Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This dramedy is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: January-March, 2022.
- Howdy, Phineas! :D
This is the twelfth story about Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: In the six months that have gone by since we last visited Goldsboro, Nevada, Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski and the rest of the good folks living in the trailer park eight miles south of the town have been as busy as ever. The start of the new stock car racing season has Wynne excited, but her joy is short-lived when her legendary rotten luck strikes no less than four times in rapid succession - while the first incident is minor, those that follow are anything but…
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CHAPTER 1
Thursday, February 17th - just before noon.
Some people are born winners while others grow into the role through plenty of perseverance and hard work. Others again are less fortunate and never achieve much regardless of how hard they try - and then there's Wynne Donohue who remains in a category all of her own.
The lady in question scratched her neck and let out a prolonged "Lawwwwwwr-die…" as it dawned on her she had ended up in yet another mess.
Fully decked out in her signature gear - cowboy boots, faded jeans, a denim jacket, a dark-blue, long-sleeved sweatshirt that listed the new-for-2022 line-up of the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company, and finally her battered, sweat-stained, low-crowned cowboy hat - the early-fifty-something gal known affectionately as The Last Original Cowpoke found herself in another of those situations that defied all description.
"Yuh. It hadda happen. But whah did it hadda happen taday? Can ya tell me that, Goldie?" she said in a monotone.
A Woof! came from the Golden Retriever who remained a short distance away from her owner.
"Haw, Ah didden reckon ya could. Ya know, li'l dawggie, if this ain't vin-titch Wynne Donnah-hew, Ah ain't too sure what iz. Nosirree."
Standing up straight, she could almost see clear up to Goldsboro eight miles north of the trailer park that she and a close-knit community of friendly folks called home. As she turned around, the cluster of trailers came into sight across the central lawn that had seen so much destructive action over the years. Not only had an over-sized lizard recently used it as a playground, the fifty-foot Desert Dweller had mistaken it for his personal toilet - and then there had been the Goblin infestation that had miraculously spared the lawn but wrecked just about everything else.
Wynne made another ninety-degree turn to come face to face with their satellite dish that had brought her up on the roof of their trailer. She took off her hat so she could wipe her brow on her sleeve. "Awwwwww-hell," she said and kicked out at a small pebble. "If that there dang-blasted dish there hadden started ta wandah, Ah woudda been down in mah EzyChair sippin' beah an' crunchin' on them wonn-dahful pork rinds Ah done bought fer this he' exact purpose, yuh! An' now Ah be stuck up he' an' that there first o' them Daytoh-nah duels is 'boutta start down dere an'… an'… and' dang it all ta hell an' back! Ain't no way this he' deal can get aneh woh-rse! Haw, y'all bettah not answah that in case y'all had a no-shun ta!" she continued in a voice that grew in volume as she went along.
After inching closer to the edge of the roof, Wynne peeked over the side and let out a long sigh. The ladder she had used to get up there - so she could give the satellite dish a little nudge to get it back into alignment - had fallen onto its side a couple of feet from the trailer's wall.
The cause of the collapse was easy enough to spot: unnoticed by Wynne as she put the ladder against the trailer, the ground had been softer under one of the legs compared to the other which had created an imbalance. Once gravity had taken over, the end result was inevitable.
Wynne's beloved Golden Retriever Goldie had put herself right next to the fallen ladder seemingly intent to guard it with her life, but the scaredy-dog was in fact just looking for a bit of shade. Wynne's other dog, the German Shepherd Blackie, was the bravest among their canine companions, but the black hound was busy helping their neighbor Diego Benitez hunting jackrabbits out in the desert and had no time to come to her owner's rescue.
"Lawrdie, if that ain't too dang-blasted typical, Ah don't know what is… Merceh Sakes, this ain't gonn' be no fuh-n day up he', nosirree," Wynne said and ran a denim-clad sleeve across her forehead for a second time.
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An hour and a half later.
It wasn't too hot all things considered, but the sun beat down on her dark locks from a clear sky. Her battered and bruised cowboy hat already looked the worse for wear after being exposed to the rays for the past ninety minutes.
"Goldie! Girl, Ah'm gettin' kinda thirsteh up he'… cantcha go find Blackie an' Diegoh or somebodda? Anehbodda? Not Ernie, tho'… me an' ol' Ernie kinda got inta one o' them there snits the othah ni'te so he wussen talkin' ta me yestahdy, an' Ah ain't sure he be talkin' ta me taday, neithah. But anyhows, cantcha fetch Blackie an' Diego?"
Woof!
"Awwww, please! I'mma-gonn' give y'all an extra bowl o' that there dee-li-shus dawggie food y'all love so much, yuh?"
Woof!
"Y'all gonn' hafta look fer a new ownah if ya ain't gonn' find Blackie perdy dog-gone soon!"
Woof-woof!
When it became obvious that Goldie had no intention of moving out of the shady spot she had found, Wynne took off her hat to use it as a fan. "Dang stubborn dawg… dang stubborn Ernie, too, fer that mattah! Why, jus' because Ah kinda accident'leh said that them there new-fangled Nascahr Foh-rds look kinda weird like they be a buncha open-mouth basses gaspin' fer air an' all 'cos them grilles be so big… an' he got all pisseh with me. Ah mean… whaddahell? An' now Ah be talkin' ta mahself… yippie. Ah'ma-gonn' have scrambled brains fer suppah iffah don't get mah butt offa this he' dog-gone roof!"
Woof!
"Wussat, Goldie?"
Woof!
"Jump?! Nuh-uh, Ah sure ain't gonn' jump nowheah. No way, no how, no ma'am. Ah done tried breakin' mah head once an' I sure ain't be lookin' ta be doin' that ag'in anehtime soon, nosirree!"
Woof?
"Yuh, but naw. That's jus' it, Goldie… I didden bring mah dang phoah-ne 'cos this wus only gonn' take mebbe five minutes or som'tin. Hey, catcha go inside an' get mah phoah-ne fer me, Goldie? Awwww, sure ya can! It be right on that there coffee table there. Ya know, the one y'all always be hidin' behind whenevah one o' them there deeee-sastahs hits us. Naw? C'mon, Goldie, wussen we friends, girl? Ah'ma-gonn' buy ya a whole sack o' them there dawggie treats y'all like so much, yuh? Goldie… Goldie? Aw. Dang stubborn dawg!"
After rubbing her face for a couple of moments, she inched back to the other edge where she folded her legs up underneath her and sat down on the roofing felt. From her vantage point, she had an unrestricted view of the other trailers in the small park.
Frank and Estelle Tooley were both working and their daughter Renee was at school so their trailer was dark and quiet. Diego Benitez and Blackie had driven out into the desert earlier in the day and weren't scheduled to come back until dusk. Brenda and Vaughn Travers were also away at work, and the trailer where the old fellow Zoltan Petrusco had lived until he had moved into a retirement home up north in Barton City was under complete renovation.
That left Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry - Wynne's number one buddy when it came to beer, stock car racing and home-made hot sauces - but he was undoubtedly still in a foul mood after having his beloved Fords insulted. Right on cue, Ernie stepped out of his trailer and walked around the front to get to his beer-pit in the back garden.
Three steps into his journey, he came to an abrupt stop and turned around slowly to stare wide-eyed at his neighbor's trailer - or rather, at the instantly recognizable figure sitting on the roof.
"Ernie! Ernie!" Wynne cried as she jumped to her booted feet and waved her hat for all she was worth. "Lawrdie, Ah sure be gladda see ya! Wouldya mind comin' ovah he' an' be gettin' that there dang-blasted laddah so Ah can… Ernie? Ernie, wheah y'all goin', man? Ya ain't leavin' me sittin' up he'… aw, ya sure is! Holeh shittt, Ernie! Ernie? This ain't mah day!"
An agonizing handful of minutes went by - filled with nothing but sighs and grumbles from Wynne - before Ernie came back out of his trailer dressed in his regular work clothes: safety boots, sturdy jeans, a flannel shirt, a hunting vest that featured multiple pockets for all his regular doodads and a few cans of beer, a pair of thick gloves and finally his regular Built Ford Tough baseball cap.
Whistling while he walked, he strolled across the central lawn between the trailers at a leisurely pace like he had all the time in the world. Moving around the corner of Wynne's trailer, he picked up the errant ladder but didn't yet put it back onto the railing so Wynne could get down. "Hiya, Wynne! Stuck up there, are ya?" he shouted using his hand to amplify his voice.
Wynne sighed once more as she inched over to the edge. She had to chuckle at the sight of her friend grinning so broadly that his walrus mustache was stretched to breaking point. "Howdy, Ernie. Yuh, Ah sure am. Woudya mind puttin' that there laddah back ta the guttah there so Ah could, ya know…?"
"In a moment. Are you ready for some good news?"
"Uh… yuh?"
"The duels were-"
"Naw! Dontcha go blab no spoilahs, now, ya heah!"
"Sure."
Ernie knew exactly how long it would take his friend to change her mind so he didn't press the issue. Predictably, he had only had time to count to three before Wynne continued:
"Okeh… what done happened in them duels?" she said in a monotone.
"It was a Ford Motor Company benefit, yessir! Fords swept the board in both duels followed by the Toyotas," Ernie said while his grin grew even wider. "I guess the Chevys were last. Or somethin'. I didn't pay much attention to them."
Wiping her damp forehead on her sleeve, Wynne let out a slew of inarticulate mumbles, grumbles, groans and moans. "Lawwwww-rdie… it wus bad enuff ta see them there gorgeous Monstah colarhs switch ovah ta one o' them there dang-blasted Toyo-turhs an' all… an' now it sure does be lookin' like this he' season goin' all ta hell in a handbasket befo' them racin' folks ever done driven a lap! Ah mean, whaddindahell 'r them bow-tie boys doin'?!"
"Just wanted to let you know, Wynne," Ernie said as he leaned the ladder against the trailer's rain gutter. "Have ya had a beer yet this glorious mornin'?"
"Naw," Wynne said and swung a leg around the ladder so she could climb down. Once safely on the ground, she cast a gloomy gaze at the ladder, her friend and the trailer in that order. "An' it wus a good thing Ah didden 'cos there ain't no place ta take a leak up there, catch mah drift?"
Grinning, Ernie reached into one of his vest's many pockets and produced a can of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer that he promptly threw to Wynne. "I hear ya," he said as he repeated the procedure and found a 1910 Special Brew for himself.
To adhere to the age-old traditions of drinking beer, cans were soon opened, golden liquid swigged and belches let out through the wide-open front doors.
Wynne looked at her friend; then down at Goldie who remained in the shady spot; then at the can of beer in her hand; then over at Ernie again; then out into the desert; then at Ernie all over again; then at the can of beer. "Much obliged fer gettin' me down, Ernie. Uh… mebbe Ah oughttah… shoot… Ah guess Ah oughttah apo-lla-gih-ze or som'tin. Ya know. Fer sayin' them there things Ah done said that there othah day there. Ya know." She had never taken her eyes off the can of beer throughout the lengthy sentence, but she eventually looked up at Ernie when he didn't reply. "Y'all still mad at me or som'tin?"
"Naw. Not anymore. I guess you missed the live event?"
"Yuh. Ah done be sittin' on that there dumb'ass roof fer the past houah an' a half an' mebbe mo' 'cos Ah didden even have mah phoah-ne with me," Wynne said and pointed her thumb at her trailer.
"Wanna come over and rewatch it? I got some software that allows me to capture a stream. I have it as an MP-four-file so we can watch it on the teevee. There'll be highlights on YouTube later today, too, I'll bet."
Wynne nodded twice before she shook her head once. "Lawrdie, Ah ain't got no clue wotcha talkin' 'bout there, friend, but Ah sure ain't sayin' no ta a li'l helpin' hand or nuttin'. Ah got them pork rinds an' pea-nits… y'all got anothah couple o' beahs Ah might borrah one at a tih-me?"
"I got plenty of beers."
"Ernie mah man, y'all got yerself a deal there!" Wynne said and slapped her friend a resounding high-five.
Woof-Woof… Woof, woof, woof!
Crouching down, Wynne pulled her beloved pet closer to her for a decent-sized fur-rubbing. "Naw, Ah ain't fergettin' 'boutcha, Goldie… y'all jus' stay he' in the shade while me an' ol' Ernie be goin' fer a li'l refreshment, yuh?"
Woof?
"Naw, beah ain't good fer ya, Goldie."
Woof?
"Naw. But y'all be gettin' some o' them there dawggie treats latah, tho'. Promise."
Woof-Woof!
"That's a nih-ce dawggie! Hey Ernie, ya know what tih-me it is?"
Ernie had already begun to look at his telephone when Wynne interrupted him with an emphatic: "This he' is Fenwyck tih-me, yessirree!"
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Eight miles further north on the State Route that ran past the small trailer park, the crew room at the back of the sheriff's office on Main Street of Goldsboro, Nevada echoed with plenty of hoots, hollers and other familiar sounds of cheering.
"Barr-y! Barr-y! Barr-y!" Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez chanted as he watched his colleague Barry Simms put up a valiant defense against the far more athletic rookie Beatrice 'Bea' Reilly. More incentive was needed in the affair that had been rather one-sided so far, so Rodolfo clapped, cheered and stomped his boot a little harder.
Now in his mid-thirties, the Mexican-American with the movie-star looks had evolved into a classy and dependable senior deputy after having been promoted to the rank the previous autumn. His suave style meant he had quickly become the go-to fellow for public appearances and the official host of the Meet-The-Deputies day. Gone were most of his youthful antics like spending his night shifts playing poker, or volunteering for speed-trap duty up at the mountain pass south of Goldsboro so he could secretly visit his girlfriend; in fact, he had taken to the increase in responsibilities like a duck to water.
Down on the floor on a soft exercise mat, Barry Simms and Beatrice Reilly were barefoot and wearing department sweatsuits as they grappled with each other during a wrestling match. Through her younger years - not to mention her greater strength and agility - Beatrice managed to release herself from Barry's latest grip and swept around him to put a sleeper-hold on his neck.
To Barry's credit, he was able to escape the hold. Grabbing Beatrice's arm, he threw her over his hip but failed to move in for the submission hold before she had made enough of a recovery to put up a defense. Moving sideways at an unexpected moment, Barry found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time: namely with a bare foot planted deep in his gut as Beatrice had tried to get into a better position.
"Oh, Barry!" Rodolfo groaned as he slapped a palm against his face. Since it was already there, he used it to rub his eyes and slick back his hair that had become upset by the slap.
Not only did the foot in the gut cause Barry to break wind in a most impressive fashion, he doubled over on wobbling legs while he pressed his hands against his mid-section. Although he was yet to speak, moan or even wheeze, his complexion turned from tomato-red to a sickly green in a matter of moments.
Beatrice tried to scramble out of the way but ran out of time - Barry keeled over and landed squarely on top of his wrestling opponent. As the combatants were reduced to a heaving mass of arms, legs and gray sweatsuits, Rodolfo blew hard into his referee's whistle to signal the end of the match. "And the winner is… the magical, the magnificent, the ma- uh… the ma- anyway, the one and only Deputy Sheriff Barry Simms! Let's hear it for Barry, everyone!" he cried as he took one of Barry's spaghetti-arms and thrust it in the air.
"Barry," Beatrice growled from somewhere beneath her opponent, "wouldya mind taking your hand off my boob? Thank you." A couple of seconds went by; the hand remained where it was. "Barry, trust me… if you don't move that-"
Rodolfo scratched his clean-shaven cheek. "He can't hear you, Bea… he's out cold. Look," he said and shook the spaghetti-arm that flopped back and forth like it wasn't connected to anything up at the other end.
Letting out a deep sigh, Beatrice took care of business herself by wiggling free of her opponent. Once she had cleared him, he collapsed in a heap where she had just been. "Just great," she mumbled as she glared at the pile of humanity that was supposed to be her strapping fellow deputy, "now I'm gonna get in trouble with the sheriff. Typical."
Exactly on cue, the glass door to Main Street opened to reveal the late-forty-something Sheriff Mandy Jalinski returning from her regular mid-day foot patrol of Goldsboro's mean streets. The dark look upon the compact and athletic woman's face proved it hadn't all been smooth sailing. Her face grew even darker as she took in the annoying sight of the watch desk being devoid of human life despite her clear orders.
She slammed her indispensable notepad onto her own desk; the rough treatment made it flip open to reveal a full page of brand new reports from around town. The uniform jacket was unzipped with an angry gesture before she put her Mountie hat next to the notepad. She was already on her way over to the wall behind her chair to add a collection of colorful incident-pins to the map of Goldsboro when she noticed that a light flashed on the near-ancient Bakelite telephone on the watch desk - it indicated that someone tried to get in contact with the sheriff's office.
Growling, she stomped over to the telephone at once, pressed the appropriate button and picked up the receiver. "You've reached the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. This is Sheriff Jalinski. How may I help you?
'Finally! I've been trying to get in touch with you people for the past twenty minutes!' an angry female voice said at the other end of the line.
Mandy furrowed her brow even further as she cast an angry look at the door to the crew room. Though it was closed, she could hear Rodolfo and Beatrice speaking so they had to be in there.
'This is Bonnie Saunders from the Goldsboro Town Council. I need to report a bad case of vandalism. Some evil soul has destroyed an entire row of earthenware flower pots in my garden. My prize-winning flowers are ruined! All of them! And my garden shed has nearly been turned upside down. It's such a mess I can't tell if anything has been stolen. Sheriff, I demand to see a deputy within ten minutes or I'll file a formal complaint with the Town Council and your superiors within the Sheriff's Department!'
Mandy turned to shoot a sour look at her notepad on the other desk - Bonnie Saunders' report of vandalism or burglary was the fifth that day. "I understand, Councilwoman Saunders. We'll be there as soon as possible."
'Thank you! Goodbye, Sheriff!' Saunders said before she ended the conversation by uttering an impressive snort.
The near-ancient Bakelite receiver was slammed onto the telephone with a bang before Mandy stomped across the cracked linoleum floor and swooshed open the door to the crew room at the back. Few things could surprise her after spending a decade in Goldsboro - that at times seemed to be the capital of the world for bizarre events - so she didn't even bat an eyelid at seeing Barry in a heap on the floor while Beatrice and Rodolfo had their heads together trying to come up with a solution to revive their colleague.
"Deputies," she said in a sharp tone that made her colleagues spin around and snap to attention. "How often have I told you the watch desk cannot be left unmanned between nine AM and six PM? I thought I had made myself quite clear on that."
"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo and Beatrice said in matching mumbles.
Since Rodolfo was the only one in uniform, he performed a quick salute to his superior. "I'll get to it at once, Ma'am," he said before he hurried out of the crew room to avoid the worst of the chewing-out that was sure to follow.
Mandy observed Beatrice as the rookie shuffled over to her locker with the clear intent of changing into her uniform. "Deputy Reilly," the sheriff said in a chilly voice as she went over to the floppy Barry. "I think we should take care of the obvious first. Take his other arm."
"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry, Ma'am," Beatrice said before she and Mandy worked together to get the battered and bruised Barry up onto a chair at the round table that had often been used for all-night poker games in the past. "Barry… I mean, Deputy Simms boasted he could beat any girl on the wrestling mat. I couldn't let such a challenge go unanswered," she continued after she had made Barry's head rest in his arms so he wouldn't exacerbate his situation by knocking it against anything.
Mandy shot the rookie a dark look. "Deputy Simms is full of hot air. I had expected you to know that by now."
"Ah… yes, Ma'am."
"So what happened?"
"He ying'ed and I yang'ed at the same time. I ended up burying a foot in his gut and he passed out right on top of me. And Rodolfo- I mean, Senior Deputy Gonzalez declared him the winner!"
"Mmmm," Mandy said and put her hands on her hips. Her intense glare slowly eased up and there was even a hint of a smile creasing her lips. "Get dressed. Then we'll wake him up. There's been a major development in town that needs our undivided attention."
"Will do, Ma'am," Beatrice said and whipped off her sweatshirt at once to get on with the program.
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Five minutes later, Barry Simms let out a few of his regular rattling coughs as he tied the knot on his necktie and tried to smooth down his hair. His black-and-dark-gray uniform pants and shirt had both gained a color closer to ash-gray as a result of all his smoking, but he brushed himself off to at least look the part of a deputy sheriff. The rock-hard, yellowish stain on his right pantleg - the long-lasting result of eating a soggy egg salad-sandwich the day before - proved harder to brush, or even scrape, off so he soon gave up trying.
That he had gone for so long without one of his notorious home-rolled cigarettes made of waste tobacco was a near-miracle, but the time for miracles had been and gone. As soon as he had reached the sheriff's desk out in the front office, he lit up and took a deep puff.
A brief moment on from the reflex gesture, the pain in his gut came back full force and made him let out a long groan. Another puff produced another groan as his abused lungs had finally found another body part to go into cahoots with.
Mandy and Beatrice shot Barry identical dark glares before they resumed adding the incident-pins onto the old and outdated map of Goldsboro. Following Bonnie Saunders' report, five red pins shaped like little flags had been added to the map at the appropriate addresses: three on Main Street, one on Second Street and one, Councilwoman Saunders', in one of the unnamed alleys that were offshoots to Second Street.
Rodolfo continued to sit at the watch desk behind the hacking, coughing, spluttering and moaning Barry. Chuckling, he crumpled up a piece of scrap paper and threw it at his friend and fellow deputy. His skills as a sharpshooter were once again proven as the ball of paper bopped Barry on the back of the head. "You're pitiful to listen to, you know that? Madre Mia, why don't you quit that disgusting habit?"
"But I-" - Cough, hack - "love it-" - Hack, cough, splutter - "so much… oh, Gawd, my gut…"
Rodolfo had another quip all lined up and ready to go, but he had to can it in a hurry when the sheriff moved away from the map and went into the center of the office.
"All right, listen up," Mandy said in a stern, no-nonsense voice that made her deputies pay attention. Barry even tried to curb his coughing, but that was a lost cause from the outset despite Mandy sending a dark glare in his direction.
After letting out a brief sigh, Mandy continued: "We've had five reports of vandalism this morning. That's five too many! One, Miss Pearson's Tack and Saddle leathergoods store had one of the handles broken off their main entrance. The door itself was unharmed and no access had been gained. Two, an attempt was made to throw a rock through one of Mr. McCabe's storefront windows. The safety measures required for all gun shops meant it hardly made a scratch. It was enough to activate the burglar alarm, however. Three, a glass display case used to promote coming attractions was smashed and the expensive poster was subsequently torn in half up at the movie theater."
While Mandy spoke, she returned to the map to point out the various incidents. "Four," she said and moved her finger from the movie theater at the northern end of Main Street to the hardware store on Second Street, "Mr. Elliott reported that a fence protecting the rear storage area had been kicked down and that more than fifty brand-new plastic buckets had been thrown around. Some have been deemed too damaged to sell."
The final item on the morning's list of incidents forced Mandy to move her finger to a section that only saw a white square - because the map was so outdated, it failed to show the residential areas that had been built along the alleys off Second Street in the years since it had been drawn. "And five, Councilwoman Saunders reported that her prize-winning flowers had been destroyed along with her garden shed. Five incidents that all took place over the course of the night… I will not allow this to happen in Goldsboro! This crime wave will end today. Do you understand me?"
Everybody nodded and let out affirmative grunts.
"Ma'am," Rodolfo said from the watch desk, "someone must have seen something. Aren't there security cameras at the movie theater and Wyatt Elliott's hardware store?"
"The camera at the movie theater only covers the section of the sidewalk closest to their lobby. The rest is literally out of sight. Mr. Elliott told me that he already had a couple of people going through the video files, but it's a slow process."
Beatrice put a ball point pen in the air to mark that she wanted to add her two cents' worth. "I can attest to that, Sheriff. Video analysis was part of my computer classes at the Academy. It took ages just to go through an hour's worth of footage. If Mr. Elliott's people have to look at the entire night, I don't think we should expect any results today."
"Very well," Mandy said after digesting Beatrice's words. "Not what I wanted to hear, but thank you for the input, Deputy Reilly. Even if we do get a good image off the recordings, my gut tells me it's someone from out of town. I can't imagine that any of the locals would-"
Before the sheriff could go on, A.J. Lane came running into the office. Wheezing from sprinting across Main Street, the young man - whose nickname was in fact 'Slow Lane' because of his meager tempo at the cooking stoves - still wore a grease-splattered apron that proved he had been hard at work until very recently. "We got trouble over at Moira's! You gotta come quick!" he said out of breath.
Mandy leaned her head back and groaned out loud. When the drooping felt tiles and the recalcitrant strip lights in the ceiling failed to provide a better view, she lowered her head once more to look at the young man instead. "More vandalism, Mr. Lane?"
"No! It's Joe-Bob Millard! He's snot-flying drunk and even my boss can't control him! He's ranting and raving and pushing tables around-"
"All right," Mandy said, cutting off the rapid flow of words. "Deputy Gonzalez, Deputy Reilly, see to it. Be careful. You know how unpredictable Mr. Millard can be."
"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said and hurriedly grabbed her Mountie hat.
"Will do, Sheriff Jalinski," Rodolfo said and rose from the watch desk at once. This left the important desk unmanned all over again, and - as the typical Goldsboro luck would have it - the telephone began ringing as soon as the two deputies had vacated the front office.
Barry Simms shuffled over there and picked up the receiver. He only made it as far as "You've reached the MacLean County Sher-" before a violent coughing fit made him drop the receiver onto the watch desk and slam a clenched fist against his chest over and over again to get the clot of mucus to release. This exacerbated the pain in his gut which made him not only cough, hack and splutter, but moan, groan and double over as well.
'Hello? Hell-lo? Barry, is that you?'
Mandy let out a sigh borne from years of Barry-induced frustration and torment as she got up from her own desk and strode over to the abandoned receiver. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Who is this, and how may we help you?"
'Uh… it's Cletus Browne from Kulick's Bang and Beatin' Body Shop. Is Barry all right? Anyway, could you send one of your deputies up to the used car lot? We caught a fella trying to break into one of the trucks we have for sale. A real nasty piece of work. The fella, not the truck, ha ha!'
Mandy glanced at Barry who remained down for the ten-count. She moved a step to the side to look out of the windows to see what went on at Moira's Bar & Grill on the opposite side of Main Street. Over there, Rodolfo and Beatrice had their hands full manhandling the obese and irate Joe-Bob Millard out of the town's favorite eatery and back across the street. Just when it looked to be resolved, the retired wrestler used some of this old moves to break free - then he roared out loud and stormed back inside.
On top of that, there was the whole deal with Councilwoman Bonnie Saunders and her threat of complaining to the Town Council and the Sheriff's Department if she didn't see a deputy pronto. The signs were clear: it was One Of Those Days. "We'll be there, Mr. Browne. ETA five to ten minutes," Mandy eventually said into the receiver.
'Okay! The fella is pacified by one of our mechanics… Fat-Butt Swenson… so he can't go anywhere. Thanks, Sheriff! Bye!'
"You're welcome, Mr. Browne," she said and put the receiver back on the hook. "Deputy Simms, I'll be up at… Barry, will you get a grip, for Pete's sake!" she barked as she caught a glimpse of Barry's scarlet complexion.
Barry nodded, shrugged, shook his head and nodded once more - the scarlet tone never left him despite his best intentions. "Y- yes, Sheriff…" he eventually croaked.
"Tell the Senior Deputy I'll be up at Mr. Kulick's garage. Mr. Browne may have caught our mystery vandal."
"Yes, Sher-" Suddenly turning cross-eyed, Barry broke down in a second coughing fit that was no less violent than the first one - it soon rendered him unable to do anything but wheeze, moan and thump a clenched fist against his chest.
Sighing, Mandy took the receiver off the hook to call Councilwoman Saunders and let her know she might as well get started on writing the official complaint because something urgent had come up which prevented a personal appearance. Unfortunately, Barry's incessant coughing fit caused such a deafening ruckus that she was unable to even hear the dial tone.
Another sigh escaped her. Grabbing her Mountie hat without uttering a word, she strode out of the office and made a beeline for one of their white-and-gold Dodge Durangos. The ignition key had barely been turned before she activated all the lights and sirens and floored the throttle to leave the curb in a cloud of stress-reducing tire smoke.
*
*
CHAPTER 2
Meanwhile, back at the trailer park…
The hands of time had rolled around to two-thirty in the afternoon when the MP4-file ended after the conclusion of the two 150-mile qualifying races at Daytona. The look upon Wynne's face as she digested the results was a mix of doom, gloom, frustration and annoyance with a pinch of hope and a dash of expectation thrown in as well. "Yuh… well… okeh… ain't too sure what ta make o' that, ta be purr-fectleh honest. A big, fat loss in that there first duel an' an even biggah, fattah loss in the second o' them durn things!"
"I thought it was okay," Ernie said with a grin.
"Lawrdie, ya would! A Foh-rd one-two-three-foah in duel one an' a Foh-rd one-two-three in duel two! Hell, an' them dang-blasted Toyo-turhs finished foah-fih-ve-six-seven… the top Chevy wus onleh in eighth place, dag-nabbit! Mah heart be achin' he' an' y'all jus' sittin' there grinnin'!"
"At least the new cars looked excitin'. It didn't even matter they had moved the numbers forward."
"Yuh… I s'pose…"
"Anyway. I'm satisfied," Ernie said before he got up from his low-slung couch that seemed a little impractical considering the width and breadth of his girth and rear end. "Listen, I got somethin' that'll take your mind off the duels."
"Whazzat?"
"A new recipe. Feel like tryin'?"
"Haw, yessir! Uh… but onleh if that there hawt sawce ain't too hawt, if ya catch mah drift. I done tried bein' on the can shittin' mah guts out fer an hou-ah straight 'cos that there chili wus too strong fer mah tummeh an' all. That ain't no fuh-n, nosirree," Wynne said and scratched her cheek.
"It's not too hot. It's just right."
"Well, then… bring it on, friend!"
Ernie soon returned holding a tray laden with several different items. Wynne cast a cautious glance at the chunky, brownish-red concoction that her friend poured into a plastic bowl placed on his coffee table. Taking a teaspoon, she dipped it ever-so-gently into the new sauce and proceeded to sample the sticky substance. "Well, yuh… that there be hawt sawce, awright," she said after smacking her lips several times.
"Ya don't say? But what do you think of it?"
"Eh, I'mma-gonn' tell ya in a li'l while," Wynne continued before she took another tea-spoonful of the new sauce - more smacking of lips followed. "Yuh… I reckon I like it. It ain't too fiereh. Don't burn mah throat or nuttin'. Got a nih-ce aftahtaste ta it. Kinda exotic an' all. Y'all put some o' that there curry in it or som'tin? Yuh. I like it. Y'all said it wus a new recipe?"
"Yeah, I just put the finishin' touches on it this mornin'. It's got a little of this, a little of that and plenty of lovin' on top."
Wynne smacked her lips a couple of times to get the most out of the sample. "Yuh, I bah-lieve dat 'cos this he' sawce ain't bad at all, friend. It oughtta go well with them there mashed pahtataes an' a couple-a fried saus-itches or som'tin. An' beah."
"Everythin' goes well with beer."
"Not layah cake."
"Yeah… I didn't think of that," Ernie said with a grin.
Nodding, Wynne took another teaspoon-sized dip into the new hot sauce and made sure that all her tastebuds got to experience it. "Yuh… this be perdy dog-gone fih-ne, ack-chew-ly. Got a name fer it yet?"
"Maybe. I was thinkin' about Wynne's Baby Sauce."
"I'mma-gonn' give ya babeh sawce, ya ol' sombitch! Bustah, if y'all keep up that kinda lip, y'all 's gonn' end with a fat one, I'm tellin' ya," Wynne said in the fiercest growl she could muster. To add a little gravitas to her words, she pointed the teaspoon at her friend while she spoke.
Ernie just whistled through his teeth as he got up from the couch.
After a few moments of put-upon fierceness, Wynne let out a chuckle and reached for one of the cans of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager that had been lined up on the coffee table for their post-sampling entertainment. "Huh. Wynne's babeh sawce… I'mma-gonn' give that nasteh ol' Foh-rd-fan some babeh sawce awright," she mumbled as she cracked open the first of many cans.
---
Once Ernie had returned to the couch after a lengthy - and certainly highly splashy - excursion into the bathroom to get rid of the first two six-packs he'd had that day, Wynne leaned over toward him and nudged an elbow into his rather bulky side. "Hey Ernie, speakin' o babeh sawce… betcha lookin' forward ta be changin' them diapers an' all. Merceh Sakes, yellah babeh shit all ovah the dang-blasted place."
"Yeah, the diapers…" Ernie said as he reached for a can of Extra Strong. He reconsidered at the last moment and took a can of Midnight Velvet Stout instead. "Can't say I'll be lookin' forward to that."
"Betcha ain't! I done saw yer darlin' Rev'rend leave in an oh-ffi-shul cahr from that there Church o' hers this he' mornin'… holeh shittt, she be the size o' three wimmen now!" Wynne said and held her hands out ahead of her to simulate a pregnant shape. "Wus she goin' ta Cavva-naw Creek or som'tin?"
"Yeah, she needed to go through some final paperwork before her vacation starts on Monday. After that, she'll go straight into her maternity leave," Ernie said before he was too busy drinking from the can of stout to have time to speak.
A few seconds went by that were filled with the familiar sounds of beer-swilling - Wynne followed suit and took a long swig from her 1910. "Yuh, I ferget… when's the darlin' Rev'rend scheduled ta pop?"
"Less than a month now."
"An' y'all still ain't tellin' if it's a boy or a girl?"
"Nope."
"Kinda makes it hard ta organize that there babeh showah fer Bernadeeh-ne… or even buy them there real birthday presents, yuh?" Wynne said and once more nudged an elbow into her friend's side. The layers of fat she felt there provided such a soft cushion she couldn't tell if she had even made contact at all. "Lawrdie, cantcha gimme jus' a li'l clue or som'tin?"
"Nope."
Undaunted, Wynne took a couple of long swigs from her beer while she thought of a new approach. After the third swig, it came to her: "Settled fer a name yet, have ya?"
"Yep."
"So?" When Ernie remained silent, Wynne reached over to swat his shoulder. "Well, spill it, son!"
"Ford."
"Foh-rd Bradberreh?! Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die, that there be an insult ta all-"
"I'm jokin', Wynne."
Wynne's lips moved silently as she went through several different curses she considered hurling at her friend. Ultimately, she settled for saying: "I don't reckon ya iz! I reckon y'all tryin' ta be way too dang clevah fer the likes o' me!"
"Well, you're just gonna have to wait and see… yeah?"
"Lawrdie. Awrighteh, then. How's 'bout we jus' chugged down some beahs instead?"
"Works for me," Ernie said and reached for a can of 1910 Special Brew.
After another round of delightful crack-open-can-and-lean-head-back, Wynne crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back to make herself comfortable on the coach. Her eyes caught the many little details around the living area of Ernie's trailer: the framed family photos hanging on the walls and standing on his low sideboard. An old-fashioned Art Deco transistor radio from the 1930s that didn't even work but was only used as a decorative element. The EzyChair that had prompted Wynne to buy one just like it after being awed by its comfyness. The cute little knick-knacks and potted plants that Ernie had never owned before Bernadine Russell had come into his life. A poster of The Highwaymen that had been signed by Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson, and finally a Ford Motor Company poster commemorating the 1992 NASCAR Winston Cup championship for Alan Kulwicki and the legendary Underbird.
The little tour of the living area prompted a flashback to the days where she and Mandy had helped their first neighbor move in. Her own trailer had been the first to be put up at the scenic site next to the beautiful vista of the ageless desert; Ernest Bradberry's had come a couple of years later during the hottest week of that summer. He had been far slimmer then - and they had all been far younger and fitter - but it had still been back-breaking, sweat-inducing work to carry all his worldly possessions from the rented U-Haul and into the mobile home.
Mandy had been skeptical to begin with and had needed several weeks to accept the fact they suddenly had a guy living so close to them, but her concerns had eased when it became obvious that 'Ernie' Bradberry would not pose a threat to their relationship. In fact, he and Wynne soon acted like brother and sister although they had only just met. It didn't take long before they watched old NASCAR tapes together, chugged down buckets of beer and chewed the fat about this, that and everything else under the sun.
They disagreed on politics and the relative merits of the Ford Motor Company and General Motors, but they had been spared any major dust-ups of the ugly kind over the years - the few little hiccups that had taken place had all been ironed out by more beer and a round of pool up at Moira's Bar & Grill in Goldsboro after a day or two of pouting and mutual misery.
Wynne eyed Ernie with some trepidation before she began toying with a loose thread on her jeans. The act was repeated a couple of times before she had worked up enough courage to ask: "Uh… Ernie… so… when's ya gonn' make that there dessi-shun on where ta stay an' all? I can deffah-net'ly undahstand whah yer darlin' Rev'rend ain't got no hots fer stayin' he', not with the new babeh an' all, but… Lawrdie, I'mma-gonn' miss ya like Hell on Mond'y mornin' when ya ain't 'round no mo', buddeh."
Ernie let out a sigh. "Yeah… I hear ya, Wynne. I dunno. Bernadine's place down in Cavanaugh Creek is far nicer than my trailer, no two ways about that. I dunno. I ain't no city fella. Never was."
"Dontcha reckon y'all could mebbe convince her ta move ta Goldsborah or som'tin? I mean, that there new hoah-tel me an' Moira are partnerin' on is goin' fih-ne, yuh?" Wynne said and took a long swig of her beer. "We even been talkin' 'bout convertin' one o' them apartments ta one o' them there fanceh wotchamacallits."
"Condominium."
"Lawrdie, that right there's what I been talkin' 'bout, Ernie!" Wynne said and reached over to swat her friend's shoulder. "We be in perfect step tho' we be so different an' all. Condah-mini-mum. Yessir!"
To mirror Wynne's posture, Ernie leaned back on his couch. "I dunno, Wynne. Bernadine wants to be close to her family. I can understand that. Back home in Georgia… when my old folks were alive… I never lived further from them than a three-minute drive. Family relations are really important to my wife, too, so…"
"An' that there church o' hers, I guess…?"
"It weighs in, but it's not the major factor. I don't think it is, anyway," Ernie said and emptied his latest can of beer. "Maybe it is, I dunno. Bernadine's in charge of the Young Crusaders, the youth wing of the Church Of The Holy Crusader. Those kids ain't like those fanatical Virgin Tower missionaries. They're way more progressive and modern."
Wynne scratched her ear and nodded a couple of times. "I'mma-gonn' hafta ta take yer word fer it, friend. Y'all know where I stand with them reli-giss types. I ain't too cool with 'em no mattah what they call 'emselves. Your Rev'rend is a real nih-ce ladeh, tho'. She ain't nevah once given me the tawk."
"The talk?"
"Y'all woudden know 'bout that, but it be som'tin them reli-giss types offen done tole me an' them othah ladies who like ladies. Accordin' ta them, we jus' be havin' mental disordahs, ya know? But them folks promise ta cure us so we can be nih-ce sheep they can flaunt in the media an' shit."
"Well, that's just bull."
"Haw! Ya ain't wrong there, friend!"
"Yeah," Ernie said and reached for another can of beer. "Hey, instead of sittin' here all day, how about we drove up to Moira's to shoot a little pool?"
A warm chuckle escaped Wynne lips as she reached over to swat her friend's shoulder. "In othah words, it's high tih-me ta change that there subject, yuh? All fih-ne an' dandeh, son. I jus' gotta visit that there room fer li'l girls first, catch mah drift?"
"Sure. Who's drivin'?" Ernie said as he tried to get his heavy rear end up from the couch. It took him four attempts to build up enough thrust to gain lift-off, and even then, he had to stand still for a moment longer for the room to stop swaying.
"Lawrdie… wouldya look-a dat! I'm guessin' is gonn' be me doin' the drivin', huh?" Wynne said and got up with the greatest of ease. She chuckled at the hazy look on her friend's face before she was overcome by one of the most basic needs - it necessitated an urgent trip to the bathroom.
-*-*-*-
Twenty minutes later, half the world's - or at least Goldsboro's - population seemed to converge on Main Street. Just as Wynne, Ernie and Goldie arrived with plenty of air-horn fanfare in Wynne's almost brand-new Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition, an entire group of the town's upstanding citizens came out of Moira's Bar & Grill and lined up on the sidewalk like they were getting in a little early practice for the town's legendary Fourth of July parades:
Konstantin Aranowicz and Colleen Bolton from the Town Council stood a little too close considering the fact they were both married to other people - Konstantin had his hand down Colleen's back pocket, and chances were he wasn't looking for a quarter for the jukebox.
Goldsboro's beer guru Grant Lafferty snapped several pictures with his telephone while the scowling, ever-grumpy tow-truck driver Tucker Garfield stood next to him chugging down a can of brew. That the beer-snob Grant regarded the brand to be so inferior that he'd never allow it anywhere near his famed Beer & Liquor Imports store didn't mean a great deal to Tucker. The rest of the world soon knew about his feelings on the matter when he let out a resounding belch.
The toupee-wearing septuagenarian Albert Rossman was there on a date with the colorful Mildred Herzberg, the blue-haired aunt of Deputy Sheriff Barry Simms. Albert's loafers, sharply creased bright-white pants and dark-blue sports blazer as well as Mildred's Hawaiian-inspired flowery dress certainly made the elderly couple stand out in the crowd. The fact that Mildred insisted on puffing on a foul-smelling cheroot only added to the spectacle.
Nelson McConnell and Trent Lowe - Wynne's former bosses when she had worked as a delivery driver for the Chicky Kingz fast-food parlor - watched the unfolding event in wide-eyed astonishment. The gentlemen stood next to Donald Cummins whose lunch break had already gone quite a bit beyond what he allowed for his security staff out at Thunder Park Raceway; like Grant Lafferty, the uniformed Don Cummins held up his telephone to record the rare event for posterity.
Everyone stared at the unusual police activity on the opposite side of Main Street. Several of them pointed and put their heads together to share their unfiltered sentiments about what the world was coming to and how everything had been far more civilized in the olden, golden days of their youth.
"Snakes Alive, look at all them fih-ne folks standin' ovah yondah… whaddindahell's goin' on he'?" Wynne said as she came to a halt at the curb on the wrong side of Main Street. Goldie, who sat between her owner and Ernie, let out a few woofs, yaps and barks like she was asking the same thing.
"Well," Ernie said and pointed at the sidewalk to their right where Sheriff Jalinski and a bruised and hobbling Deputy Gonzalez dragged a wild-bearded, long-haired fellow wearing sandals and filthy denim into the building housing the holding cells, "I'm guessin' that fella there's got somethin' to do with it. Holy smokes, if he ain't a hippie, I don't know who is…"
"Come ag'in? A hippie he' in li'l ol' Goldsborah?" Wynne said and craned her neck in the other direction to follow her friend's pointing index finger. A chuckle escaped her as she clapped eyes on the individual in question. "Haw! Yuh, okeh… I woudden call that a hippie, tho'… hippies u-shu-alleh be friendleh folks an' all. That there fella ain't nuttin' but a filtheh bum. Gosh golleh almighteh, wouldya look at that there explo-shun o' hair an' beard an' all… an' mah sweet li'l Mandeh got 'im by the collah, yessir."
The long-haired man didn't struggle which eased Mandy and Rodolfo's task of getting him into the holding cells. Once the dramatic scene was over, Wynne reversed into the alley next to Moira's Bar & Grill so her black truck could escape the worst of the dust and fine grains of sand that never ceased to blow in from the desert. She, Ernie and Goldie soon vacated the Silverado and shuffled along the sidewalk to get to the town's best eating place.
"Howdy, all y'all fih-ne folks o' Goldsborah!" Wynne said and waved her battered cowboy hat in the air as they reached the crowd of onlookers. Most returned the gesture one way or the other save for Tucker Garfield who just snorted and returned to Moira's for a new can of beer. Wynne hadn't expected any less and simply let out a chuckle at the tow-truck driver's all too
predictable behavior.
As Ernie held open the glass door for his female companions and the group of upstanding citizens, he cast a glance at the sheriff's office across the street. A dark chuckle escaped him. "Tho' I consider Artie Rains my friend, perhaps it's better for that fella there that Mandy was elected Sheriff. Can ya imagine what kind of beatin' he'd get with ol' Artie in charge?"
"Yuh… Lawrdie, that woudda been bad," Wynne said after having come to a halt to look at the jail house adjacent to the sheriff's office. She exchanged a quick nod-and-smile with Nelson McConnell and Trent Lowe as they returned to their table. "Haw, this he' is a new start fer Goldsborah, dontchaknow."
Wynne and Ernie looked at each other for a brief moment before Ernie shrugged and followed his buddy into the busy bar and grill. "Yeah. Back in the day, every cop, trooper or deputy sheriff in the entire country agreed that the night stick boogie was the best way to get the point across. That wouldn't fly now."
"Naw, ain't no lie. The woh-rld sure wus diff'rent. At least them beahs is still the same. Yuh?"
"Col' an' dee-li-shus," Ernie said in an exaggerated accent just to get a reaction out of his friend.
Goldie let out a bark that sounded very much like she said, 'Oh, be careful, Mr. Bradberry.' Wynne articulated it in her own inimitable style: "Merceh Sakes, Ernie! Y'all be messin' with me or som'tin? Don't ferget who done drove ya up he', fella! If ya wanna walk hoah-me, jus' keep talkin'!"
"Are ya kiddin'?" Ernie said as he took off his hunting vest so he would have more freedom for the trick shots. "A good lookin' hombre like me? I'd get a ride home in a heartbeat. Like snappin' my fingers."
"Uh-huh?" Wynne said and broke out in a lop-sided grin. She eyed her friend from his safety boots past his jeans that were stretched to the limit across his rear-end and up to the beer gut that completely obscured his belt buckle. Further up, his flannel shirt was literally on the brink of bursting at the buttons and the seams, and his trademark walrus mustache, mutton-chop sideburns and mullet hadn't seen a pair of scissors in weeks. "Yuh, I dunno whaddahell I wus thinkin'… Lawrdie, y'all izza reg'lar Lotharioh, aintcha?"
"Ya better believe I am!"
Identical chuckles were let out as they strolled over to the pool table located in the left wing of the popular eatery. Two of the three video poker machines adjacent to the pool table were in use by hopeful players; the final one was in a state of severe disrepair as the glass front had been smashed and several of the machine's electronic circuitry and other internal components were hanging out.
"Whoa! Whaddindahell's goin' on he'?" Wynne said and came to a dead stop at the sorry sight. "Lawrdie, betcha hundred bucks Moira blew her top som'tin fierce when she done clapped eyes on that there disastah… I mean… whodahell be ca-razeh or drunk 'nuff ta smash a dang-blasted video pokah machine?"
"No idea… but it's too bad, too, 'cos that was the one that paid the most," Ernie said with a shrug.
Wynne pushed her cowboy hat forward to have room to scratch her neck underneath her long tresses. She glanced over at Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. and Roscoe Finch who were already at the pool table practicing for the next round of the inter-city tournament that never seemed to reach any kind of conclusion or endgame - The Goldsboro Pool Association would soon match up against the Lansingburg All-Pros for bragging rights and free beer. "Howdy, fellas… tell me, whodahell-"
"Joe-Bob," Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe said as one.
"Figgahs. The Manbeast o' Yuckeh Flats strikes ag'in. Where he at, anyhows?"
"He was arrested so I guess he's sleeping it off," Roscoe said, pointing his cue at the holding cells across the street.
"Haw. Them de-per-ties sure be havin' a bizzeh day, huh? Anyhows. Ernie, I got da cues… y'all got da beahs. Yessir?" Wynne continued as she turned to inspect the row of rental cues on the rack next to the table - although she had a top-quality tournament cue back home, she preferred to use the rental ones for the practice and leisure games to prevent her legendary rotten luck from getting its cold, clammy fingers on her best equipment.
"You betcha," Ernie said and made a beeline for the refrigerators. Down on the floor, Goldie let out a happy yap before she went into the doggy-cave that had been created for her and Blackie underneath the pool table.
The owner of the bar and grill, the fiery and fiercely independent Moira MacKay, had put a warm blanket and a water bowl in there for her canine visitors, and Goldie took full advantage of both items while her owner got busy with the cues and the balls up on the pool table.
Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe had yet to finish their own practice game, so Wynne pulled over the tall bar stool that used to be at the wrecked video poker machine. Sitting down, she observed the juniors playing for a short while before Ernie came back with the first round of beers.
She hadn't even had time to crack open the first of a planned dozen Double Zeros when Rodolfo Gonzalez hobbled into the Bar & Grill looking disheveled and in pain. The tousled hair and a nasty bruise on his left cheek ruined his usual movie-star looks, and the hobbling walk proved he had hurt his left knee or hip as well. The senior deputy plotted a course straight through the many busy tables to lose as little time as possible to get to the humming popsicle freezer. Once there, he grabbed a pack of crushed ice and pressed it against his abused cheek.
"Lawrdie," Wynne said and got up from the bar stool. The can of beer was in the way, but since it hadn't been opened yet, she dumped it in her jacket pocket so she could have her hands free. "Howdy, Rodolfo… holeh shittt, did that there long-haired bum give ya a smackdown or som'tin?"
"Hi, Wynne… no, it was Joe-Bob Millard," Rodolfo said in a lisp, revealing that his mouth had also been in contact with something it shouldn't have.
"Whaddindahell's wrong with ol' Joe-Bob taday? Smashin' the video pokah machine an' slappin' them de-per-ties around an'… uh… Mandeh… is… did he-"
Rodolfo shook his head; a pained grimace proved he should have abstained from such activities. "No, the sheriff's fine. But Bea was pushed around. He knocked her onto the floor a couple of times. She bumped her knees and elbows but I don't think it was too bad."
"Whah, that nasteh-ass sonovabitch! Pushin' wimmenfolk around… I oughtta intra-dooce his crown jewels ta mah boot fer that alone!" Wynne growled and smacked a clenched fist into her open palm. "Whaddahell happened ovah he', Rodolfo?"
"He made a drunken nuisance of himself," Rodolfo said as he and Wynne walked slowly back to the pool table and the wrecked video poker machine. "His fat gut knocked down a table and a couple of pitchers of beer. He and Moira got into a shouting match when he didn't want to pay for the damages. Then he got mad and smashed the machine. A.J. ran over to alert us, and… Joe-Bob's maybe old and fat, but he sure packs a mean punch, let me tell you. I guess it's inevitable after all those years as a pro-wrestler."
All that talking - or lisping - made Rodolfo wince which caused his bruised cheek to throb even worse. To combat it, the pack of crushed ice was pressed hard against the skin that glowed red despite his regular pale-brown complexion.
"Sombitch is all I hafta say ta that. An' now he be sleepin' it off in them holdin' cells?"
"Yeah. Moira wants to press charges this time. Barry's typing up the paperwork as we speak… if he can get the electronic typewriter to work."
"Lawwwwwwr-die… betcha ol' Moira ain't got no pa-shense fer misbehavin' typewritahs right 'bout now…"
"Probably not," Rodolfo said with a grin that he regretted at once. After wincing a little more, he continued: "The sheriff has already alerted the county courthouse up in Barton City. According to Judge Etherington's secretary, his Honor had room in his schedule so he'll swing by later today or tomorrow."
"Haw. An' then y'all got that there bum ta deal with, too?"
Lowering the pack of ice, Rodolfo probed his cheek and found it to have grown sufficiently numb to carry on. "Yeah. Speaking of which, I better get back. You want some ice in your beer, Wynne?"
"Nosirree! I prefer it un-dih-luted an' sparklin'. But I sure be thankin' ya fer bein' so considerate an' all, De-per-ty!" Wynne said with a grin. Her cowboy hat was given a traditional tip before she waved a temporary goodbye to the senior deputy.
-*-*-*-
Across the street from Moira's in the building housing the holding cells - the door that formed a direct connection between the jail house and the sheriff's office was still rusted shut despite countless complaints - Mandy's face was set in stone as she dealt with the denim-clad man she had arrested. Not only were her eyes narrowed down into slits to stop them from watering, her lips were pressed together so hard they had been reduced to thin, colorless lines.
She wanted to pinch her nostrils as well so she wouldn't have to breathe in too much of the indescribable stench of sweat, cannabis-smoke and old filth that surrounded the hippie-like character, but she was unable to as she needed to use both hands to keep him restrained.
The man needed another shove in the back to get to the small processing table where Beatrice Reilly was ready to take his fingerprints. "Stand still!" Mandy barked as she clamped a hand down onto his shoulder to make him stop shimmying around. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can all go our separate ways!"
"Blow me, pig!" the unsavory character said with a grin - the poor state of his teeth would make any dentist tear their hair out in despair.
The rest of the man's scruffy appearance was a perfect match to his dental deficiencies: his left eye was bloodshot while the right was more yellowish. His fingers were red and scabby, and his fingernails hadn't seen a nail brush in decades. A few clumsy tattoos of various rodents were drawn on the backs of the man's hand and the sides of his neck. His facial skin was coarse and leathery in the spots where the wild beard didn't reach; the beard itself had about two weeks' worth of leftover food, tobacco and beer tangled up in it.
Yet another shove in the back made the fellow move the last few feet over to the table where Deputy Reilly was ready with the traditional equipment for taking prints.
The two law enforcement officers shared a look of raw frustration before Mandy released the handcuffs so the necessary procedure could be carried out. Reaching down at once, she unbuttoned the holster to her service firearm and put her hand on the grip in case the prisoner turned out to be as rebellious as he appeared.
The procedure itself went without too many hitches save for the fact that the man wiped off his black fingers on the desk's top rather than the wet-wipe he had been offered.
While Mandy reattached the handcuffs, Beatrice studied the two sheets - one for each hand - to see if any of them needed to be re-done. There were only four marks on the sheet for his left hand, and a quick glance proved he was in fact missing his ring finger. The sheets with the prints were put aside and a fresh form inserted into the old-fashioned manual typewriter on the desk.
The swivel-chair was soon wheeled over so she could get started on the paperwork. She cast a nervous glance at Mandy and the prisoner - not only was it the first time she had to fill out the arrest form in earnest during her stay at the post in Goldsboro, she had the sheriff observing her every move which didn't help a bit. Determined to get everything right, she moved the platen up until the first field was in perfect alignment with the spot where the keys would strike.
"State your date of birth, name, address and occupation, Sir," she said and prepared to enter the answer.
The prisoner bared his ugly teeth once more. "None of your feckin' business, pig! My name is Joe Blow and I live on the dark side of the feckin' moon!"
Beatrice's jaw got a workout as she wrote Unknown D.O.B., John Doe and No fixed address in the appropriate fields. She looked up and briefly locked eyes with Mandy whose contorted face proved she was still trying to hold her breath while being so close to the filthy individual she had apprehended up at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. "And your occupa-"
"I'm the feckin' President of the feckin' United States, pig!"
It wasn't a requirement that the field listing the occupation was filled out, so Beatrice added a dash before she moved further down the form. "I need you to empty your pockets, Sir," she said, eyeing the filthy fellow with a rising degree of concern of what she might come face to face with.
Mandy reached around the prisoner to put a plastic bag on the desk. "That's already been taken care of, Deputy. A lighter, a pack of regular tobacco, cigarette paper, a chillum, six one-ounce bags of marihuana, a gardening tool, a silver watch, fifteen dollars and an old cellphone. No keys and no ID-card or other papers that might identify him."
The silver watch and the gardening tool - that appeared to be of the type of small shears commonly used to cultivate roses - were the proverbial smoking guns among the man's possessions. Nobody had filed a report about a stolen watch, but if the tool could be traced to Bonnie Saunders' garden shed, the case against their John Doe would be far stronger. Mandy picked up the rose shears and showed it to their prisoner. "I'll ask you again. Where did you get this?"
"And I'll tell you again… it shot outta your feckin' ass when you farted, pig."
Grunting, Mandy put the rose shears back into the plastic bag.
Beatrice eyed the prisoner with a great degree of disgust before she turned to the typewriter and entered the information into the appropriate fields. Once she was done and the form had been pulled from the typewriter, she pushed herself away from the desk and got to her feet. "All done. Holding cell two is ready," she said as she reached into the special pouch on her utility belt where the keys to the security doors were kept.
Mandy kept a firm grip on the prisoner's arm as she led him past the thick door and into the stark holding cell itself; Beatrice remained in close proximity with her hand on her service firearm to provide backup in case the fellow tried anything.
The holding cells were square, dehumanized boxes made of thousands of sturdy bricks that were covered by smooth gypsum boards. Everything was held in a brain-numbing shade of pale-gray that was supposed to work as a calming influence on the people who ended up there. A fixed bunk bed and an open toilet were the only items in the cells as the light was provided by a round fixture integrated in the ceiling. The compulsory closed-circuit video camera and a communication system had been installed next to the light fixture so the person on guard duty could keep a watchful eye on the prisoners and speak to them if necessary.
"Halt," Mandy said before she released the handcuffs and gave the filthy man a shove in the back to get him the rest of the way inside the cell.
Once the fireproof, soundproof and blastproof door had been shut and the locks engaged, Mandy and Beatrice moved back to the desk to watch their newest guest on the black-and-white monitor connected to the closed-circuit video camera.
The first thing the hippie-like fellow did was to unbutton his pants and take a leak up against the wall - once he was done, he faced the camera to give the lens and the spectators a good view of his lower equipment while grinning from ear to ear. He finished his unwanted stage show by turning around and bending over so his hairy rear end was in clear view. Only then did he pull his pants up and shuffle over to the bunk bed.
Grimacing, Beatrice couldn't help but give the finger to the man on the monitor although she knew he wouldn't be able to see it. "What a dirty, rotten son of a bitch. We ought to hose him down…" she said in a mumble.
"That's not how we conduct our business, Deputy Reilly," Mandy said as she picked up the completed arrest form and the sheet with the man's prints.
"You're right, Ma'am. I apologize."
Mandy let out a grunt before she glanced at the scarce information on the documents. Another grunt followed before she slid the paperwork into a new folder. "I'll bet he has a lengthy rap sheet of drug-related offenses. Probably vagrancy and trespassing as well."
"Undoubtedly," Beatrice said and took a few pieces of paper that she used to fan her nose.
Mandy let out a dark chuckle - there was no denying that the quality of the air inside the jail house's office was unsuitable for any kind of human presence. "I'm afraid it goes against the regulations to have the door to the street stay open, Deputy. However, I believe we have an electrical fan in the crew room. I'll look for it right away."
"Thank you, Sheriff!" Beatrice said before she sat down and wheeled the swivel-chair back to the desk to update some of the other reports and forms that awaited her input.
---
Returning to the sheriff's office after the electrical fan had been installed and verified as working, Mandy only made it as far as the doorway before she slowed down and let out a long sigh.
Councilwoman Bonnie Saunders waited by Mandy's desk wearing an elegant set that consisted of medium-heeled shoes, sand-colored cotton slacks, a pale-blue denim jacket in a feminine Western cut, and a small purse that hung from her right shoulder on a gold-colored metal chain.
With a face that resembled a late-summer thunderstorm, she clutched a white envelope to such a degree it was almost folded in half by the pressure alone. "Sheriff Jalinski, I need a word with you. Please," she said in a voice that showed remarkable restraint.
"Good afternoon, Councilwoman Saunders," Mandy said and strode over to the wall behind her desk. After hanging her Mountie hat on its regular nail, she took off her uniform jacket and put it across the backrest of her chair. "Would you like some coff-"
The polite question seemed to be a little too casual for Bonnie who responded by letting out a loud: "No! I want to lodge a formal complaint!"
Rodolfo Gonzalez manned the watch desk after Barry Simms and Moira MacKay had gone back to the bar and grill to take witness statements and record photographic evidence of the smashed pitchers and the wrecked video poker machine. Though the senior deputy was busy drinking coffee, eating a cream-cheese bagel and reading a cheap pulp detective novel about the exploits of Sally Swackhamer, Private Investigator, he looked up to cast a wary glance at the two potential combatants - his left cheek was still red and bruised, but his thick, black hair had been restored to its natural state of glory after being slicked down by half a tube of gel.
Mandy let out a short sigh. "Very well, Miss Saunders. Please, have a seat," she said and pointed at one of the available swivel-chairs.
Bonnie soon wheeled the chair over to the desk and sat down; she crossed her legs in a very lady-like fashion and promptly let out a most un-lady-like growl. "Sheriff Jalinski, I called you earlier today to report a severe case of vandalism. Not only to my prize-winning flowers but my garden shed as well. I asked you to send over one of your deputies. You said you would take care of it. Well, no one could be bothered to show up! Therefore," - The white envelope was slammed onto the desk top with such force it made several pieces of paper flutter up - "I am hereby filing an official complaint over the lax attitude displayed by certain law enforcement officers of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department! A copy has been delivered in person to Mrs. Mary-Lou Skinner, the chairwoman of the Goldsboro Town Council. I'm sure you have plenty of half-baked excuses, Sheriff, but I don't care! I want someone to come over and do whatever it is you people do so I can get started on salvaging what's left of my flowers!"
For each word she uttered, Bonnie's volume went up, up and up until it reached a level most commonly referred to as 'rather loud.' Once the message had been delivered, she leaned back on the swivel-chair, crossed her arms over her chest and let out a world-class huff.
Mandy took the envelope and pulled it open. She read the lines of text that had been written on stationery that carried the name of the company owned by Bonnie Saunders' husband. The message it conveyed was much the same as the one just delivered by the irate councilwoman. "Very well, Mrs. Saunders," Mandy said and put the complaint on the desk.
"Is that all you have to say?!" Bonnie cried and jumped forward on the chair.
Over at the watch desk, Rodolfo dropped his half-eaten bagel in surprise - as expected, it ended up cheese-side down on the piece of paper that was used to register the incoming calls. Grimacing, he reached for a napkin at once.
"Sheriff," Bonnie Saunders continued, "how about apologizing for the inconvenience you caused? I had to take a day off from work to wait for a deputy who never showed up! And my garden shed still looks like Jericho after the walls came tumbling down!"
Rodolfo let out a snort that segued into a snicker at the unusual comparison. When he realized he had done so out loud, he tried to conceal it by letting out a few muted coughs - the annoyed look on Bonnie Saunders' face proved she didn't buy the cover-up.
Mandy shot Rodolfo a dark look as well before she pulled open one of the desk's drawers and reached into it. The plastic evidence bag containing their John Doe's possessions was soon put on the desk; the silver watch and the rose shears were pulled out and held up for display. "Mrs. Saunders, can you identify either of-"
"Yes, I certainly can! That's mine!" Bonnie said as she reached for the rose shears - Mandy quickly pulled it out of her reach and put it back into the bag. The councilwoman seemed to understand for once and settled for leaning back and resting her hands in her lap. "My poor garden shed is in such a terrible state of disarray I didn't even know something had been stolen… have you arrested the man who did it?"
"We have someone in custody, but it's too early to judge whether or not he's guilty of the vandalism in question. He might have found the tool elsewhere," Mandy said and stored the plastic bag in the drawer.
"I demand to see him!"
"I cannot allow that due to his overly aggressive nature, Mrs. Saunders. There's no telling how he might react to your presence."
"Oh…"
Mandy got up and put on her uniform jacket to signal that the seance was over. "Mrs. Saunders, I'll come with you right now to document the scene of the crime. Once I have secured any physical evidence I might find, you are free to clean up your garden shed."
"Oh… uh… all right… thank you, Sheriff," the councilwoman said; it was clear by the surprised tone of her voice she hadn't expected that particular development.
Mandy nodded as she put on her Mountie hat and grabbed one of the portable radios that she attached to her utility belt. "Deputy Gonzalez, I'll carry out my regular afternoon foot patrol once I've completed the assignment. Use call sign Unit One if you need to get in touch with me."
"Unit One… will do, Sheriff," Rodolfo said as he reached over to the matching portable radio that had its permanent place on the watch desk. A quick transmission test proved that both units were fully charged and on the same frequency. "I'll update Deputy Simms once he returns."
"Very well. Mrs. Saunders," Mandy said and held out her hand toward the door to show the councilwoman the way out.
*
*
CHAPTER 3
As every NASCAR fan knew, there was a time to whoa and a time to go. Fewer knew there was also a time to put on a show, especially around a pool table where a certain youngster by the name of Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. had just put a ten dollar bet on Wynne not being able to perform a series of five trick shots of ever-increasing difficulty.
Wynne had needed less than five seconds' worth of thinking-time to accept the bet - therefore, a pair of wrinkled ten-dollar bills had been put on the edge of the pool table pinned down by an unopened can of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager.
A couple of guys sitting on the tall bar stools by the surviving video poker machines had both turned their backs to the electronic cards to look at the pool game in progress. A separate five-dollar side bet was soon put up and accepted in a whisper so they wouldn't disturb the maestro at work.
Goldie had come out of the doggy-cave underneath the pool table to witness her owner sweep the floor with the silly young man. The Golden Retriever, whose tongue and tail wagged merrily, sat next to the sturdy safety boots of Ernie Bradberry who had commandeered one of the regular chairs so he wouldn't overstress his legs. Though he wasn't part of any of the trick-shot bets, he chalked his rental cue so it was ready for whenever he would get a chance to play.
Elsewhere in the bar and grill, A.J. Lane was heckled loudly by the entire row of patrons sitting at the counter when he managed to turn a T-bone steak into a lump of coal. That it had taken him less than five minutes to do so only added to the hecklers' delight, and they gave it their seal of approval by cheering and clapping - someone even shouted 'Hey, Slow Lane… show us what you can do with a baked potato!'
A group of the bar and grill's other customers led by Albert Rossman and Mildred Herzberg began to berate the noisy patrons for bullying the poor A.J. The barflies at the counter responded by turning up their volume even further. That A.J. Lane grew so bewildered that he dropped a bag of peanuts on the floor only made the heckling worse.
The ruckus grew so loud that Moira MacKay came out of her office to see what was going on. The fiery owner's mood was already less than stellar after Joe-Bob's destructive rampage earlier in the day, so a single glare at the unruly patrons made everyone pipe down in a hurry - nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of one of Moira's legendary shouting sessions, much less be handed a two-week suspension.
While all that went on up at the bar counter, Wynne continued to circle the pool table. Her game face was present and set in stone as she leaned over the table's edge to achieve the perfect angle that would win her the ten-dollar bet.
She had mastered the first four trick shots without problems, but the fifth and final one was the Jumpin' Jack - a devious shot where the player needed to flip the cue ball over a solid line of balls and into the farthest pocket without tearing the green felt or having the ball knock into any obstacles along the way.
Before she performed the shot, she happened to look up at the sullen faces of Roscoe Finch and Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. It was obvious the two junior members of the Goldsboro Pool Association weren't too pleased with their night. Not only had they lost seven straight regular games to The Last Original Cowpoke and Mr. Beer Gut - their derogatory nickname for Ernie - but it appeared the trick shot challenge was about to go against them as well. Neither or them could wait for the torture to be over so they could drown their sorrows in cold beer.
Chuckling under her breath, Wynne decided to yank their chains a little. Instead of taking the final shot, she stood up straight and put her hands in the air. "Now heah this, boys an' girls! Fer this he' Jumpin' Jack, Ah'mma- gonn' put on one o' them there blindfolds, yessir!" she said as she reached for the red bandanna she always had hanging out of her rear pocket because it looked cool and cowpoke-like. "Whah, Ah do bah-lieve this he' ol' rag 's gonn' do the trick. Ernie, mah man, would ya care ta moseh on ovah an' hold mah hat?"
While Roscoe and Geoffrey Junior rolled their eyes and let out groans of frustration at Wynne's cheesy act, Ernie chuckled and shuffled over to help his friend hold her battered and greasy cowboy hat while she tied the bandanna around her eyes.
"Lawwwwwr-die!" Wynne suddenly cried as she held her hands out ahead of her like she was stuck in a dark room - Goldie let out a puzzled bark at the odd display. "Whodahell turned off them lights alloffa sudden? Ah can't see nuttin' but Ah guess that's all fih-ne an' dandeh 'cos there ain't nuttin' ta see in he' but a buncha eatin' folks, anyhows! Awrighteh, then… yuh, he' be the cue an' he' be that there pool table," she continued as she pretended to fumble back to the table. "Yessir, now Ah'm jus' gonn'… jus' gonn'… knock that there cue ball up the bee-hind an' ovah them othah balls an' Ah'ma-gonn' win this he' game. Yuh? Ernie, where that there cue ball at?"
"Right in front of the cue, Wynne," Ernie said with a wide grin under his mustache.
"Whah, Ah sure be thankin' ya… now lessee… an'… an'… an'… whoop!" With the greatest of ease, Wynne thrust the cue ahead. The ball was given the perfect strike which sent it up and over the other balls before it rolled unhindered across the green felt and down into the farthest pocket.
Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe groaned, Ernie cheered and Wynne let out a resounding "Yeeeeee-hawwwww!" that made Goldie yelp and rush for cover inside her doggy-cave. "Awww, sweet victoreh, yessir! Whah, Ah knew Ah shoudda asked them there nih-ce young folks Roscoah an' Geoffreh Juniah ta make that there bet o' theirs a coo' one hundred dollahs. Yuh? Ain't that right, fellas? Ernie?" Wynne said while she pulled the very, very loose-fitting bandanna away from her eyes - the two ten-dollar bills were soon snapped up and put into her jacket pocket where they joined her chapstick and a few other indispensable items no cowpoke would leave home without.
A moment later, the can of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager was given back to Ernie who cracked it open at once and took a long swig. "That's right, Wynne. It would've been a sure bet," he said with a grin once he came up for air - the entire lower edge of his mustache had gained a whitish hue from the beer froth, but the white stuff was soon wiped off on a sleeve. His grin only grew wider when he noticed the downright dour looks on the faces of their junior opponents. He continued to chuckle even while his phone rang down in his pocket.
The caller-ID said Bernadine so he accepted the call and put the telephone to his ear at once. He was about to greet his wife in their customary way when a grim mask of shock and concern suddenly exploded onto his face.
During peak hours, Moira's Bar & Grill was Goldsboro's most popular hangout and thus noisy to the Nth degree; the background din was so bad it overpowered the frail voice at the other end of the line. Simply sticking a finger in his free ear wasn't enough, so he strode out of the establishment and onto the sidewalk beyond it with determined steps.
"Huh… whaddahell wus that all 'bout, I wondah?" Wynne mumbled to herself as she put her rental cue back on the rack and began to extract the balls from the pockets they had fallen into. A young fellow and his date approached the table now the professionals seemed to be done, and Wynne stepped aside to give them room to play.
To kill time before Ernie returned, she took out a couple of the other rental cues to check if they were warped. One had in fact become frayed and uneven, and she put that on another shelf out of sight of the general players.
Another minute or so went by with no sight of Ernie. An urge to sample some of the delicious golden liquid fell over Wynne, so she shuffled over to Moira's fully stocked refrigerators to take an H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero that she cracked open at once and began to chug down.
Two seconds later, Ernie came back inside and hurried over to the refrigerators to hook up with his friend. His ashen face and the unusual urgency in the way he moved proved that something major had happened. Before Wynne could ask what in the world was going on, he said: "Bernadine's been rushed to hospital down in Cavanaugh Creek-"
"She whut?!" Wynne cried and put down the can of beer at once - it wasn't even empty yet, and that only happened twice a year at the most.
Ernie shook his head repeatedly. "The maternity ward. Something's wrong with… with…"
"Hawwwww-shittt!"
Down below the pool table, Goldie sensed from the tone of her owner's voice that something big, bad and extra-scary had just happened. She poked her golden head out of the opening to the doggy-cave and let out a puzzled yap that was ignored by all involved.
"Wynne," Ernie continued after he had rubbed his face, "I need to borrow your truck… or else you need to drive me home right now so I can get my own. My wife needs me. I gotta be there. Now."
The mask of concern that had tainted Ernie's face soon spread onto Wynne's. Nodding with grim determination written all over her features, she wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulders and began to stride toward the door. "Y'all still too loaded ta drive an' Ah got a full tank. Cavva-naw Creek, he' we come. Them folks out yondah bettah watch out 'cos we gonn' be settin' a new land speed rekkerd, yessir."
"I… I… thanks, Wynne…"
"Haw, that's what buddehs be for. Yuh? Getcha buh-tt in da truck… I jus' gotta take care o' Goldie. He' them keys an' all," she said and dug into her pants pocket to find the key fob. Once Ernie had left, she patted her thigh and let out a loud "Goldie!"
The Golden Retriever responded to the command by once more sticking her head out of the opening to the doggy-cave underneath the pool table. When she saw the familiar signal that meant she should come over at once, she let out a yap and took off in a hurry like she had been taught.
Wynne crouched down and gave her beloved pet a little fur-rubbing. "Me an' Ernie gotta be someplace. Them there hospahtals don't allow no dawgs or nuttin', so I guess y'all need-a stay he' fer the tih-me bein'. Yuh? Stay, girl."
Woof-Woof-Woooof!
"That's mah Goldie!" Wynne said and rubbed the golden fur a little harder to show how much it bothered her to leave the dog behind like that. Standing up straight, she soon caught sight of the fellows they had been playing against - Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe were leaning against the counter where A.J. Lane continued to toil away at the cooking stoves.
"Hey, Juniah! Juniah!" she shouted to be heard over the din. When it became obvious her voice couldn't punch through the din, she strode up to the counter and put a hand on the young fellow's shoulder. "Juniah, me an' Ernie need-a take off in a dog-gone hurreh. Ya woudden mind lookin' aftah Goldie fer me, wouldya? Mebbe give her some mo' jerkeh an' watah an' stuff. If Ah ain't back when ya reddeh ta leave, jus' take 'er ovah ta the Sheriff, yuh? There be fifteh bucks in it fer ya, friend. Okeh?"
"You betcha, Wynne," Geoffrey Junior said and gave The Last Original Cowpoke a big thumbs-up. He and Roscoe had already ordered some burgers and fries to compensate for the disappointment of being beaten at the pool table, but since 'Slow' Lane had never been fast at anything, there would be plenty of time to look after the Golden Retriever as well.
"Thanks, buddeh. Owe ya big tih-me… an' Ah ain't nevah fergettin' ta pay mah dues."
Goldie let out a Woof-Woof-Woooooof! that meant 'Bye-bye… and don't drive too fast!' as she watched her owner stride back to the bar and grill's door to Main Street. The cool water and the warm blanket inside the doggy-cave soon beckoned, so she shuffled back inside and made herself comfortable.
-*-*-*-
Ten minutes later, the natural grace and tranquility of the desert was broken by the mechanical noises of a powerful V8 racing along at close to full throttle. The midnight-black Silverado Trail Boss - that featured a pair of large, white, forward-slanted 'W' on the doors, white lettering on the quarter panels as well as gray stripes on the lower parts of the flanks - roared southbound on the State Route with the needle on the speedometer hovering between ninety and a hundred miles per hour depending on the amount of traffic it had to weave past.
Wynne had considered keeping the hazard lights flashing for the entire eighty-mile run to Cavanaugh Creek so her fellow drivers would be alerted to her great speed, but there were so few obstacles on the desolate stretch of road that it would be a waste of electrical power.
Only the hilly section near Haddersfield Pass made her slow down to a more sensible sixty miles per hour. As Wynne's typical luck would have it, they had to fall in behind an eighteen-wheeler livestock transport that lumbered up the last of the four inclines with black smoke billowing from its twin stacks. The moment the Silverado had cleared the semi-truck, Wynne's cowboy boot was back on the carpet.
The last of the tricky S-bends was dealt with in time-honored fashion. From that point onward, the road to Cavanaugh Creek was straight, open and above all fast. The initial downhill stretch from the summit allowed the powerful Silverado to build up a good head of steam, and Wynne took full advantage of the geography to make the engine pull six grand on the tachometer.
---
A couple of miles further south, she moved over into the opposite lane of the State Route to thunder past a pair of eighteen-wheelers and an intercity bus from the same company that she had used for her trip home to Shallow Pond, Texas, for her aunt's funeral.
The drivers of the semis let their airhorns do the talking to comment on the breakneck speed the black Chevrolet was going at, but she had no time to return the salute with her own two-tone horns. A quick peek at the speedometer proved they were going at one-hundred-and-ten miles per hour; the eerie way the scenery flying past the windows had turned into a colorful blur confirmed it.
Her face was set in stone as she glared at the road ahead. At infrequent intervals, she squinted at Ernie who had rarely put down his telephone since a mile or so south of Goldsboro. As the latest lengthy call came to an end, Ernie sighed and shoved the telephone into his pocket.
"Tawk ta me, good buddeh. Whassup?"
"That was my wife's younger sister Charlene. She didn't have all the details yet, but it seems that Bernadine began to feel sick durin' a meetin'."
As he spoke, Ernie tried to pull out in the seat belt so it was less restrictive across his gut. It was obvious the tightness bothered him, but the speed they were going at was far too high to sit without it - coming to the same conclusion, he let it be. He sighed before he continued: "It snowballed from there. She started bleedin' from her… from her… out of her… aw, hell, you know what I'm talkin' about."
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yuh. Go on."
"Well, it got bad and then it got real bad, so… so they called for an ambulance. Once the paramedics got there, the ridin' doc wasted no time in takin' her to the maternity ward. I guess 'cos she's so late in her pregnancy. Bernadine's sister said they got her hooked up to all those monitors. They're givin' her fluids and shit. She's scared out of her mind…"
"Yuh, I can imagine-"
"I shoulda been with her, Goddammit!"
"Howdahell wus y'all saposed ta know? An' it prolleh woudden ha' made aneh dif'rence, anyhows. Uh… ya heard anythin' 'bout the babeh…?"
Ernie fell quiet and stayed that way for so long that an ice cold trickle had time to roll up and down Wynne's back several times. She reached across the seats and patted her friend's leg.
A deep sigh escaped Ernie; he seemed to slump down in the seat akin to a leaky balloon. He shrugged. "I guess the docs can still hear two heartbeats or whatever the hell they're listenin' for, so… you know. But all that blood gotta come from somewhere. I don't know jack shit about any of this… Goddammit."
"Yuh. Lawrdie. We's jus' gotta keep our fingahs crossed, mah friend. Them doctahs be clevah folks. Haw, they prolleh done seen this a thousan' tih-mes befo'."
"But I haven't," Ernie mumbled. The face of the usually so jovial fellow had turned gray from the stress. He wiped his brow on his sleeve several times before he reached for one of the cans of beer he always kept in his hunting vest's deep pockets for emergencies - though it was one of his favorites, a Midnight Velvet Stout, he just stared at it instead of cracking it open. It was soon put back unopened. "I'm gonna die of grief if something happens to my precious gals," he continued in an even quieter voice.
Wynne noted Ernie's use of the plural but chose not to make a comment - respecting his and Bernadine's wish to keep the baby's gender a secret until they were ready to reveal it weighed far stronger than the need to score a cheap point with a quip.
"We still be twentah miles or so outta Cavva-naw Creek. But dontcha worreh, Ernie… we gonn' be there in a Tallahdegah flash," Wynne said and pressed even harder on the gas pedal like she had been given the green flag at the legendary 2.66-mile racetrack in Alabama.
---
Another telephone rang deep down a pocket just as the mat-black truck raced past a road sign that said Cavanaugh Creek - 8 Miles. Ernie had already reached for his phone when the ringtone sounded again. "Haw! That there be mah phoah-ne…" Wynne said and dug into the front pocket of her jeans to retrieve it.
Once she had it in her hand, she realized within nought-point-one of a second that she couldn't speak and race along the two-lane blacktop at one-hundred miles per hour at the same time. There was even less time to fumble around with the hands-free connection, so she handed the telephone to her passenger instead. "Ernie, wouldya mind an' all? Y'all can be mah secretareh, yuh?"
"No problem… it's Mandy," Ernie said as he looked at the caller-ID. Accepting the call, he said: "This is Wynne's telephone, Ernie Bradberry speakin'. No, she's fine. Yeah. We had to leave in a hurry… we're on our way to Cavanaugh Creek- yeah. My wife's had a medical emergen- yeah, 'fraid so. It could be pretty bad. We ain't there yet so I can't say- huh? Thank you, I 'preciate your prayers, Sheriff. Okay. Okay. All right, I'll tell her. Bye, Sheriff."
Ernie held out the telephone intending to give it back, but Wynne just shook her head and pointed at one of the integrated cup holders instead. Once the telephone was safe, Ernie leaned back in the seat and rubbed his face again. "Mandy just wanted to ask if you'd like fried chicken tonight. She's buying."
The mood in the Silverado was so gloomy that Wynne decided it was high time to attempt a lighter tone: "Yessirree! Luv me some fried chicken. A Chickeh Kingz mystereh box, haw, that there be theeee greatest… sure ain't no lie! It got all them awesome chickeh things in it an' we ain't nevah know what we gonn' get 'cos that be the mystereh part… yuh? Evah had one o' those? Aw, I betcha have. Add some spiceh fries an' some o' yer hawt sawce, Ernie, an' we's got one helluva feast goin' on. An' beah, o' course. Can't do nuttin' without beah."
"Mmmm."
When even Wynne's best efforts were unable to lighten the mood, the smile faded from her face. She glanced at the clock on the Chevrolet's dashboard. "Haw. I dunno if I'mma-gonn' be back fer suppah, tho'. I bettah hold off callin' mah sweet, li'l sheriff Mandeh until we know what's up an' what's down at that there hospahtal an' all."
"Oh, you don't have to stick around, Wynne-"
"The hell I don't, buddeh!" Wynne said and reached over to nudge her friend's shoulder. "Numbah one, I owe ya plentah. Numbah two, I ain't one o' them there see-ya-latah folks who done walk out on ya when ya need somebodda ta lean on. Nosirree. I be yer leanin' post 'cos I'm he' ta stay."
"Who knows how long it'll take…"
"Ain't got a clue an' ain't got a care, neithah," Wynne said just as they flashed past the Cavanaugh Creek city limits sign. The speed limit on the first part of the six-lane road that followed an arrow-straight path until it reached the city center had been set at sixty-five miles per hour. Wynne slowed down at once to match the number on the sign while staying on top of the wheel so she could move swiftly if she had to. "Which o' them there hospahtals wus yer darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne taken ta, anyhows?"
"The Community General," Ernie said and pointed at the concrete colossus that had become visible through the late-afternoon shimmer.
-*-*-*-
Forty minutes later, Wynne sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a visitor's lounge in the maternity ward guarding Ernie's beloved Built Ford Tough cap and his famed hunting vest - its beery contents clanged whenever she moved it. The fellow himself had been decked out in scrubs so he could see his wife without bringing too many germs to the ward.
The hospital's management had tried to add a human touch to the visitor's lounge by painting the linoleum floor burnt-orange rather than the pale-gray that dominated every other square inch of the corridors and wards. Framed reproductions of abstract paintings graced the walls, but the vibrant colors on display clashed with the somberness of the rest of the hospital and just ended up feeling intrusive.
The lounge had been placed in the center of the vast high-rise so there were no windows to offer a view of the world beyond the concrete walls. Round fixtures in the ceiling provided artificial light; a sickly pale-gold shone onto the items below.
Three tables had been crammed into the lounge: a tall, cafe-style round table and two regular, square ones. Each of the square tables was surrounded by a handful of identical plastic chairs of the uncomfortable kind, and further chairs had been stacked up in one of the corners if needed. A potted plant had been put at the center of both tables, but the flowers were in desperate need of a little T-L-C.
A woman in her mid-thirties leaned against the cafe-style round table reading a newspaper. Wynne noticed - without spying - that she wore a plastic wristband issued to patients, so chances were she was in for a check-up though she wore regular street clothes and not a hospital gown.
A pair of vending machines sent out steady hums as they kept their contents hot and cold, respectively. Framed by potted palm trees and posters urging people to give blood, the coffee machine was the more inviting of the two as the other only offered low-fat, low-carb, low-sugar and no-taste healthy candy bars and snacks.
Wynne eyed another fellow visitor who came into the lounge. Once he had spotted the coffee machine, he went over to it and pressed a few buttons so it would brew him a cupful of the dark-brown nectar. When it was done, the man took a probing sip and promptly reached for the small bags of sugar that had been put next to the machine; his misery was compounded when he discovered it was artificial sugar. Whatever the chemical components were, it was apparent they were unable to overpower the taste of the industrial coffee: grimacing, he poured the whole thing down the machine's overflow drain after taking another probing sip.
Sighing, Wynne shuffled around on the uncomfortable chair. Five minutes went by with no activity of any kind save for the humming vending machines and an infrequent flutter when the woman at the cafe table turned the page of her newspaper. After another minute or so, the woman checked the time on her telephone, folded up the newspaper and left the lounge without acknowledging Wynne's presence.
A family of three - a thirty-something fellow, a pre-teen son and a late-twenty-something woman whose size offered a hint she might be mere days away from becoming a mother again - soon entered the lounge and sat down at one of the square tables. Although they spoke in hushed tones, their smiling faces made it clear it was a positive affair.
Wynne kept to herself and did nothing but stare at the burnt-orange linoleum floor in front of her cowboy boots. Not only did she stick out like a sore thumb in all her rural denim glory, she had hated hospitals and the entire hubbub that went with them ever since spending years going through physical and neural rehabilitation following her life-altering tree-house accident as a young girl.
She hated the smells of disinfectant and medicine, she hated the sound of beeping machines, she hated the cold, impersonal halls and wards, she hated being poked and prodded by people who were complete strangers to her, and, above all, she hated doctors. Not all, of course, but those among them who considered themselves gods or goddesses in white lab coats although they were often full of bluster to hide their ignorance and their utter lack of empathy toward the common man, woman or child.
A shadow falling over Wynne made her push the dark thoughts away and look up; when the shadow proved to be Ernie back in his regular clothes, she got to her feet in a hurry. The fact that his shirt was strained to bursting point to keep his beer gut in check had may have caused a chuckle or two earlier in the day, but now such humor was out of place.
She held out the Built Ford Tough baseball cap and the hunting vest so he could use it to shield himself from the world's prying eyes - in this case, the family of three at the other table who weren't even attempting to hide their wide-eyed curiosity.
"Whassup, friend?" she said and put a hand on his shoulder.
Once Ernie had donned the vest and zipped it all the way up, he let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead; his ashen face held an unreadable expression. He gave his brow and scalp a good rubbing before he swept his hair back and put on the cap. "Good news, bad news… the good news is that Bernadine and the baby are safe and sound for now. Everythin' looks okay on the data from their probes and shit."
"Haw… thank the bearded fella in the skah fer that…"
"Yeah, but the docs have decided to provoke the labor or whatever the hell they called it… they're gonna give Bernadine somethin' that'll make the whole birthin' process start tho' she's a month short. They don't dare wait for the regular date."
A concerned grimace fell over Wynne's face. "Merceh Sakes…" she said in a quiet tone to keep it private. "A whole month ahead o' sche-doole? I guess them docs know what they be doin', right?"
"I dunno. It seems awfully risky to me."
"Yuh…"
"Worse, the maternity doc she's been seein' ain't here. He's on holiday or some shit so the other doctors gotta start from scratch or whatever. They told me that 'cos it's Bernadine's first, it might take her all evenin' and maybe even into the night."
"Holeh shittt… poah gal," Wynne croaked and shimmied around on the spot. "Gawd, Ah'm gettin' the shits jus' imaginin' that…"
Ernie let out a deep sigh and looked at the coffee vending machine like he was considering getting a mug of something. He reached into his hunting vest's pocket to pat the can of H.E. Fenwyck Midnight Velvet stout that was still there. Ultimately, he discarded both ideas and sat down with a bump on the plastic chair next to where Wynne had been sitting. "I appreciate you takin' me here, Wynne, but… well, there ain't no point in you hangin' around. I know how much ya hate hospitals. I'll call ya with an update when there's somethin' to talk about. Good or bad."
Wynne stuck her hands down her rear pockets to strike a cool pose so typical of the Last Original Cowpoke. Feeling someone's eyes on her, she cast a dark, accusing glare at the family of three who appeared to have been following the personal conversation with great interest - the moment she looked in their direction, they turned away wearing guilty expressions that fit their indiscretion.
The fact Ernie was sitting and she was standing made her uncomfortable, so she sat down and wrapped an arm around the fellow's wide shoulders. "Haw… I sure don't mind waitin' five minutes mo' or som'tin, Ernie…"
"Yeah, but it could be five minutes or five hours. Nobody knows. The docs sure don't. It's all up to Bernadine and… and…" - Ernie shrugged; their big secret had lost importance in the face of the drama - "our daughter."
"Would that gal be Foh-rd Bradberreh, purr-haps?" Wynne said in an attempt to coax just the slightest smile out of her friend - it didn't work. "Yuh… awright. I be goin', but y'all need-a promise me ya gonn' call the second som'tin happens, yuh? Day or ni'te, good or bad… don't mattah. An' don't worreh 'bout me blabbin' the big, ol' spoilah or nuttin'. I ain't even gonn' tell mah sweet, li'l sheriff Mandeh, nosirree."
Ernie and Wynne shared a silent look before the big, burly fellow moved with surprising speed to wrap his arms around the woman next to him. "Thanks, Wynne. You're my friend," he said as he pulled the Last Original Cowpoke into a big, sideways hug.
"Haw, y'all bettah bah-lieve I am, pardner," Wynne said as she reciprocated the hug. Once they separated, she let out a muted chuckle. "I'm guessin' a buncha things gonn' be diff'rent from now on, yuh?"
"Yeah. No matter what happens tonight, I ain't leavin' Bernadine's side. She's gonna need me… hell, I need her."
"I heah ya loud an' cleah, buddeh. Yessir," Wynne said as she got up from the uncomfortable chair. "Well… call me, yuh? I be off lack one o' them there greased lightnin's," she continued before she took off her battered and bruised cowboy hat and waved it in a proper goodbye-salute.
-*-*-*-
Wynne forced herself to take it far easier on her return trip north. Never exceeding the recommended speed limit, she even found a little time to gaze at the magnificent landscape she drove past. The uncertainty of Bernadine's condition was always on her mind, so to keep focused on the driving, she rolled down the window to half-mast and turned on the truck's infotainment system to create some background noise.
Her somber mood wasn't helped by the fact that the shadows had lengthened more than she had expected: the sun had already entered the final part of its journey toward the western horizon. The evening hours would mark the end of the day that had gone from bothersome to disastrous with an all-too brief spell of fun and positivity near the middle - what the night would bring was anyone's guess.
All Wynne could pick up on the Silverado's infotainment system seemed to be religious broadcasts with the odd music station thrown into the mix. A scowl tainted her face as yet another commercial blared from the many speakers - she had very little interest in buying the entire ten-volume set of books explaining how to live a life that would guarantee her progression to the Highest Level of Spiritual Existence.
As the commercial explained in great detail, the set had been written by the Forty-Eighth Grand Master of the Virgin Tower Organization, and the first forty-eight people to order the set - for a mere $995 - would win a special commemorative brass plaque that carried the signature of His Grace, the Grand Master.
"Ah'mma-gonn' do dat the same week them there pigs start ta flah… Lawrdie, Ah bettah watch what'ahm sayin'. Ya nevah know 'round he'," Wynne mumbled before she clicked onto the next radio station.
Not that the next stop on the digital dial proved any better: a talk-radio program that gave their listeners a chance to call in and offer their interpretation of certain passages in the Bible. The station's listeners heeded the request and waxed endlessly about everything from Genesis onwards. The only listener who was cut off before he was done was a fellow calling from a suburb of Brandford Ridge who tried to raise the issue about the conflicting messages of Thou Shalt Not Covet and Love Thy Neighbor - his presentation of the subject matter and the way it befuddled the poor radio host made Wynne laugh out loud.
The following commercial break soon turned the chuckle into another groan: the chances of Wynne joining a prayer circle for in-depth Bible studies lay somewhere between slim and none, and Slim had called in sick for the rest of the week after coming off one of his infamous three-day benders. The station was soon changed with another click.
Hearing a radio-Evangelist promising to cure all illnesses from ingrown toenails to brain cancer through prayer alone proved to be the final nail in the proverbial coffin. Letting out a frustrated snort, Wynne turned off the truck's entire entertainment system for good.
She eyed her telephone that sat in the integrated charger in the center console; although she did have a few songs stored on it, she was in no mood for any of them. She needed a Double-Zero, she needed something to eat, she needed to rub Goldie and Blackie's furs and get a little happy-doggy-loving in return, and, above all, she needed to find Mandy and get a big, ol', sloppy-wet kiss that would make all the negative stuff fly off on angel wings.
To make sure those wishes could soon be fulfilled, she pressed her cowboy boot down onto the gas pedal once more. The Silverado responded with a lustful roar and she was soon racing northbound on the two-lane blacktop that cut through the vast desert.
---
Mental fatigue caught up with Wynne when she had driven just short of half-distance back to Goldsboro. The difficult S-bends and the rest of the hilly section up to the summit at Haddersfield Pass seemed far more challenging than when she and Ernie had raced in the other direction earlier in the day.
One wide yawn after another rolled over her as she drove through the first of the S-bends and up the first of the steep inclines; the sound of squealing tires made her ease off the gas and settle down to a safer speed. Her fatigue only grew more mind-numbing when she got stuck driving at fifteen miles per hour behind an eighteen-wheeler hauling a reefer unit from Hanson's Meat Processing & Packing Company.
The cab-over Peterbilt growled up the incline in super-low, and the black smoke that spewed from its twin stacks was so thick and heavy that Wynne needed to roll up the window in a hurry to prevent choking to death.
She had little patience left after the taxing day, so she pulled out from behind the reefer unit's shadow intent on planting her boot on the gas and racing past the dog-slow semi, but she had only just done so when she realized she needed to go past not one, not two but three eighteen-wheelers from the same meat packing company who were all creeping up the incline in low gear. Although the gaps between the trucks seemed long enough for her Silverado, she knew better than to mess with the truck drivers' safety distance.
The opposite lane was clear as far as her headlights would shine, but the many S-bends that dotted the hilly section meant she could only see three-hundred yards ahead at the best of times. Wynne didn't feel like rolling the dice - or worse, cashing in her chips - on such a vague bet, so she fell in behind the three-truck convoy once more and allowed it to dictate her pace.
---
"Hoah-me, sweet hoah-me… Lawrdie, Ah need a nap lack Ah ain't nevah needed one befo'," Wynne mumbled as she finally reached the dirt road that led to the trailer park. She slowed down to hardly anything at all before she made a right-hand turn onto it.
She drove with great care to stop pebbles from being kicked up and thus chip the expensive paint job, but a few defied her by rattling against the inside of the wheelwells and along the Silverado's underside.
After parking at the trailer she shared with Mandy, she was given an enthusiastic greeting by Blackie, their black German Shepherd whose fearlessness was legendary - not to mention a constant cause for concern for every kind of supernatural being that had ever visited Goldsboro over the years.
"Well, lookie there! If it ain't mah Blackie!" Wynne cried as the large dog stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on Wynne's shoulders. Plenty of face-licking and fur-rubbing was duly carried out before Blackie moved back down on all fours and ran around a little to show what she had been up to all day. When the black dog noticed her golden companion hadn't appeared yet, she came to a halt and let out a prolonged Woooof?
"Yuh, that's right, Blackie. Goldie hadda stay up north at Moira's. Me an' Ernie hadda leave in a dang-blasted hurreh an' we coudden take 'er where we wus goin'. I wus thinkin' we wus gonn' drive up there… aftah takin' a powah-nap, Lawrdie… an' get some suppah or som'tin 'cos I be starvin'."
Woof? Woof-woof!
"Haw, clevah dawggie… I plum fergot we got them there wienahs an' hawt dawg buns in da freezah, but we ain't gonn' be cookin' 'em taday, Blackie. Naw, I need som'tin a li'l mo' substan-shu-al, yessir… holeh shittt, I could chow down one o' them there big-ass supah-dupah-cheeseburgahs with a ton o' fries on the sih-de! An' mebbe a beah or two. Yuh…"
One of Wynne's neighbors, the late-forty-something Diego Benitez, soon appeared from around the corner of the trailer. As always, the passionate hunter carried his thirty-odd-six rifle over his shoulder on a Nylon strap. He wore rugged all-terrain boots, a floppy sun hat and an outfit held in desert camouflage to give himself the best opportunity to become one with the background - he and Blackie had been out in the desert all day shooting and collecting jackrabbits. "Hiya, Wynne! Man, Blackie and me had a fabulous day! Thanks for letting me borrow her."
"Aw, ya welcome an' all, there, Diegoh. Didya hit anythin'?"
"We sure did. We got a whole bunch of those critters… didn't we, Blackie?"
Woof!
Diego broke out in a wide, toothy grin that revealed he had a full set of pearly whites. "Yeah. I'm gonna skin and salt a couple of real nice ones for you that I'll keep in my freezer." When he pushed his floppy hat back from his forehead, the chilling scar from the shooting accident that had nearly killed him stood out like a white line against his pale-brown skin.
"Haw, much obliged, Diegoh," Wynne said, looking anywhere but at the scar; an icy shiver still trickled down her spine whenever she thought back to the hideous sight that had greeted her and Ernie when they had come running after hearing a shot being fired inside Diego's trailer.
Fresh blood had dripped off the wall and the ceiling where Diego had been cleaning his rifle. For a brief moment, Wynne had been convinced she would find a dead body on the floor, but the gunshot wound had only grazed Diego's skull and he had pulled through the ordeal with no lasting effects save for the scar.
"Roasted jackrabbit goes really well with sweet potatoes, steamed green beans and Ernie's chipotle-garlic seasoning sauce," Diego continued, making Wynne snap out of her dark thoughts. "Say… speaking of Ernie… do you know where he is? I haven't seen him since early this morning."
"Yuh, I know where he's at. Lawrdie, the darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne got rushed ta that there hospahtal down in Cavva-naw Creek. We wus up at Moira's an' they called Ernie so we hadda leave in a dang-blasted hurreh. Ernie tole me them doctahs provoked 'er inta labah or som'tin. I didden get all of it, yuh? But anyhows, they hadda move fast so the babeh woudden be at risk or nuttin'."
"Aw, Jesus… I'll pray for Ernie and Bernadine tonight."
"Thanks, friend… a li'l prayin' sure can't hurt," Wynne said and nodded somberly. "It always be them nih-ce folks who done get it worst… look at that there nasteh piece o' you-know-what Artie Rains, yuh? Ain't nevah nuttin' bad happened ta him… not even when he done spoke trash 'bout that there Ay-shan fella some time ago, 'member? So he got fih-ad, big whoopin' deal. He still ain't realleh paid fer all the crap he done when he wus in office."
"That's true. I just saw him the other night up at Iverson's. He's as large and loud as ever. Did you know his wife is pregnant again?"
"Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die! That poah woman! Haw, whaddahell that nasteh fella be thinkin' 'bout… that gotta be numbah seven, ain't it? He tryin' ta make his own football team or som'tin?"
Before Diego could answer, Wynne's telephone rang somewhere deep down her pants pocket. Moving with the speed of a striking rattlesnake in case it was an urgent message from Ernie, she thrust her hand into her pocket and retrieved the telephone - a little too speedy as it turned out, because the phone escaped her grasp and went on a perfect flight through the air until it landed in the grass not an inch from Blackie's left paw. "Holeh shittt! Mah phoah-ne!" she exclaimed as she dove for it at once much to her German Shepherd's consternation.
A couple of loud Woofs that meant 'May I suggest you lay off the acrobatics until you've learned to control your limbs a little better?' were uttered while Wynne and Diego both stared at the caller-ID.
"Haw, false alarm. It be mah sweet, li'l Mandeh," Wynne said and let out a sigh of relief. After tapping the appropriate bar on the display, she held the telephone to her ear. "Y'all done reached the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew. Howdy, sweetums!"
While she spoke, she shooed a chuckling Diego away. He left after waving his floppy hat and offering her a couple of exaggerated kissies that made her send an Evil Eye in his direction.
"Whassat, hon? I be surrounded by barkin' dawgs an' cheekeh nebbahs so I don't heah too good or nuttin'… naw, I be hoah-me. Ernie wanted ta stay at the hospahtal in Cavva-naw Creek while the- huh? Yuh, this he' thing sucks som'tin fierce, sure ain't no lie. I ain't nevah seen Ernie this upset. Lawrdie, he wus 'bout readeh ta drop. No wondah, realleh."
Blackie made sure to pipe down while her owner spoke. Her keen eye was soon caught by something really interesting out in the desert; taking off in a hurry, she chased after the exciting phantom until she ended up running around in ever-tightening circles. The dizzying spectacle got to be too much for even the fearless German Shepherd who soon gave up and ran back to lie at Wynne's booted feet.
Smiling, Wynne reached down to claw the panting dog's black fur. "What's goin' on in town an' with that there bum y'all arrested? Ain't much? Yuh, I got that impres-shun when we wus up there eahliah. Lissen, me an' Blackie he' wus plannin' ta head up to Moira's a li'l latah on ta get Goldie an' then get some chow… okeh, Juniah hadda go hoah-me an' he done left Goldie with y'all?"
Blackie reacted to hearing Goldie's name and let out a bark - Goldie soon responded to it from the other end of the connection which made Wynne chuckle.
"Aw, them dawggies sure do miss each othah, huh? I know the feelin', yes Ma'am. But anyhows, I need a powah-nap real bad befo' we head ta Goldsborah. It wus a helluva drive down ta Cavva-naw Creek, an' Ernie done promised me he wus gonn' call if anythin' done happened. Them docs gonn' give the darlin' Rev'rend a shot o' som'tin that'll start the birthin' or some such. Yuh."
Wynne shuffled around the back part of her trailer while Mandy offered her best wishes; the sun was almost at the western horizon which made all the desert's nocturnal critters wake up and come out to play.
"Yuh, so I need-a be fresh jus' in case I hafta rush down there ag'in tani'te. Exactleh. Haw, would that there offah on them fried chickens still stand, or…? Lawrdie, sure sounds good an' all! Yes, Ma'am! Whassat? Aw-hell, that wus a good ideah, hon… ya wanna do it or should- okeh, so when we's in Goldsborah, I'mma-gonn' ask Holleh Lorenzen ta ordah a buncha flowahs from her sistah. A ha-uge buncha flowahs, yessirree! Ya betcha. Okeh… I heah ya. Love ya too, darlin'! Bah-bah!"
The telephone had just about reached the bottom of Wynne's pocket before she was overwhelmed by two of the body's most basic needs: a wide yawn cracked her face wide open while a high tide made another part further south send out a distress call.
She cast a concerned glance at the distance between herself and the front door of their trailer - it had to be twelve paces if not more. Twelve paces plus three doors stood between her and salvation. It was a tall task, but one she had to overcome if she wanted to reach the familiar shape of the toilet bowl without suffering any embarrassing accidents.
To a soundtrack provided by a barking Blackie - her woofs sounded like snickers - Wynne held her breath, sucked in her cheeks and arched her eyebrows as she hobbled over to the screen door with the grace of a hippopotamus whose hind legs were stuck in a mud hole.
*
*
CHAPTER 4
Just shy of an hour and a half later, Mandy Jalinski stood by the windows of the sheriff's office observing the goings-on out on the dark Main Street. Her hands were behind her back in a classical pose of sublime boredom. To stave off the typical late-shift fatigue brought on by the dreary evening, she bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet at infrequent intervals.
There was still plenty of hot coffee in the pot and cool milk in the refrigerator; neither seemed all that attractive as there had already been more than enough of both over the course of the day. If she wanted, she could go over to Moira's to get a bagel or a few sandwiches but she simply couldn't be bothered.
Goldie had curled herself up into a golden furball down on the floor. The sheriff's office wasn't equipped with a basket suitable for dogs to sleep in so a plaid had been appropriated from the crew room. The Golden Retriever had access to fresh water - an old, extra-large ceramic ashtray that had been thoroughly scrubbed - and a few sticks of jerky that Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. had bought for her before he had to drive home. Like her owner, resting seemed more interesting at present than drinking or eating.
The faulty strip light in the ceiling had finally been cured of its infernal blinking that had driven everyone to the brink of pulling their hair out. When Mandy and her deputies had been told by the Town Council that the budget could not support calling an electrician to repair the fixture, or even to change the fluorescent tube itself, they had taken matters into their own hands by yanking the offending item out of its sockets.
That one of the four strip lights had stopped casting its pale tones onto the office landscape below was something they had to learn to live with, as were the odd shadows that were created as a result of the empty socket - it wasn't all bad as the poor lighting concealed the drooping felt tiles in the ceiling, the outdated maps on the walls and the cracked linoleum on the floor.
Mandy moved up a hand to hide a yawn. All the day's action had taken place within the span of a few hours: first all the reports of vandalism that had brought the team of deputies all over town to take reports and collect evidence; then Joe-Bob Millard's drunken rampage over at Moira's and then the foul-smelling, hippie-like fellow loitering at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. A dark grunt escaped her when she counted the hours since she had faxed their John Doe's prints to headquarters up in Barton City along with an urgent request for identification - so far, nothing had come out of it.
She kept an eye on the few trucks and even fewer pedestrians that went past the sheriff's office. A portion of Main Street was illuminated by the light that shone through the windows of the various stores that were still open, but the warm hues couldn't compete with the harsh dazzle created by the modern headlights on the vehicles that drove past.
Goldsboro's only traffic light at the intersection of Main and Second Street flashed yellow as the traffic was too scarce to have it going through its full cycle. If nothing else, the bulbs behind the red and green lenses would last longer. The Town Council had already claimed credit for that though they'd had nothing to do with the decision - according to a self-glorifying press release, it was one of their best ideas in the never-ending quest to improve the planet's health.
Barry Simms had made enough of a recovery from his wrestling accident to sit at the watch desk. His smoking habits hadn't been influenced by getting a foot in his gut earlier in the day as he was lighting a new home-rolled cigarette with the dying embers of the old one. A rattling cough escaped him as he stubbed out the old smoke in a glass ashtray that had already disappeared under a two-inch cone of ash, squashed butts and half-burned cigarette paper.
His black and dark-gray uniform shirt was a mess with pastry crumbs, ash, more ash, more crumbs, even more ash and a large, jagged-edged coffee stain that he had tried to hide with his necktie. Moving the tie to the side had revealed a scorch mark left behind by a glowing ember - the whole thing would have gone up like a Roman candle had it happened in the days where the deputy sheriffs wore the brown Polyester uniforms, but the greater quality of the new cloth meant the fire had been contained before it could get going.
Barry had inherited Rodolfo's cheap pulp detective novel after the senior deputy had read it, and he was lost to the world reading about Sally Swackhamer, P.I., and all her foxy friends and fearsome foes in the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles in the late 1940s. Its title - Blood, Babes & Bazookas - was given perfect support by the lurid, colorful cover of swaggy Sally pointing a Colt .45 at the reader while she had her other arm wrapped around the slender waist of a swooning showgirl who wore Nylons, pink feathers and little else.
A white Dodge Ram pickup drove past the sheriff's office with plenty of noise from its cracked exhaust; Mandy kept her eyes on it as it slowed down at the traffic lights to give way to another truck that came from Second Street. The white Dodge soon drove out of sight, but the faulty exhaust continued to echo between the houses for a few moments longer.
Out on the sidewalk, Beatrice Reilly came to a halt to look at the truck as well. She performed a quick salute at Mandy as she entered the office. "Deputy Reilly returning to desk duty after being relieved by Senior Deputy Gonzalez, Sheriff Jalinski," she said as she hung her Mountie Hat on a nail on the wall.
"Very well," Mandy said without taking her eyes off the near-deserted street. "How are the prisoners?"
"Mr. Millard is quiet, but our John Doe is anything but… he's as disgusting as ever. He urinated up against the wall again and made sure it was caught on camera," Beatrice continued as she unzipped her uniform jacket and moved over to the watch desk to see if there were any new messages she needed to respond to.
When she got close, Barry grew jumpy and shifted on the swivel-chair like he worried about getting another foot in his gut. The fidgeting meant he nearly burned his nose when the cigarette got too short, but he took care of that by using it to light the next one as he always did. Once he had lit up, the old one was thrown onto the two-inch pile of ash where it continued to belch out horrendous smoke for a short minute longer.
Beatrice grinned at her colleague's nervous behavior - they both knew she would have defeated him had the wrestling match been allowed to end on regular terms. None of the messages that had been jotted down on the ash-covered report sheet seemed urgent so she turned back to Mandy. "Sheriff, Clifford Tobin obviously hasn't repaired his exhaust like he was told to. Do you want me to chase him down and write out a fixed-penalty notice for disturbing the peace and ignoring official-"
"Don't bother, Deputy," Mandy said over her shoulder. "Old man Clifford's not driving it anymore. It's his grandson Kenny."
"How do you know-"
"Mr. Tobin's daughter called me to explain the situation. Her father has had a stroke. It didn't cause brain damage as such, but they've had to hide the truck's keys from him or else he'd drive to Mr. Fredericksen's poultry farm each morning. He used to work there, but he's been retired for nigh-on twenty years now."
"Oh… all right," Beatrice said and fell quiet. After a short minute of deliberation, she continued: "Well, his grandson needs to adhere to the noise pollution laws as well. The next time I meet him on the street, I'll make sure to-"
Mandy let out a grunt. "There's no point in pressing the matter, Deputy. A heavy-handed approach will only cause resentment. Kenny's a good kid. It's better to have a quiet word in his ear if you happen to see him at Moira's or the movie theater."
"Frankly, I didn't think the job was such a popularity contest."
Mandy grunted again and turned to look at the rookie deputy. "It is. Especially out here. We depend on the goodwill of the people living here. The confrontational style of the previous sheriff caused no end of animosity toward us. Let's not repeat the mistakes of the past."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Turning back to the windows overlooking the street, Mandy let the rookie stew for a short while before she continued: "The daughter of Clifford Tobin was the last proprietor of the closed gas station a couple of miles north on the State Route. All three generations still live there. If you haven't run into Kenny Tobin in a couple of days' time, perhaps you should drive out there and have a friendly heart to heart with him and his mother about the state of his new truck."
"I'll make a note of that, Sheriff," Beatrice said and made a beeline for the smallest of the desks that had been put up in the old, dilapidated office.
Pulling out her swivel-chair, she sat down and added the new information in her trusty notepad. She glanced over at the old map on the wall before she jotted down the rough location of the gas station. Once that had been accomplished, she put the notepad in her breast pocket and turned to the paperwork she was obligated to fill out: it was a diary of sorts for her probation period.
Goldie suddenly raised her head to look out of the windows. A moment later, she got up and ran over to the door though Main Street was still deserted. A few happy yaps escaped her as her keen doggy-hearing picked up the familiar sound of a certain Silverado Trail Boss getting closer.
When the black truck came to park at the curb a scant thirty seconds later, Mandy opened the front door so her pet could greet the passengers in her inimitable style. The golden whirlwind took full advantage of that by storming out of the sheriff's office and onto the sidewalk where she let out a barrage of happy yaps.
Two seconds on from that, Blackie jumped out of the driver's side window to join her beloved doggy companion in a furious game of 'I've missed you so badly you won't believe it!'
A broad smile spread over Mandy's features as she took in the charming scene of the dogs playing with each other. Soon, Wynne joined in on the fun and began to rub and claw Goldie's golden fur. "Deputy Simms, I'll be outside," she said and strode over to the door.
"Yes, Ma'am," Barry said without taking his eyes off the page chronicling Sally Swackhamer's latest crisis - the P.I. was about to walk into a seedy establishment to talk to an informant, but a dangerous, armed foe waited in the shadows to ambush her.
Mandy paused to glance at the piles of ash on the watch desk, the crumbs on Barry's uniform shirt and the toxic cloud of foul-smelling smoke that seemed to hover over his head. "Deputy Reilly? Please don't cause any harm to Deputy Simms while I'm away."
"Yes, Sheriff. I'll try," Beatrice said with a grin as Mandy left the office. When she caught a glimpse of Barry looking more than a little miffed, her grin widened until it was stretched from one ear to the other.
To counter being the butt of everyone's jokes, Barry made a big production number out of taking a deep puff from his latest cigarette and blowing the smoke in his new colleague's direction.
---
Goldie's happy yapping and Blackie's more guttural barking was joined by an enthusiastic "Lawwwwwr-die, if it ain't mah sweet, li'l sheriff!" from Wynne as Mandy strode out of the sheriff's office and moved along the sidewalk in her familiar no-nonsense gait.
Wynne sobered as she and her partner hooked up. Blackie and Goldie sensed the topic of conversation was about to turn serious, so they fell quiet and hopped up on one of the white benches lining Main Street so they could lie down without getting icy tummies. "Wouldya bah-lieve the kind o' rotten mess the darlin' Rev'rend got inta, huh? If nuttin' else, we know fer dang sure how much Ernie luv'er. Ya shoulda seen him… the big fella wus hurtin' like nevah befo'."
"No wonder," Mandy said and snuck a hand around Wynne's waist. They shared a loving glance for a moment before they moved over to the same bench the dogs had already claimed.
"Naw. Lawrdie, I don't even wanna think 'bout one o' us bein' in such a shitteh situ-a-shun. Not that we evah wus gonn', but y'all know what I mean. With that there job o' yers, bad shit can rain down on us at aneh moment, yuh?" Wynne said as she nudged Goldie aside so she and Mandy could fit on the bench - the Golden Retriever was only happy to comply because it meant she could snuggle up closer to Blackie.
"Any news?"
Wynne took off her battered cowboy hat to wipe her forehead on her denim sleeve. "Nuttin'. I tole 'im ta call no mattah what done happened but he ain't done so yet," she said as she plonked the hat back on her dark locks. "I reckon we gonn' hafta get used ta the no-shun o' gettin' a new nebbah. Ernie tole me he wus gonn' stay with the Rev'rend fer as long as she needed 'im. They be in love, awright, so…"
"I'm sorry, Wynne. I know how much you enjoy Mr. Bradberry's company."
"Yuh. Ol' Ernie be the best dang-blasted buddeh I evah done had. Is gonn' be one helluva change out at the trailah park fer sure. Them Travers' be all right… well, Brendah is. Vaughn ain't nuttin' but a wet blanket, ya know? Lawrdie, how them folks evah got tagethah I ain't nevah gonn' figger out. But ol' man Petrusco is gone as well… an' now Ernie… ya know whut realleh gimme da goosebumps, tho'?"
"No?"
"That some o' them there Virgin Towah folks move in or use it fer a preachin' base or som'tin'. Moira done tole me the othah night them folks alreddeh asked her 'bout rentin' a room in that there newfangled hoah-tel o' ours. They be lookin' ta cast a widah net ta lure moah saps inta their flock."
"Mmmm!"
Right on cue, the noisy Dodge Ram that Clifford Tobin used to own rumbled past the quartet to add its two cents' worth to the conversation. When the young Kenny noticed the sheriff sitting on the bench not fifteen feet from where he was, he sat up straight and let off the gas to trickle past the bench at just above idling - the cracked exhaust continued to sound like a flatulating elephant which wasn't too far off what Wynne thought of the Virgin Tower Organization.
The sounds also created a spark of inspiration in her mind. Cocking her head, she let out a few grunts that made it clear her gray matter was going at full speed to work out the permutations of her brainflash. "Lawrdie, I may jus' have had theee best ideah I done had fer a while… that there new de-per-ty o' yers, wotshername…"
"Beatrice Reilly."
"Bea, yuh. Okeh, how's 'bout this he' deal, then… 'cos me an' Moira done had so maneh guests fer the hoah-tel an' all, there ain't been no space fer Bea so she still be rentin' a room at Mrs. Peaboddah's boardin' house… yuh, an' then I wus thinkin', woudden it be kinda good fer all involved if I bought Ernie's trailah an' let Bea use it as her pad? I mean free o' charge, o' course."
Blackie and Goldie looked at each other and let out a few yaps and barks at their owner's idea - it didn't really matter either way to them since they had little to do with Ernie and had yet to get proper acquainted with Beatrice.
"Well, it might be, but it's a decision she needs to make on her own," Mandy said with a smile. "Living in a trailer isn't for everyone. I wouldn't have considered it for a second if it hadn't been for a certain individual inviting me into her life."
Wynne snickered and leaned in to place a kiss on Mandy's cheek - she made it a quick one so the sheriff's authority wouldn't be undermined. "Yeah, huh? Y'all got a point there, Sheriff Mandeh. Still, it ain't no bad ideah, nosirree. Unless mo' bad shit done happens tomorra, I reckon I'mma-gonn' let Bea know 'bout it. If she turns me down, I'mma-gonn' figger out som'tin else. Yuh?"
"Sounds like a plan," Mandy said and got up from the bench. "I need to get back now. Don't forget the flowers."
"Ain't no chance o' me fergettin' them flowahs, Sheriff. Mizz Holleh be next on mah agendah," Wynne said and waved goodbye to Mandy who strode back to the office.
The dogs were given another burst of strong fur-rubbing that earned Wynne several barks and happy yaps in return. Before she could finish the session, her telephone rang deep down her pocket. She was soon digging into it with her left hand while her right continued to rub, pat and claw Goldie's neck.
The split second she saw that the caller-ID said Ernie, a knot of worry the size of a Mack RS dump truck rammed her straight in the gut. "Lawrdie, this he' be too soon… this be way too soon, Ernie," she mumbled as she pushed the bar to accept the call.
Putting the phone to her ear, she prepared herself for bad news by clenching her jaw. "Howdy, Ernie…" she said while her heart tried to thump its way out of her chest.
'Wynne, ya talkin' to a brand-new daddy! My wife gave birth not fifteen minutes ago! She and our daughter are both healthy… she's tired like hell, but they're safe and sound and healthy!'
Wynne flopped back on the bench, smacked a hand across her eyes and let out a long groan of relief. "Yeeeeeeee-hawwwww! Wouldya lissen ta that! Congrat-ah-lay-shuns, Daddeh-Oh! That there babeh sure wanted ta see the wohhhh-rld, huh? Jus' in tih-me fer Daytoh-nah, too! Gonn' be a fast, li'l mommah fer sure!"
'Gawd, she's so tiny… such a tiny, tiny little thing, but the docs tell us that all her vital signs and stuff are good and stable. She's been transferred to an incubator so she… something about the… shit, I dunno, I didn't catch all of it. I wanted to call sooner, but I had trouble breathing… and I didn't even do anything!'
Blackie and Goldie began to yap to accompany the sound of yelling that could be heard loud and clear from the telephone; it was clear by their puzzled doggy-looks that they didn't quite grasp the concept of how someone yelling could be perceived as a positive development.
"Man, Ernie… Ah be so glad fer y'all an' yer darlin' Bernadeeh-ne… Lawwwwr-die, y'all had me so dog-gone worried Ah wus 'bout ta shit a brick when Ah done saw yer name on mah phoah-ne jus' now!"
'Once the labor got goin', it took less time than anyone had predicted. I was right there through the whole, damn thing, and lemme tell you somethin', Wynne… I was doin' worse than my wife! Holy smokes, I nearly fainted three times before they gave me a chair to sit on so I wouldn't embarrass myself and my wife by fallin' on my fat butt!"
The fact that Ernie's voice carried so much elation after the bad fright earlier - not to mention the fact that he had already said more in a single telephone conversation than he would do an entire week under normal circumstances - made Wynne lean her head back and laugh out loud right in the middle of Main Street. "Haw! Ah bah-lieve ya, buddeh!"
'And lemme tell you somethin' else as well… a real birth sure don't look like one of those Hollywood births… holy shit, Wynne… it was… it was… Jeez!'
"Ah bah-lieve dat, too!"
'They're still puttin' my wife through a buncha tests to figure out where all that initial blood came from. I've gone out on a balcony 'cos the reception is crappy indoors, so I'm out of the loop. I promise I'll keep you posted on what's goin' on.'
"Whah, Ah sure be thankful, Ernie… dang, will ya give yer wih-fe a big, ol' kissie from me whenevah she be reddeh fer one?"
'Consider it done. Uh… what I'm about to tell ya needs to be kept secret, Wynne… we're gonna call her Christine F. Bradberry.'
"Lawwwwrdie, y'all realleh gonn' call 'er Foh-rd, aintcha?" Wynne exclaimed and promptly slapped her forehead - Blackie and Goldie's patience with their owner and her weird behavior had run out, so they left her behind to play a game of Catch Your Tail on the sidewalk.
'No… Frances.'
"Huh… aw, yuh. That there be a nih-ce name, that sure ain't no lie. Okeh, yer secret is safe with me, Ernie." While she spoke, she took off her battered and sweat-stained cowboy hat and held it to her denim-clad chest. "Even if mah sweet, li'l Mandeh done tickle mah buh-tt with a whole buncha goosefeathers, Ah ain't gonn' blab nuttin'. An' y'all can take that ta da bank!"
'I know, Wynne. Thanks. Oh, I better get back inside… I just wanted to bring you up to speed.'
"Ah sure be thankin' ye, Daddeh-Oh!" Wynne said and got to her feet. Blackie and Goldie seemed to be happy playing in front of the sheriff's office so she didn't call them to her before she strolled along the sidewalk to spread the good news. "An' don't ferget ta pampah yer Rev'rend an' that there daughtah o' yers, ya heah? The next tih-me we hook up, y'all bettah have some babeh pic-chures reddeh fer me!"
'Count on it. Bye, Wynne!'
"Bah-bah, mah friend. Catch ya on the flip-flop." Upping her tempo, Wynne was soon at the glass door to the sheriff's office - it came close to falling off its rusty hinges as she barged inside and let out a resounding: "Ceeeee-gars fer ev'rehbodda! Ernie's darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne jus' gave birth an' they be doin' jus' fihhhhh-ne! Ain't that awwwwwe-some?"
The reactions from the two deputies present couldn't have been more different: Beatrice Reilly reacted on reflex and training alone by jumping up from her swivel-chair and drawing her service pistol in nothing flat to counter the loud aggressor. Barry Simms jerked back and drew a gasp of such strength that most of his lit cigarette got sucked into his mouth.
"Whoa there, de-per-ty!" Wynne cried and thrust her hands in the air. "Ah ain't one o' them there baddies lack Billeh Da Kid or nobodda! Y'all sure is one helluva quick draw, ya know that? Yuh… a reg'lar Quick Draw Ma'Graw! Lawrdie, Ah dang neah soiled mah shorts!"
Although Barry managed to keep the cigarette's glowing tip off his lips through swift work with his tongue, an entire cabbage patch of the low-grade waste tobacco he always used had flown out of the cigarette when he had gasped - worse, the tobacco had gone straight down the wrong pipe. Coughing and spluttering, he clambered to his feet and repeatedly thumped his fists against his chest.
"Whaddindahell… Ah reckon y'all don't look too good there, Barreh… an' that there wheezin' sure don't sound too good, neithah. Y'awright?" Wynne said as she pushed her hat back from her brow.
It was obvious to see that Barry was one step from turning blue and two steps from keeling over, so Beatrice holstered her pistol and hurried over to him to help where she could. Keeping the Heimlich maneuver in reserve in case her first attempt failed, she clenched her fists and gave her colleague a series of hard, thudding thumps on his upper back that made his face go from blue to red, to white, back to blue and then red all over again. The offending slices of tobacco soon spewed from his mouth with the speed of a hockey puck in a final game of the Stanley Cup.
"Holeh shittt! Incomin'!" Wynne cried as she took a hasty step sideways to miss getting spew onto her jeans.
"Gawwwwwwwwwd," Barry croaked as he was finally able to breathe again. His wobbling legs betrayed him on the spot which saw him end up as a human-shaped ball of quivering goo on the cracked linoleum.
Beatrice scratched her neck. After looking down at Barry and then over at Wynne, she reached for her colleague to pull him up only to be met by a prolonged, pitiful whimper.
"Bea," Wynne said while trying hard to keep a grin off her face, "y'all done a fih-ne job an' all, but Ah reckon ol' Barreh there needs a moment fer 'imself, know what Ah mean?"
Beatrice kept standing at the watch desk for a moment while glancing down at the quivering, whimpering Barry. She eventually shrugged and shuffled back to her own desk.
In the middle of all that, Mandy returned from the restroom at the back of the office. All her years in law enforcement meant she only needed half a glance to figure out what had happened between her deputies. She remained silent while she used a paper towel to wipe the excess water from her fingers.
A snort finally escaped her as she made a beeline for the small table by the wall; once there, she poured herself a mugful of dark-brown rocket fuel before she sat down at her desk and picked up a stack of case files. "Wynne, did you order the flowers yet?" she said while she sorted the files in alphabetical order.
"Naw, Sheriff Mandeh! Ah ain't had the tih-me 'cos Ernie done called me jus' now, yessirree!" Wynne said and waved her cowboy hat high in the air. Grinning, she shuffled over to the desk and stole a corner just wide enough for her left buttock. "The darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne alreddeh gave birth an' all! Mothah an' d- uh, their li'l 'un both be fih-ne an' healtheh an' safe an' sound like ya woudden bah-lieve! An' Ah know that fer a fact 'cos Ernie done tole me ovah that there phoah-ne!"
"That's great news. I have to admit I was worried," Mandy said and leaned back on her chair.
"Yuh, me too. That's why Ah done said ceeee-gars fer ev'rehbodda when Ah got he', but Ah reckon ol' Barreh there got a li'l spooked or som'tin… yuh," Wynne said and pointed her thumb at the ball of human goo on the floor. "But anyhows… Ah be goin' ovah ta Holleh's now. Ah need-a book a tih-me fer a li'l trimmin' anyhows so this he' deal be the perfect oppor-too-niteh, yessir. Say, what kinda flowahs y'all reckon we oughtta send? An' how maneh?"
Mandy leaned back on her chair and took a sip of her coffee. "Actually, they might not spend too much time at the hospital now the birth itself is over. We should just send a small bouquet. Once you know they've gone home, we can send them something they'll really have use for. We could add a card we've all signed."
"Haw, that there be a wondahful ideah, yessirree! Lawrdie, that be whah y'all is the sheriff o' this he' li'l town an' Ah be a beer-guzzlin', Nascahr-watchin' cowpoke! Dat dere's a done deal, sheriff!" Chuckling at her wordplay, Wynne slapped her hat back onto her locks and moved away from the corner of the desk. "Ah'mma-gonn' get that whole thing sorted right this very minute. Ah be back in a li'l while. Yuh? See ya, Bea! An' keep that there powdah drah, ya heah?"
"Bye, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said and offered the denim-clad woman a little wave. Once the sole civilian had left, Beatrice peeked around the corner of her desk to see what Barry was up to - not much, as it turned out. After chewing on her cheek for a little while, she got up, went over to the watch desk and helped him back onto the swivel-chair while being as gentle as she could.
"I was about to ask if you would mind sweeping the floor, Deputy Reilly," Mandy deadpanned. The two women shared a look before Beatrice let out a dark chuckle and made sure the moaning, groaning, wheezing and whimpering Barry was close enough to the telephone on the watch desk to pick it up in case it rang.
-*-*-*-
Main Street was a dark and deserted stretch by the time Wynne crossed over the two lanes to get to the other sidewalk. There were a few trucks rumbling past, but the drivers were all strangers to her so she didn't wave or shout Howdys at them like she usually would.
An unusual amount of vehicles were parked outside Derrike Iverson's dive a bit further north on Main Street - several of the most recent trucks she had seen were there as was Joe-Bob Millard's huge 1976 Cadillac Eldorado. Most of the trucks carried stickers or artwork portraying the American flag, but a few had gone a step beyond that and had long, flexible poles installed on the beds from where Old Glory fluttered in the gentle evening breeze. The trucks also carried prominent stickers that read J6B, but she had no idea what that represented.
Walking past the dive, Wynne couldn't help but let out a chuckle. After she had entered a financial partnership with Moira MacKay to renovate and refurbish the old building next to the Bar & Grill into a Bed & Breakfast-cum-regular hotel, Derrike Iverson had banned her from visiting his bar for all eternity. She had no idea if the crusty owner had expected her to break down and weep at such a cruel twist of fate, but she was pretty certain he had not expected her to break down and let out howling, sardonic laughter.
---
Evening had fallen which meant the stars were out in force high above. Wynne glanced up now and then - for the most part to be awed by the magnificent Milky Way, but also to keep an eye out for any UFOs that might form the vanguard of an invading force. Though a rare occurrence on the world stage, it had happened far too often in Goldsboro and the surrounding towns and cities to ignore. When the heavens seemed tranquil save for a distant helicopter en route to the Air Force Base south of them, she let out a sigh of relief and kept on moseying along.
Just in case any ghouls, zombies, goblins or fifty-foot gorilla-like creatures known as Desert Dwellers considered sneaking up on the lone woman to give her a fright or two, the sight of Blackie and Goldie running free ought to convince all but the stupidest denizens of the Otherworld that it would be detrimental to their life-expectancy to do so. Thus liberated from the threats lurking in the dark shadows, Wynne strolled on and soon whistled a jaunty tune through her teeth.
The proverbial tallow candle ignited when she and the dogs passed by the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor. The store was fully lit up to allow Nelson McConnell, her former boss, to keep on top of the countless chickens that were roasting in the rotisseries and the regular ovens. A teenage customer waited at one of the tall cafe tables while his order was processed; he drank a milkshake through a straw as he did so.
"Now whah didden I think o' that befo'?" Wynne said and dug into her pocket to get her telephone. Mandy's number was soon found and the call was placed. "Howdy, Sheriff Mandeh! Yuh, it be me ag'in. Lissen, I jus' got theee most fa-bew-luss ideah. I'mma so hungreh mah guts be slappin' ag'inst mah spih-ne, an' he' I be at that there Chicky Kingz pahrlahr… whah don't I go in there an' ordah fih-ve o' them there awesome mystereh boxes fer me an' y'all an' them there de-per-ties o' yers? An' then have 'em delivah'd ta the office while I ordah them flowahs up at Holleh's… yuh? How ya like dat? Yuh, I know y'all said it wus yer treat an' all, but now it be mah treat. 'Cos o' Ernie an' Bernadeeh-ne an' that there babeh o' theirs. Yuh. Okeh, considah it done… Lawrdie, I bettah get some fries as well. Plentah o' fries… a whole buncha plentah o' fries, yessir! Whassat? Yuh, I'mma-gonn' organih-ce them beahs an' sodas from Moira's. Okeh. Talk ta ya latah, Sheriff!"
Once the telephone was back in her pocket, she whistled at Blackie and Goldie who had run a short distance ahead. Patting her thigh did the trick and she was soon surrounded by yapping dogs.
-*-*-*-
After visiting her former employer and placing an order of a full house of five mystery boxes and enough French fries to feed an entire regiment of hungry foot soldiers, Wynne and the dogs continued to stroll along the sidewalk en route to Holly Lorenzen's hair salon.
Blackie suddenly came to a dead stop. Her heckles rose as she stared at a gray Dodge Intrepid sedan that was parked at the curb in front of the store they were due to visit. Goldie didn't seem to understand what the hubbub was about and asked about it with a puzzled yap - Blackie responded with a guttural bark that made Goldie's yap turn into a whimper.
Wynne hadn't noticed a thing but kept strolling along whistling a classic truck driving song through her teeth. Just like her black German Shepherd had done, she came to a screeching halt the split second she was able to look through the hair salon's large storefront windows. The view made her scrunch up her face in annoyance. When that wasn't enough, she mouthed a few choice cusswords that would have stripped the paint clean off the salon's walls had she said them out loud.
Goldie had become rather confused by the sudden change in everyone's behavior, but she only needed a single look at the root of the evil to run back and hide behind the growling Blackie.
The very, very pregnant Velma Rains occupied one of the hair dryers that always reminded Wynne of old-fashioned astronaut helmets, but the lady wasn't the cause for the paint-stripping cussing - the ruddy, boulder-bellied, triple-chinned Arthur 'Artie' Rains was.
"Awwww-hell, Ah hadda run inta nasteh ol' Artie," Wynne said and pulled her cowboy hat down low to cover her eyes. When it didn't make the former sheriff disappear in a yellow puff of sulfur, she pushed the hat back from her brow. "Coudden it ha' been anehboddah but him? Of all them folks on this he' Earth, whah did it hafta be Artie Dang-Blasted Rains, Blackie? Can ya tell me that, girl? Huh?"
Blackie's growl proved she couldn't - Goldie just whimpered some more.
The disgraced, deposed sheriff of Goldsboro and MacLean County sat in state - fat and mighty - in one of the regular barber's chairs that was so dwarfed by his huge frame it had almost disappeared from sight. After his abrupt dismissal from office, he seemed to have gained at least another dozen pounds of lard. Though his frame had become even more shapeless, his beady eyes continued to shine bright with pure and undiluted meanness.
The early-fifty-something Holly Lorenzen fluttered around like a bird snipping at Artie's sparse hair with a pair of silver scissors. As always, the hair dresser wore an outfit that could best be described as outrageous: high-heeled ballroom shoes and black capris that were so tight she would need to change them if she ever had to bend over for something. Her blouse was so low-necked that her Wonderbra-supported chest was more exposed than concealed; the short-sleeved garment defied all description as it was eighty percent black with the remaining twenty percent made up of red, white and blue polka-dots that were scattered all over the fabric.
Further up, her face was covered in pancake make-up, cherry-red lips, fake lashes, a little too much eyeliner and far too much blush on her cheeks. That Wynne and countless other women in and around Goldsboro had often told her she was just as attractive without all the gunk she smeared on her face had no effect. The huge, mahogany-colored 1960s-style wig she wore on top of her own far shorter hair only underscored the fact that when she looked in the mirror, she saw something nobody else did - the short and simple reason for her get-up was that she was scared of the gray hairs and the crows' feet that had begun to appear here and there.
Although the sound didn't travel too well through the window panes, it was clear by Holly's rapid-moving lips that she was busy relaying every last bit of juicy gossip that she could while the Rains' were there.
Velma Rains looked somewhat bored by the excessive talking, but the concentration visible on Artie's lardy face proved he listened to the ceaseless gossip with great interest. He wore a gown around his shoulders and fat neck that caught the few snippets of hair that fell victim to Holly's scissors - it was far too small for his bulbous head and made him look even more ridiculous than usual.
If the gown wasn't bad enough by itself, the rest of his clothes did the trick: gray loafers, brown socks, gray Polyester pants that were too short at the ankles, and a khaki shirt that sported several sweat-stains. A checkered sports blazer of dubious origin and design hung on a hallstand not too far from the barber's chair. The signs all pointed at the fact he was forced to find - and perhaps even wash - his own clothes while his long-suffering wife was pregnant all over again.
Wynne let out a deep sigh that came from the bottom of her soul. She looked toward the heavens for a little divine intervention, but nothing came - not that she had expected any. Her cowboy hat was pulled low once again in an attempt to hide her face so Artie Rains wouldn't recognize her, but even she could see the futility of that. "Aw-hell… I might as well get this he' deal ovah an' done with so I can get back ta mo' impahr-tant mattahs elsewhere lack them fried chickies we done ordah'ed. Oh, an' all y'all bettah stay out he', yuh? Ya know how bad he done hate'cha."
Goldie promptly whimpered and scooted off down Main Street, but Blackie stood her ground and bared her teeth in an impressive display of biting-power. A disappointed bark escaped her when Wynne patted her thigh and pointed at the fleeing Goldie. "Nuh-uh, Blackie… ain't gonn' be taday. Mebbe latah. All that lard ain't good fer ya, anyhows. Protect Goldie."
The German Shepherd let out a disappointed bark at first but soon relaxed her stance. A moment later, she ran after her golden companion to carry out her owner's command.
Sighing, Wynne reached for the door handle and entered the hair salon. Artie Rains eyed her at once in the mirror in front of him, but she ignored him in the hope of avoiding any negative encounters for a change. "Howdy, Holleh… lissen, I wus wonderin' if y'all could perhaps call yer sistah an' mebbe get'er ta send some o' them there bayu-taful flowahs o' hers ta-"
"Still can't get to the point, eh, Dumb-ahue?" Artie Rains said as he glared at Wynne by way of the mirror. Grinning, he gestured to Holly that she should stop the trimming and give him space. The barber's chair was able to swivel around unhindered, and he took full advantage of that by turning to face Wynne. "No wonder… you ain't got two brain cells to rub together. Tell me, have ya seen any ghosts recently?"
"Naw…"
"Little green men from Mars?"
"Naw. An' they wussen green but-"
"Witches on broomsticks?"
"Naw! Lookie he', Artie-"
"That's Mr. Rains to you, Dono-fool!" Artie barked in his typical booming bass. The barber's chair creaked and groaned under his weight as he shifted around to look even more imposing.
Wynne's jaw was given a strong workout as an entire phrasebook of curses ran silently past her lips. She thrust her hands into her denim jacket's pockets to stop herself from giving the former sheriff a single-digit salute that would only make matters worse. "Yuh, whatevah… Ah didden come he' ta argue with y'all 'bout nuttin'. Ah came ta ordah some flowahs from Holleh's sistah. Yuh? So wouldya mind if Ah went an' done what Ah came fer?"
"No, you can 'went and done' whatever you wish to. I ain't stoppin' ya," Artie said while sporting an evil grin. Swiveling back to the mirror, he gestured at Holly to resume snipping.
Wynne drew a deep breath and let it out slowly while her heart and adrenaline went into overdrive. Her fists had a mind of their own and suddenly clenched hard deep down her jacket's pockets. A moment later, she forced herself to ease off the proverbial throttle before she would slug the former sheriff across his fat jaw. Her cheeks were chewed on while she tried - and failed - to make eye-contact with Velma Rains to ask in a non-verbal fashion how she was able to live with her husband.
Holly Lorenzen continued to snip a little here and a little there of Artie's sparse hair. As she did so, she glanced at Wynne who stood stiff as an ironing board in the middle of the salon. "What kind of flowers did you want, Wynne?" she said with a half-smile.
"Aw, Ah wus… Ah wus…" - Wynne stopped to let out another deep breath that helped her unwind. Once she had thumped the cork back into the bottle labeled Whoop-Ass, she rolled her shoulders and moved away from Artie's chair. "Yuh, Ah wus thinkin' mebbe a twentah bucks bouquet o' som'tin nih-ce. Mebbe them there red roses or some such. They need-a be sent tanight or earleh tomorra at the latest ta the Communiteh General Hospital down in Cavva-naw Creek. Courteseh o' Bernadeeh-ne-"
"Oh! Is the Reverend in hospital?" Holly said and promptly let out an excited squeal. She was so enthralled by the exciting prospect of getting new gossip to spread among her customers that she forgot all about cutting Artie's hair. "She isn't due yet! Not for a month, I believe."
"Yuh, but-"
"Oh! Oh no, she didn't suffer a miscarriage, did she?"
"Whut?! Naw-naw, y'all need-a-"
"Oh, my sweet Lord! That's so terrible! She'll be in my prayers tonight!"
"Yuh, well, okeh," Wynne said and shuffled around on the spot, "that's kinda nih-ce o'ya an' all an' I be sure the darlin' Rev'rend gonn' return the favahr if she done knew 'bout'cha but that ain't-"
Artie chose the moment to return to the conversation: "Quit wafflin' and get to the Goddamned point, woman! I swear you're soundin' dumber each time I hear you mangle our beautiful language!"
Wynne had to pinch the bridge of her nose to stop the onslaught of the thumping headache that had come from nowhere. She was glad she had left Blackie and Goldie playing out on the sidewalk. If the German Shepherd had come in with her, her jaws of doom would have been wrapped around one of Artie's over-sized calves - or butt-cheeks - by now.
"Lawrdie! Will ya lissen ta me, fer cryin' out loud! The Rev'rend ain't had no misca-ritch or nuttin'! She done gave birth 'bout an hou-ah ago… yuh, she wussen due fer 'nother month, but that there babeh didden care. An' now Ah need-a buncha them there nih-ce flowahs… red roses… ta be sent ta that there dang-blasted hospahtal down in Cavva-naw Creek! Puh-lease!"
Holly reacted by assuming a puzzled expression. "All right, Wynne. There's no need for you to lose your temper. I'll see to it. Twenty dollars' worth?"
"Yuh. Yuh, that be fih-ne, Holleh," Wynne said and let out a sigh. "Ah'mma-gonn' swing bah tomorra once Ah done scrounged up some o' that there cash. Okeh?"
"Sure," Holly said and went behind a bead curtain to find her telephone so she could call the garden center where her sister worked.
While the hair dresser did that, Artie Rains let out an amused, but somewhat threatening, chuckle. "Why, Dumb-ahue, I was under the impression that you inherited a lot of money from your aunt," he said in a voice that held far too much of a honeyed undertone for Wynne's liking.
"Well, sortah… Ah inherited her coin collec-shun. Some o' them there coins be worth a bundle. But Ah ain't too sure whaddindahell that gotta do with the rest o' the bizz-nizz we been talkin' 'bout…?"
Artie smiled like a rattlesnake did when it had found a nice, juicy target to sink its fangs into. "Now you're sayin' you need to scrounge up some cash. Wasted it all on that crap beer you're drinking, I'll bet. Vagrancy is a felony in this state. Now, if I wasn't busy, I'd perform a citizens' arrest and haul your skinny ass over to the slammer."
"Holeh shittt, that wus a figger o' speech! Vagranceh ain't got nuttin' ta do with it, Artie!"
The former sheriff's beady eyes narrowed down into slits. A moment later, he barked "You call me Mr. Rains!" at the top of his lungs. The barber's chair let out another creaking groan like it wanted to add its two cents' worth to the conversation.
"Ah'mma'bout ta call ya som'tin else! Ya don't da-suh-rve ta be called Mistah!" Wynne hollered back at a similar volume and level of intensity. She clenched her fists all over again but thought better of it and thrust them into her rear pockets as fast as she could. "An' it still ain't got nuttin' ta do with havin' no moneh or nuttin'! Ah'mma-gonn' come bah tomorra an' get mah dang-blasted hair cut jus' like y'all is right now! An' then Ah'mma-gonn' pay fer the dang-blasted flowahs as well!"
The answer and Wynne's unexpected eruption seemed to put a damper on Artie's feisty mood. After shrugging - which made his triple-chins wobble badly - he swiveled around to look at himself in the mirror.
Wynne chewed so hard on her cheek she could almost taste the blood. Looking around Holly's salon, she had better luck in establishing eye-contact with the very pregnant Velma Rains whose sad gaze proved that living with Artie was anything but a laugh-a-minute experience.
Holly soon returned from the back office. "The order has been sent, Wynne," she said as she put down a small notepad on a narrow shelf beneath one of the mirrors. "Twenty dollars amounted to twelve high-quality red roses. They're to be delivered at once to the Community General Hospital in Cavanaugh Creek c-o Reverend Bernadine Russell… oh! Wait, is she Bernadine Bradberry now?"
"Naw, the darlin' Rev'rend stuck with Russell fer profes-shunnal reasons."
"Good. That's what I ordered. See you at eleven tomorrow… you certainly need a trimming!"
"Mmmm," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. "Ladies. Artie." When a loud belch was Artie Rains' only answer, Wynne spun around on her heel and stomped out of Holly Lorenzen's Hair Salon to get back to saner surroundings.
Outside on Main Street, Blackie and Goldie understood at once that their owner was in a stormy mood after squaring off against her eternal nemesis, so they settled down and stuck by her side all the way back to Moira's Bar & Grill and the familiar refrigerators that offered all sorts of beverages that would wash away the foul stench left behind by nasty former sheriff.