As Patty went on about her mom’s poor health and consequent death, I thought about how differently we perceived the dead woman. To the daughter, her mother was a courageous warrior who came up unlucky… hitting a bad streak that ended in a fatal staph infection, something she would surely have survived if the hospital had managed her care properly. But I saw the middle-aged woman as a burnout, a single mom with a thankless, low-paying job, who took shitty care of herself. Okay, I didn’t actually know her, but all the signs pointed to a short, miserable life. Of course, I didn’t say that to Patty. Let her see the dead woman as a damaged saint, a flawed diamond in a massively imperfect world—what’s the harm in that? Regardless, thinking about this shit was depressing. I needed a drink. We all have our illusions and at that point, I needed to find mine. We were just finishing our burgers.
“I noticed there was a bar next door when we came in. You want to stop in and get a drink?”
Patty frowned. “I told you I don’t drink alcohol, Frank.”
“Oh yeah, sorry.”
“But you can have one if you want.”
Her voice was saying one thing but her tone and downcast eyes said something else. Well, what the fuck… It had been well over a week since I’d had a drink and this fugitive from justice shit was stressful. I deserved a little pick-me-up. “Okay, I’ll make it a quick one. We won’t be in there long.”
The bar was typical of the kind of places you often find attached to diners and greasy spoons. It was dark, almost empty, and decorated in a thoughtless, almost haphazard, way. The most notable motif was a recurring pattern of ancient Mechanics Illustrated calendars, apparently someone’s collection from the ’50s and ’60s. From several random spots around the room, a bevy of young beauties, their faces and hands artistically smeared with grease, passionately fondled wrenches, screwdrivers and spark plugs.
I immediately felt at home, but I can’t say the same for Patty. Her seeming estrangement from the bar’s laid-back ambience had me wondering if this was a virgin excursion, while also prompting me to check out the joint with fresh eyes. Yeah, it was relaxed, but it was the kind of diversion that took its value from consciously going against the grain of everyday life. It was like a sex shop—you don’t go in one if you’ve just knocked off a hot piece, and you don’t enter a bar at peace with the world after two hours of hatha yoga. Objectively, they are often dreary, drab and mundane, especially bars like this one. Regardless, I realized my brain was working overtime processing worthless information, a sure sign that I needed a drink. Waking up the bartender, a dead ringer for Kojak, I ordered a bourbon on the rocks. As he placed the tumbler of amber liquid in front of me, a tingle of anticipation charged up my gut. Immediately reaching for the glass, I hesitated, restraining myself from knocking that sucker back in one gulp. Carefully controlling my compulsion, I calmly took one, then two sips, sighed deeply, and leaned back into my bar stool. Suddenly remembering my young companion, I turned to face Patty, closely observing the mechanics of my bar behavior.
A long tense moment passed before she finally spoke, “Are you an alcoholic, Frank?”
Later as we approached Blue Springs, Patty’s question was like a stubborn hangover, looming over the short trip. I had done my best to dodge the obvious, rationalize and justify my behavior and generally weasel my way out of an uncomfortable situation, but I guess the five shots of bourbon that I consumed during the two hours we spent in the bar, were answer enough. As I hemmed and hawed, ducked and dodged, Patty smiled and nodded. I hadn’t fooled her for a minute. I knew it and she knew it, but the pleasant young blonde’s polite Midwestern upbringing kept her from calling me the lush we both knew I was.
It was 7 p.m. when we pulled up in front of Ted Hendricks’ small house with the now familiar Honda sitting under the carport. Since the kid would undoubtedly greet me like a loud and uninvited uncle, Patty immediately hopped out of the car, walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell. The tall content screener quickly appeared and, even though she didn’t carry a badge, Patty promptly flashed her ID from the Clinton County sheriff’s department. Recognizing her from their earlier encounter in the jail cell, Hendricks was initially taken aback, nervously scanning up and down the street. Assured that Patty was alone, Ted turned his attention back to the young clerk, who by this time was explaining the plan. Guarded, the techie nevertheless listened politely, slightly bent over and nodding his head, until the focus of the conversation reached me. Instantly stiffening, he rose to his full majestic height, scowling at the Jeep as if suddenly aware the car concealed two tons of day-old sheep shit. Frantically shaking his head, with Patty imploring him to hear her out, Hendricks turned back toward the interior of the house.
This was it! If ever a time for action existed, the moment was NOW! Without hesitation, I leaped from the car, shouting Hendricks’ name, took two steps toward the house and tripped over a lawn sprinkler, falling and planting my face on the sidewalk. For the second time in less than two weeks, I had broken my nose on Ted Hendricks’ property.
Talk about déjà vu. Five minutes later I was once again sitting at the table in the techie’s breakfast nook with Hendricks Scotch-taping toilet paper over my nose, only this time it was Patty, not Margo, making the coffee and staring at me from across the kitchen.
Obviously unhappy, Ted Hendricks applied one last piece of tape, stepped back to admire his handiwork and spoke, “I don’t seem to be able to get rid of you, Mr. Blood-Jet, neither you nor your bloody nose… but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I felt like a fool. Okay, I know, this was not exactly virgin territory, but whatever… it was time to suck it up. If I couldn’t convince the kid to join us, I might be facing an unwanted vacation in Leavenworth. Desperate, I lurched ahead, “Look, Ted, I’m not sure exactly what Patty has told you, but…”
“It doesn’t matter what she said, Mr. Blood-Jet, I’ve got enough trouble already… Margo left me yesterday and I could be facing charges over Willy’s crime spree. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need!”
“But…”
“Forget it! I don’t need any more problems! My life is a fucking wreck and you are at least partly to blame! Please! Finish your cup of coffee and leave. Am I not being clear!?! I WANT YOU TO GO!”
Discouraged, I picked up my cup and stared at the black steaming liquid in silence. Fear, anxiety and outright panic urged me to press on but the kid’s locked jaw and set-in-stone scowl said forget it. My neck was in a noose and someone was kicking the crate my toes were precariously perched upon. Back in the darker recesses of my mind, a tiny voice was speaking. It said the kicker was me.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. A loud knock, accompanied by an even louder and painfully familiar voice. “State Police, Mr. Hendricks. I need to talk to you.” It was Duane! Punch-drunk with panic, I bolted for the back door, but my young cohort stopped me.
“Stall him as long as you can, then let him in, Ted. I’ll take care of the rest. Frank, you come into the bedroom with me.” Having no idea what Patty was up to, I protested but she quickly put a hand over my mouth while pushing me into Hendricks’ bedroom. Quickly undressing, she grabbed the techie’s robe and motioned for me to crawl under the bed. Speaking in a loud whisper, she told me, “Just stay under there and keep quiet, Frank… I’ll take care of Duane… Okay?” Nodding uncertainly, I dropped to my knees and slithered beneath the bed. Still a little drunk, I laid there in the dark, clueless and confused. Patty’s plan had better work, otherwise I was garbage… dried-up donkey dung… offal in an onion patch… you know, bad shit. Meanwhile, we followed the uneasy confrontation in the other room.
Standing behind the closed door, Hendricks responded, “What do you want, officer?”
“Open up, Mr. Hendricks, we have reason to believe there’s a fugitive in there.”
“You’re wasting your time, officer. There’s no one here but me.”
“A suspicious car is parked in front of your house,
Mr. Hendricks. A car we have reason to believe was used in the recent escape and flight of a dangerous felon. Please open the door!” Stalling for time, the kid didn’t respond, so Duane pushed on, “It wouldn’t be hard for me to break through this door, Mr. Hendricks. DON’T MAKE ME DO IT!”
Accepting the inevitable, Hendricks reached for the doorknob but only after securing the night latch. Opening the door to the limit of the short chain, he peeked through. “Do you have a search warrant, officer?”
“I don’t need a warrant, Mr. Hendricks… not if I have just cause to believe you are harboring a fugitive and I do. NOW… OPEN… THE… DOOR! I’m losing my patience!”
Taking his time, the content screener slid the chain free, swung the door open and stepped back. “See… there’s no one here, officer.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Hendricks.” Placing a hand on the butt of his gun, the state trooper stomped into the small living room and looked around.
With perfect timing, Patty took Duane’s entrance as her cue. With her hair suggestively disheveled and obviously wearing nothing beneath the techie’s robe, the young blonde boldly burst into the room. “ARE YOU STALKING ME, DUANE? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Wide-eyed and completely off guard, the trooper took two halting steps backward and stared, his mouth open in disbelief. “ANSWER ME, DUANE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? THIS IS SEXUAL HARASSMENT!”
Flustered, the cop stammered, “But… but… Patty…”
“But what, Duane? You haven’t answered my question. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
Reluctant to face his indignant lover, Duane turned to Ted Hendricks. “I… I thought you said there was nobody here but you…”
Unwilling to let the floundering fish off the hook, Patty bore in, “I told him to say that, Duane. Now please apologize for interrupting us and leave.”
Subdued and without the benefit of his normal bravado, Duane tentatively pushed ahead. “I… I’m sorry, Patty, but somehow that sleazeball writer escaped last night and since you and him were, uh, kinda tight… uh, we thought… well, Bernie and me… we thought…”
“You thought I helped him escape? Is that what you thought, Duane? Are you fucking crazy?”
Composing himself slightly, Duane continued, “Okay, then what are you doing here… with this guy?” He turned and looked at Hendricks suspiciously.
“Not that it’s any of your business, Duane, but Ted and I made… friends, while he was in Clinton. I wanted to get know him better, so I drove over…” The gutsy chick then walked over to Hendricks and grabbed his arm, while leaning her head against his shoulder affectionately. “DOES THAT ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, DUANE?”
His face turning the color of rancid watermelon, Duane’s battered ego had had more than enough. “Uh, yeah, I get it, Patty, but…”
“BUT WHAT, DUANE!?! FOR FUCK’S SAKE. LOOK AROUND IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME! Ted and I have nothing to hide.”
By this time the totally demoralized trooper couldn’t get out fast enough. “Yeah… yeah… okay… okay…” After quickly scanning the bedroom and the kitchen, Duane skulked out, got into his patrol car and roared away.
A few minutes later we were back congregated around the kitchen table. The good thing about the Duane episode was that it served to focus the tightly wound Hendricks and, more importantly, put all of us on the same page. At least for the moment, the relief of having deflected Duane’s attempt to bust Patty and me left us more or less bonded, but I had to connect with the kid before he retreated into his uber-defensive shell. Of course having Patty at the table, with her tousled hair and cleavage seductively framed by the lapels of Hendricks’ robe, didn’t hurt. Suffice it to say, none of this feminine pulchritude was lost on the suddenly attentive Ted Hendricks.
Feeling the moment was now or never, I went for it. “Ted, I understand that you don’t want any part of our crazy Beasley caper, but there’s something you should know before we leave.”
With his eyes still riveted to Patty’s shapely form, provocatively outlined under his robe, Hendricks muttered, “Yeah, what’s that?”
He bit. I could already feel him weakening. All I had to do now was reel him in. “Ted, you’re probably not aware of it, but Deputy Bodie is trying to use the explosion to pin a domestic terrorism charge on me and…” Cocking an ear, the kid looked up. “…she’s got you pegged as my accomplice.”
“WHAT!?!” The hook was set. Ted Hendricks was fully engaged. It wouldn’t take much more, especially after I began pulling the kid’s heartstrings over poor Willy’s treatment at the hands of the heartless Crawford Beasley. I had only planned on asking Ted to take us to Beasley’s compound; Patty and I could take over from there, but something was telling me that Hendricks might just be sticking around. It wouldn’t take long to find out, and the more I watched the kid ogling Patty, the more confident I became.
Five minutes later, Hendricks declared himself in. “Okay, I’ll take you guys to the compound, but that’s as far as I go. Okay?”
Spending the night at Hendricks’ place would have been easy enough, but Patty insisted it was too risky. “Look guys, we may have fooled Duane, but he’s not a total idiot. Once he’s had time to think it over and report to Bernie, he’ll be back… and we won’t be so lucky next time.”
It didn’t take much to convince me. The thought of Duane’s stormtrooper boots reducing the door to splinters was plenty. “Yeah, I agree… We gotta get outta here. Ted, didn’t you say Beasley’s compound is near Kingdom City? How far is that?”
“Not far… about two hours on I-70. I have to get some stuff… It’ll only take a couple of minutes…” Rushing, the kid took two steps toward his bedroom then paused and turned back. “Hey! I’m okay showing you guys how to get to Beasley’s compound, but I should probably print a map, too. That way, if we’re separated or something, you’ll still be able to find it.”
“Yeah, okay… just hurry… Duane could be back any minute.”
Brimming with urgency, we burst into action. Ted printed the map, then packed while Patty grabbed her clothes and hurried into the bathroom to change. A few moments later the techie emerged from his bedroom carrying a bag and a laptop. As soon as the others returned to the kitchen, I spoke up, “Look… Patty’s car is easy to spot, so we should stick to the back roads, and leaving now means it’s late when get to Kingdom City… and I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, stop in a nearby motel and drive on over to Kingdom City in the morning. Ted, you lead and we’ll follow. Does that sound okay, guys?”
With both Patty and Ted nodding their approval, we grabbed our stuff and headed out the door.
It was almost 9 p.m., but so much had happened since we arrived at Ted Hendricks’ house, it seemed much later. After heading north out of Blue Springs on State Highway 7, we turned east on U.S. 24, soon finding ourselves in the town of Buckner, MO. Nowhere burgs like this shut down early, so finding a motel and a greasy spoon was crucial. Wasting no time, we went for Sam’s Tiki Town, an oddball Polynesian-themed motel, connected to an unappealing bar-restaurant. After checking in and opting for the De-Lux Suite, two beds and a fold-out sofa, we hurried to the restaurant, where the grill had just shut down. Starving, we faced a plethora of grim and grimmer choices: barbecue potato chips, cereal, a tired salad bar, cold premade sandwiches and pickled eggs. Playing it safe, Patty got the Sugar Frosted Flakes while Hendricks beat me to the last roast-beef-on-a-French roll. Reeling, I made the monumental blunder of ordering a day-old cheese sandwich.
Thoughtlessly, l peeked inside. Between the two slices of white bread, was an even blander mass, a thick viscous substance I uncomfortably categorized as a cross between frozen mayonnaise and marshmallows. The second mistake was biting into it, the effect of which was a mouth packed with albino tar, instantly encasing my oral cavity while effectively gluing my teeth together. Patty and Ted, engaged in a spirited conversation, were apparently oblivious to my fate until I grabbed a knife and wedged it between my teeth, desperately
attempting to force the orifice open.
Her eyes widening, Patty was the first to notice, “Frank, are you okay?”
Pointing at my jaw with one hand while twisting the knife with the other, the only remark I could muster was, “UUUMMMMMOOOUUURRR!”
Looking up from his plate, Hendricks mumbled, “He seems to have a problem.” Rising to his full nearly seven-foot height, Ted loped around the table, approached my chair and bent over, closely inspecting the problem area. As I continued to emit unintelligible sounds, the kid spoke again, “It looks like something is stuck in his mouth… Is that correct, Mr. Blood-Jet?”
Nodding my head frantically, I motioned for him to grab another knife and, with each of us prying different sides of my mouth, we finally forced it open, allowing the gooey white mass to escape onto the tabletop with a sickening PLOP! Looking up at me like an ashen squid embryo, I quickly scooped the pile of saliva-coated detritus into my napkin and threw it away.
“I think I need a drink.” Lurching over to the bar, agreeably labeled “Larry’s Liquor Locker,” I ordered a bourbon on the rocks, as Patty and Ted returned to their conversation. They were talking about apples.
Up to this point my “relationship” with the uber-cute blonde had remained ill-defined and fuzzy. There was no doubt the chick had a crush on me and also freed me from the grasp of Deputy Dawg. Yeah, I was attracted to her big-time and we had “done it”… once… sort of… But somehow a widening gap appeared between us after Patty’s earlier “alcoholic” comment. Now as I sat in another bar indulging my intemperance with a second, then a third whiskey, I watched as my companions discussed the merits and shortcomings of Honeycrisps versus Granny Smiths and Gravensteins. And as I watched, I had the clear impression that apples, just as in the Garden of Eden, provided nothing more than the subtext of a deeper, more primal conversation.
The Brickeaters Page 17