by Edward Lee
“Once again the residents of Pulaski awoke to more horror in this Christmas season as authorities report yet another brutal puppy slaying. Deputy Chief Dood Malone has assured us that he and his officers are working round the clock in their effort to apprehend this despicable culprit…”
“What he say?” Micky-Mack asked.
Dumar scratched his head. “He say puppy slayin’?”
With rising bile, Helton listened further.
“Early this morning, a two-month old poodle belonging to long-time resident Adeline Parker was found mutilated and beheaded in the yard of an abandoned southside house. Authorities believe the house had previously been occupied by heroin dealers…”
Dumar’s jaw dropped. “Did he say—”
Helton cut him off with a slash of his finger.
“Members of the Pulaski County Sheriff’s Department remain mystified by the rash of hideous crimes against local pets. The perpetrator is in all likelihood a gang-member from South America where heroin dealers are known to torture, mutilate, and decapitate innocent puppies as a means of issuing warnings to rival drug gangs. Ms. Parker’s puppy, abducted from her yard early this morning, was similarly tortured, mutilated, and decapitated—”
Helton snapped the radio off.
“Jesus Lord Almighty!” Dumar shouted. “You hear that, Paw?”
“They’se torturin’ puppies here!” Micky-Mack nearly squalled. “What kind’a crazy place is this?”
“No point tryin’ ta reckon it, boys,” Helton advised. “In the city? That’s just the way it is.” The idea of someone murdering puppies was simply too much for Helton to bear. “It’s just more’a what I were sayin’, ’bout the outside world. Like earlier when we’se filt the truck up with gas at the Citgo…”
“Yeah,” Dumar said. “Cost damn near a hunnert bucks to fill the tank! Didn’t cost half that much last time we did.”
“It’s the government, fellas. The government lures regular folks from their natural roots and puts ’em in cities, and then they gots ta work jobs like a bunch’a ants in a anthill, and with ever dollar you make, you gotta pay part of it back to the blammed government as part’a these things called taxes, so then the government makes city folks dependent on things like cars, gas, store-bought food, ‘lecktricity and then they make ya pay taxes on that!” Helton shook a rueful head. “Boys, I just hope we’se can avenge young Crory’s death a right quick, ’cos the sooner we’se done doin’ it, the sooner we’se can get back to our natural lives…”
“But how, Paw?” Dumar’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “How we gonna do it?”
“All things at their proper time…”
Helton directed Dumar through several more turns, then instructed him to park in an extensive parking lot.
“Dang!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “Lookit them buildings!”
“They stores, Paw?”
“That they is, and they’se stores we’se gonna have to do some shoppin’ in.” He pointed through the large windshield. “See that ‘un there? Dumar, I know you ain’t much fer readin’, but what that sign there says is, it says Home Depot. It’s a big-ass place they’se sell tools in.”
“Shee-it, Paw, we’se got plenty’a tools—”
“Not the kind we need fer this.” Helton gave his son a handwritten note. “Take this list, son, and give it to the first fella ya see who’s workin’ there. Then once he gathers up ever-thing on the list, ya take it to the counter and ya buy it. Then bring it back ta the truck,” after which Helton placed ten $100 bills in his son’s hand.
“Dang, Paw, that’s a lot’a money!”
“Don’t waste time runnin’ yer mouth. Just git in there, git the tools, then git back.”
“Shore thing, Paw!” and then Dumar was off.
“You’re a bit better at readin’ than Dumar,” Helton told his nephew, “so’s what I want’cha to do first is run over yonder to that buildin’, ’cos it’s what they call…a grocery store.”
Micky-Mack cast a confident grin. “Shee-it, Unc Helton. “I’se been ta grocery stores—three or four times at least!”
“Good. Now, we’se gonna need food durin’ our trip, but it gotta be canned food on account we ain’t gonna be doin’ much cookin’. Get’cha as much as ya can carry, boy.”
“Shore, Unc, but what kind’a canned food?”
“Beans, I reckon, git lots’a beans, and they’se got this other stuff ya probably heard’a, called spaghetti. There’s this famous chef, and I think his name is Boy-Are-Dee. Ya gots that? Boy-Are-Dee. See, he sell his spaghetti in cans. Oh, and pick us up couple’a six-pack’s of Coca-Cola. Can ya remember all that, son?”
“Aw, shore, Unc!”
“Then after ya got us the viddles, ya go over yonder.” Helton pointed. “That there’s a convenience store, kind’a like Old Man Halm’s Qwik-Mart in Luntville, only bigger.”
The sign on the store read SHOP-SMART. “What’cha want me ta fetch there?” Micky-Mack asked.
“A girlie mag.”
“Huh?”
“You know what a girlie mag is, Micky-Mack?”
“Well, shore, but what the hail we need a girlie mag fer if’n we’se fixin’ to revenge the terrible murder’a Crory?”
“We’se need something—and I thinks the word is…provokertive, to look at.”
Micky-Mack peered in utter confusion.
“Somethin’ to keep our peters feisty, you know? Somethin’ we’se can lookit ever so often to keep our bones fit ta spit.”
“Uncle Helton, I’se just don’t understant…”
Helton’s stern finger pointed. “Just do as I say!”
“Yes, sir!”
“And here’s some money—”
“Aw, don’t bother with that, Unc. I’se got some’a my own on account last week I help Nuce Wynchel’n his boy Tube finish diggin’ post holes fer his new fence ’round that land’a his he’s fixin’ ta raise sheep on. This bein’ a family emergency, I’se reckon it’s only proper ta contri-bit my own earnin’s,” and then Micky-Mack withdrew several $20 bills from his jeans.
Helton beamed with pride. “Boy, what you got is what they call character, and that’s a rare thing in these dark days. I’se proud’a ya fer yer fine gesture, but see here. Ya put yer money away and use my Maw’s. It’s the way she’d want it.”
“Well, okay, Unc, whatever ya say.” Micky-Mack took the mint-condition $100 bill from his uncle and started out the truck door, but after a second’s thought, he stopped and turned back to his elder. “But where is you goin’, Uncle Helton?”
“To that great big fancy store ‘cross the street.”
Micky-Mack looked. “You’se mean the one with the giant yeller’n black sign?”
“And all them blinkin’ Christmas lights in the winders, yeah.”
“B-E-S-T…B-U-Y,” he slowly read. “What’cha fixin’ ta buy there?”
Helton stroked his beard. “See, what I’se fixin’ ta buy there…is a camera…”
(II)
“So what time are we going for pizza?” Veronica asked when Mike came out of the office.
“Huh? Oh, Veronica—”
“Yeah, Veronica—you know. Your girlfriend?” She giggled it off, knowing this was just another of his macho games. But—
Did he discretely wince when she’d uttered the word girlfriend?
No, no. Don’t be so paranoid, she scolded herself.
He turned his back to her, dropped change into the employee soda machine, and out clunked a can of Mr. Pibb. He popped it open and took a sip. “Oh, damn. I’d buy you one but I’m out of change.”
Veronica bristled. I don’t want a MR. PIBB! I want YOU!
Mike walked back to the showroom, talking as he walked. “Oh, pizza, wow. You know—jeez—I forgot, I’ve got all this year-end paperwork to do, and I’ll have to take it home. We’ll have to do pizza another time.”
Veronica’s breasts bobbed smartly as she hurried to keep up. “Oh. Well,
okay. Tomorrow then, right?” but even just looking at the back of his head, she thought, God, I love him SO MUCH…
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. We’ll have pizza and talk.”
Veronica’s freshly tweaked nipples deflated when he’d said that. And TALK? What did that mean? It sounded…ominous. “Mike, is everything all right? With us, I mean?”
“Huh?” He hurried around the front check-out. “Oh, sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But-but—”
The bell dinged, then the Greeter—a perky and utterly empty headed teeny bop pert-breasted pixie—said, “Welcome to Best Buy, sir!” She had one of those sticking-out-at-the-top ponytails.
Mike sipped more Mr. Pibb. “Chop-chop, Veronica. Looks like you got a customer…”
The bad vibe was already needling her. Distracted, she noticed the large man loping around the camera counters.
Who is…THAT?
Veronica hustled right over.
It was a very big man, with a jacket she could only think of as “shaggy,” big clunky boots, and a hat like in that old Clint Eastwood movie she’d watched with Mike not too long ago. Something about a sister named Sara. And…
He didn’t smell good.
“Hi, welcome to Best Buy, sir. My name’s Veronica.”
The looming man turned and looked down. Veronica flinched.
He had shaggy grayish hair and a big bushy beard.
“Why, hey there, Veronnerka. My name’s Helton,” and he thrust out his hand which, when fully opened might be able to cover her entire face and half her head. It was with some reluctance that she shook it—it looked kind of dirty—and she flinched again by the texture of his palm: like sandpaper.
“What can I help you with today, sir?”
“Helton, missy. No need ta call me sir. And, see”—he scratched his beard, releasing some trace dandruff. “What it is I need is a camera.”
“Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place—we’ve got the best selection in town.” She manned her station at once, going into saleswoman mode. “We’ve got the new line of Nikon Cool Pix just in.” She picked one up and showed him. “Versatile, easy to use, and modestly priced. They’re practically flying off the shelves.”
The shaggy man looked unimpressed. “Anything that puny ain’t gonna do the job. See, what I need is a movin’-picture camera, Veronnerka.”
The man’s accent was a riot. She giggled. “Why, I haven’t heard that term in years, Helton. What they’re called today are digital video cameras—”
“And I’m gonna need me a dang good one.”
Hmm. “Have you…owned a camera before?”
“Naw, I don’t know from such things. But I reckon I should ‘splain my sitcher-aye-shun, huh? See, I got me this…fella…who I gotta send some…movin’-pictures to.”
“Oh, you want to send videos to a friend.”
The looming man seemed to have some difficulty. “It’s very important…uh, family stuff.”
“Of course, Helton. Christmas movies of the family—”
Shaggy brows shot up. “Why, yeah, somethin’ like that. Sort’a. So’s…say I wanna leave a movie at this friend’s house, or maybe mail it to him, how do I do that, hon?”
Veronica picked up a typical mini-memory card. “Right here, Helton. You can put a beautiful high-rezz video on this card”—she moved over to the video cameras and picked up a Canon ZR900, demonstrating how the memory card fit into the slot—“then give it to your friend or mail it to him. Of course, it’s easier just to email him the vid file but…I’ve got a hunch you don’t own a computer.”
“Naw, naw, missy, I got no fancy fer such things, but…” Helton looked suspiciously at the tiny memory card. “You’re tellin’ me that a movin’-picture’ll fit on that little thing there that ain’t the size’a my thumbnail?”
“Modern technology, Helton. This little card will store a 30-minute movie.”
Helton looked astonished. “Dang. Well, I guess that’s the ticket. Don’t know how many we’ll need—”
“For the Christmas movies.”
“Oh, yeah, right. The Christmas movies. Might have to make…a lot of ’em.”
Veronica tried to sound accommodating, all the while hoping she could sell him the Canon as well. It would up her weekly sales. “It’s what the season’s for—sharing your holiday joy with family and friends.”
Helton paused. “Yeah. And I guess I better be on the safe side. I’ll take twenny’a them little doohickeys.”
“Twenty?”
“You heard me, darlin’. Twenny.” But then he gave a coarse chuckle. “But a’course, now I needs ya to sell me a camera to go along with them li’l things!”
“This Canon right here”—she passed it to him—“is a perfect choice for your needs, and it’s less than $300.”
Helton’s giant hand dwarfed the digital camera. “Veronnerka, what’cha need ta know ’bout me is I’se the kind’a fella who don’t trust nothin’ he cain’t get both hands on. This camera? I don’t like it. It’s too puny. These movies I gotta make—they’re important.”
“Of course, Helton.”
“So let’s not beat ’round the danged bush. I want the best camera ya got.”
This is…weird, she thought. But what did she have to lose? If he was mentally ill or something, she’d have been able to discern that by now. Her hand landed on the Samsung High Def Hybrid. “This, Helton, might suit your needs quite well. But…it’s $850, and since I’m not sure what your budget is—”
Helton shook his head. “Naw. That ‘un’s too puny too.” His lips pursed. “Veronnerka. You tellin’ me that in all’a this big fancy store here, that’s the best camera you got? Hail, girl, ya got tv’s the size’a garage doors! Ya must have a camera bigger’n that.”
Yeah, she thought, this is REAL weird. “All right, Helton. You asked for the best, I’ll show you the best.” She bent over, knowing that her cleavage was in full view. She unlocked the display cabinet and removed the Sony. It clunked when she set it down atop the counter.
“Dang!” Helton raved.
“This, Helton, is the Sony HVR-S27. It’s top of the line. It’s essentially identical to the cameras they use on television news shows, reality TV, soap operas—”
“That the dandiest camera I’se could ever imagine!”
“Lithium-ion battery, home-charger, car-charger, built in light and microphone.” Veronica splayed her hands over the device. “It’s everything you need.”
“Why, I’ll’se take it.”
“Actually, Helton, I haven’t told you the bad news yet.”
“Bad news? There ain’t no bad news. This here’s the ticket. Ring me up.”
She leaned over and whispered. “It’s $7500…”
Helton shrugged, reaching back into a ruck sack pocket. “Like
I said, missy. Ring me up.”
Veronica stared. This is too good to be true. Maybe…Mike is playing a joke. Maybe he had this guy come in here to ACT like he’s buying the most expensive camera in the store, but when she looked up front, she saw Mike and Archie, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. They’re as surprised as I am…
“Check or charge, Helton?”
“What’s that, Veronnerka… Dang, that’s a purdy name.”
“Thank you, Helton.” She smiled. “But…how are you paying?”
Helton roared laughter. “How’s I payin’? With cash money, a’course! What’cha think?”
Veronica almost fell backward when she saw Helton’s thick fingers peeling brand-new $100 bills off a stack. Oh, well. She rang up the total.
Mike’s shoes snapped as he approached. “Can I help you, sir?”
Faster than immediately, Helton frowned. “Naw, fella. Veronnerka’s helpin’ me just fine, so’s you can shuffle on back to standin’ over there doin’ not much’a nothin’.”
Mike smiled tightly. “I’m the store manager, sir, and—wow—that’s a lot of cash. On cash purchases this large, the manager
’s got to ring up the sale.”
“Well, shee-it, all right.” Another frown. Then, “Hey there, son! What’choo doin’ writin’ on them there bills?”
Mike wielded the fat pen. “Big bills like this, sir? I’ve got to check each one—it’s the new government counterfeiting law.”
Helton sourly responded, “Government, huh? Shee-it. Cain’t even pay with cash money without havin’ some government goat-rope ta go along with it.”
Mike examined a bill with an amazed scrutiny. “Uh, wow, sir. These are old bills but in mint condition… 1966…” He chuckled. “Keep them in your mattress?”
Helton glared. “It’s my Maw’s money, boy”—then he stuck his big finger right in Mike’s face—“and where she keep it ain’t none’a yer business.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just joking.”
“Jokin’? Well, shee-it, fella. A joke’s s’posed ta be funny, ain’t that right, Veronnerka?” and then the mammoth man belted a laugh and slapped Mike hard on the back. Mike nearly went over the counter.
“It sure is, Helton,” Veronica said.
Mike coughed. “Well, sir, everything seems to be in order. Is there anything else you need today?”
“‘Sides you moseyin’ your slickster-lookin’ self out’a here…why, I don’t know.” The shaggy face tuned to Veronica. “Veronnerka, anythin’ else you reckon I need to go along with my fancy movin’-picture camera?”
Veronica felt flushed from the monumental sale. “Um, well, a tripod would be very useful—”
“We have a great assortment, sir,” Mike barged in. “Would you like me to show you—”
The finger again. “What I’d like, son, is fer you ta disser-pear so’s I can finish my business with my friend Veronnerka.” His gaze swivelled to her. “Ring me up for a tripod, missy—a good ‘un. That all?”
“You might find a carry-case convenient—”
“Ring me up. The best ya got.”
Mike slipped away, ecstatic over the sale. However, Veronica was light-headed now. This is the biggest single sale since I’ve been here! Mike’ll be so happy! Dazed, she got the tripod and the case, rang the additional sale, just as Helton peeled off more of the curiously dated bills, ( which, for those interested, were 1966 Series A notes, signed by then-secretary of the treasury Henry H. Fowler. These were the first $100 bills to bear a watermark).