own wife is ready to party. Maybe tonight I’ll give you demonstration on how it’s done. They don’t call it ‘doggie style’ for nothing.

  Duane had an eye on the radar gun, but his mind was elsewhere. Thinking about LuAnn’s breakfast ultimatum, the same one she tossed on the table about once a week. The ‘either he goes or I do’ rant. It seemed that yesterday her momma had used some frequent flyer miles to haul her fat ass from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania, surprise her only daughter, and find out why, three years into the marriage, she wasn’t a grandma, is that boy shooting blanks?

  The way LuAnn told it, it was all Buge’s fault, her mother getting his partner excited had nothing to do with it. Momma was in Duane’s recliner, and she snapped her fingers at the dog, telling her daughter and Mildred, the neighbor lady, they had a man down home raised bloodhounds, sold ‘em to the government for sniffing out dead bodies and such, and this here hound might well be one of ‘em.

  And Bugle Boy came over to Momma, who grabbed his ears, pulled him between her legs. His damp nose was enveloped by the fabric of her tent dress as she said, “Ain’t that the cutest thing you ever seen? Looky there, I jigger his ears, and his hind leg comes up, scratching.”

  Mildred noticed his leg wasn’t the only thing coming up, and grinning from ear to ear, she nudged Luann in the ribs as they watched a penis as red as her favorite Scarlet O’Hara lipstick slide from its sheath, then grow to truly impressive proportions.

  The dog made muffled noises beneath her mother’s dress. LuAnn rose, as red as the dog’s business, and seized Bugle Boy by the collar and pulled him away, before the damn dog could hump her mother’s leg.

  Duane wondered, could a dog be named third party in a divorce?

  Chapter Ten

  Spider swung his pickup into the farm lane, searching for the red car. Didn’t see it. Just as well; sex with the daughter would be too much like a gym session.

  “Might get hurt, dislocate something.”

  “Bet she likes to ride the stallion.”

  “Use the whip, coming down the home stretch.”

  “With momma goin' for a mustache ride on the other end.”

  “Be something to remember, rest of your life.”

  “Which could be pretty short, Mr. Mac walks in on the three of us. Think about that.”

  “Yeah, but what a way to go. And here she comes.”

  “Morning, Ms. Poitrine.”

  Honey had second thoughts about greeting him in the shower. She'd hold that trump card for a time when she needed it. After Mac slipped the ring on her finger she'd never had sex with anyone but her husband. Oral didn't count; a certain president laid down the marker on that.

  “Spider! Thanks for coming so quickly. I’m at my wit’s end; I have to go to New York, there’s a million things to do before Governor Heftshank's arrival on Friday, and Mac just blithely drove away, leaving me with a flat tire.

  “He said call Spider, as though you don’t have enough on your plate. Besides, there are some things a husband should take care of, not delegate to strangers.” Honey moved inside Spider’s personal space, added, “Although I hope we won’t be strangers, after today.”

  Personal space means different things to different people in different cultures. In the subway at rush hour personal space is what’s inside your head, since outside it’s too small to slip a credit card between you and the clo
sest stranger.

  On the Mongolian Steppes it’s measured in miles; one of the reasons there are so few Mongolians. But usually personal space is the polite few feet civilized adults unconsciously maintain, whenever two or three are gathered together.

  Honey had discovered the power of personal space at Twirling Camp, eighth grade, the summer she got her bumps. She’d move a scant two or three inches too close, and see what happened.

  If the guy—it was always a guy with Honey—backed off, she knew she could dominate him. Because she made him nervous. Pretty girls have that effect. So do beautiful women, in spades.

  If the guy took her invasion as a subtle invitation for intimacy, future promises of untold debauchery, so much the better.

  Because she also discovered the fastest way to get rid of an unwanted suitor was to whisper in his ear, “I bet you’re hung like a horse.” Voicing such extravagant expectations instantly cooled their ardor. No man would suffer the embarrassment of producing something less than spectacular, disappoint the lady. Or worse, have to endure the gay tinkle of feminine laughter.

  Honey knew, from both sorority gossip and personal research, the average penis was five and a half inches. Given the number of eight and ten inch mammoths she’d seen in Beau's videos, ‘weenie’ was an accurate description of any male member she was likely to encounter.

  But a few males were cut from less civilized cloth, and she sensed Spider was one. Mention horses to him, and he’d probably unzip, produce the evidence for her to judge. She would have to play this one, as Daddy used to say, ‘like a twenty pound catfish on ten pound line’.

  True to form, instead of backing off, Spider also advanced. He grinned, his face now six inches from hers. “Things are getting hot enough that I smell smoke.”

  It was Honey who backed away, not ready to play with fire. She pointed at the ridge. “Our crazy hired man is pruning the apple trees. Mac has a nutty idea of his own, rejuvenating the old orchard. I’d just as soon have them bulldozed out, plant the hillside in wildflowers, for the nuanced ambience. But I’m not about to learn how to drive the ‘dozer, and my daughter agrees with her stepfather.”

  Spider liked the scent of this woman, felt her heat. And thought of a way to hang around for a bit, see if anything developed. “Shit, er, shoot, I could mix up a batch of ANFO, and lift them old trees right out, like a bad tooth.”

  “ANFO?”

  “Ammonium Nitrate and Fuel Oil. Farmer’s dynamite. It’s basically your garden fertilizer and diesel fuel. What that fella used in Oklahoma City, take down the federal building. I could run out to Farmer’s Supply, pick up a few sacks, have them trees in a heap by the time you're back from New York.”

  “Why can’t you just use some of your grandmother’s clothesline?”

  Spider wondered if she was playing dumb blonde with him. Gettin' all womanish on him, so he'll thump his chest. ”Detcord is what we call an ‘initiator’. It sets off the blast. Like the starter motor on your car? And the RDX I’m using at the Iron Works ain’t the best explosive for taking out your trees. For that I’d want good old ANFO, same stuff they use in quarries to break up rock.

  “Got brisance. That's what us experts call the detonation pressure of the shock wave.” Maybe just a small chest thump; showin' off in front of a chest like hers just comes natural.

  “Well I hope you know what you’re talking about, because I certainly don’t. If you can get those trees out before Mac gets home, then I’ll be a happy camper.”

  Fighting over the flat tire, and feeling vindictive over The Kiss, Honey moved into Spider's space again, hinted at possible pleasures. “And a most appreciative one.”

  It would serve Mac right, Honey told herself, if his stupid trees were gone. Wouldn’t have happened, if he let her have Mag’s car, instead of stealing it himself.

  Suddenly she realized there might be repercussions from her 911 call. No, probably not, the police would contact her, and she’d just say it was all a mistake. She touched Spider's cheek. “Do it,” she decisively said.

  While Spider was changing her tire Honey was deciding what to wear to New York. On the one hand, she would be spending hours at the spa on Lexington Avenue, and comfort was a prime consideration. Nothing should trespass upon the sybaritic pleasures of depilation, exfoliation, and dermabrasion. Of course many of the treatments include a robe, a linen sheet with high thread count, or nothing at all.

  But entering and leaving the well-known spa meant running the gauntlet of lurking paparazzi, just waiting for a glimpse of someone important. As a celebrity in her own mind, she had certain personal standards to maintain.

  And then there's Gallery 401. Luigi was Italian, and quite fashion forward, so she didn’t want him to think her a hick from the sticks, just because her name was Honey Poitrine, and the bills were sent to—shudder—a rural Wilkes-Barre address.

  One of her Versace dresses would work. With the new watered silk Hermes scarf. She didn’t see it in her closet; one would think Rosetta, as a European, would know to hang the Italians with the French.

  Come to think of it, Mags had been wearing some of her things. Mostly scarves, and worn in an entirely inappropriate fashion. They cost a fortune, and should be displayed, preferably off the shoulder, with maximum yardage shown. Certainly not twisted and knotted and wrapped around the head in some gangsta statement. She wondered what Mags wore for her trip to Washington. Probably that awful thrift-shop suit she calls her Ellen DeGeneres Look. The child doesn't even own a dress.

  She left her walk-in closet, and headed down the hall, to Mag’s disaster of a room. Posters taped to the walls, clothing haphazardly tossed across furniture, not a padded hanger in sight.

  There it was, shrouding a thrift-shop lava lamp, casting slow motion patterns on the ceiling, like some Lucy in the Skies acid trip. Honey experienced a deja vu chill, and turned away.

  She noticed a rather odd little wooden box on the dresser, its carved lid resembling—she blushed at the thought. No, it's a flower, a replica of the O’Keefe above the bed. At least Mags had inherited her mother’s appreciation for art, although Luigi says most Southwest art, and all floral art is passé. Unless you're collecting Erté and Dali, as he suggested, for the investment potential. As if. She’d once been bitten by the Franklin Mint, and was twice shy.

  Honey picked up the box, turned it over, looking for the made in China sticker. The lid fell off, and a key dropped out. A safe deposit key, a twin to the one in her own jewelry box. What could Mags possibly have that needs the security—or privacy—of a bank vault?

  She carried her scarf and the key back to the master suite, now her domain alone, since the past year Mac had been up and out at the crack of dawn, dealing with the demolition project.

  Honey said she needed her sleep, and he moved into the bedroom across the hall from her daughter. A room with horsehair plaster and pegged floors; the claustrophobic space reminded her of the monastery she and Beau toured on their three-day honeymoon in Ciudad Juarez. For a wealthy man, Mac still clung to his less is more philosophy.

  When she had asked him what the hell that meant, he told her about some European architect and the concept of Minimalist Design. Ikea chairs, and Scandinavian silverware. Less is more sounded like a rationalization for being poor, and Honey wanted no part of it. Although Shaker furniture was highly collectable.

  She shrugged off her robe and examined herself in the triple mirror. The halogen spotlights were unforgiving, and every flaw on her naked body screamed for attention. Fortunately, mirror, mirror-on-the-wall said the flaws were few, and no sags serious enough to even contemplate surgery, although her laugh lines could use another Botox touch-up. She recalled an aging actress saying entropy is a bitch. Or was it gravity?

  Good genes will tell, she told herself, and decided to cancel her spa day. Oversize dark glasses and a head scarf would add a touch of Hollywood mystery when she and Governor Heftshank pressed a button. Hair and nails could wait.

 
Instead, she would go back to the bank, and snoop in her daughter’s life. Maybe get a hint at what the odd T-shirts are all about; what the heck is a Vagitarian? Mags eats the same food we do; she even helps Rosetta in the kitchen, practicing her high school Spanish.

  Honey turned the shower on, glanced out the window, while she waited for hot water. Spider had his shirt off, and was unscrewing her tire. A man of many talents. Like smoking A-rabs with a SAW. She stepped into the shower.

  —o—

  Duane turned away from the radar screen, and studied Bugle Boy, wondering if he and LuAnn do split up, would the bloodhound increase his chances on the open market. Them high school girls hangin' at the Taste-e-Freeze sure made a fuss, every time we stopped by. Maybe—

  A blast of air rocked the vehicle, and Duane jerked his eyes back to the road in time to see a red streak flash past. The radar screen showed a 78.

  “Damn, Buge! That’s either one of them UFOs, or someone’s road testing for the Pocono 500.” He hit the lights, siren and dashboard camera, took off in hot pursuit.

  Mac saw flashing lights in the rear view the same instant he heard the siren. Well, that's the end of Harrisburg, he realized, and pulled onto a weedy gravel area in the shadow of an enormous derelict building. It reminded Mac of the relic he was tearing down.

  The structure blocked the sun, with its vast walls punctuated with broken windows, sky-scraping conveyors, and rusting coal hoppers.

  He realized it must be the famous breaker, and saw a way to get back on the road without a ticket, and with enough time to still make it to the state capitol. He popped open the glove box, searching for the owner’s card.

  While the cop was studying the license and registration, Mac wondered which state bureaucracy would most likely be in charge of coal breakers. EPA? Coal dust is a hazard; isn’t that what causes black lung? Maybe he'll try the Office of Mine Safety, if there is such a thing. If they were breaking coal, there must be a mine close by. The cop broke his train of thought.