“What’s that for?”
“One hour parking zone.”
“I’m changing a flat tire here.”
“Looks like you got a windshield violation going on too.” The deputy scribbled in his ticket book. “State law says you can’t have no cracks in your windshield.” Before Taco Bob could protest, the deputy’s radio came to life with a scratchy voice saying something in cop code. The deputy looked surprised.
“Got a 947-13 coming in. That’s a suspected case of Mad Possum Disease. We ain’t had one of those since the blackened possum craze. Something like that could be mighty bad news for the possum industry in these parts. I better get right on it.”
The deputy took a quick check of his watch.
“Soon as I have lunch and get my hair cut, that is. They’re having a big barbeque this afternoon out at the Kracker place. I heard Buck’s going to invite that hot realtor gal.”
Deputy Raddick then jumped in his patrol car and roared off in a cloud of dust.
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
17
Badlands
Taco Bob’s thoughts were low, cold, and dark as he drove out of town. The lug wrench had slipped while putting on the spare tire, so he had some bruised knuckles to take his mind off his problems a little.
“Well, at least things can’t get no worse.” – which was when he noticed the Daltons following him. “I got to remember not to say that anymore.”
A quick right turn down a muddy side road, then a left onto a dusty valley trail gave Taco Bob a little breathing room. The pick-up flew along the bumpy road while he looked over the scrub and rock formations.
“I got some breeze – needs to be on the right.”
He saw a likely place and turned hard. The truck barely fit behind the rocks and brush, but it did, and the wind blew the dust cloud away before the Daltons came tearing down the trail and right on past.
When Taco Bob turned back around, there was an old Indian man standing up in front of the truck. Taco Bob jumped back in his seat when he saw the old man. He had no idea how he’d missed hitting him or what someone was doing out there miles from anything. The old guy was hitching up his pants.
“Getting so a man can’t take a crap in peace around here anymore.”
“Sorry about that, partner. I didn’t expect there’d be anyone out here.”
The old man finished fastening his pants, came over to the truck window, and gave a look with penetrating eyes under deep brows that made Taco Bob think of a hawk. The old guy’s voice made him think of gravel.
“They’re coming back. You should cover those tire tracks you left by the road quickly.” Taco Bob was going to have to think about all this. “They have guns and you must hurry.” That was enough thinking.
Taco Bob sprang out of the truck and took the offered wad of dried scrub to brush out his tracks. Just as he got back to the truck, he heard the car coming slowly, looking. He held his breath until they were past.
Both men stood by the side of the truck.
“You’re the old Indian fella who walks through town going out to the mountains. Folks don’t talk about you much, but the ones who do think you’re a medicine man or shaman or something.”
The old man rolled his eyes.
“I’m just an old man who likes to walk – maybe find a few things to put in my sack.”
“What kind of things you putting in your sack?”
“Just some herbs, sometimes datura or peyote.” He shrugged, letting Taco Bob know it was no big thing.
“So you’re going out into the desert mountains alone, at night, and gathering up some of the most powerful mind-altering drugs known to man?”
The old man’s eyes had gone soft, but there was a brief flash again of the predatory eyes.
“Hey, I’m just an old man. What’s the harm if I get a little fucked up once in a while? It’s not like I drive a bus or the space shuttle. Besides, the little drugs are my friends, they teach my body how to stretch.” To demonstrate, the old man raised his arms over his head and stretched so hard his body shook and his joints cracked. Then he stood with feet spread like he was expecting an earthquake. He looked formidable for an old man.
Taco Bob took a step back. “I reckon.”
“And sometimes I trade my little friends for tobacco at the store in town. You don’t have any tobacco, do you?”
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
The strange old man smiled pleasantly and stroked the air like he was petting an invisible dog. Then he leaned down like he was whispering in the dog’s ear. The invisible dog must have said something funny, because the old man stifled a laugh.
“You got an invisible friend or you just practicing your Crazy Indian routine for getting rid of pesky gringos?”
The old man looked up slowly and tilted his head like he’d just noticed the possum rancher for the first time.
“You have captured me, so I will give you a gift, and then perhaps you will set me free.”
Taco Bob started to say something, but the old man raised his hand to cut him off.
“I am a poor man, all I have is words, so I give you these: We are only men. Men have only the journey and death. But we can sometimes make the journey easier if we are ready to seize a moment of chance when it comes within our grasp. What is a moment of chance? You are having one now.” The old man winked.
“We should each be able to recognize when a small gift can actually do some good – know when a little money given will go a long way or a kind word at the right time can make a real difference. Small gifts are often more helpful than big ones. I call it having a gesture with mankind.”
The old man smiled a sad but friendly smile. Taco Bob just stood there, not sure what to say.
“I reckon I should be going. Nice talking with you, and thanks for the help and advice. Can I give you a lift somewhere?” The old man looked at the truck.
“No, thanks. My grandfather told me riding in cars gives you cancer.”
Taco Bob started his truck and backed out. He looked over and saw the old man pick up his coat and staff. The truck’s front tire had been parked on top of them.
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
18
Down on the Ranch
When he got back to the ranch, Taco Bob was still in a bit of a daze from his meeting with the weird old Indian. He couldn’t help but notice the sign for ‘Free Samples’ by the front gate, and the wooden shipping crate as big as a truck propped up on one end with a stout post. Closer inspection showed the crate didn’t have a bottom, and the rope coming off the post made it look like a giant trap, like the kind from a Roadrunner cartoon.
“What is the world are those boys up to now?”
As he drove by he could see two chairs next to a small table full of food up under the crate. Taco Bob parked his pickup and went inside the ranch house to see what was up.
Since it was late afternoon, the ranch hands were all awake and several were sprawled, reclined, or perched just outside the kitchen. Even with ranch revenues hurting, Hop still managed to come up with plenty of food for the boys, though mainly variations of possum and rice.
Smith and Jones were standing by the kitchen door casting covetous glances at some possum pies and rice pudding that had just come out of the oven. “Afternoon, Boss.”
Taco Bob took a peek at the pies himself. The fierce look he got from Hop let him know the pies were for dinner and not before.
“Afternoon, boys. I don’t reckon any y’all know anything about the big box out in front by the gate?”
The two hired hands exchanged uncertain looks.
“I reckon you should maybe ask Mumbles or Pete about that, Boss.”
“I will.”
Hop’s possum pie was to die for, so Taco Bob made a quick feint in that direction. Hop’s hand pulled out a little bit of knife handle from his apron at exactly the same time Taco Bob decided he wasn’t quite ready to actually die.
“You White Dev
ils wait for dinner! Soon come!”
To punctuate this, Hop picked up a heavy spoon and started banging the hell out of a big iron triangle just outside the kitchen door to call everyone to eat. That sent the ones in the kitchen hurrying into the dining room holding hands over their ears.
Due to the serious nature of the eating, there never was much said around the dinner table during the first few minutes of one of Hop’s meals, but the lack of conversation seemed more noticeable that particular afternoon. The odd box trap in the front yard could just be seen through a window. Mumbles and Pete kept glancing that way.
After Taco Bob got his plate safely loaded with seconds, he took a break for air and a question.
“Something in particular you boys got in mind to catch?”
“Mnm mhm. Mn mhm mnm!”
“Well, that’s mighty nice of y’all. You mind me asking where you got the money for all them bags of snacks piled up in there?”
Pete lit up a big grin. “We sold Mumbles’ horse Joel to ol’ Raddick down the road.”
“Joel, huh? I don’t suppose y’all told Officer Raddick that horse is gay, did you?” A few snorts of laughter sprung up from around the table. “Well, he’s always going on about how much he knows about ranching and horses and all, I reckon he’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Mnn mhn mm.”
“Well, the trap does have a nice solid look to it. And I don’t doubt for a minute Lenny might fall for it, especially the way he is about food.” Taco Bob could see the pies in the kitchen from where he sat. “But George can be pretty crafty. He might be a little harder to fool.”
One-eyed Pete spoke up again. “We thought about that. There’s a copy of the latest Penthouse in there too.” Several of the men looked up briefly at this.
“Well, it might work. I appreciate you boys’ trying to catch them scoundrels so they aren’t shooting me and all.”
Heads nodded and a chorus of agreeing grunts sprang up from around the table. Hop walked in then with the first of the pies and pudding; and that got everyone’s full attention.
♦
Twenty minutes later the men had reassembled in the front yard to go over the evening’s chores. Taco Bob pointed toward the back forty.
“Smith, you and Jones saddle up and follow Horse on his four-wheeler. See if you can get the main herd grazing out in the southwest field. And be sure to check the water troughs up on the hill, and keep the stock away from that east fence where we seen them coyotes a couple nights ago.” The two men nodded and started off after the slow, quiet man so big there wasn’t a horse could carry him. “Mumbles is going to help Hop around the house so he can keep an eye on the Dalton trap. Pete and me are going to ride out to – ” When he stopped talking everyone stood stock-still and listened.
They could hear it before they could see it. The men looked toward the low rumble and saw a big dust plume coming along the road in the fading light of dusk.
A shiny new black and chrome Harley with all the accessories pulled into the drive leading to the ranch and rumbled on in. The most notable accessories being two very attractive young women with none other than Skunk Johnson sandwiched in-between and grinning like he’d just won an election by landslide.
Skunk stopped the bike in front of the assembled group of jaw-dropped ranchers and gave the gas enough of a twist for the bike to roar once before shutting it down. The freshly cleaned and shaved ant farmer kept his hands on the handlebars like he might grin so much he’d lose his balance and fall off.
“Evening, varmint ranchers! I want y’all to meet Karen an’ Sharon!”
No one moved, few even breathed. Skunk pointed to the petite brunette in front. “Karen here is a physical therapist. She’s been carin’ for my hurt foot. I stubbed a toe on the doormat going into the bank to cash the big check People magazine gave me for my story about making my way back from I-10.” The assembled possum ranchers just stood there in the weak light, each man totally lost to gawking in disbelief and lust.
“And Sharon here has been sharin’ what she’s got, which as you can see, is quite a lot.” Skunk flashed a piano-toothed grin at his clever word usage while the statuesque blonde leaned her ample chest into Skunk’s back. “Sharon is a legal aide working at Barker, Barker, and Byte. She thinks I could get a nice settlement from the bank for their negligence.” At the mention of the word settlement the eyes of both painfully attractive women widened for a second before squinting down to a shifty look. Skunk stuck a scrawny arm out and inspected the big gold Rolex on his wrist.
“Would you look at the time! We gotta haul ass on back to town, girls. The magazine wants to interview me about that trip I made down to the Florida Keys a couple years ago.” Skunk took a long hit off a magnum of champagne he’d pulled from the bike’s saddlebags. “Did I tell you gals about that one? How I was on the bus to Key West reading a Chris Moore book and got to laughing so hard I shit my pants? Smelled so bad the bus driver kicked me off the bus! Wouldn’t been so bad except it was the middle of the Seven Mile Bridge.” Skunked laughed, the young women yawned, and the possum ranchers stood transfixed. “Well, I’ll see you possum punchers in the funny papers!” Skunk fired up the big Harley and the trio roared off in a cloud of dust.
The possum ranchers continued to just stand there, staring. A tumbleweed blew by and bumped into Taco Bob’s leg. He shook his head like a dog throwing off water.
“I’ve had me some weird dreams, but the one I just had beats ‘em all.” Several of the men were coming out of it and rubbing their eyes. Pete cleared his throat.
“Was Skunk in the dream? On a motorcycle with two beautiful women?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah.”
“I think we all just had the same dream.”
Mumbles was the first to move. He took a few steps and picked up an empty champagne bottle, then pulled a deck of playing cards out of his pocket and showed it to Taco Bob.
“Yeah, take my truck. Maybe you can find him before he manages to piss away all that money.”
Mumbles lit out in the truck and everyone else went to work. Pete gave Hop a hand in the house while keeping his one good eye on the Dalton trap.
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
19
The Dusty Slug
There’s only one bar in Possum Row, and only one bartender who works there, so the Dusty Slug is open only when Harry Stuttermeyer feels like showing up for work. Which isn’t often.
One of the reasons for Harry’s poor work ethic was hardly anyone ever came into the bar, the main reason for this being the sky-high prices. The prices were set by the owner, who didn’t particularly like people, especially in his bar.
So it was unusual to see such a crowd in the bar in the middle of the afternoon. Harry couldn’t believe it – he counted heads again in the dim light to make sure.
“Three people! What a crowd!” Harry took a few deep, calming breaths hoping it would help him handle the stress.
A gray-haired, narrow shouldered, potbellied man in a stained white suit sat at the far end of the bar. There was just enough light from the small black-and-white television behind the bar for the man to see his magazine. Gilligan’s Island was on with the sound down, and the magazine was the latest edition of Big Tits Sportsman.
The old man was the bar’s only regular, and Harry knew what to expect from him. But the two sitting at the table by the window were strangers and kept ordering different kinds of drinks. Harry was sweating from the pressure.
“Barkeep! Bring us a pitcher of tequila sunrises, ten bags of corn chips, and a diet Coke! And make it snappy; we’re mighty thirsty over here!”
Harry started sweating even more. He got the order together, put it on a tray, and headed across the barroom. The little man sitting there with a mean scowl on his face had already gone through several kinds of liquor and beer. His oversized friend just ate chips, drank diet Coke, and looked out the window with a dreamy look on his face.
“Here you g
o, gentleman.”
“Put that on our tab, barkeep.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You should have a drink yourself, you must be getting thirsty with all that sweating. And give Stinky over there a drink and put it on my tab.” The little man grabbed Harry roughly by the collar and pulled him down close. “Who the hell is that, anyway? I caught a whiff of him when we come in this place. Man smells weird, kinda like manure and masturbation.”
Harry whispered so the man at the end of the bar wouldn’t hear.
“That there’s Old Man Burke. He’s a donkey rancher, loan shark, and also the mayor. Man’s got a pretty heavy Viagra habit that sometimes gets a bit out of hand, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t, and don’t tell me, neither. What in the hell is a donkey ranch? I never heard of that.”
“He ships ‘em up north. Burke supplies the sex shops of New York City with donkeys.”
“Why don’t that surprise me? What do you let him come in here for, anyway?”
“Well, I got to. He owns the bar.”
George rolled his eyes and took a long drink right out of the pitcher.
“How in blazes did that nasty old coot get to be mayor?”
“Well, except for me, nobody in Possum Row much believes in government or voting and such. He won with one vote on a write-in campaign. His was the only name I knew how to spell except my own, and I was mayor last time.”
The smaller of the two strangers seemed to consider this, then looked around the dusty old barroom and checked his watch.
“I got a minute. Tell me how you ended up in this shithole working for that smelly old fart anyhow.”
Harry slumped into a chair and held his head in his hands a minute before telling his tale.
“It’s been almost ten years ago, now. It was Christmas Eve and my first wedding anniversary. When I got off work from the bank, I jumped in my new car and rushed for home and my lovely bride. I was almost there when a garbage truck pulled out in front of me and I hit it broadside. When I came to three weeks later, I was at home in bed with two broken legs, a crushed spleen, and a severe concussion. My lovely wife sat by the bed, crying. I told her not to cry, I was going to be okay. She said the reason she was crying was because her boyfriend had asked her to marry him.
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