Pretty Like an Ugly Girl (Baer Creighton Book 3)

by Clayton Lindemuth

  “Who the fuck’s they? All these years, you haven’t learned shit. The state doesn’t exist to protect you or give you justice. It exists to do the opposite. And if you haven’t learned that yet, just get the fuck out of my sight. You’re an embarrassment.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait you fucking prick. We bury Cephus today, then take the rest of the girls to Salt Lake. I had big plans for your brother. You aren’t big enough to fill them, but I’m giving you one chance to pull your shit together. From this moment, you’re either one hundred percent dedicated, or you’re out. Which is it?”

  Finch breathed in.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We bury Cephus, then take rest the girls to Salt Lake. I had big plans for your brother. You ain’t big enough to fill ’em. So you gotta decide. From right now on, you’s either one hundred percent in, or you’s out. Which it gonna be?

  Okeydokey. That feller’s the daddy I just killed his son. Other with the dreadlocks is getting called out. Time to be a man, son. That mean you gotta shoot Mexicans run from the truck. Then take blackhair girls out to shoot in the head.

  Fuckin’ devil.

  I’s up in the ponderosa, got to stay on the backside like a gray squirrel—but can’t jump limb to limb like the tree rat. They come ’round back and look up, I’s in trouble. Got Smith ready for a quick hello.

  Told Stinky Joe to stay put down by the crick. He hear voices and we’ll see if he listen.

  The old man giving orders turns away from Dreadlocks and parks his thumbs on his belt. Dreadlocks pulls the stakes on my tent and stretches it flat. Folds and rolls like he’s familiar with the concept. He put the roll under his arm, and though I’d like if he forget the Winchester leaned agin the dead birch tree, he grab it and they walk off together into the morning sun.

  But I saw that young feller’s face when his daddy looked off. Boy and his daddy ain’t on the same page.

  Mebbe.

  I stay in the tree while they cross to the fella I shot dead last night. Old man hoists him over the shoulder, and as he walks, the body flexes some at the back; he start off like a board but time they get him through the wood slat fence he’s folded at the middle. Daddy got his head next his dead son’s ass—I bet he ready to hunt somebody down and kill him.

  That be me.

  Dreadlocks comes back with a shovel to the Mexican with the red jacket. Sets about covering the body agin. They think they’s gonna seal this up. Hide the boy. Bury they own, proper, with mother crying and words from a black book—cause they doing the Lord’s work. Then they drive a truck of girls to Salt Lake City.

  But that dead Mexican got a voice they ain’t yet heard.

  Mine.

  I got the insurance card with name and address. I want the connection that’ll put me in Salt Lake City with that meat truck.

  Take stock the full situation.

  Girl left with all my things. I’s underdressed for the weather. Got the gold on my back but that don’t keep a fella warm. Little snipe took my booze too. I got a knife, Smith, bullets, and a dog. Mebbe fifteen-thirty mile from Flagstaff.

  Don’t know if I can get there while they’s any stores still open. So I either spend another night in the cold, visit Mae and the grandkids, or poke Ruth.

  She won’t let me in without I poker.

  Dad and Dreadlocks enter different trucks and drive off. They head up the interstate westbound.

  You coming down?

  “Ah, I was lookin’ the other way. Didn’t see you, Joe.”

  I coulda been a grizzly bear.

  “You fuckin’ wish. You’s barely a dog.”

  Joe look down. Away.

  “Ah, I didn’t mean it. Joshin’ ya.”

  I climb down and keep from busting my nuts on a saddle or breaking a leg on the fall. Get the ground under me, and I wish I had some that salty backpacker food that girl stole. How the hell she carry the whole pack I dunno. But she been in a scrape, and I don’t give a shit about the bag. Money’ll buy more. Still think she liable to freeze to death if she don’t get to town, and problem is, they ain’t many folk’ll take in a kid girl from Mexico without wanting something back. She run off from the only help she was liable to find.

  Ground level, I get a good look all the way ’round and head back the dead Mexican. Un-bury him again. That father feller did the boy’s head wrong. Smashed in and pert near broke off. Thought I’d put him roadside, but if I take the body I’s not sure the head’d tag along. And now I look at him, my resolve is strong but the stomach is weak. Mebbe I’ll just leave him in the open with the red; make a call from a pay phone ...

  “Come on, Joe. We got a long ass walk.”

  I think on it while trudging east. Follow a road runs parallel the highway. I’ll go cross country if it ends.

  No likker, no cabbage. Situation hopeless.

  But the morning sun burns plenty warm and time we cross a mile two I gotta unbutton the top my shirt and let the heat go. Now and again a truck roll by and I get the goose bumps each time, ’cause the bad guy I shot drove a Ford F-150, and his daddy drove the Dodge Ram, and it just so happens out west, they got a law every man woman child got to drive a fucking truck. So each time I look and see what’s coming, I wonder if it’s time to pull Smith.

  Now the tires come behind me, and I turn ’cause they slow to a crawl. Look back.

  “Going to Flagstaff?”

  “What’s it yer business?”

  Man don’t glow or give me the juice, but that don’t mean a damn thing, lately.

  “Well, I’m going to Flagstaff and don’t mind giving a lift to an asshole and his dog. Hop in if you want to get there today.”

  I stop. He stops the truck. Fella either seventy-year-old, or a hard, hard fifty. Short hair like the military. Got a TRIUMPH ROCKET III sticker on the back his truck cab. I think that’s the one carried Neil Armstrong to the moon. Not sure. Next the Triumph sticker is a yellow one, got the coiled snake and DON’T TREAD ON ME.

  He see my gun and don’t care. Must be on account his gun. All in all, he’s offering and it’d almost be impolite—

  “Look fella, it’s an easy call. You want a ride, hop in. Otherwise, I’m late for breakfast.”

  Fucky fucky. Bacon, eggs. Lordamighty.

  “C’mon Stinky Joe, get up in the truck.”

  I come ’round the side and open the king cab back door. Joe jumps, misses. I grab his ass and lift him. Put him in the back seat. They’s dirt and all kinda grief there already.

  “Stinky Joe,” the feller says. “That’s some truth in advertising.”

  I climb in the front. Stretch my hand. He look at it, then me, and I look at it, and he say, “Looks like blood.”

  “You law?”

  “I’m about the farthest thing from law as you’ll meet. But before I want that blood on my hand, where’d it come from?”

  Guess I’ll just shoot him if he don’t like the truth. But truth is, a man’d fly the Gadsden flag is likely as fair and dignified as man is capable, given his universal predilection for lies, deceit, and thuggery. I’ll speak truth and if anything go wrong, I got the grizzly bear in the back seat to protect me.

  And Smith, accourse.

  “They’s a dead Mexican boy back the road a ways. Fella shot him last night. Then he shot Joe. You can see the crease on his neck. Hit bone. Fucker. So when the fella shot the Mexican come back with a girl to shoot, I got the drop. But this ain’t his blood. I never touched him. Just shot him. Anyhow, the girl took off half nekkid and two three hours later come to my camp shakin’ so bad she could hardly clock me with a log. I put her in the sleepin’ bag to warm up, took a walk, and time I come back she stole all I got save Stinky Joe and Mister Smith & Wesson. So now I’s set on findin’ the fella with the fella shot the Mexican—he and his father gonna truck a bunch more blackhair kids to Salt Lake City. I figger they’s sex slaves. Ima track down the two fellas and kill ’em. Is all.”

  “Oh.”

  I st
ill got my hand out, and if this feller don’t shake it quick I’ll shoot him on principle. But his head starts to noddin’ and last he say, “But which person’s blood is that?”

  “I guess it’s the Mexican. I dug him up so the law could see his red jacket when I call it in.”

  He shifts in his seat so he can get his right hand at a good angle to shake mine.

  “Name Creighton,” I say. And wonder if the name mean anything.

  “Cinder.”

  Now we met and shook.

  “So you’re set on some vigilante justice,” he say.

  “What I seen, it don’t get done otherwise.”

  He park on the road next a joint with a lotta glass and blue and white curtains.

  “You want breakfast?”

  “I doubt they could break a maple leaf.”

  “I got it.”

  “We ’preciate ya.”

  “Leave the window down for the dog. Maybe it’ll stink less when I drive home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We go inside and feels like I stepped back to 1969. Long hair and braids, men in socks and sandals. Damn near giggle at ’em. And they’s a couple old-timers too, prize they whiskers and boots. Veins in the hands. Sound is clinking silver and porcelain; smell is fried meat and seared taters. Mouth drool; ribs shake hands and slap asses.

  “This good for you?” He opens his arm at a table.

  I drag the wood chair and plant my ass. He does same. Flips over the newspaper someone left on the table.

  “So this crew you’re after, you ever run across them before?”

  “Nah.”

  “You know anything about them?”

  “Just the truck said Graves Meats, and the picture had the brand on the meat. Like they eat beefsteaks with Graves Meats seared on ’em.”

  “They don’t brand meat where you come from?”

  Suspect he’s asking what part the country cooks up critters like me. Cut the chase. “North Cackalackee, as you people say it.”

  “That meat truck belongs to Luke Graves. His family goes back a hundred years. The meat business, maybe two thirds that. You saw his truck?”

  “Meat truck had a flat. Mexican jumps out the back. Fella shot him, fixed the tire. Other fella with dreadlocks went out with a shovel but didn’t hardly sprinkle any dirt on the dead man. Then they drove off. What’s your name agin?”

  Cinder looks up. “Cinder. Nat.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I dunno if they own the truck or stole it, but when they come back, I was in the tree and they said they’d finish the run to Salt Lake City once they bury they boy.”

  Waitress clears her throat. She got a little cushion for the pushin’ and her face is like Jackie Kennedy. “Start you boys off with coffee?”

  Cinder nod.

  I do too.

  “Then I want a mess a eggs and meat. Don’t care which but if its pork you cook the shit out it. And I need some scraps for Joe. He’s my dog in the truck out there.”

  I look back from her pretty face and see Cinder wrinkle his brow and shrug. Oh, I get it. Fuck y’all, I’s from Flagstaff. High and mighty. Let’s see how the Cinderman order his eggs.

  “How ’bout you, Nat?” she say. “Two eggs over easy on top a stack of buckwheat? Home fries and ham?”

  He smile like each hand found a titty.

  She throws the hip and her whole bottom quiver. “Saw you in the paper this morning.”

  “I knew I’d regret it,” Cinder say.

  “No, you come off real good. People say you’re running for governor. I’ll be right back with your food.”

  “You politician?”

  “Not a law man. Not a politician. Retired businessman with some libertarian friends who like to raise hell.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, way I see it, that truck had the blackhair they shot. Then they come back with the girl, and next mornin’ they say they’ll take the rest to Salt Lake. So I figger two things. They got the home base somewheres nearby. And they got a bunch more blackhair kids on the meat truck. If they’s ready to kill ’em so easy, them kids ain’t there on they own accord. Way I figger.”

  “You talk pretty loud, being in public.”

  They ain’t no one near. But he’s saying I don’t yet know who he is. And that’s truth. But he don’t know I can spot a liar most times, ’cept the ones don’t know they’s fulla shit.

  Jackie Kennedy come back with mugs and coffee. Fills the first with the second. Put a tin of cream on the table. I top mine off. Cinder keep his black. The waitress wiggles to the hippy with the sandals, and I get a charge of juice off her. They ain’t ready yet and she goes the next table. I get another jolt.

  Each time she meets someone she amps up the deceit. But not when she talk to ole Nat Cinder.

  “That waitress used to date one of the Graves brothers. I don’t recall which. And the old timer you see behind me, back on the wall with the applesauce for sale? He worked at Graves Meats most of his life. He’s a meatcutter. You look close you’ll see he’s missing an index finger. He takes a pension from the Graves Meat company, and I bet the way he’d see it, a man about to dick that company is a man about to dick his retirement. Graves Meats employs folks from all over Flag, Sedona, Prescott. Supplies Phoenix, Tucson, Yuma, the whole state. Beyond. And the family homestead is in Williams. Which is just another exit down the Highway from where I picked you up. So maybe we ought to talk about how cold it is, for so early in November. Save the real conversation for the sidewalk.”

  “It is cold, I’ll grant you that. And a dry cold. You people don’t have humidity at all. Got a nosebleed on yer mountain.” I feel I got to adjust my underwear but now I’s self-conscious. Got to running my mouth and who knows if I just kick started myself some trouble. “Well, Mister Cinder, you spend yer life in Flagstaff? What’s your story?”

  “No story. Just a regular cowpoke. Got a ranch. A couple head.”

  I never in my life struggle for conversation ’cause mostly I don’t give a shit. But this man’s buying my eggs and meat, so I keep at it. “What you think my story?”

  He grin.

  “You smoke?”

  “Nah.”

  “After breakfast.”

  He look up and Jackie Kennedy got a plate in her hand and another on her arm. She swoop in like a hawk, arms wide and ass on a glide, and ’fore I know it ham and bacon smells up my nose; got the near-runny eggs on the side, toast, jam; Flagstaff is heaven.

  Cinder’s got a stack of cakes varnished in syrup and egg. Slice of ham like a ribeye. Home fries in cubes, browned all ’round. I could eat my plate and his.

  “Say, here’s a subject you might find suitable. Where can a fella trade a maple leaf for the paper money, and not get robbed?”

  “What kind of weight are you looking to trade?”

  “Just a coin.”

  Cinder pulls one of them cellular-style telephones from his coat. Works it with his fingers. “Gold’s at eight seventy-four. I’ll give you eight hundred even.”

  “Shit. May as well toss it on the sidewalk.”

  “You can do that. Or you might counter offer.”

  Cinder grin at me, and I don’t know exactly how much of this feller I’ll tolerate. Maybe get some egg and meat in me ’fore I get about the business.

  I chew a whole piece a bacon and same time chop ham with the fork. Mince eggs to a sloppy pile and mix in the ham, scoop the mess on toast. I’s done with two egg, ham, bacon, two toast, in thirteen second. Gulp a full mug of coffee. So hungry I could eat baked beans from a dead cowboy’s ass. But druther have another plate of ham ’n eggs. Maybe some of them flapjacks.

  “All right, I’ll take yer eight hundred. I got to get another plate.” I reach around my back and spin the money belt so’s the pocket I need is in front. Pull out a maple leaf and land it on the table.

  He don’t speak and we cross looks a long minute. Cinder reach to his ass and come out with a billfold. Peel off seven Franklins and two Grants. They’s a
shit ton more inside them leather folds. And he prolly seen the rest my gold pouch sparkle. Oh, Baer Creighton a moneyed man.

  “How come a man with the Gadsden flag on his truck likes so damn much fiat paper?”

  “Same reason you’ll take a shitty deal to trade out of it. You can’t buy breakfast with a maple leaf.”

  I slide the coin ‘tween the plate, ketchup and syrup. Leave it. He pick it up. Flip it.

  “You gonna bite the damn thing?”

  He folds the bills and reaches ’em to me. I counted when he counted so I take ’em without fuss.

  “Let me freshen that coffee.” Jackie Kennedy pours black, and I grab the tin for the white. She fills Cinder’s mug and scoots off. “Hold up. I wannanother plate. Same’s the first, ’cept with them flapjacks.”

  She bobbles her head like she never see a hungry man, scoots off.

  More folks come in the door. Fella smiles all the time and his woman walk in six inch steps and studies the hillbillies and hippies.

  “Here’s the deal,” says I. “Mister Cinder. I got the uncanny feelin’ you think I’s fulla shit. But I’s the least likely liar you ever met, and my life’s worked out so all I give a shit about is when I see a little blackhair girl ’bout to get shot, I wanna tear down the whole fuckin’ ghetto that sprung the prick with the gun. So what you know ’bout Graves Meat? Top to bottom.”

  Cinder chomps on his last fork of egg and pancake. Stabs his last ham and adds it to the mix. Being polite, he don’t talk while he chew. Finally swallows his last. Waives to Jackie. She comes.

  Touches his shoulder.

  “One check—I’ll take it. And bring a to-go box for my friend’s second order.”

  She go away and Cinder lets the silence at our table push out on the jabbering folks ’round us.

  Cinder says, “I’ve things to attend, but I want to be on the same page with you, and this isn’t the place. You have a place to stay? What’s your situation?”

  “I’ve a couple family people in the hotel. Got in last week. Still lookin’ the lay.”

  He nods. Reaches his buzzing phone. “Excuse me.” He fondles his machine and talk to it. “Hey Chuck, I’m in a meeting, but we need to talk. Hit me back in a half hour. Good? All right.”