Bullet Through Your Face (reformatted)

by Edward Lee

  A liar? The Chief were outright offended. “What’choo talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “Aw, come on, Chief. That’s gal’s got more horseshit than Churchhill Downs. Tryin’ta tell us she intercepted our call over some blammed police scanner? Some funky gas leakin’ out some closed fuckin’ Army Fort thirty fuckin’ miles away? Doc Willis bein’ kilt ‘cos he was sellin’ bomb fuses or some shit ta the commies? The only thang harder ta swaller than all’a that is maybe one’a Grimaldi’s watermelons. What’cha need ta do is fuck her hard, drop yer snot, then kick her outa town ‘cos she ain’t nothin’ but a phony. Shee-it, Chief, she ain’t even in the fuckin’Army.”

  Say what? Kinion objected, “Hays, you’re plumb et up with a case of the dumbass, boy! What’choo mean she ain’t in the Army?”

  Hays poured his own self a cup’a java, plopped in a coupla cubes’a sugar, and stirred. “I don’t know what she is, boss. Maybe one’a them state IAD investergators or one’a them silly tabloid reporters’re somethin’, but she ain’t in the Army, boss. I know me that.” “Oh, yeah, smart boy?”

  “That’s a fact, Chief, on account’a my Uncle Sandy. He just done got out the Army last year’n yesterday when we seed that redhairt cooze in her uniform at Doc Willis’ place, she were carryin’ a Colt .45, right?”

  The Chief scratched his chin, thankin’. “Well, yeah—” “My Uncle Sandy tolt me that the Army uses them fucked-up Eye-tal-yun Beretta 9-mills now. The Army ain’t had the Colt .45 in their inventory fer over ten years . . .”

  VII

  Fuckin’Hays . . . Kinion lumbered outa the station house towards his personal vehicle which, by the way, was a close-ta-mint ‘72 ragtop El Dorado. Heather gray, nice set’a wheels, yes sir, and that big 460 V-8 kicked. But the Chief were in a swivet, he was. Partly because he’d like to knock Hays upside the head like real hard fer all’a his pessermism’n bad talk about the comely Captain Dana Majora, but also because . . .

  Shee-it . . .

  Somethin’ picked at him, see? Like sugar pickin’ at a bad filling, or a woodpecker pickin’ at bark. The Chief knowed a number’a fellas who was in the Army’n recently got discharged, lifers a lot of ‘em and one in particular, J. Lee Pierce, shee-it, he were a firearms instructor in the Army at Fort McClellen fer thirty years. And every other Thursday since he gots out, the Chief’n J. Lee went down to the Pontiac Brothers Gun Club off’a Powers Road, and they popped caps at the paper men, see, and they even had other nifty targets for fifty cents of Jane Fonda, Saddam Hussein, Janice Joplin, and that triangulatin’,coke-snortin’, medercal-records-hidin-on-account he-don’t-want-no-one-ta know-’bout-his-drug-rehab’n-herpestreatment, back-stabbiin’, chicken-company-kickback-takin’-in exchange-fer-campaign-funds’n further tradin’-U.S.-computertechnology-to-the-blammed-slave-drivin’ Communist-Chinese-inexchange-fer-stillmore-campaign-funds, adulterizin’, whuppin’his-dick-out-in-front-of-20-year-olds-while-big-bad-govenrnor, sendin’-his-deputy-counsel-twelve-times-to-Swiss-banks-withfuckin’-carry-on-luggage’n-soon-after-the-fuckin’-Secretery-ofCommerce-cannot-account-for-$800,000-verifiably-paid-by-thegovernment-of-Vietnam, three-former-girlfriends-all-found-deadfrom-suicide-with-pistols-in-their-right-hands-even-though-theywereleft-handed, same as-the-self-same-deputy-council-wasfound-dead-in-some-Civil-War-Park-in-Virginia--that’s right folks, a left-handed man found dead by suicide with THE FUCKIN’ GUN LEFT IN HIS RIGHT GODDAMN HAND AND HIS FUCKIN’ FINGER-PRINTS WEREN’TEVEN ON THE GODDAMN GUN BUT SOMEONE ELSE’S FINGERPRINTS WERE found on the goddamn gun but the goddamn Special Prosecutor whose name was Fis—oh, fuck it! THE GODDAMN SPECIAL PROSECUTOR DIDN’T DEEM THIS FACT TO BE SIGNIFICANT! But let’s get back to the individual we’re referring to whose face adorns the paper targets along with all them others, yes, that lowdown, spineless, lyin’ta-millions motherfucker whose name is—

  Aw, shee-it. That ain’t what this story’s about, so we’ll’se git back to the narrative: Each’n every time the Chief and J. Lee Pierce gone target-shootin’ at the gun club, J. Lee was firin’ his pride’n joy which happened ta be a Governement Model Colt 1911A1 .45, and every dang time he finished firin’ that big bull, he’d always say the same thang. He’d say, “Shee-it, that there is the finest dang pistol ta ever be made on God’s killin’ earth. Beats the shit out’a me why the goddamn Army’d dump it fer that fucked-up Beretta 92F piece’a shit stove-pipin’, breech-jammin’, pin-snappin’ Eyetal-yun 9 millimeter . . .”

  Hmmm. At the very least, it were . . . curious.

  So the bug were planted, and the Chief didn’t really even know it yet. His keys on that nifty NRA keychain jingled when he whupped ‘em out his pocket, and he were just about ta slide his humongous butt inta that there leather front seat’n start up that big 460— Dag it!

  But he didn’t. What he did instead was look straight across Main Street, and you know what he was lookin’ at?

  The White Horse Inn which, ta remind those who might’a fergot, was the same motel that the stimulating Captain Majora were stayin’ at . . .

  Then . . .

  Dag it, Kinion! What the hail are you doin’?

  What he was doin’ was this: he was walkin’ right across Main

  Street, and it might be fittin’ ta describe the way he was walkin’ as stealthy. Weren’t nothing goin’ on in the center of town this late; Main Street, ta either side, stretched on in hazy darkness, the moon hangin’low over the hills yonder. Aquiet, lazy night like most; things generally only got rowdy down near the south town limits where they had all the bars and a’corse the truck stop off’a the Route. The Chief were mighty grateful, he was, to be blessed with a town that weren’t chock-full’a criminals’n other scummy sorts of characters, and since there were no signs of traffic or pedestrians out along Main, well, that made it even better fer what the Chief had in mind.

  If anyone sees me, he reckoned, I’ll just say I heard me a funny noise, or I can say I thought I seed somethin’, like maybe a suspicous person!

  Of course, the only suspicous person on the street right now was Chief Kinion hisself, but the way he figgered, it was all in the line’a duty, right?

  The neon sign buzzed with its glowin’ tubes: WHITE HORSE MOTEL, ONLY $25.99 PER NIGHT! VACANCY! It weren’t nothin’fancy, just a narrow, one-story job with a nice white paint job. They had ten decent rooms in a row, and the Chief could see a few lights on, and he could also see Captain Majora’s drab government sedan parked in front’a the second unit from the end . . .

  He crossed Main Street and traipsed around that same end—er, leave it to say he did his best to move around the back’a that motel as inconspicurissly as was humanly possible. He was surpised that his big size-13 footfalls didn’t make much in the way’a sound as he walked over the high weeds in back, and a’corse the deep and steady chirruppin’ of crickets hid the noises of his progress all the better. He stopped a moment, let his eyes git adjustered to the dark, then recommenced. The back winder of the last unit was still lit, and the Chief were happy the blinds was closed ‘cos he shore didn’t wanna have to hunker down and crawl beneath it. There was only the tiniest gap in that set’a blinds, and Kinion couldn’t help but steal a quick peek: some short tubby fella on the bed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts and black socks, and he had this big burst’a kinky hair growin’ around a bald spot and a face that looked like maybe a clay mask squeezed down in a cheese press. Jiminy! the Chief thought. That there is about the ugliest fella I ever done seen! This fella had a full dark beard but it really looked like shit, it did, more like a bunch’a dick hair on his face than a proper beard, and he was sitting there on the bed pickin’ boogers out his nose’n wipin’ ‘em underneath the bed frame whiles watchin’ Gomer Pyle on the TV. Ugh, the Chief thought and moved on past. But next came the second winder, and them blinds was open a bit more. Kinion stood back, then ever-soslowly leaned his kisser mug forward to catch the light between them slats, and—

  Ho-boy!

  The beauteous Captain Majora was
in there all right, sittin’at the little writin’ desk that came with the room, the big bright floorlamp shinin’ down on her. She looked engrossed, she did, tappin’ away at one’a them new-fangled little computers that folds up to the size’a somethin’you can put in a briefcase, and in fact there were a briefcase layin’ open on the bed. In the closet he could see her khaki Army uniform hangin’ and also the black leather holster containin’ the questionable Colt .45 which was the blammed thang that’d caused the Chief to undertake such an extreme measure of inquest in the first dagged place. But it weren’t none’a that which set paramount in his power’a observation, it were instead the fact that as Captain Majora sat there tappin’ at that little computer, she was doin’ so with no clothes on!

  That straight silky red hair just shined in the lamp light, it did, and then there was that plush, ample rack’a hooters on her standin’ right out as she typed, with nipples of the softest pink Chief Kinion could imagine. It were a view of paradise, it were’n better yet, almost as if God had answered a unspoken prayer, the Captain pushed away from the desk just then and stood up and stretched!

  Aw, fuck . . .

  The Chief’s dick jiggled in his shorts just from this first sight’a her. She was the incarnation’a the word purdy: slim’n trim’n shapely covered by all that perfect white skin, and she was just standin’ there still stretchin’, reachin’ fer the ceiling on her cute li’l tiptoes with her head back’n eyes closed’n them angel tits protrudin’. . . Aw, fuck! the Chief thought again as he could now see that dainty little plot’a soft red hair ‘tween her legs, stickin’ out, it was, a little tuft, and he could even see that adorable little womanly groove behind the hair, and with that came a foreknowledge in the Chief’s mind as he knew, unethercal as it might be, ‘specially fer the chief of police, but, yeah, he knew he was gonna have ta do somethin’he ain’t done in years—

  Aw, fuck! I’se gonna have ta beat off!

  It wouldn’t take long—not lookin’ at that! And, hail, weren’t no one around who might see him, right? Right now his peter felt like a ear’corn in his pants, and that corn damn shore needed ta be shucked. The Chief’s hands, very slowly then, began to lower to his zipper—

  “Dang!” came a fierce whisper. “Would’ja look at the milkcans on that bitch!”

  Chief Kinion nearly shit his pants and puked on the winder at the same time, and his heart stopped and didn’t seem to start back up again till he was about one second away from a coronary. Of course it was Hays who’d whispered the crass comment, sneakin’up behind the Chief’s back.

  It was all Kinion could do to suppress his bellow to a whisper. “Hays! What’n Gawd’s name are you doin’—”

  But Hays was still peeping in the winder. “Shee-it, boss. She’s shore got a cute l’il cut ‘tween her gams, huh? Ooo-ee, and gander that red pussy hair! Dang, Chief, you shore got yerself more restraint than me ‘cos, see, if it was me standin’ here peepin’ in on that bucknekit tramp, I’d be jackin’me off a hard snot right on the winder . . .”

  The Chief, in spite of his obvious outrage, did feel a tad’a relief in that he hadn’t quite yet gotten around ta pullin’ out his dick when Hays made his surprise appearance.

  “Aw, looky, boss . . . She’s done turnt around so’s ya kin see her butt!”

  First impulse was to slap Hays silly, but that might not be too wise on account even though the winder was closed, the Captain’d probably hear a ruckus takin’ place, and that would not be a good thing. So, the second impulse was ta—

  Fuck it, the Chief thought, and looked back in the winder.

  And gulped.

  Captain Majora, still nekit, mind you, was now standin’with her back to the winder, and what a back it was ta gander. And she were still stretchin’ too and then got ta doin’ exercises like bendin’ over’n touchin’ her toes and ever time she bend over, that gorgeous angel’s ass on her were shown ta every detail.

  “Yeah, I’d be jackin’, boss,” Hays whispered.

  I’d be jackin’too, Hays, if you hadn’t showed up! the Chief could not help but remind himself. The unallayed boner in his pants only served as a further reminder. But the Chief’s eyes stayed fixed on them open winder slats nevertheless and it occurred ta him then fast as a sock in the eye what a beautiful thang a gal’s ass could be, and this ass in particular, this ass on the wondrous Captain Majora, well, it de fied bein’ mere beautiful. It transendered human language n’fact. Tight but so well-shaped, perfect creamy white, yes sir, and not a pimple on it nowheres, and each time she bent over, the Chief’s willy did a flex. It were almost like that paragon of a butt on her were winkin’ at him! And it were teasin’ him too, the way the butterks parted ever-so-diminurtively—he could almost see her brown-eye, he could! And what with the way her legs were spread, this gave him a backshot’a that delecterble li’l tuft’a red fur ‘round front, and then the Chief’s muse sailed away’n he thought, If my wife had a butt like that, why, I’d be the happiest man ta ever trod the earth, but the truth socked home with a fair amount’a immederacy . . .

  Shore, Kinion, but it just so happens that your wife don’t got a butt like that. What she got instead is somethin’ that looks like a couple’a hunnert-pound bags of pigfeed throwed together . . .

  Hays grinned devilishly, and whispered, “Wouldn’t it be dandy, Chief? I mean, shove her facefirst against that there wall, jack off a giant petersnot on her back, and watch all that cum just run right on down inta her ass-crack? Then give her a good ol’dick-spankin’, yes sir, that’s what she needs—Aw, shee-it, guess the butt-show’s over.”

  Majora had ceased with the nekit exercisin’, and seemed very concerned suddenly lookin’ at somethin’ on the li’l flipped-up computer screen. Then, in haste, she hauled her Army clothes back on, grabbed her .45’n holster, and left the motel room, and a second later, the Chief’n Hays could hear her drive off in her government sedan.

  “Where’s she off to in such a hurry?” Hays wondered. “I don’t know, but I’ll tell ya where you’re off to!” Kinion grabbed his deputy by the collar and quickly walked the two of ‘em back out ta Main Street. “You’re off to the Land of Whup-Ass!” The Chief were pissed-off, all right, but he did his best to keep his piss-off buttoned up till they gots back across the street in front of the station but once they got there . . .

  “I oughtas ta ring yer neck, boy!” the Chief exploded.

  Hey, Chief! What’s got yer dander up?”

  “You, that’s what! What’choo doin’ sneakin’ up behind me like that!”

  Hays shrugged. “Hail, Chief, how was I supposed ta know you be peepin’ in her winder whiles she were nekit?”

  “I wasn’t peepin’ ta see her nekit! I ain’t no pree-vert!”

  “Well, Chief, I weren’t implyin’that there’s anythin’wrong with peepin’on a bitch. Hail, that’s what winders are for. Ain’t nothin’that any other red-blooded American fella wouldn’t do.”

  “I weren’t peepin’, Hays! I was merely employin’ a little investigative surveillance on her!”

  “Why?”

  “Why! Because you’re the one who’s tellin’ me she ain’t really in the Army so’s I was merely checkin’her out ta see if she was doin’ anythang suspicious!”

  “Look more ta me like you was checkin’ out her ass-crack, boss—”

  Yeah, the Chief felt like beltin’Hays a good one, he did. “Just tell me what the holy hail you was doin’ follerin’ me!”

  “Weren’t follerin’ ya, Chief,” Hays explained. “I came back to the station but seen you weren’t there but yer car still was. Then I seen ya walkin’ back behind the motel, so I come ta git ya.”

  “Come ta git me fer what!”

  “We got ourselves another call,” the deputy informed. “And it sounds a right serious. See, we’se got a couple dozen housewives just called the dispatcher all sayin’ that their hubbies are missin’.”

  A call? At this hour? “A bunch’a fellas missin’, you
say?”

  “That’s a fact, boss. Ain’t none of ‘em come home tonight, and they’se all got one thang in common. They’se all was supposed ta be havin’ a meetin’ out at the VFW hall.”

  VIII

  “Dispatch, this here’s Unit Two-Zero-Eight, and I’m callin’ to properly noterfy ya that we is 10-6 to VFW Post 3063.” “Roger, Two-Zero-Eight.”

  “Oh, and if I’se happen ta git back before you’re off duty, honeybunch, how’s about I come over there and—”

  Kinion grabbed the mic from Hays and hung it up with a curse on his lips. “Knock that shit off and drive!”

  “That’s a big 10-4, boss.”

  So here’s they was again, out on a call with Hays drivin’ the town cruiser and the Chief ridin’ shotgun. Chrast, it was gettiin’ late; maybe one day the blammed mayor would allercate enough funds to hire a night cop. Yeah, Kinion thought, and if I had a square asshole, I could shit a television. But what could this be? Bunch’a VFW fellas not turnin’ up? “Shee-it, Hays, they’se probably all went off to a bar or somethin’.”

  “Naw, Chief,” Hays countered. “See, one’a the ladies who called—that would be Glenda Rawner, you know, Chief, that big fat sloppy woman with the underbite who looks like someone knocked her in the jaw with, like, a barn rafter? She’s married ta Conner Rawson, you know that pissy fella who got one’a his legs blowed off in some war’n rumor has it his leg weren’t the only thang blowed off ‘cos—”

  “I know who the Rawsons are, dag-blammit, Hays! Git to the point!”

  “Well, what I was sayin’ was I was sayin’ that Glenda Rawson found the doors to the VFW hall locked but swears she heard someone walkin’ ‘round in there’n not only that, she says she saw a some fella look out the winder at her but he didn’t answer the door. Says all the lights was out, too, even the parkin’ lot lights. Sounds kinda screwy, huh, Chief?”

  Kinda screwy . . . What with Doc Willis bein’ kilt’n his wife disappearin’ and then all them boys at the Watch-House goin’ unconscious with their pants down, yes sir, that shore made this a fucked-up day, and it were quickly turnin’ into a fucked-up night with this VFW bullshit. But Kinion looked at the bright side: at least now he wouldn’t be gettin’home till way after his blubber-factory of a wife would be asleep so’s he wouldn’t have ta listen to her bitch. Boy’o boy, when Carleen got to bitchin’, the Chief’d sooner hit hisself in the haid with one’a the big ball-peens they sell down at Hodge’s Hardware.