by Rob Brunet
Judy reappeared with two cups and the coffee pot on a hand-painted wooden tray as he dried himself off. He couldn’t help but notice her watching him, and flexed a bit for her benefit. Hairy armpits aren’t all bad, he thought. Isn’t that a tree-hugger thing? Free love and all that? He sat at the picnic table, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Okay, shoot,” she said. “Start with why you dug up Ernie’s outhouse.”
“I...er...that is...what do you mean?”
“This isn’t starting so well, Danny.” Her eyes drifted down his neck to his shoulders and chest. “The thing was dug up and there was a dead skunk in it. What kind of weirdness were you up to in the middle of the night?”
He sipped the coffee. It was the best he’d tasted in years, even without half a handful of sugar in it. He said, “I was looking for something.”
“What on God’s Green Earth would you expect to find in Ernie’s toilet?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Listen, buster. A good man is dead, his home burned to the ground, and this quiet little backwoods lane is being overrun by cops, lawyers, bikers, and strangers who show up in the middle of the night to shovel shit!” Judy’s eyes bulged and her cheeks flushed red. He couldn’t tell whether she was blushing at her language, or the fact he’d started popping his pectorals. Judy locked her eyes on his. Danny did his best to stare her down, then gave up and averted his gaze.
“I stuffed a bag of cash down Ernie’s crapper,” he said.
It didn’t seem possible, but Judy’s eyes pushed even further out of their sockets. She asked, “Is that where you normally hide your money?”
“I was in a hurry.”
Judy stared. Danny suddenly wished he was wearing a shirt.
“I was scared,” he said. “Being chased.”
“By who?”
“By the cops. And those bikers, I guess.”
“Why were they chasing you?”
He gulped more coffee. Man, it was good. He said, “It was their money.”
Judy squinted. “So, you stole money from a motorcycle gang and stuffed it down Ernie’s toilet.”
“I accidentally stole it.” He tried a glare, then mumbled, “But yeah, I stole it. Sounds crazy, don’t it?”
“Sounds dangerous is what it sounds.”
“That, too.”
“So then you got sent to jail?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Huh?”
“Well, not for stealing the money anyway.”
“Then why?”
Danny stood up and said, “Maybe I should be going now...”
Judy reached across and grabbed the front of the towel, holding tight. For a split second, Danny considered twisting to leave, towel be damned. In that brief moment he felt blood rush to where Judy’s hand was grazing his abdomen and he froze. They stared at each other, neither moving. Danny wondered what it would be like to get it on with Judy in the hammock. And whether her legs would be furry.
He sat back down, clutching the towel and pressing himself into his seat. He felt like a small boy who’d been caught in his mother’s underwear drawer. Judy’s face was crimson.
She said, “So why then? Why did you go to prison?”
Danny drained the last of his coffee and lit a cigarette before saying, “They sent me to jail for killing a man.”
Judy blanched, going from red to white so fast Danny thought she might faint. Her voice weak, she said, “I am sitting in my backyard on a sunny fall morning drinking coffee with a murderer.”
“More like a manslaughterer.” And Danny told her all about Lester and his nasty dog. Acutely aware of Wort’s presence near his right ankle, he left out the part about poisoning Shooter with Lester’s left foot.
“You killed a man,” said Judy when he was done.
“It was an accident.”
“Like stealing the bikers’ money was an accident.”
Danny nodded.
“Sounds like a lot of accidents happen to you,” she said. “Shouldn’t you have got off on self-defense or something?”
“I might have,” Danny said, “if I’d had a real lawyer. Still, the Libidos would likely have killed me outright if I’d been on the outside. Dragged me around by my toenails until I gave up the dough. Buried me alive.”
“So why are you still here? I gave you a chance to get away. Distracted them, like you said.” Judy started to look nervous again.
“Because the money is still in the ground.”
“What do you mean? You dug up the outhouse. I saw the hole.”
“That’s not where Ernie’s outhouse was when I stuffed the money down.”
“What?”
“He must have moved it. All I gotta do is find the old spot. The money will be there for sure.” He put out his cigarette. “There’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“One of the bikers stayed behind. To watch for me, I figure.”
“You mean there’s a biker watching you now?”
“I don’t think he saw me come here. I was real careful.”
“You think? What about me? What if they saw you come here?” Judy’s hands trembled to the point she spilled her coffee.
“That sort of occurred to me, too,” he said.
“So now what? I’m just supposed to wait here, hoping some thugs don’t show up looking for you?”
“Or, you could help me.”
“Again?”
“I need to sneak out of here. And I need to borrow a few hundred bucks. I was thinking maybe you could drive me into Buckhorn.”
“What? You just said the money is here.”
“Yeah, but there’s someone in Buckhorn who can help me out.”
“Who’s that?”
“Terry Miner.”
Buzz Meckler had spent the night and the day and the night again replaying the events. After the cops had Tasered both him and the goon who attacked him, they’d arrested the biker and hauled him off. Then they spent nearly two hours interviewing Buzz without even once commending him on his fearless intervention. After that, in spite of his protests, his boss had insisted he leave work early. So much for being a hero.
Trudging home, he was yanked into an alley and beaten with rubber piping. His attackers made him reveal the destination of some guy named Danny who he quickly understood had been the target of their cohort’s brutal attack.
As he nursed his wounds with bags of frozen peas in his two-room apartment, the phone rang. It was his boss, informing him that instead of receiving a medal, a promotion, or even a raise, Buzz would be sent for more training. First, he was ordered to take a week off. “Stress leave,” his boss told him.
Buzz sensed his role as lone protector of the bus-traveling public of Eastern Ontario was in jeopardy. He foresaw a future of drinking cheap beer in a Kingston tavern reminiscing about the hero he might once have been.
He decided to take destiny into his own hands.
The poor schmoe he had saved two days before had been headed to Peterborough. The toughs who’d tossed him made a big deal of wanting to know that. Then there was that article about the dog rescuer. Clearly, Peterborough was where the action was and Buzz wanted in on it. Heroes are all about action. It wasn’t much to go on, but things always worked themselves out in the movies.
Twenty-Five
The Boathouse served the best greasiest breakfast in Buckhorn. The Libidos were known to close down the bar at three a.m. and suck back a few warm ones outside. A huge slab of Canadian Shield granite served as a parking lot. They’d pass out next to their bikes and stumble back in for breakfast once they’d slept it off.
This morning, Hawk and Mongoose were clear-eyed as they packed into plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, homefries, pancakes, sausage, and toast. Mongoose ordered them orange juice for the health of it and used his winning smile to convince the waitress to add double shots of vodka.
“Whaddya figure,” Mongoose asked, “were we too
late? If he’s been and gone, what are the chances he’ll come back?”
“Hard to know,” Hawk spewed, his lips shiny with back bacon grease, “but Perko was right. We had to make it look like we cleared out or Grant would have disappeared. He’s waited four years. What’s another few days?”
“I think you’s trusting Perks more’n ya should. He’s losing it. Like he’s mind-melding with this punk or something. ‘Obsessing.’ I saw it on Dr. Phil.”
“What bothers me most is why pick up a damn skunk and throw it down the hole?” said Hawk. “I mean, let roadkill alone. This guy’s got fucked in the head while he was in the joint.”
“They’s somethin’ weird about that chick, too,” said Mongoose. He squirted ketchup on a forkful of eggs and bacon. “Pushy. For a scrawny bitch, I mean.”
“She was lying. No doubt.”
“What about that lawyer she talked about?” Mongoose said. “Wasn’t that the same shyster who did the plea bargain for Grant when this whole thing went down?”
“One and only,” Hawk answered. “Pass the syrup. These pancakes are amazin’.”
“Didn’t you shake her down after the punk pleaded guilty on that baseball bat rap?”
“’Course I did. Me and Perko did her good. She didn’t know a thing. Dumb-as-fuck Public Pretender. Caught Peterborough’s first murder in three years and then went back to doing real estate deals. I don’t buy she was there.”
“More lies?”
Hawk nodded.
“You’s sure?”
“Here’s what I’m sure of, Mongoose.” Hawk stabbed his fork into the table. “This ends today. Time to cut our losses.”
“You wants to forget about the money?”
“Never,” said Hawk, “but Perko’s got ’til nightfall to find it.”
“Tonight?”
“No cash. No leads. No Perko.”
“Hawk, if it weren’t for you, you know I’d a done him a hundred years ago. Something’s off about him. Not one of us.”
Hawk waved at the waitress for a new fork. “I’ll take the next watch and send Perko over here. You’ll finish the day. Play it cool. Don’t let on what’s gonna happen. There’s still a chance this punk will show up and we don’t want two bodies on our hands at the same time.”
“Sure as shit,” said Mongoose. “You gonna eat that sausage?”
It was drop dead easy for Perko to let himself through Judy’s front door. It had the kind of forty-dollar knob lock he’d learned to punch open doing teenage B-and-E’s. Had he bothered to check, he would have found the chick had left her back door unlocked anyway. This was friendly country, and people only locked up when they went “away.” When Perko had been a practicing thief, the targets for break and enter were invariably the cottages belonging to rich folk from the city. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t steal from your neighbors; more like you stole from people who had better stuff than you did. That was the point, wasn’t it? And Perko liked to tell himself he only stole from folks who could afford it, people with insurance, people who’d be grateful he gave them an excuse to go buy the latest piece of electronica.
Today wasn’t about stealing, though. Perko had watched from the bushes as the chick drove off in the aging hatchback, dog yapping out the window. He’d decided he wanted to know more about Ernie McCann’s neighbor. Something felt off about her. Even if Hawk was right that applying pressure could scare their prey away, it couldn’t hurt to be ready in case things changed. Besides, he had gotten bored waiting for the punk to show up.
The cottage was sparsely furnished, yet cluttered. Potted ivies, cacti, and an assortment of flowering plants grew on tables and shelves everywhere. Books were interspersed with a collection of antique bottles and a few odds and sods of old-time farm life—a set of bellows by the fireplace, an oil lantern, and a couple of cowbells. Little stained glass birds, butterflies, and flowers hung in almost every window. Utne Readers were stacked on a round rough-hewn coffee table, one bent open as though half-read.
In the kitchen, a long wooden shelf sagged under the weight of mason jars stuffed with spices, nuts, seeds, beans, and a half dozen flours. The narrow kitchen table was covered with a gingham-checked oil cloth the likes of which Perko hadn’t seen since he was a kid. A black school slate mounted on the wall beside the fridge was crammed with notes in pink chalk. The curly handwriting was reminiscent of a grade school teacher. It listed, “Bake 3 pies for Church social. B’day card to Miriam. Plant garlic before frost!!!”
Was this woman for real? He shrugged off a twinge of guilt and headed to the bedroom.
No surprises there. An overstuffed quilt piled on a simple double bed with a painted metal headboard. Chest of drawers and closet full of natural fibers and soft colors. Then, the first extravagance he had seen in the cottage: a pair of serious stereo speakers mounted in the corners facing the bed and a subwoofer in the corner. Before Perko could ask himself why these weren’t in the living room, he spotted the stack of CDs near a simple TEAC player: Blissful Rest; Tangerine Dream; The Ocean is My Pillow; Oxygene by Michel Jarre.
In the bathroom, he found a parade of natural sponges and glass jars with hand-scripted labels rhyming off body butters and ointments. Even the toothpaste was by somebody named Tom. Tiger Balm was the only product he recognized apart from the deluxe brand of toilet paper. Stacked in a corner was a mini washer drier combination, the kind that used almost no water.
He was turning to leave when his eyes fell on the wicker laundry basket by the door. Neatly folded on top was a grey sweatshirt with a picture of Woody Woodpecker emblazoned on the front. He grinned, his left lip curling up almost to his nostril. “Gotcha,” he growled.
Danny Grant was within reach. Perko didn’t care how the shithead was connected to the girl. It didn’t matter. She was leverage. It was time to get Mongoose out of the picture, collect his prize, and get his good ol’ life back. Even patch things up with Hawk and wangle a promotion out of this somehow.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in the number for Aunt Helena’s Mexican Restaurant and Motel.
“Get your ass to Century Lane. Number two-three-one-one,” Perko said when Jonah answered the phone.
“Where the hell is that?”
“By the lake. Pigeon Lake. Just past the bridge at Gannon’s Narrows. Be here in an hour.” He hung up.
When Terry arrived at George Meade’s boat, ashes still clinging to his boots from a barbeque gone awry, someone was there waiting for him in the darkened cabin.
“Welcome aboard, loser,” the man sneered.
Terry jumped backward and banged his head on the cabin hatch.
“What the hell?” Terry’s mind raced as he ran the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to focus in the half-light; instead, he only filled them with more grime. He reached for the knife in his belt but before he could pull it out, he was slammed to the floor and felt a foot land on the back of his neck.
“I’ll go. I’m outta here, George. She’s your wife, uh, your boat, I mean. She told me it was hers. Honest. And—”
“Shut your beer-soaked beak, Terry,” the man hissed, pulling the knife away and landing a quick kick to his ribs. He stepped back, out of Terry’s reach. “It’s me. Danny. I could care less whose boat this is. It’s you I’m here for.”
“Danny?” Terry’s eyes darted back and forth. They had adjusted to the dark and he was looking for anything he could use as a weapon. “Danny Who?”
He caught sight of the man’s foot aimed at his head just in time and rolled away from the kick. “Danny Grant? Is that you? How the...? When did...? I mean, like, what the hell are you doin’ here? I heard you got day parole, but you ain’t supposed to be out for another three or four months! Wow, I mean, like, good to see you...”
“You lying piece of crap. ‘Good to see you?’ How stupid do you think I am? D’ya figure they fed me moron pills for breakfast in the joint? Maybe some hairy-assed gangbanger screwed my brains right outta my h
ead?”
“C’mon, man, I’m your pal, right? You know I’d never...”
“Pal?” Danny spat on the cabin floor. “Kinda of pal squeals first chance he gets and lies his ass off to the cops instead of doing his own time fair and square?”
“I...”
“Shut it, Terry. You keep digging your hole, you’re gonna strike water. You know damn well why I went to prison. They couldn’t pin the dope charges on me, no thanks to you. And the only way they connected me to Lester was you had to go steal his damn car.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Danny. The cop, he nearly beat me to a pulp before I told him about the grow op. I coulda died, you know. The torture was somethin’ else, I tell ya.”
“Close your yap. ’Less you want a real beating.”
“Aw, c’mon, Danny. Lemme help you out. You must be needin’ cash right about now, eh? Maybe I could cut you in on this scam, I got goin’. Kinda money-for-nothing and chicks-for-free if you know what I mean. I can make it up to you, Danny. Honest, I can.”
“Yes, you can.”
Danny pulled open the curtain, letting the afternoon sunlight flood the small space. With the window behind him, he was still a silhouette to Terry. He flopped down on the bench, lit a cigarette, and tossed the pack over to where Terry cringed on the floor.
“How’d you find me, Danny?”
“Wasn’t all that hard, dick-for-brains. How hard do you think it is to find a volunteer fireman can’t keep from unfurling his hose?”
Terry beamed.
“I need you to help me do something.” Danny spoke slowly, watching Terry’s face as if to make sure he was following. “You’re a smart guy. Real smart. And I need someone with a lot on the ball to help me pull something off.”
Terry had put a cigarette in his mouth and was trying to light it with a shaky hand. Danny leaned over and steadied the lighter while Terry took a haul. Terry sniffled and leaned back against the ladder to the deck. He drew his knees to his chest, then winced at the pain in his ribs where Danny had kicked him.