by Gibby Haynes
As he walks up to the driver’s side I notice an odd yet familiar smirk on his face. Leaning into the window, eyeing both Lytle and me, he tells me to turn off the ignition and asks for our IDs.
Then he turns toward the rear of the pickup and says in a smart-ass voice, “What do ya got in the back?”
He steps away to take a look. Lytle and I let out another simultaneous, “Oh, shit!” This time it’s audible. There’s a silent mutual realization: That’s him!
“Dude,” Lytle whispers. “That’s the dude, the cop that stole our money at the party.”
“I know who he is,” I grumble. “The cop who hassled me in Shady Oaks. Before the party, right after I picked up the balloon candy. He knew my name. Creeps me out.”
“Dude, this is totally a setup.”
“Fucking Cletus Acox,” we both say.
“Thank Larry Teeter.” I scowl in the rearview. “Look at those sideburns, dude . . .”
Mr. Cigar has been maintaining a low growl the entire time. Suddenly he jumps into my lap and cracks out a sharp, singular bark.
From the back of the truck, Sergeant Cletus lets out a whoop. “Hoo-boy . . . Lookie there!” He lifts up the tarp that covers the weed, then fake chokes, grinning ominously. “That smells craaazeee . . . heh heh.”
He returns to my window, and Mr. Cigar lunges slightly toward him, growling in a heightened manner.
“Watch your dog, now,” Acox warns. Pausing, he moves his hand toward his hip and stares eye to eye with Mr. Cigar . . . right at the moment his hand comes in contact with a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. Completely in harm’s way, with a deceptive amount of skill, craft and power, Mr. Cigar makes his leaping move.
All hell breaks loose, and a gun goes off.
THE PEANUT, THE CHICKEN AND THE THUNDERCLOUD
For about as long as it’s mattered, I’ve had Mr. Cigar as a partner. After my sister’s . . . uh . . . injury, he’s never left my side. During her recovery, I was basically alone in the house as my mom and dad, along with a nurse and later a physical therapist, gave her, deservedly, most of their time and attention. In those months, I learned the magic of my new friend, but my sister insisted then, and probably would today, that Mr. Cigar had something to do with the “lawn mower incident” and that some weird flying creature bit off her hand.
It was only after more than a couple of therapy sessions she finally admitted that perhaps she had suffered some form of hallucinatory shock and a swooping owl or hawk had startled her into falling in front of the lawn mower. I still feel bad about the whole thing. However, after only a few years, my sister has clearly become elevated by the accident/incident. Nonetheless, she’s always eyed Cigar suspiciously, and they’ve definitely never bonded. Post incident, Mr. Cigar always went to school with me, either by sneaking onto the school bus or just running through the woods and beating us there when my parents would drive me. People got used to seeing us together, and a sort of playful rumor circulated that he was my twin brother who’d died at birth. Little did they know.
Mr. Cigar has become less like a partner and more like an arm or even a set of lungs. If I need him to be human—even superhuman almost—he’s there. I’ve never seen him sniff another dog’s butt (or his own, for that matter) but seen him get in fights when another dog tries to sniff his. That little guy runs as fast as physics allows with those short little legs, blindingly quick, and his jaws could probably bite a two-by-four in half. His overall strength is fairly impressive as well. I don’t know if I’ve ever really felt his full force in any way, but he’s powerful to say the least. Not vampire strong, but strong-guy strong. Mr. Cigar definitely has kind of a crazy job. Plus, he’s really good at it.
And on this particular night, he was stellar—a cool prairie wind had blown in from the Rocky Mountains and the rain-cleansed air felt almost statically charged.
NUDITY, EXTREME SEX AND STRONG VIOLENT CONTENT
The roadside drainage ditch is basically filled to the top with rainfall rushing downstream to nearby Catfish Creek, where the dank still-water air has been reset to zero. What usually smells like an unflushed toilet is now, if only temporarily, a rather pleasant experience. The grove of crepe myrtles near the creek have been agitated by the brief flood, and the scent of grape bubblegum mixed with your grandmother’s pillow permeates the air. Tomorrow morning, it might smell like a mixture of nothing and your grandfather’s pillow. Tonight, however, the air is washed and sweet. Then the crazy-loud drone of all things creek bottom goes silent. Gunshot echoing down the gully. The only sound for a breath or two is the gently flowing creek runoff and the dull reverberation of a work shoe skidding across the asphalt.
Then hell continues its quest to escape from the nether regions as Sergeant Cletus Acox screams out, “Goddamn it, that dog made me shoot off my brand-new Red Wing!” as he rolls to his back, clutching at his ankle and screaming louder and louder in pain.
“Goddamn it, I shot off my whole fuckin’ foot! Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it!” he continues. He sits up and stares squarely at us and says, “Get me a tourniquet,” then passes out.
l l-HEDRAL SURFACE IN QUASI-QUASISPACE
“Holy shit, this is so fucked. What do we do?” Lytle half screams.
“Get him a tourniquet?” I say.
“Cool, man. Cool, man,” Lytle mumbles, looking around. “Use your belt,” he says.
“I don’t even wear a belt, man. You ever see me with a belt? Let’s use your belt.”
“I don’t wear a belt either,” responds Lytle.
“Yeah, no shit. I’m gonna have to use one of your T-shirts.”
We all three spring from the pickup as Lytle mournfully says, “Oh man.”
“It’s only a T-shirt, dude.”
“No, man, it’s not the T-shirt. This is gonna be gross.”
“Yep,” I say.
As we approach Sergeant Acox, Lytle sees the blood and immediately throws up. “Oh man,” I say mournfully, then loop the T-shirt around his leg, tie a knot and begin winding it tightly with the help of the Maglite I found on Acox’s belt.
“Is it working?” asks Lytle. The bleeding is way down. “I can’t look, man. We gotta call 911.”
“No, don’t call 911, use the radio in the squad car. Or just do whatever you want and tell them a cop’s gun accidentally discharged and shot him in the foot.”
Lytle, with his phone in hand, is staring at something on the other side of the truck. I hear him say, “Wow!”
He continues, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but check it out! Look at your dog.”
“Lytle, call 911!”
“Okay, okay, man.”
Mr. Cigar has removed the weed out of the truck and dragged it to the drainage ditch, and it’s already about halfway to the creek, slowly taking on water.
Did my dog really just do that? A shame about the weed.
“Hello, 911?”
Lytle continues talking to the operator and walks toward the squad car, clearly following their directions. He opens the trunk, pulls something out and returns. He puts down the phone and says, “Look what I found in the sergeant’s trunk.” In one hand he has a first-aid kit and in the other, his now-empty backpack Acox stole at the party the other night. Opening the first-aid kit, he finds a real tourniquet, but unable to look at the carnage, he stares into the street while handing me the goods.
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem,” he replies. “I have an idea,” he continues.
I add the new tourniquet higher up on the leg while Lytle runs into the field and grabs a bale of hay and drags it to the truck. After wrestling it into the bed, he covers it with the tarp. As he walks back to me, he kicks the road clear of the scattered pieces of alfalfa that shook loose from the bale.
“Like nothing ever happened,” Lytle says. He pauses, listening. The approaching sirens are louder n
ow. “They’ll be here in like two minutes. Let’s tell ’em we came down here to get a bale of hay for my mother’s chicken coop and we got pulled over by this asshole and he freaked out and shot himself.”
“Wow, dude, that actually works. We confess to stealing two dollars’ worth of hay—for your mom, no less. Only it actually cost us fifteen grand. This was such a setup! Acox is a fucking asshole thief. Either you, JJ, or Larry or Mr. Cigar. And I know it wasn’t you, JJ or Cig. Fucking Larry Teeter.”
“Yep,” chirps Lytle. “Teeter and Acox are a team.”
“Exactly.”
Cigar barks in agreement.
THE KING JAMES VERSION
As an ambulance and squad car pull up to us, the wounded cop regains consciousness and looks groggily up at Lytle. “Where did you get that backpack, goddamn it? I shot my fucking foot off . . .” And then he passes out again.
A typically chubby cop with a surprisingly mellow demeanor pops out of the squad car and says, “What the hell happened here? They told me a sergeant of mine shot himself and two fellas gave him a hand. How are ya, Acox?”
As the EMT begins an initial evaluation of the injury, the wounded officer weakly raises his head and replies, “Okay . . . fuck, it hurts. Do I have a . . . ahh, fuck, it hurts.”
“Okay, now shut up, son. Lie down and let them do their job. I bet it hurts, but you’re okay. Thank God—you could have been alone and bled to death. Let me find out what’s going on. All right, guys, come on over to my car. Let me get your names and everything.”
Walking into the light of his squad car, we come into full view. The slightly alarmed policeman remarks, “Oh lordy, you boys are young. Excuse me, ma’am”—he motions to the EMS tech—“can you get us something to wipe my sergeant’s blood off of this young man’s body?” Looking at us, he says, “Goodness gracious, that is gross. I tell you what, this sure was an unfortunate situation, but I sure am glad you fellas were around to do what you did. The dispatcher told me you used your own T-shirt as a tourniquet? I imagine that was fairly intense?”
“Yes, sir. We were . . .” both Lytle and I blurt out, interrupting each other.
“Okay, okay, just one at a time now. First let’s get your IDs and just go from the beginning of how y’all pulled over on the side of the road and wound up with your T-shirt tied around the shot-up foot of a Hill County police officer.”
I realize at this point that we have gone from being drug dealers to kind of like teenage do-gooders. Dare I say heroes? Oddly satisfying.
We manage to paint a fairly innocent picture. We admit to stealing a bale of hay. I say “stealing,” but the hay had been rained on and was probably worth a dollar a bale. We admit to it and Sheriff Podus doesn’t flinch. Then, in response to my last name, he asks, “Is that Junior?”
“Well, actually it’s The Third,” I reply.
“You’re Gerry Lester’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
He flashes a melancholy smile. “I knew him a bit from security we provided for Ms. Carla Marks over at IBC. That sure was a shame about his accident, son—he seemed like a really good man.”
“Yes, sir. I miss him,” I say as the EMT closes the back door to the ambulance.
A groggy Acox says, “They have a truck full of marijuana, and that dog made me shoot off my foot—”
“Quiet, now,” The EMT soothes, urging him to calm down.
Sheriff Podus says, “Oh, Sergeant, I think you mistook marijuana for hay. Or rather, I think you mistook hay for marijuana.” He strides over to the back of Lytle’s pickup and lifts the tarp. “Yep, hay.” Then he walks to the ambulance. “It’s okay, son. You’re gonna be okay, but we gotta figure out how your weapon came out of its holster and discharged itself. State regulations say we have to do an investigation. So, when you’re feeling better, we can get a statement. You know the drill.” He looks toward me. “I’m looking forward to hearing how your dog did this. How much does your dog weigh? Twenty pounds? Heh heh.”
We both smile as the ambulance pulls away into a gathering of fog.
The cop sighs. “Well, boys, like I said, any time a weapon is drawn, there has to be an investigation. Normally, we would go down to the precinct and interview you guys immediately, but that takes forever, and I want to get home. Plus, I know both of you from your parents. I’ve known Lytle’s dad for years. He’s had the city hall landscaping contract as long as I’ve been with Hill County. I think I’ve seen Lytle mowing the grass in front of PD headquarters on Third Street. Am I right, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Lytle replies.
“Heh heh. Sometimes you had a blond Mohawk or a red flattop. Now you’re all normal. The only way I recognized you is from the sign on your truck. Anyway, y’all can go now, but I’ve got to send someone over tomorrow to get a statement with your parents in attendance.”
“Um, my mom is in Florida right now, and she won’t be back until next week,” I say.
“That should be no problem. We can do it all next week. It’s going to take Sergeant Acox several days anyway. Jeez, it looked like he blew at least two of his toes off. I looked all around with my flashlight and didn’t see any.” Then, motioning down with his Maglite in the general area surrounding the incident, Sheriff Podus freezes the beam toward the left rear tire of Lytle’s truck. “Oh lordy. There’s his shoe. Ooooh. I hope there’s nothing inside there.”
He reaches in with his foot leaning down a bit and kicks the damaged shoe into the light. It rolls over twice, and out tumbles an unidentifiable two-inch-square piece of bloody human flesh. “Oh, ow, ah.” We all cringe out loud.
“Oh man,” bemoans the sheriff while eyeing the carnage, then the flowing water in the nearby drainage ditch. “That doesn’t look like a keeper, now, does it, fellas?”
THE MENGER SPONGE
There is total silence as Lytle and I drive away from the scene and over Catfish Creek toward Lytle’s mom’s house. Finally out of sight from the flashing cruisers and tow truck, we erupt.
“Woooooow, dude. Whoaaaa. That was insane. I’ll never sleep again. Somebody blind me. I can’t believe what I saw.”
Mr. Cigar barks while Lytle and I blurt out weird snippets of what just transpired. For sure that was a setup. Either Larry Teeter’s phone was bugged or he and Cletus Acox were in on it together. You could tell he knew we had weed in the truck. He didn’t just accidentally pull us over and—blam! It was “accidentally” the kid he ripped off at the party with the kid whose name he “mysteriously” knew in the Shady Oaks apartments. Plus Larry Teeter mysteriously appeared by accident five seconds after he let me go. And Larry was just a little too nice. Then we’ve been dealing with the craziest shit that ever happened to mankind, so we’re hours late to deliver the weed and no call from Larry. Hmm. For sure Acox and Teeter are a team. Larry’s phone isn’t bugged. But we are wildly ecstatic, completely freaked out and totally broke. Feels good.
I say “broke” . . . We have maybe sixteen hundred dollars in cash for travel expenses. Enough.
We pass the cheesy used-car place and in three miles we’re either going straight to Lytle’s mom’s house or left on I-20 toward New York City and my sister.
Realistically, we can’t do anything for my sister without money, but I kind of want to make sure she’s okay. She’s really never sounded this weird before. I bet if my dad was still around, he’d be halfway there (to NYC) in his BMW by now. He definitely wouldn’t have Cletus Acox’s blood under his fingernails, but he’d go see what was happening with his daughter.
I’m going, but I don’t expect Lytle to feel the same way, so there is a generous portion of doubt in my voice when I ask him if he still wants to go on the road trip or back to his mom’s house. Before he can answer, my phone rings. It’s my sister.
I say, “Hold on a second,” and pull into the gas station at the intersection of uncertain destinies.
<
br /> “Oscar?” Or more like, “Osssss? Currrr? Are you okay? Are you coming? These people won’t leave,” she pleaded.
“Who? What people?” I ask.
“JJ’s back, but they said they won’t leave until they get the money I sorta owe them,” she responds. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. But really, come if you say you are. I can pay you back after my next show, no problem.”
“Now who really are these people?” I ask.
A man’s voice ominously says, “Friday afternoon. She owes us.”
Then the line is disconnected as I hear what sounds like my sister’s voice speaking unintelligibly before getting cut off.
SPOOKY DISTANCE AT AN ACTION
Lytle inquires, “So what’s the deal?”
“Uh, my sister again. Some guy sort of threatening . . . She doesn’t seem scared but just kind of desperate. I really have to go help her. She wouldn’t be playing some bizarre practical joke. I know she’s always blamed me or Cigar for her hand and shit, but this is serious. Plus, Nostril Man is on the prowl, and leaving town for a couple of days sounds good. It’s just, do you want to go up to NYC still? I totally understand if you don’t want to go. Cigar and I will make it fine. I can borrow Carla’s truck if you want to stay.” I think to myself, It’ll only take a couple of hours to go to IBC. I have the keys on me, but I have to call her if I want to borrow it for more than an hour or two. And I know if I talked to her, she would ask me to bring back the camo device.
“What camo device?” asks Lytle. “Dude, you were talking to yourself out loud again.”
Was I? Maybe DJ Mike’s chemical surprise hasn’t entirely worn off. “I told you, man.”