by Header
And as long as nobody found out...
He'd just turned off State Route 154 when he saw the lights. Flashing red and blue lights. Croll's field, up past the dell. Cummings veered his federal unmarked up the incline, then stopped. A state police cruiser sat there, lights thrumming. Russell County was unchartered—no municipal departments and no county police either—couldn't afford it. The state responded to any major case.
Crickets tremoloed through the dell when Cummings got out. It was hot, humid. A full moon lazed over the treetops.
"Cummings, ATF," he announced. Though in his field uniform, he also flashed his leather-clad badge and ID as he approached the lean, whitewalled state trooper bending over a—
A dead body. Cummings noticed at once.
"Need any assist?"
The trooper rose and walked over, shaking his head. His face looked blanched as he lit a cigarette. "Thanks, but no. This one's over."
"What've you got?"
"Sig 64." the trooper recited. "White female, looks about 20. Dead for a few hours, looks like to me. I was heading back to my HQ for shiftchange, and there she was lying right there in my lights."
"What's the C.O.D.?"
"Blunt trauma to the head, it looks like."
"And it looks like she wasn't killed on site." Cummings remarked, shining his Streamlight on the corpus delectus. A pretty girl, young. Cutoff jeans and a halter lay aside. Pretty blond hair too. But he could see the hole in her head, and he could see a suspicious lack of blood-saturation on the ground.
"Yeah, 10-to-1 some redneck did her somewhere eles, then dumped her here. County coroner's on the way. I gotta wait till he gets here to secure the crime scene."
"Right. Good luck. Guess I'll be on my way."
"Thanks for stopping by to check it out. Shit, man, out here in the boonies — we appreciate it."
Tell me about it, Cummings thought. "Later." Then he tromped back to his unmarked and headed home.
........
"Shee-it," Cummings heard next morning when he entered the FO. The Russell Counly ΒATF Field Office was actually a 72-toot trailer located behind the bingo hall in Larchmont, and the hearty "Shee-it" had been uttered by Peerce. How a man the likes of Peerce had ever been promoted to Special Agent in Charge was beyond Cummings. I'se from around these here parts, Cummings, Peerce had bragged more than once. I knows these folk up here, hows they think, hows they act, and I'se right good at sniffin' 'em out. Jesus. The job of this illustrious three-man squad, of course, was to deter the manufacture of unliscensed alcoholic beverages — namely corn liquor — and to furthur deter its unauthorized distribution and sale. In a county where unemployment topped 40 percent, moonshine was big business. It was also, for whatever reason, illegal.
"what are you shee-ittin' about?" Cummings queried upon entrance. He set down his DOR log, his gunbelt heavy on his hip.
"Fuckin' state cops just wired us this 64." Peerce testily waved the fax, one side of his mouth boluslike from the eternal wad of chewing tabacco. "Some cracker girl from Luntville. 'FYI' it says. 'Please file and note.'"
A 64 was a death report relative to suspected homicide. Frowning Cummings took the fax and read it.
FM: VSP/VIOLENT CRIMES UNIT
TO: SAC/BAFT FO RUSSELL COUNTY/IMMEDIATE
RECEIVING OFFICE: FYI, PLEASE NOTE AND FILE VIA FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT COOPERATION ORDER. SHOULD RELEVANT INFORMATION BE BROUGHT TO YOUR ATTENTION, IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY VSP HQ
SUBJECT: REID, IREE, A. W/F DOB: 2 AUG 79 HAIR: BLD EYES: BR WT: 116 - VICTIM (DECEASED)
The date of file was late last evening. "Oh. yeah." Cummings offered "State trooper found her in a field just off the Route; I talked to the guy. Said he saw her just lying there, was waiting for the M.E." Peerce made no reply, crow's feet around his eyes. Then Cummings read on.
PROFILING AND CONSULTATION: VICTIM FOUND DEAD VIA UNUSUAL CRANIAL INSULT, A 3-INCH OCULUS, APPARENTLY INFLICTED BY A POWER TOOL MANMADE LATERAL RENT APPROX. 6 INCHES DEEP INTO CENTRAL SULCUS AND OCCIPITAL POLE OF THE BRAIN, PROBABLY INFLICTED WITH A KITCHEN-TYPE KNIFE WITH A DOWNWARD SERRATED EDGE.
NOTE: FURTHER AUTOPSY DIAGNOSIS REVEALS A PECULIAR ASPIRATION OF HUMAN SEMINAL FLUID IN PROXIMITY TO THE INSULT.
Cummings' vision cruxed down on the stark fax paper. He'd seen plenty of strange state police wires in his time, but— What in God's name is this?' he pondered.
"Cain't believe it. A fuckin' header."
Cummings glanced up. "What?"
Peerce was leaning over to retrieve his spit-cup. His previous comment had been more of a mutter to himself than something he's said directly to Cummings. "I thought you were supposed to be gatherin' intelligence on McKully's stills?"
"Yeah," Cummings answered. "I got most of them tagged and marked: be ready to bust them any day. But what was that you said? Something about a header? What's a header?"
Peerce sat down behind his dented, federal-gray desk, chawing fiercely as the sudden glint came to his eyes. "So how come you ain't out there now? It's tax dollars payin' your salary, ain't it? Don't be worryin' about no damn death report from the state cops. It's there 64 so let 'em handle it. Shee-it McKully's probably just shipped out another truckload of 'shine while's you been standin' here jackin' your jaw."
"Come on, J.L. What the hell is a header?"
Peerce shot a staged gape at his watch. "You still here?"
Talk about avoiding the issue. True, Peerce was Cummings' superior, but he'd never given him the kiss-off like this. A header? Cummings thought, walking out of the FO to his unmarked.
The morning was blooming: the grand sun rose high over the mountain ridge. Pocked within that ridge, he knew, like termites in wood, were countless dozens of family stills run by the dirt-poor for generations. It was Cummings' job to sniff them out, or as was the case since Kath's illness, to let certain operations slide for a little grease, and to mark the liquor runs. That's what he should be worrying about. And he had something else to worry about too: tonight he was meeting with "Dutch." He was about to go to work for a dope dealer. Get your mind back on the important things, he told himself, and pulled the unmarked out onto the county road. Dust followed him like an amorphous contrail, something gaining on him.
But Cummings, stolid behind the wheel, couldn't shake it. For the rest of the day the question nagged.
What the hell is a header?
........
Yeah, Gradpap was dag shore right. Weren't nothin' like it. A header was far better a nut than anything he'd ever had. Nosiree. Weren't nothin' like it.
"Told ya, boy." Grandpap asserted front his wheelchair.
Gawd, was all Travis could think. Last night after he'd dumped Iree Reid's body in Croll's field, Travis had comed home and gone ta bed an' he'd had ta jack hisself—twice, as a matter 'a fact—thinkin' 'bout how good it felt ta get his nuts off in that cracker girl's head.
"S'how we do things 'round here, Travis," the old man informed, finishing the last needlestitch on the pair of boots he was workin' on. "S'how we takes care 'a business. When someone does ya wrong 'nuff times, the only thing you kin do ta git proper revenge is havin' a header. Folks been fuedin' in these hills fer hunnerts 'a years. The Cullers an' the Canes, an' the Saltenstalls an' the Bessers, an' the Snoots an' the Meyers. And like your Daddy and that blammed Caudill over yonder, and folks been havin' thereselfs headers the whole time. An' it's only fittin' an' proper. Like it says in the Bible, son. An eye fer a eye."
Travis weren't too sure what eyes had ta do with humpin' people's heads but he just figured it was 'cos Grandpap was smarter'n him. And he didn't feel too bad 'bout Iree Reid, 'cos the Reids had shore done his Daddy wrong in the past, an' it must be okay 'cos. like Grandpap just got done sayin', it said so in the Bible, it was okay ta head-hump folks.
"Now best you git on down the creek an' bring up some water, and git some more wood chopped." Grandpap ordered. "We'se gonna roast us up some of my good coon sausage t'
night. And I got Nedder Kinney comin' up in a spell, the dog-dirty cracker, to pay me fer these boots I jus' made fer him. Ain't never liked the guy much, but his money's green so I'll'se take it. And, 'sides, it's probably best you not be seen, son, on account of you're just out the slam and busted yer parole."
"Okay. Grandpap."
Travis moseyed on out the back, down to the creek. Yes sir, it was shore good ta be out the slam. Fresh air, birds chirpin', the creek babblin'. Shore beat the cellblock, it did. Good ta be alive weather, his daddy used to ssay. And viddles? Grandpap could fix up some viddles like nobody's business. Possum Pie, Muskrat Burger, hot spicy stews, and, a'corse, that great chunky coon sausage. Chrast, that slop they served 'em at the cellblock looked like somethin' somebody'd upchucked into a pot and cooked it. It were a moment of self-awareness, it were, reverlations from God Hisself, tellin' Travis that he had hisself a dandy life, and Travis was rightly grateful fer it. Indeed he was!
Whistlin' to hisself, he brought up two buckets of water hangin' off the ends of a pole 'cross his back, but then he ducked a right quick 'fore he got back up the house, for he spied Nedder Kinney's ol' '74 Chevy pickup parked front of the porch. Grandpap was right; wouldn't be too good for Travis ta be seed, so he figured he'd just wait till Ned left. He remembert the Kinney's vaguely, lived in a couple shanties out past Kohl's Point, they did. Nedder had hisself a fat wife named Chessy, who had no teeth and got the tip of her nose bit off by a feisty squirrel once, and about half a dozen dirty little kids which Travis reckoned weren't so little no more on account of he'd been in the clink 11 years. Remembert Nedder ta be not exactly the nicest fella you'd wanna meet, ornery and half-crocked all the time from the 'shine he brewed in his still, an' meaner'n a shithouse rat. 'Corse, Travis figured he hisself'd be mean an' drank all the time too if he had a wife as fat'n ugly as Nedder's, an' a bunch of dirty, snot-eatin' cracker kids, halfa whom he'd heard was retarts. But —
What was that?
Travis heard hisself a sound right then —
It's hollerin'? his pea-brain inquired.
But shore enough it were 'cos it got a tad louder next, and Travis knowed it was Grandpap and Nedder Kinney in there hollerin' at each other.
I wonder what's they'se hollerin' 'bout...
Travis edged up the side of the house, careful not ta make no noise, and then he put his big inquirin' face ta the screen, and there was big Nedder Kinney, his big smudged shoulders stickin' out bare from his overalls that shorely hadn't been warshed in a coon's age, and his rotten-toothed smile shinin' through a dirty beard. "You got's ta be shitting me, ya old stick, if ya think I'm gonna pay twenny bucks for these here boots."
"Blammit, Kinney!" Grandpap snapped back from his wheelchair. "Twenny's what we agreet!"
"Yeah, well I guess I plum changed my mind, ya crusty ol' cracker." Nedder wagged the brand-new boots in Grandpap's face. "These here're pieces'a shit, problee bust open inna week."
"Them's the finest boots in the blammed county, daggit! Won't find finer, long-lastin' boots nowheres, not even in one of the big city stores!"
Nedder Kinney laughed, flecks of stuff fallin' from his black beard. "Dumbest-ass thing I ever heard'n my life anyways, a shoemaker with no feet." He slapped down a crumpled sawbuck. "I'se pay ten, ya footless old fuck, which is more'n a white trash old coot like you deserves anyways. Don't like it? What'cha gonnas do about it?'
And with that remark, Nedder Kinney busted out a good guffaw, clopped out the house, and droved off in his pickup.
Travis felt a right bad, he did, lookin' in that winder and seein' poor old Grandpap sittin' in that blammed chair with just hairy stumps where his feet used ta be. Travis could 'magine his grandfather's frustration, old, weak, can't walk or stand up. Folks could just rip him off any ol' time they pleased, because that stinkin' rot-tooth cracker galoot Nedder Kinney were shore right about one thing: there weren't nothin' in the world ol' Grandpap could do about it.
Naw, I reckon there ain't, Travis thought. But there's shore's shit somethin' I can do about it...
........
"So you're the big bad fed Spaz has been raving about?'
"That's right," Cummings said. "And you must be Dutch, the big bad dope runner."
Dutch had long blond hair and a hatchet face. Lean. Hard. A skull tattoo on his forearm. Cummings sat down in a dilapidated chair as Spaz, brought out beers.
"And what's this deal of yours?"
"I'll make one run per week to your points." Cummings said, sipping cold Jax. "For a thousand bucks a month."
Silence dropped like a coffin lid. Cummings knew he had Dutch thinking. Spaz stood in the corner, a twitching shadow.
"Sounds good," Dutch eventually broke the quiet. "Too good, if you ask me. You're a fuckin' cop, man. Why should I trust you?"
"'Cos I'm the most trustworthy crooked cop in town. You think this is a setup? You think I'm wired? Search me. And ask Spaz. I've been covering his hooch points for six months."
"Yeah, Dutch." Spaz piped in, face ticking. He was probably on speed today. "Stew here's straight up."
"Straight up." Dutch mimicked. "How come a cop wants to work for a guy like me?"
Cummings' hands unfolded before him. It was time for his spiel. "Oldest reason in the world, Dutch. I need money. I got a sick wife who's getting sicker; each week she needs another medication that costs a fuckin' arm and a leg, and the bread the feds pay me wouldn't buy a good box lunch.
I been bending over backwards for the ATF for 10 years, and I haven't even gotten one promotion, while everyone else in this shit-stinking world makes out like a bandit. Now its my turn to make out. Fuck it. I'm going on the pad. You don't want to work with me, fine. I'm sure I can find some other dope dealer who'd like to have a federal cop in his pocket."
The look on Dutch's face broadened; the point, obviously, drove home. "One run per week to my points, and a thousand a month in your till?"
"That's Right."
Dutch's steely eyes leveled. "How much product per ran?"
"As much as you can stuff into the trunk of my federal police car." Cummings answered.
Dutch eased back in his chair, lowering his beer in a lax grace. Then, for the first time, he smiled. "I think we can work with this." he said.
........
"Hump that head, boy!" Grandpap wailed. "Hump it!"
And Travis, he humped like a trooper, he did, that big cherrywood work table thunkin' with each hump. Travis' bone never felt so hard in his life, no sir, as it were right now slidin' in an' outa Chessy Kinney's head as she lay like a sidled-over Berkshire hog on the table. Travis had seed her pickin' raspberries just 'fore nightfall, big as a Berkshire hog herself inna puke-green sundress, all big tits an' belly strainin' against the flinty material, ratty brown hair hangin' in ropes 'round her fat face. Travis had offered her a ride home in his pickup, then jacked her out but good with his brass knucks once she gots in. It just hurt him so bad seein' the crashed look on Grandpap's face after that dirty, hoochin', dick-cheese-eatin' Nedder Kinney had pulled that stunt, only payin' a paltry sawbuck fer a pair of Grandpap's fine work-boots. But it were like the Bible said, a eye fer an eye, 'er somethin' like that, so Travis felt it letgitermat ta snatch Nedder's fat, cracker wife and have a header.