by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This slice-of-life drama 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.
NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: July 10th - August 8th, 2024.
Yes, this is yet another entry (the twenty-second!) into the long-running series featuring Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
Thank you very much for your help, Bard Of New Mexico! :D -- *Wave* Hi, Phineas!
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 Goldsboro, Nevada, it's almost time to vote for the town's next sheriff. As Mandy Jalinski and Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue head out onto the campaign trail, they have no idea of the hot mess they're about to find themselves in. Their opponents, as always led by disgraced former sheriff Artie Rains, have the perfect rival candidate lined up: a clean-cut, wholesome, All-American Boy whose good looks and good manners can't help but give him a free pass to the sheriff's office - or is he too good to be true?
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CHAPTER 1
The quaint trailer park in the middle of the desolate though beautiful Nevadan desert - the nearest town was Goldsboro eight miles north along the State Route - had seen a good deal of activity over the summer. After the residents had fended off the missionary team from the Virgin Tower religious organization through skill, bluff and the occasional white lie, the vacant trailer that had been the object of the Tower's desire had been converted into a rental unit to ensure that only decent folks could come into consideration.
When the new tenant, Deputy Sheriff Beatrice 'Bea' Reilly, had signed on the dotted line in mid-June, the Virgin Tower finally had to admit defeat and withdrew to fight other battles elsewhere. The people living in the trailer park - Brenda and Vaughn Travers, Estelle and Renee Tooley, Diego Benitez and finally Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue and Sheriff Mandy Jalinski - had celebrated the victory in typical fashion: an all-evening community barbecue that had featured quite a few cans produced by the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Co.
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Outside, it was a clear and bright Tuesday, August 20th. Inside, it was Blood-Red Tuesday, at least behind Wynne Donohue's closed eyelids. Though the clock read a quarter past 11 in the morning, she was still in bed with a stomach that contained nothing whatsoever and a head that was perhaps even emptier.
To compensate for those minute details, her bladder had already sent out roughly fourteen distress calls that had all gone unheeded. The fifteenth came with such insistence that Wynne had to respond if she didn't want to wake up in a puddle.
After swinging her bare legs over the side of the bed, she yawned, groaned and scratched herself all over through her oversized sleeping T-shirt. Her long, dark tresses fell like an impenetrable curtain over her face, but it didn't matter as she had yet to rediscover how to open her eyes. As she sat there, it dawned on her that she wasn't 18 anymore.
Having reached the tender age of 53, the tall, imposing and ruggedly authentic woman - whose preference for cowboy apparel and acres of denim had given her the moniker The Last Original Cowpoke - ached here, there and everywhere. Her left knee seemed to ache in a different fashion to the rest of her, but her mind was too numb to pay much attention to that. She suffered from a touch of dizziness, her eyes had been glued shut and something weird and disgusting had happened to her tongue since the last time she had brushed her teeth.
A few colorful images started playing in her mind's eye: All were from her best friend Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry's birthday party down in Cavanaugh Creek the past Saturday afternoon. A host of friends, acquaintances and neighbors had been drawn in by the cheery goings-on. They'd had an outdoor barbecue with piles of sausages and beef patties, and plenty of Ernie's homemade hot sauces to sample. Beer. More beer. Even more beer. So much beer it could fill a swimming pool, at least until she and Ernie got to it. There had been live music by an authentic Kentucky Bluegrass band. Dancing, beer-guzzling and partying 'til the break of dawn and then some.
She was about to fall asleep once more when she remembered what she needed to do. Clambering to her bare feet, she staggered out to the small bathroom on rubbery, aching legs to conduct her business. A few minutes went by before she staggered back into the bedroom and sat down on the soft bed with a bump. She reached for her telephone in the hope she could persuade her eyes to co-operate so she could see what time it was.
"Haw…" she croaked as she held the telephone so close to her eyes that her nose got in the way. "Ain't seein' nuttin'… still ain't seein' nuttin'… aw, shoot, I still ain't seein' nuttin'. Mebbe I oughtta open them there eyes o' mine… quartah pas' eleven. Haw. Okeh. Good flip almighty, this gonn' be one o' them there shitty Mon'dys, sure ain't no lie. Whaddahell… it ain't Mon'dy… it be Toos'dy!"
With a face that resembled a bowl of poorly made oatmeal - gray and lumpy - Wynne just sat there staring at the bedroom wall while trying to figure out how it could be Tuesday when it was supposed to be Monday. The answer was as simple as it was terrifying. "Lawwwwwwwwwwwwr-die… I done slept fer two days?! No wondah I hadda pee! An' no wondah I got a taste in mah mouth like… like… ugh. Mercy Sakes, that sure ain't good, nosirree."
Getting up once more, Wynne stuck her feet into a pair of flip-flops and moved into the narrow hallway between the sleeping area and the small kitchen. Her eyes insisted on slipping shut at regular intervals, so she guided herself along by putting a hand on the tabletop. After five steps, her fingers touched a piece of paper.
"Haw… now whut? Aw… I bettah take a gandah at that there papah," she said, holding it very close to her drowsy deadlights.
It read, 'Hello, hon. I hope you're feeling better today. I couldn't wait any longer so Blackie and I have left for Goldsboro. I let Goldie out to play with Freddie so you may need to keep an eye on her depending on when you get up. You can find the toast and the dry crackers in the regular cupboard if you still can't eat regular food. See you tonight! Love, hugs and kisses, M.'
"Awwwwww… my darlin' Mandy sure done luvs me. Lawrdie, tha feelin' is mutual. Yessirree," Wynne said as she put the note back on the kitchen table. "Coffee or Coke… coffee or Coke… Coke. Yuh. Coke an' toast… naw, I can't be botha'd ta operate that there toastah taday. Coke an' crack'ahs. Yuh."
Grinning despite her heavy head and empty stomach, she hobbled over to the aforementioned cupboard to get the food, but she only made it halfway there before she spun around and made another beeline for the bathroom. "An' now I gotta pee ag'in. Snakes Alive, it gonn' be a looooong Mon'dy… shoot, Toos'dy!"
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Some time later, she stood at the kitchen sink rinsing the plate and tumbler she had used for her mid-day breakfast. Drinking the Coke had meant the cast-iron cooking pot that someone had put on her head while she had slept had lifted, but other aches and ailments remained: her left knee in particular was sore like rarely before.
A steady stream of chuckles escaped her as she glanced out of the kitchen window. Out in the desert, her Golden Retriever Goldie played tag with their neighbor's burly Rottweiler Freddie. The big boy had been hit by the canine world's equivalent of Cupid's Arrows, but Goldie had so far resisted his advances.
Even Goldsboro's highly experienced veterinarian Doctor Byron Gibbs couldn't provide a clear answer on whether or not it was safe to let them mate considering the differences in their breeds, so Wynne and Freddie's owner Diego Benitez had decided to cross that bridge when they got to it.
Her thoughts and actions were interrupted by her telephone ringing on her bedside table where she had left it. Running to pick it up was out of the question with the constant waves of pain that seemed to rise from her left knee, but shuffling along still got her to the telephone before the voicemail had picked up the call. She grinned when the caller-ID said 'Ernie B.'
"Howdy, ol' pardnah! Whazzup?" she said as she sat on the bed. The pull of the soft mattress was too strong to ignore, so she kicked off her flip-flops and swung her legs back up into bed.
'Hiya, Wynne! I just wanted to hear if you had come up for air yet,' Ernie Bradberry said at the other end of the line before backing it up by letting out a long chuckle.
"A-yup, I be breathin' awright. Okeh, I be a li'l hung over still, but… haw, it sure is bettah than yestuhr'dy. Well, I don't ack-chew-ly 'membah nuttin' 'bout yestuhr'dy 'cept fer some random things he' an' there. I reckon it musta been perdy dog-gone bad."
'You bet. And we got the pictures to prove it!'
"Aw… shoot. Okeh. Now I do 'membah y'all didden hold back nuttin' when it came to them there Midnight Velvet Stouts, neithah, so… how come y'all ain't still hung over?"
'For every beer I had, I made sure to drink some cactus juice. That'll negate the alcohol. I offered some to you, but-'
"Naw! Naw, I sure ain't gonn' chug down no cactus jooh-ze, nosirree! Lawrdie, I done trah'd that once an' I plum near puked all ovah tha dang place. Anyhows, I sure be grateful that y'all done invited me to that there birth'dy party, friend. Mercy Sakes, we sure hadda blast, didden we?"
'We sure did. Thank you very much for the awesome presents, Wynne. I'm gonna build a shelf for the diecasts, and that autographed Davey Allison hero card is definitely goin' on my bedside table! Uh, right next to me and Bernadine's weddin' photo, obviously.'
"Haw! Obvi'sly! Y'all sure is welcome an' all," Wynne said, letting out a belly laugh. When the movement caused by the laugh trickled down to her knee, the joint responded by sending a tsunami of pain up her thigh at blinding speed.
A long hiss escaped her as the pain finally reached her semi-numb mind. When sitting up only worsened the pain, she drew her lips back in a grimace and reached for the fabric of her oversized sleeping T-shirt to see what on Earth was going on. Her blue eyes grew wide at the sight of the angry-red swelling that seemed to have taken over her entire knee joint.
'Was that a yawn, Wynne?' Ernie said at the other end of the connection.
"Naw, it sure wussen. It wus a dang-blasted Owch! is whut it wus. Say, pardnah, did I have a wreck where I done fell on mah knees or som'tin when we danced ta that there Bluegrass band? 'Cos, Lawrd ha' mercy, that there left joint there be lookin' plum evil right 'bout now. I reckon I may got an infec-shun or som'tin. Yuh…"
'Well, none of us were steady on our feet, but I can't recall anyone actually endin' up on the ground. No, that's not true… I did help someone up, but it wasn't you 'cos you had his other arm.'
"Yuh, I recall that now y'all men-shun it… Lawrdie." After scratching her neck, Wynne tried to add the lightest of touches to the red skin. A moment later, she yanked her index finger back while letting out a hiss that a prowling rattlesnake would have been proud of.
'Was that another ouch?'
"Yuh! Gawd-almighty, this ain't good. Hell, I reckon it be perdy dang-blasted bad!" she croaked as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Bending the knee hurt less than she had expected, but straightening it out again as she got to her feet sent another wave of pain up her thigh.
'Maybe you ought to call an ambulance?'
"Yuh, I reckon I oughttah," Wynne croaked as she hobbled out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Her lips were pulled back in a permanent grimace as she entered the living area and tried to rest her backside on the sofa's armrest. "Lissen, pardnah, I'mma-gonn' hafta use this he' phoah-ne fer som'tin else now, so… thanks a whole heap fer callin', yuh? We gonn' have plenty o' time fer yakkin' when y'all an' Bernadeeh-ne an' li'l Frances come bah he' in Septembah."
'Oh, absolutely. Keep me posted on that knee, yeah?'
"Will do. Bah-bah, Ernie," Wynne said before tapping the bar that closed the connection. A shiver rolled over her when she realized that her left leg had started to grow numb from the knee down.
The telephone was soon moved up once more. Not to call for an ambulance like Ernie had suggested, but to get in touch with the only person in the world she wanted to talk to at that moment in time.
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Eight miles north of the trailer park, a group of people strolled along the sidewalk of Goldsboro's Main Street. As ever, the ruler-straight road through town was close to being deserted: all that moved was Kenny Tobin's white truck up at the far end, a farm tractor pulling a load of hay all the way down at the opposite end, and Keshawn Williams riding by so fast on his racing bicycle that the movement of his feet on the pedals was nothing more than a blur.
In the middle of all that activity, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski concealed a wide yawn with the back of her hand. A quick peek at her telephone proved the hands of time - or rather, the white digits of time - had moved around to 11:30am. The hazel eyes of the compact, athletic woman in her very-late-40s were as vigilant as ever despite the boring excursion. Nothing escaped her, not even the things she had no interest in seeing like the long-forgotten open fly of one of the people she accompanied.
The Goldsboro office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department had been granted special summer uniforms by the Town Council, but Mandy chose to wear her regular one as she felt that the short sleeves and different cut of the summer dress undermined her authority.
Thus, she wore black boots and light gray pants that were equipped with black stripes on the outside of the pant legs. Further up, she wore a black, long-sleeved shirt that featured light gray epaulets as well as flaps for the two breast pockets. A golden star identifying her as the sheriff had been sewn onto the left side of the shirt's chest under a brass name tag and her row of ribbons. Curved patches displaying the wearer's home county had recently been added to the outside of the sleeves at the shoulders.
Her expensive, dark-gray Mountie hat sat on top of her shaggy bowl of dusty-blond hair. The sheer volume of her hair made the hat sit crooked. Not only didn't it look chic in the least, she was teetering on the brink of breaking the uniform dress code, so she had already booked a time at Holly Lorenzen's Homey Hair & Nails Salon to get the haystack cut down to size.
Snapping out of her own thoughts, she glanced at the people that accompanied her on the excursion through the wild and rambunctious streets of Goldsboro, Nevada.
The group was made up of most of the members of the Town Council plus a small team of so-called Town Beautification Consultants invited to Goldsboro by Mary-Lou Skinner, the senior member of the Town Council, in order to provide various ideas and suggestions that would give the town an edge over the nearest rivals.
The somewhat overweight Mary-Lou walked at the head of the line while speaking to the manager of the consultants. As always, she wore a nice, flowery dress. Her constant battle with asthma made her wheeze for every breath she took, but everyone was so used to it that it wasn't a topic of interest. Behind her, Konstantin Aranowicz, Colleen Bolton and the Council's second-in-command Bonnie Saunders followed along like goslings to a Mother Goose. The long-forgotten open fly was a vital part of Konstantin's pants, but Mandy didn't care enough to make the councilman aware of the slight problem.
She watched half-heartedly as Mary-Lou Skinner spoke to the man in charge of the Town Beautification team: a clean-shaven, bespectacled fellow in his early forties whose expensive business suit, uppish self-importance and lofty promises didn't bode well for the type - or the cost - of the suggestions and solutions he and his team were expected to provide.
A smirk briefly flashed across Mandy's face at the thought of how Wynne would react to him - she would undoubtedly call him a Hot Air Merchant.
The sound of a telephone ringing loudly somewhere close by disturbed the conversation between Mary-Lou and the lead consultant, but Mandy had long since gone past caring. Instead, her hand dug into her rear pocket to retrieve the telephone. She smiled when the caller-ID said Home.
Excusing herself, she moved away from the group so she could talk in private: "Hi hon! I guess you're finally up?"
'Yuh… howdy, darlin'.'
"Did you find my note?"
'I sure did, an' I alreddy done had a Coke an' some crackahs… but lissen, I be hurtin' he'. Som'tin wrong with mah knee… mah left knee. Did I trip ovah som'tin yestuhr'dy or som'tin? Mebbe in a hung-ovah stupor or som'tin? 'Cos, good shittt almighty, I sure be hurtin'.'
The smile was instantly erased from Mandy's face. She moved even further away from Skinner and the others so she could keep the conversation private. "No, you didn't trip or fall over anything. Can't you remember yesterday at all?"
'Mebbe this an' that, but nuttin' concrete. Anyhows, that ain't tha problem he', darlin'. Tha problem is mah knee hurtin' like a dang-blasted sombitch, I be tellin' ya. It be all red an' swollen an' ugh.'
"Oh… I noticed some discoloration last night when I helped you to bed after supper-"
'Haw! I done had suppah las'night?'
"Yes, we prepared some instant spicy noodles and toasted a whole-grain bun for you. You don't remember that at all?"
'Naw. But it sure does explain whah I hadda go pee a-buncha times taday alreddy. Aw, sombitch… this he' knee ain't friendly, darlin'. Nosirree, it sure ain't friendly! I reckon I musta taken ol' Fred Flintstone's jalopy ta Martinsville and done the whole five-hundred laps gallopin' away with mah timbah logs fer it ta feel like this!'
Furrowing her brow while trying to decipher Wynne's somewhat odd simile, Mandy turned to look at the group who had moved on from their earlier spot at Goldsboro's Bed & Breakfast. At present, they had come to a halt at one of the notorious white benches that had been the result of a previous round of supposed town beautification. That 99% of the local residents ridiculed the expensive benches had never made an impact with the Town Council.
Wynne speaking over the telephone made Mandy focus on the call.
'Darlin', there be som'tin nasty goin' on with tha rest o' mah left leg as well. I wus wobblin' perdy dog-gone bad when I first got up, but I reckoned it wus that there hang-over tawkin'… but the durn thing only got wohhh-rse. Right now, that there shin there sorta-kinda be numb from tha knee down ta tha ankle, yuh? An' I be havin' a li'l problem wigglin' mah twinkletoes, too.'
"Dammit, Wynne! I don't like the sound of that at all! Where are you now?" Mandy said, moving back to the sheriff's office in an even fiercer stride than usual. Far behind her, Mary-Lou Skinner threw her arms out wide in frustration at the sheriff's sudden disappearance.
'I be sittin' on tha armrest o' that there couch there. I coudden really stand but it done hurts like a sombitch if I bend tha knee too much, so sittin' sure wus outtah tha ques-chun too… yuh, the armrest wus sorta halfway between he' an' there.'
"I'm coming home at once," Mandy said, aiming directly for the first of the white-and-gold Dodge Durango SUVs used by the MacLean County Sheriff's Office. "I just need to update the Senior Deputy first. All right? ETA five minutes."
'Haw, ya don't hafta-'
"Like hell I don't! Please don't argue, Wynne. I'm coming home."
'Yes, Ma'am! Tawk ta ya latah, then. This he' be Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off… bum knee an' all. Bah-bah!'
"Bye," Mandy said, closing the connection. Instead of entering the sheriff's office where her senior deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez sat at one of the desks, she climbed aboard the Durango and twisted the ignition key at once. Before she left, she whipped the portable radio off her utility belt. "Mobile Unit One to base. Mobile Unit One to base. Urgent! Mobile Unit One responding to a Code Niner at home. Update to follow. Senior Deputy, you have the office. Please send someone out to babysit Councilwoman Skinner's group."
'Roger that, Mobile Unit One. We're on it,' Rodolfo's smooth timbre said over the radio.
Mandy quickly glanced to her right where Rodolfo and their new, old dispatcher Barry Simms were gawking back at her from the office window. After giving the guys a thumbs-up, she spun the steering wheel left and made a screeching U-turn across both lanes of Main Street. The emergency lights were soon turned on so she could keep her boot planted to the carpet.
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A fraction shy of seven minutes later, Mandy turned off the State Route and drove onto the dirt road that led to the trailer park. The loose gravel played a symphony in nothing but minor keys against the Durango's undercarriage as the vehicle raced across the uneven surface.
Gripping the wheel hard, Mandy stared straight ahead as she went onto the grassy lawn between the trailers. Instead of parking just beyond Wynne's black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition like she normally would, she made the turn at the end of their trailer to enter the short stretch between the back porch and the leading edge of the desert.
Her face was set in stone as she jumped out of the Durango without turning off the engine. The screen door was soon yanked open before she barged into the kitchenette. "Hon? Hon, where-"
'I be in he', darlin'!' Wynne said from the living area.
Mandy's boots knew the way, so she set off in a fast stride across the linoleum floor they had only just installed the past Friday. She came to a screeching halt as she reached the doorway to the living area. A croaking "Sweet Mother of…" escaped her as she took in the hideous sights of Wynne's pale-gray face and fire-engine-red knee.
"Somebodda," Wynne said with an attempted grin that never amounted to much. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die, darlin'… I sure can't tell y'all how much I be happy to see ya. Wouldya lookie at that there buhhh-tt-ugly thing, haw? I reckon I done caught mahself an infec-shun or som'tin, 'cos, dang! This sombitch don't half hurt, lemme tell ya…"
Mandy rubbed her face several times before she knelt in front of the sofa's armrest to take a closer look at the affected joint. She reached out for Wynne's leg but stopped before she could touch the skin. "I've never seen anything like it… has the numbness grown worse since we spoke?"
"Yuh… I ain't feelin' nuttin' now. An', uh… yuh, I reckon I can't move mah foot or nuttin', neithah. Y'all can touch tha shin bone. But not that there swollen area there, okeh? I done trah'd that mebbe five minnits ago an' I durn near fainted from tha pain."
Several deep breaths were taken before Mandy reached out to touch Wynne's foot and the skin on her lower leg. "You're still warm. That's a good sign. That means blood is still circulating through it. You can't move your foot at all?"
"Naw. Nuttin'. I be trah'in' right now! Nuttin'."
"I'm thinking the swelling might be pinching a nerve," Mandy said after trying to hold up Wynne's foot. She grimaced when it just flopped back down like a beached tuna.
"Like a tire rubbin' tha fendah, haw? Lawrdie, mebbe it done came from all that there dancin' las' Satur'dy," Wynne said, wiping her pale, damp brow on the sleeve of her sleeping T-shirt. "I ain't shook mah booty like that fer years an' years, but tha music wus mighty fine an' the weathah wus even bettah an' them beers wus free-"
"Hon, wasn't it your left knee you knocked against the window frame back in February during the drama at Mr. Williams's store?"
"Haw! Haw, it sure is! Or wus, or whutevah. Now y'all men-shun it… yuh, it sure wus. But darlin', that be months ago! How come it wussen no trubbel in them months since? I mean, we done walked an' walked an' walked out yondah at Thundah Park fer that there dawg show, but that didden do nuttin'… dang'it, I ain't gettin' it. I sure ain't gettin' it whut-so-stinkin'-evah."
"I can't say. Honestly, who knows about such things? All right," Mandy said, reaching for her telephone. Had they been closer to town, she could have used the portable radio on her belt, but the trailer park was out of range of the near-ancient units. "I'm going to call the Senior Deputy and get him to request an ambulance on the double."
"Aw, an ambahlance- that means goin' ta one o' them there hospahtals," Wynne said, making a face that proved exactly what she thought of those places. "Darlin', cantcha jus' mebbe mix some Pain-B-Gohhh-ne of som'tin? I ain't too fond o' them hospah-"
"I'll bet you won't be fond of gangrene, either. Or an amputation."
"Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die… naw. Naw, I reckon y'all might be right 'bout that, yuh. It be that bad?"
Mandy dusted off her hands before she clambered to her feet. Moving over to Wynne, she gently put her hands on the Cowpoke's cheeks and moved in close. "Not yet," she said in a quiet voice, "but we both know it won't get any better. Only worse."
"Yuh…"
"I won't take that responsibility. You need professional help. Proper pain medication… and I wouldn't be surprised if you're going to need surgery as well."
Wynne let out a deep sigh before she inched ahead to place a soft, loving kiss on Mandy's lips. Falling quiet, they let their eyes do the talking for a moment or two. "Okeh," Wynne finally said. "Y'all bettah get ol' Rodolfo on tha horn so he can alert them ambahlance folks. They prolly gonn' come from Barton City an' I ain't gettin' no youngah!"
Nodding, Mandy found the number for the sheriff's office in her registry to get the ball rolling, or, to stay in Wynne's favored jargon, get the wheels turning.
-*-*-*-
The evening hours of the same day - the Barton City Regional Hospital.
All Wynne could do was to lie there and stare at the white felt tiles that made up the ceiling of her ward. Around her, various medical apparatus beeped, hummed or were lit up like Vegas-style slot machines. Unfortunately, the rest of the decor couldn't be further from the garish colors found in the great number of casinos lining the famed Strip: every surface she had in her field of view was either white or light gray. The only splashes of color nearby were found on the outside of the doors so the visitors could tell the wards apart.
Her bed was one of three, but only the one the furthest from her was occupied. In it, an elderly lady had fallen asleep after taking her evening medicine - she also wore a night mask to keep the lights out of her eyes - so seeking contact with her was out of the question.
Wynne wore a hospital-issue gown and a pair of hospital-issue undies. Down on the hard, cold floor, hospital-issue slippers were lined up for whenever she needed to go over to the private bathroom in the corner of the ward. Though it demanded plenty of raw strength and unbending willpower to get out of bed despite the strong pain medication she had been given upon her reception at the hospital, it certainly beat calling for a nurse and a bedpan.
When the ambulance people had wheeled her into the E.R. somewhere downstairs, she had been given an injection directly into the swollen knee. She had no idea what it had been, and there had been no point in asking about it as she didn't speak Doctor and the doctors certainly didn't speak Cowpoke. The medicine had been a fast-working one so it didn't really matter what kind of concoction it was.
Looking to her right, she clapped eyes on a tray table on which she had a free magazine courtesy of the hospital, a bowl of fruit - red grapes and a semi-brown banana - and a pitcher of a sugarfree strawberry juice that had just about the most unpleasant, most artificial aftertaste she had ever experienced in any beverage.
She couldn't even play Rubbin' Fenders or watch a classic NASCAR race on her telephone as it had been put in a zip-locked plastic bag and stored under lock and key along with her shoes and street clothes.
Though the ambulance had made good time as such, nearly fifty minutes had gone by before it had covered the countless miles between Barton City and the trailer park. During the wait, Wynne had wanted to get dressed, but even her softest pair of sweatpants became instruments of torture when Mandy tried to pull the pant legs up past the swollen joint.
Ultimately, Wynne had settled for donning a yellow-and-black sweatshirt sporting the likeness of Kenny 'The Herminator' Wallace in the days where he drove the #1 Pennzoil Chevrolet Monte Carlo for D.E.I., a denim vest she had made herself by cutting off the sleeves of an old jacket, and finally her beloved, battered and bruised cowboy hat. Underneath the stylish garments, she continued to wear the oversized sleeping T-shirt that acted as a skirt of sorts.
Wynne let out a long, slow sigh as she returned to the present. The elderly lady next to her snored. One of the machines beeped. Another of the machines wheezed like Darth Vader after a night on the town. The strip lights in the ceiling grated on her eyes though the light level had already been reduced twice. Another sigh escaped her as she tried to shuffle around to find a better spot for her backside on the sterile, impersonal mattress.
Something finally happened when the door to the ward opened, but it proved to be a hospital porter who entered with a new set of plastic-wrapped bedlinen for the vacant bed next to Wynne's.
The Cowpoke took a keen interest in the brief action as it was the first event of any kind since she had been wheeled in there. She tried a quiet "Howdy!" but the porter only replied with a smile and a nod before he left.
"Haw… that sure wus fun… not," Wynne mumbled to herself when the door closed behind the porter. "Gosh-golly almighty, can this get any wohhhh-rse? Don't nobodda answah that!"
Something had to happen or else she'd lose her mind. Grabbing hold of a corner of the white duvet, she pulled it aside to take a gander at the state of her knee. 'Still red' was the short answer, but it seemed to be less so than earlier in the day. That she couldn't feel much of her leg below the joint could be explained by the pain medication, but the fact she could hardly move her foot concerned her. At least her big toe had decided to rejoin the party as she was able to wiggle it a little bit.
Further activity by the door made her look over there at once. Yet another sigh escaped her when it proved to be a nurse who wheeled in several tall, metal poles designed to carry IV-bags and other types of drips.
The nurse worked with swift and efficient gestures as she readied the clean bedlinen and the tray table for the next patient who would enter the big circus. She finished off her routine by putting one of the free magazines on top of the tray table.
"Howdy!" Wynne said with a smile, but all she got out of it was a nod before the nurse left once more. The smile froze on Wynne's face before she let her head fall onto the pillow. "These he' big city folks sure ain't much fer tawkin'… Lawrdie."
---
The next time the door opened, Wynne couldn't even be bothered to look, but her reluctance only lasted a second longer when she realized the person entering the ward wasn't a white-clad nurse or porter, but a compact, athletic woman wearing a black-and-dark-gray uniform and holding a cotton tote bag.
"Darlin'!" Wynne cried in a loud stage-whisper so she wouldn't disturb the sleeping lady in the next bed. She put out her arms at once in an invitation for a hug. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die, I sure be gladda see y'all! Holy shittt, y'all be a sight fer sore eyes, lemme tell ya!"
Mandy chuckled as she sat on the edge of the bed. Taking Wynne's hands and holding them tight, she leaned down to deliver a long, exquisite kiss that featured plenty of loving and just the right amount of tongue for the unusual circumstances. "Hey," she said in a whisper.
"Hey right back atcha, darlin'."
"You're looking much better now. You're back to your regular pinkish hue. How's the knee?" Mandy said, caressing Wynne's cheek.
"Yuh, it still be there, awright. But lookie there, mah big toe's doin' a li'l wigglin' fer y'alls benefit, dontchaknow!"
Mandy looked at the toe that did indeed do a wiggle dance. "That's great news, hon. It confirms my suspicion that the swelling pinched a nerve… or maybe even an entire block of them."
"I reckon that ain't wrong. Wotcha got in that there bag there, darlin'?"
"Oh, a few goodies," Mandy said with a grin as she dug into the tote bag. Her grin was mirrored on Wynne's face when a small bag of pork rinds, a pack of beef jerky, a wrestling magazine, the charger for her telephone and a pair of headphones found their way onto the white duvet.
"Awright! Whah, I sure do luv y'all!" Wynne said as she reached for the pork rinds at once. The plastic bag couldn't withstand her strong fingers, and the first of the rinds were soon thrown into her mouth where they were crunched on with great delight. "Oooooh-yuh! Salty heaven, yessirree!"
"I thought you could use a little cheering up."
"Yuh, sure ain't no lie. Darlin', I can't bah-lieve I be askin' fer this… but wouldya mind goin' inta that there bathroom there an' get me a glass of watah… yuh, I done said watah! 'Cos that strawberry jooh-ze y'all see ovah yondah jus' be theee most disgustin' thing I evah done drank, an' that be sayin' one helluva lot, lemme tell y'all."
"I'm on it," Mandy said and got off the bed. She returned a short minute later holding a tumbler of cool, clean water that she gave to Wynne at once. "I brought your headphones so you could listen to the radio or something. Where's your telephone?"
"It be locked away ovah in that there lockah there," Wynne said around a mouthful of pork rinds. "Lissen, darlin'… I sure do 'preciate the no-shun, but I reckon it be best if mah phoah-ne stays undah lock an' key. Y'all nevah know what kinda folks be crooh-zin' them halls here, know whut I mean?"
Mandy nodded before she leaned down to place a small kiss on Wynne's forehead. "That's good thinking, hon. But I do have a video on my own telephone that I want you to watch."
"Yuh? Okeh, lemme get them earphoah-nes, then," Wynne said before she threw the last of the pork rinds into her mouth. Once the jack for the headphones had been inserted into the slot on Mandy's smartphone, she mashed the tiny buds into her ears and accessed the video player app. "Haw, I reckon it be this one he'…" she continued as she tapped the display to make the video play.
A moment later, a wide, toothy smile exploded onto her face as she watched Blackie and Goldie mugging for the camera. The video had been filmed at the central lawn between the trailers which gave the two dogs plenty of space for all kinds of doggy fun and games. Now and then, they let out their typical yapping and woofing which only made Wynne's smile grow even broader.
A minute into the video, the dogs were joined by Brenda Travers who waved at the camera and sent the future viewer a few hand-kissies. The video ended with Mandy pointing the lens at herself. 'As soon as I hit stop,' she said to the camera, 'I'm off to Barton City. See you real soon. Love you.'
"Awwwww! Luv y'all too!" Wynne said, pulling Mandy down for another kiss.
Once they separated, Mandy let out a chuckle. "I sent the video to your account as well, but it didn't occur to me that you didn't have your telephone close by. It'll be there when you get to it."
"Works fer me, darlin'! Haw, lemme get one o' them there sticks o' jerky now I ack-chew-ly be drinkin' some watah," Wynne said, reaching for the aforementioned pack. Before she could open it, an important-looking fellow wearing white shoes, white pants and a stark-white lab coat entered the ward.
"Haw," Wynne continued in a whisper, "I reckon that be tha doctah… don't he look like a doctah ta y'all?"
Mandy nodded as she scooped up the various items and put them back into the tote bag so there was room for the official business that was sure to follow.
The distinguished gentleman was in his late-fifties or early-sixties. Unlike the popular image of men of that age, he was lean and wiry and appeared as if he could run a marathon without breaking a sweat. His graying hair was kept in a flat-top buzz cut that almost gave him a military look. Gold-rimmed reading glasses were perched high on his nose. Although he didn't have a stethoscope around his neck, he did in fact hold a clipboard under his arm, so some of the old stereotypes were confirmed.
He eyed the sleeping lady before he moved over to Wynne's bed with a tread so soft he almost seemed to glide along. "Miss Wendy Donohue?" he said after checking a sheet attached to his clipboard.
"A-yup, that be-" Coming to a complete standstill, Wynne stared at Mandy and the doctor before she thumped a clenched fist onto the duvet. "Naw, it ain't. Wynne! Wynne Donnah-hew, thank-ya-very-much. I swear ta tha bearded gaaah in tha skaaah I ain't nevah gonn' figger out howindahell that be so dang-blasted difficult fer all y'all ta work out… sheesh!"
"Pardon," the doctor said as he made a small correction on the sheet. "Good evening, I'm Doctor Richard Thornton, orthopedic surgeon at the Barton City Regional Hospital. I'll carry out the intervention when you've been prepared. In the mean-"
"A surgeon? Y'all mean ta tell me y'all gonn' be playin' that there scalpel tap dance on mah knee?! Lawwwwwwr-die, that sure ain't good news, nosirree! I done reckoned I only needed a-cuppel-a injec-shuns or mebbe pop a-buncha pills fer a while or som'tin, but all y'all really gonn' get me undah them knives?"
Doctor Thornton furrowed his brow as he tried to parse the soliloquy that had not only come out rather quickly, but somewhat intense as well. After a while, he said: "Yes. You need surgery."
"Awwwww-shittt… whaddahell be wrong with that there knee, then, Doc?"
"Well, the X-rays show you've chipped a splinter off your kneecap. The fracture doesn't appear to be recent, but the splinter has since wandered and has become lodged underneath the cap itself where it's pressing against several blood vessels and most likely a bus of nerves."
"Lawrdie, I sure do got a buzz in mah knee! That ain't no lie. Ack-chew-ly, I reckon that be whah I be he' in tha first place, yuh? But anyhows…"
Doctor Thornton furrowed his brow all over again. He used an index finger to tap his chin several times before he made another note on the info sheet. Once that had been accomplished, he turned to Mandy. "We haven't been introduced yet. You already know my name. Is Miss Donohue in some kind of trouble with the law?"
"Yes, Wynne's serving a life-time sentence locked in holy matrimony with yours truly," Mandy said with a grin as she put out her hand. "Good evening, Doctor Thornton. I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, the Goldsboro office."
Wynne let out a loud guffaw, but the Doctor just responded with an "Oh… I see." Turning back to Wynne, he added a little smile. "So should I call you Mrs. Donohue, then?"
"Y'all can call me whutevah y'all feel like as long as y'all 'membah mah first name is Wynne."
"Noted," Doctor Thornton said with a smile. "All right. The preparation team will be by in half an hour or so. They'll help you get ready for the surgery. Ah, not to sound alarmist, but has the insurance paperwork and the rest of the procedural matters been signed?"
"Yuh, mah darlin' Mandy an' me done signed a buncha papahs aftah they had wheeled me in he'," Wynne said with a somber nod. "Tha las'time I wus in hospahtal fer real, I almost went bah-bah… that wus back hoah-me in Shallah Pond, Texas, when I wus six or seven years ol'. Them Doctah folks hadda pop open mah hood-" - she tapped her skull - "ta release some pressure or else I wouldda been even wohhhh-rse off than whut I alreddy wus. I fell outta mah tree how-se an' landed on mah noggin."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Donohue," Doctor Thornton said, "but at least this surgical intervention is far less hazardous. Well, I'll leave you to it. Like I said, the preparation team will be by in slightly less than half an hour now."
"Yuh, okeh. Thanks a bunch, Doc," Wynne said before she leaned her head onto the pillow. She watched the door close before she turned to Mandy: "Shit, I really done hoped I coudda avoided that there surgery…"
Mandy leaned down at once to place a kiss on Wynne's lips. "I had a strong hunch it might come to that, but I didn't want to add to your obvious pain, hon."
"Much obliged. Say, darlin'… y'all reckon it be too late ta elope or som'tin? If y'all done drove up he' in mah truck, I could mebbe sit across tha back seat… or up on the bed with the rest of the junk."
"I think we better get this over with, hon," Mandy said before she kissed Wynne again. "Your knee won't get better until that splinter has been dislodged and removed."
Wynne stared at Mandy for a few moments before she let out a long sigh. "Yuh. Y'all be right. As always. Okeh, it ain't too bad. At least them folks ain't gonn' be stirrin' mah oatmeal this time. Darlin', I done had some salt… how 'bout a li'l sugar while we got tha chance… haw?"
"You bet," Mandy said with a grin. A moment later, her lips were so busy with other, more pleasurable things that she simply had no time for talking or grinning.
-*-*-*-
In an alternative reality somewhere far, far away yet right next door, Wynne found herself walking through a spectator tunnel toward the infield of a race track. There were many other race fans around her, but she didn't recognize any of them from the countless times she had been out at Thunder Park Raceway so chances were she had arrived at a different track. The constant roaring of highly-tuned V8 racing engines somewhere above her proved that cars were already making laps.
"Shoot," Wynne mumbled to herself as she upped the tempo to get where she apparently needed to be, "I done missed tha green flag! Man! I don't bah-lieve it… I nevah miss tha green. An' I still hafta buy some hawt dawgs an' beers or som'tin!"
Looking down at herself, she briefly wondered how she could be wearing her full Last Original Cowpoke outfit - decorated cowboy boots, faded blue-jeans, the blue In GM We Trust sweatshirt, her lined denim jacket, her beloved cowboy hat, a pair of sheepskin gloves tucked into the jacket's left pocket and finally a red bandanna poking out of her left-rear jeans pocket - when she had worn a hospital gown five minutes earlier, but there was no time to ponder such insignificant details.
Up ahead, she eyed a wire mesh fence that blocked the exit of the tunnel. A square-shouldered security guard acted as an effective roadblock for the fans until they had shown him their infield pass. Once it had been given a small nick by his old-fashioned ticket-tongs, he opened the gate to allow the fans inside.
Wynne soon arrived at the fence and the big, burly guard. Up close, it was obvious the bull-necked fellow wasn't to be messed with, so she decided to forego all the apologies she had already lined up in exchange for the honest trust. "Howdy, pardnah. Lissen, y'all woudden happen ta know where that there ticket office be, haw? I don't got no infield pass or nuttin'."
"Sure you do. It's in that pocket," the guard said in a rumbling voice while pointing at Wynne's right-hand jacket pocket.
"Haw? I reckon y'all got me mistook fer somebodda else, pardnah, 'cos I sure don't got no pass," Wynne said while she dug her entire hand into her pocket to look for the fabled document. "At least, I be perdy dang sure it ain't got no… yuh. Like I done said. No pass- whaddindawohhhhhh-rld?"
When she pulled her hand back out, her fingers held onto the elusive pass that turned out to cover not only the infield area, but the actual garages as well.
"Thank you and welcome to Haven-Leigh Speedway. The track where legends race," the burly guard said while he punched the pass.
"Yuh… okeh… much obliged, friend," Wynne said, shaking her head at the peculiar development. Other fans came up to stand behind her, so she set off for a lawn that formed the first part of the infield.
The rear of the pits was off to her left, two rows of concrete structures that made up the garage areas were straight ahead, and what looked like a temporary tribune had been erected off to her right. The pull of seeing what kind of cars were racing at the mysterious Haven-Leigh Speedway won out, so she set off toward the tribune.
---
After climbing up to the tenth row, she found a good spot where she could see a large section of the front straight and turn one. Though the sun beat down from a clear, blue sky, it wasn't overly hot. A gentle breeze caressed her hair, so she took off her cowboy hat to get her roots aired now she had the opportunity.
The voices of the track announcers rolled across the infield from countless P.A. speakers installed on tall poles. Wynne broke out in a grin and punched the air in delight when she recognized them: they belonged to the rock-solid anchor Bob Jenkins and the expert color commentator Benny 'The Professor' Parsons.
On the track, colorful NASCAR Cup cars from several different eras roared past in large packs or smaller groups. A tall scoring pylon off to Wynne's left kept everyone updated with regards to the running order. Oddly, everyone seemed to be on the lead lap.
Still grinning, Wynne let her eyes roll up the pylon to see what kind of race numbers the drivers were using. "Haw… luv me some historic racin', yessirree. The fortah-five, the twentah-eight, the seven, the twentah-five… an' the twentah-one, o' course. Yuh, them numbahs sure be classics, awright. I wondah if somebodda done got tha three- ohhhh-yuh, on toppa'da pylon dontchaknow. But o' course it is!"
Thrusting her left hand aloft in the classic three-finger salute, she let out a loud "Three forevah!"
Frequent cries of 'Hot dogs! Tacos! Tortillas! Burritos! Chili Dogs! Popcorn! Sodas! Beers! Scanners!' made her crane her neck to find the army of vendors required to sell that many different products. A long, puzzled grunt escaped her when she could only see two: one who wore a gigantic cooler box around his neck, and one who pushed an electric stove along the rows of the tribune.
"I reckon there be som'tin weird an' funky goin' on he'… yuh, deffa-nete-ly som'tin weird an' funky. Whutevah else is new, haw? Aw, who done cares. Lemme get some chow an' some brewskies down the ol' gullet. A-hep! That sure be right, fellas, I be sayin' a-hep ovah he'!"
---
Fully equipped with two extra-spicy tortilla rolls, a large bag of popcorn, a small pack of pretzels, a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew plus an Extra Strong just for the hell of it, Wynne sat down once more. That she had only needed to show her valid infield pass to get everything for free astounded her, but she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. She had even been given a headset and a scanner that could pick up the radio communication between the race cars and their pits.
Munching on the first of the triple-chili-tortillas, slurping a 1910 and listening in on a random frequency on the scale while watching fast cars racing past, Wynne had all she could ever want, at least in theory. She scratched her neck a couple of times when a sensation building within her told her that something, or rather someone, was missing from her moment of bliss.
"Haw… som'tin be hella wrong he'," she said as she glanced around. Her small tour of the premises hadn't revealed anything untoward as such, but the persistent niggling at the back of her mind wouldn't let up. "It ain't the food… it ain't the beer… it ain't the popcorn or them pretzels… an' it sure ain't the racin', neithah-"
Suddenly coming to a dead stop, Wynne stared at the empty seats next to her. "Wynne Donnah-hew, whaddindawohhhhhhh-rld be wrong witcha? Y'all be missin' theeee most im-pahr-tant thing in yer lihhhh-fe, ya dumb broad! Wheredahell iz mah darlin' Mandy at? Ain't no Sheriff Mandy nowhe'ah! That ain't right… that jus' ain't right…"
The first shock had barely settled when another, potentially stronger one rolled over her like the fog in San Francisco Bay. "Awww-shittt… them commentatahs… an' them numbahs on that there scorin' pylon there… the three, the seven, the twentah-five, the twentah-eight, the fortah-five… all them fellas be d- de- d- awwwww-shittt!"
'Wynne,' a very familiar male voice suddenly said through the headset, 'just sit down and enjoy the racin'. The food's free, you'll never run out of beer and the weather is nice. Just let go.'
The voice had made Wynne jump to her feet and throw her arms in the air. Cross-eyed with shock and awe, she caught a blurry glimpse of the white, forward-leaning racing number as the black silhouette flashed past out on the race track. "Haw… haw… hawwww! That wus… that wus… awwwww-shittt!"
Shaking her head to get the last of the cobwebs out, she put down the half-eaten tortilla and the can of 1910. The headset was put on the seat before she made a beeline for the path to get off the tribune. She needed to let out a long line of " 'scuse me! Wynne Donnah-hew comin' thru, dontchaknow!" before she made it all the way onto the grass.
---
Her boots were put to good use as she hurried across the lawn to get to the burly security guard and the gate he kept under strict control. "Howdy, friend. Lissen, I reckon I musta made some kind o' wrong turn somewhere or som'tin… I ain't done yet. Ya know? Not that this he' facility ain't nice 'cos it sure is, an' I reckon I'll prolly be back some day, but that day sure ain't now, nosirree. So… can I jus' walk outtah he'?"
"Certainly," the security guard said, holding the gate open for Wynne.
"Haw… that be som'tin at least. Okeh, buddy… uh… thanks a bunch," Wynne said as she tipped her cowboy hat at the large individual. "I promise I'mma-gonn' give all y'all a five-star ratin' on that there site there that I can nevah 'membah tha name of."
"Angel Wings?"
Wynne rubbed her chin a couple of times before she shook her head. "Naw, that ain't it. Good sugges-chun, tho'. Okeh, I be off. Yuh? Tawk ta y'all some othah time. Bah-bah."
Moving back into the spectator tunnel that went underneath the third turn of the race track, she suddenly realized the far end was much further away than she had thought. "Shoot, these he' boots ain't made fer walkin' that far… I'mma-gonn' get a-buncha blistahs! Lawrdie. Aw, I bettah quit belly-achin' an' get on mah merry way. Any ol' journey begins with tha first step…"
---
'Wynne?'
"Haw?"
'Wynne?'
"Haw?!"
'Wynne, are you in there at all?'
"Well, I reckon I am… wait-a-minnit, who that there tawkin' in mah head this time?"
'Wynne?'
"Yuh, dang-blasted!" Wynne said, finally opening her eyes. Everything was just a black-and-white blur to begin with, but certain edges soon began evolving into proper, solid shapes. "Y'all don't got no wrong numbah or nuttin'! This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew-"
Wynne never got any further before her lips were taken over by a kiss that was just as intense as an industrial-strength suction cup. In other words, someone really put their back into it. When the unknown person broke off the sweet contact, Wynne couldn't help but let out a braying laugh. "I ain't sure whut I done ta de-suhr-ve that, but… Lawwwwwwr-die if it wussen spectacular! Haw!"
The blurry shape directly above Wynne finally grew clear enough to show that it was in fact Mandy Jalinski. Though the Sheriff's eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, the rest of her face was nothing more than a gray mask.
"Howdy, darlin'! Sure is nihh-ce ta see a friendly face an' all… uh… even if y'all do kinda look like somebodda done stole yer last can o' beer or som'tin. Would y'all mind tellin' me where I be at?"
"ICU… Barton City," Mandy said in a thick voice.
"Yuh, I sure see y'all, too, tho' a li'l fuzzy he' an' there. But I kinda meant where I wus at?"
The sound of a croaking laugh was heard plain as day indicating that Mandy hadn't been prepared for the pun. "You're in the Intensive Care Unit at Barton City Regional, honey-"
"Dang-blasted, I done hadda wreck? Naw- the surgery. Yuh, okeh. Whazzup?"
Mandy needed to clear her throat several times before she could answer, and even so, her voice was raw and gravelly: "We almost lost you again, honey. Just like last December."
"Dang…"
"You've been in a coma-like state for nearly a full day. Over twenty-three hours… when you didn't wake up after the surgery, Doctor Thornton called me at once. I raced up here at the speed of sound. I spent the night in a chair because I didn't want to leave you. You know, if you… if you didn't… but you came back, so there's no point in dwelling on it."
"Darlin', I sure am sorry y'all hadda go through all that crap all ovah ag'in," Wynne said, reaching out at once. Once her and Mandy's fingers were entwined, it was obvious they weren't going to let go of each other any time soon. "Dag-nabbit, I reckon I bettah get mah ol' noggin examined. This B.S. can't go on fer much longah…"
"I agree. Did you go back in time again?"
"Naw. Naw, I visited Haven-Leigh Speedway. Ain't got no clue whe'da-hell dat be at, but… yuh, it was kinda weird. That sure ain't no lie."
"Heavenly Speedway?"
"Naw, Haven-Leigh- awwww-crap! Okeh, this jus' got even mo' bizarroh! An' there I wus, thinkin' it coudden any weirdah than havin' The Intimidatah tawkin' ta me ovah that there scannah headset."
"Who?"
"Ya know," Wynne said, holding up the familiar three-finger salute.
Mandy fell quiet for a long moment. Then she leaned forward to whisper into Wynne's ear: "Hon, didn't he die, like… twenty-three years ago?"
"Yuh, at Daytoah-n. Like I done said… bizarroh. So… is it evenin' ag'in?"
"Yes, it's nearly eleven PM on Wednesday evening," Mandy said, digging into a pocket to find her telephone. "It's ten-fifty-six, to be exact. You've already been here for a day and a half. Doctor Thornton isn't on duty right now, but I spoke to someone on the night shift who said they'll need to keep you under strict observation for at least another twenty-four hours. And since they don't discharge patients after five PM, I'm afraid the earliest you can go home is Friday morning."
"Durn. Okeh, I reckon I gotta accept that. Haw, how's that there knee comin' along, anyhows? I don't feel nuttin' down there," Wynne said, moving her free hand down to shift the duvet away from her leg. She let out a grunt when all she could see was a large, white bandage that didn't offer any kind of clues as to the current state of the swelling or the angry-red color.
"According to Doctor Thornton, the surgery was a success," Mandy said, studying the bandage as well. "They were able to find and remove the bone splinter without dramas. You were given several injections of an aggressive painkiller, but the area will remain sore for days."
Wynne pulled the duvet back in place before she lowered her head onto the pillow. "Okeh. Ain't nuttin' ta be done 'bout that now. Tell y'all whut, darlin'… whah dontcha go hoah-me an' get some propah sleep? I be right he' contemplatin' the weirdness o' life."
Mandy shook her head even before Wynne had finished speaking. "No. I'm staying here at the hospital so we can be close. They have a special floor upstairs where spouses and other relatives can book a room. That's where I'll be sleeping tonight," she said before leaning down to place a long kiss on her partner's lips.
When she moved back up, she assumed the trademark stern look known as I'm The Sheriff And Don't You Forget It. "And Wynne… no more dramas! You hear me?"
"Yes, Ma'am! Loud an' clear, Ma'am!" Wynne said and broke out in an exaggerated bout of nodding. "Now we done got that squared away an' all, what are them chances y'all might gimme anothah o' them there wondahful kisses- aw-mmmmmpf!"
*
*
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, August 24th - lunchtime back home at the trailer park.
Wynne Donohue had never had the world's greatest hand-to-eye co-ordination. She had lost count of the amount of times she had poked herself in the eye whenever she needed to don a pair of sunglasses, or skinned her knuckles whenever she took a wrench or a pair of pliers to a reluctant bolt, or even how often she had spilled hot coffee on her fingers when she had stumbled over something she hadn't taken into account going from A to B holding C-for-coffee.
So how could anyone expect her to get from the trailer's kitchenette and into the living area holding a tray that carried a nuked bratwurst, a freshly toasted bun, a bottle of ketchup, a jar of Ernie Bradberry's top-quality hot sauce, a napkin, cutlery, a tumbler and a can of Pineapple Perfection while evading a hyper Golden Retriever and needing to use a hospital-issue crutch?
And then the telephone rang. Worse, she had forgotten it on the coffee table after breakfast.
Wynne stared straight ahead for several long seconds. "Wynne Donnah-hew," she mumbled to herself as she took a hobbling step forward, "y'all got one helluva weird, weird life, ya know that? Lawwwwwr-die, if I get all tha way there without droppin' none o' these he' things, I'mma-gonn' considah mahself theee luckiest Cowpo-"
Down on the floor, the Golden Retriever Goldie let out an enthusiastic Yap-yap-yap-yap! while zipping back and forth along the narrow corridor. The golden dog had kept up the frantic running ever since she had seen her owner use the microwave.
"Hawwwww-shittt… Goldie!" Wynne cried, coming to such an abrupt halt that it made the items on the tray dance back and forth. "Down, girl! No jumpin' up now, ya hear! This ain't gonn' end well… dang-blasted. I'mma-gonn' step on a paw or a tail or both if she done keeps this up… Goldie! Inta tha livin' room! Yuh? Livin' room! Dontcha speak no Cowpoah-k? Livin' room! Girl!"
Goldie finally stopped running to and fro. Instead, the golden dog sat down on the new linoleum in the kitchen and shot her owner a puzzled look. When the traditional command of a whistle and a pat against the thigh didn't come, she jumped back up and resumed zipping about in a most excited fashion.
"Haw… Goldie, I sure do luv ya, girl, but… good flip almighty, some days, I wish I had bought mahself one o' them there turtles instead!" Wynne mumbled as she found a gap in the running that was just wide enough for a hobbling Cowpoke.
---
Since Wynne couldn't jump up at will to get something she had forgotten, the coffee table resembled a self-storage container that someone had accidentally tipped onto its side: she had assembled an overwhelming collection of glittery magazines, newspapers, music CDs, remotes for the TV and the DVD-player, napkins, random pieces of paper that had supposedly important scribblings on them, beer coasters, paper tissues, her telephone and its charger, in-ear headphones as well as a more traditional headset, a place mat plus a spare in case of spillages, and finally a promotional ashtray from R.D. Samson Oils & Lubricants filled with all the little doodads that nobody knew where came from.
A crossword-puzzle magazine had been lined up on the couch with a pencil, an eraser, a spare ball point pen and a magnifying glass for the really small print within easy reach.
To offset all that clutter, Mandy had added a vase that featured a single, artificial flower, a glass bowl filled with candies and chocolates, and a framed selfie of she and Wynne snuggling up tight.
Sitting down on the couch was a circus act all unto itself, so Wynne put it off for as long as possible. Once the tray had been deposited on top of all the clutter, she took the TV remote and tuned in to Channel 78 where the weekly wrestling round-up show was about to get underway. She peeked at the telephone that had grown silent before she had reached it. The caller-ID said Unknown Caller so it could wait.
"Aw… I reckon I bettah get this ovah an' done with," she mumbled as she put the back of her legs along the leading edge of the couch. Holding the crutch firmly against the floor with her left hand, she raised her left leg to keep it straight while she bent the other one in order to lower her rear end onto the cushion.
When she was finally down and in place, Goldie ran into the living area and performed an impatient Yap-yap-yappety-yap! that meant 'I'm sorry you have a boo-boo, but where's my food?'
Wynne let out a long sigh at the complicated mess her life had suddenly turned into. Looking at Goldie's expectant doggy-face transformed the sigh into a groan as she had indeed forgotten something out in the kitchen, namely Goldie's bag of Lafayette's Dry Feed for her eating bowl. "Shoot, girl… I sure be sorry an' all, but y'all jus' hafta wait a li'l while ta get som'tin ta eat. I promise y'all gonn' get a dubbel dose-itch, yuh? But not now."
Goldie nodded a couple of times while she waited for her bowl to be filled. When it dawned on her she could kiss it all goodbye, she let out a pitiful whimper and shuffled out of the living area, past the screen door and out to find someone to share the pain with.
---
Back inside the trailer, the wrestling round-up had just reached the commercial break at the halfway point of the 30-minute show when the telephone started ringing all over again. Wynne quickly put down the can of Pineapple Perfection, wiped her greasy lips on the nearest, cleanest napkin and muted the TV.
The caller-ID said Unknown Caller again, but she was nothing if not intrepid, so she accepted the call. "Howdy, there! Y'all got tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew on this he' lihhhh-ne. Who this is, come on back!"
'Hello, Wynne! It's Audrey Gilmore… you do remember me and Gwen, right?'
Speaking to Audrey would undoubtedly be more fun than watching the wrestling round-up, so Wynne pressed Record on the remote which made an LED flash over on the machine. Once it did, she turned off the TV. "Haw, I sure do, Audrey!" she said and moved into a regular sitting position without thinking about her knee.
One second later, the hammer-blow of pain that shot up from the knee made sure she wouldn't forget it the next time. Her mouth formed an 'O' that would have been accompanied by an "Oooooooooooooh-shittt!" if she hadn't been speaking on the telephone at the time.
Wynne and Mandy had met Gwen and Audrey Gilmore - and their Cocker Spaniel Little Evie - when the Gilmores had visited Goldsboro in April for the huge dog show out at Thunder Park Raceway. The married couple from Utah had rented a room in Wynne's Bed & Breakfast, but their stay had nearly been cut short when a missionary team from the dreaded Virgin Tower religious organization had found a way to bypass the security systems to distribute their propaganda leaflets.
'-much debate, we decided to go ahead with it after all. So we bought the house over on Josiah Street!'
"Aw… that… sure be… great news… Audrey," Wynne said through clenched teeth as she reached down under the table to literally straighten out her bad leg.
'Uh… are you all right, Wynne? You sound a little strange.'
Grimacing, Wynne grabbed the Pineapple Perfection and took a long swig in the hope the exotic flavor would drown out the white pain that continued to roll up from the knee. "Yuh, yuh… I be fine. Sorta-kinda. I done hadda a li'l surgery on mah left knee jus' the othah day an' mah dawg-slow noggin keeps fergettin' 'bout it. Darn thing…"
'Oh, that's too bad. You definitely have my sympathy. I guess that means you won't be able to help us offload the moving truck when we arrive next week?'
"Shoot, I can't say yet. I be up on jack stands at the mo', but I sure don't hope it gonn' last fer mo' than a-cuppel-a days," Wynne said, staring daggers at the cumbersome hospital-issue crutch. "But anyhows, I'mma-gonn' make some calls ta some folks who owe me a favahr. I reckon I can wrangle-in all tha help all y'all need."
'That would be good, Wynne. We appreciate that.'
"Aw, don't men-shun it. I reckon congra-cha-la-shuns be in ordah, haw? Say… whut numbah on Josiah Street is yer new how-se?"
'Fourteen.'
In spite of the fact she was alone, Wynne put a big thumbs-up in the air. "Aw! Fo'ahteen… whah, that be one o' mah favahrite numbahs, yes Ma'am! Ol' Mista Foyt always done used that there numbah back when he drove them gor-guss Copenhagen cahhhh-rs fer his own team an' all. Yuh. Oldsmo-beehles mos'ly. Okeh, then it switched ovah ta bein' a Fohhh-rd numbah, but we don't tawk 'bout that. Lawrdie, them wus the days, wussen they?"
'Probably. To be honest, Wynne,' Audrey said with a chuckle, 'I have no idea what you're talking about. None.'
The grin faded from Wynne's face as the words filtered through to her brain. "Aw… okeh. Yuh… okeh. Y'all can see some pic-chures latah. Yuh? In any case, I wanna bid all y'all a warm welcome ta Goldsborah, dontchaknow."
'Thank you very much, Wynne! Goodbye for now.'
"Bah-bah, Audrey!" Wynne said before she tapped the display to close the connection. Just as she grabbed the plate intending to take the last bite of the bratwurst that had been dunked in ketchup and Ernie's rich hot sauces, another sensation flooded her senses.
Sighing, she put down the plate and grabbed hold of the disliked crutch. Nature didn't just call, it cried like a banshee after the multiple glasses of water she'd had attempting to strangle the vile taste of her pain medication.
"Mebbe I oughttah considah puttin' a bucket in he' ta pee in," she mumbled while she gathered up the courage required to get on her feet, "but then mah darlin' would move out in a heartbeat. Naw. I can do this 'cos I be a tuff, ol' Cowpoah-k, yessirree!"
Taking a deep breath, Wynne clenched every muscle she had save for those in her left leg. Fully prepared for the worst, she clambered to her feet to heed the call of nature.
-*-*-*-
Half an eternity later - or four hours as documented by the little white digits on the telephone - Wynne's face had grown into a frozen mask of utter boredom. She remained sitting on the couch with all the clutter within easy reach, but none of it could satisfy her for more than two minutes at a time.
The fact she couldn't drive up to Goldsboro for her usual afternoon treats of guzzling beer, shooting pool and chewing the fat with all her friends and acquaintances at Moira's Bar & Grill gnawed on her last good nerve. The mounting frustration came through in the shape of her fingers tap-tap-tapping a fast beat on the tabletop.
The last fifteen minutes of the wrestling round-up TV show that she had recorded at lunch had been watched and then re-watched simply to kill time. One of the lengthy NASCAR Winston Cup races from the good, old days would have been a better fit time-wise, but all but a few of those she had kept were stored in the low sideboard, and there was zero chance she would be able to bend down so she could scoop out a couple of DVDs as the chances of crouching or simply sitting on the floor like she always did whenever she browsed through her collection were so remote they weren't even worth contemplating. She could of course watch an online race on her telephone, but the battery charge was already low, and her old charger wasn't strong enough to keep up with the video player app and her Internet browser going at the same time.
Not satisfied with tap-tap-tapping on the tabletop, she smacked her fist onto it and let out a growl. She took one of the crossword puzzle magazines, but the fun-factor wore off after a few minutes where she had been unable to accomplish anything whatsoever.
After throwing down the magazine in disgust - with such force that it bounced clean off the cushion and sailed over the edge onto the carpet below the scratched coffee table - she rubbed her face several times. Goldie could be heard yapping somewhere out on the central lawn. Now and then, one of Freddie's bassy WOOFs joined the Golden Retriever's fairer voice.
The day and a half following Wynne's discharge from the Barton City Regional Hospital had literally turned up the heat. The ambient temperatures had peaked in the high 90s during the afternoon hours two days in a row which made it a pain to wear any form for substantial clothing.
Wynne had responded to the challenge by donning a thin, white tanktop and a pair of Budweiser-red cotton shorts that came to mid-thigh. She had bare feet most of the time, but a pair of purple flip-flops were ready under the coffee table in the off-chance that she needed to hobble outside.
"Ugh… I gotta do som'tin… anythin'… or else I'mma-gonn' lose mah dang-blasted marbles. What be left of 'em, anyhows," she mumbled to herself as she grabbed hold of the crutch and clambered to her feet. Doing so required several deep breaths and a juicy curse or two, but she was soon upright and fully ready for action.
The first step proved she wasn't quite as ready as she pretended to be, but the second step was already an improvement. Unfortunately, the ten hobbling baby-steps she needed to make in order to reach the window that offered a view of the central lawn were nearly enough to make her swear off ever standing up again.
Goldie and Freddie were indeed playing tag - or engaged in foreplay, depending on the beholder's point of view - while Brenda Travers sat outside her trailer underneath a huge parasol. The spirited lady had a tall, electric fan going at full blast right next to the table she sat at. The fact she wore a long-sleeved T-shirt seemed to suggest that the fan did its job well.
The sight of a pitcher of what appeared to be lemonade made Wynne lick her lips and think out loud: "Yuh… mebbe I oughttah meandah ovah ta Brendah an' get a li'l female interac-shun goin'. Haw, it sure coudden hurt. Much… naw! Naw, I deffa-nete-ly be goin'. In a li'l while… naw, I be goin' right this minnit. Yessir. In a li'l while."
Inching around, Wynne tried to get the crutch co-ordinated with her good leg so she could be on her merry way. The first several steps were so fumbling and stumbling that she let out an uncharacteristic growl at herself and the circumstances. "Dag-nabbit, I ain't gonn' get ovah there until frick-frackin' midnight or som'tin!" she said when she finally reached the kitchenette. "But lemme tell y'all som'tin, ya dumb-ass knee… ain't no way in hell I be givin' up now! Nosirree!"
Once she had made it out onto the crooked rear porch, she had an even harder time keeping her balance, but sheer determination - and the bubbling lava pit in her gut - made her carry on.
---
Five minutes later, she waved at Brenda in a request for a little personal assistance in getting the last of the way over to the parasol. "Howdy there, Brendah! Whah, I be wonderin' if y'all could mebbe lend me a hand or som'tin 'cos, dang, this ain't goin' the way I done planned…"
"I'll be right there, Wynne!" Brenda said and got up at once. The fit late-thirty-something - whose morning sessions of advanced yoga and Tai Chi had grown legendary among the residents of the trailer park - stuck her bare feet into flip-flops and hurried over to assist her neighbor.
Her blonde locks had recently been re-arranged into corkscrew curls for a business assignment up in the great, wide north not too far from the Montana-Canada border; the curls looked stylish but were more difficult to manage during the heatwave as witnessed by their flat, sluggish appearance.
Wynne had to gulp when she realized Brenda only wore a two-piece, hardly-there-at-all bikini under the long-sleeved, breezy and semi-sheer T-shirt, but there was no time for things like that. The longer she remained in the sun, the higher the risk of her already stressed neurons organizing some kind of industrial action or, perhaps worse, a riot.
"I got you… one step at a time," Brenda said, putting an arm under Wynne's to guide her over to the cafe table and the lawn chair that stood on the far side.
"Whah, I sure be grateful, Brendah… much obliged," Wynne said when she lowered herself onto the lawn chair. "Could I purr-haps persuade y'all ta find a tumblah or som'tin so I could sample that there lemonade there?"
Smiling, Brenda quickly gave Wynne's arm a little squeeze. "Of course… I'll be right back."
Not half a minute later, she returned with a fresh tumbler, a napkin and a second lawn chair that had been folded up so it could easily be carried. While Wynne poured herself half a glass of the refreshing drink, Brenda unfolded the lawn chair and sat down. She stared at the large bandage for a while before she reached for her own tumbler to take a sip. "To state the obvious… that looks painful."
"Haw, it sure is. An' I done took mah pills an' ev'rythin'. That be whah I ain't been drinkin' no beer since… shoot… befo' I went ta that there hospahtal an' all."
"Oh… of course."
"Yuh," Wynne said with a grimace that proved exactly how she felt about the fact that she hadn't had her beloved H.E. Fenwycks for so long. "Them doctahs tole me that ta get bettah, I need-a be walkin' so that there joint there can get back ta its rhythm or some medical shit like that. But tha thing is… it ain't the walkin' that done kills me. Naw, that jus' be tuff 'cos I be a clumsy foo' an' all, yuh? It ain't even the sittin' still. Naw, it be tha gettin' up an' sittin' down an' gettin' up an' sittin' down…"
"Flexing the joint?"
"Yuh. Lawwwwwr-die, I wus almost torn ta dang-blasted shreds when I hadda sit on the can this mornin'! I don't give a hoot what them feminists say… us gals jus' ain't meant ta pee standin' up!"
Brenda leaned her head back to let out a long, braying laugh. "Hear, hear. So… has Mandy gone back to work?"
"Yuh, she be up in Goldsborah with them de-per-ties o' hers. It be okeh. Can't leave tha ship without no Cap'tin fer too long, ya know," Wynne said and took a long sip of her glass of lemonade. "An' we got that there re-elec-shun cam-payne comin' up, too. Lawrdie, that gonn' be an ass-grind ta get thru', but there ain't no way 'round it. Mandy an' me sure ain't handin' them keys back ta Artie Rains an' his cronies without no fight. Nosirree."
Brenda already had her tumbler ready for a sip, but the news made her lower her arm and shoot Wynne a wide-eyed stare. "I had completely forgotten about that! God, that's right… when is it?"
"Soon. Verrrry soon. I 'membah y'all an' Vaughn helpin' us when we done had tha last elec-shun fo'ah years back… could we mebbe tempt all y'all ta help us ag'in or som'tin?"
"Absolutely! Ab-so-lu-te-ly, Wynne. We can hand out leaflets or create a donation website or-"
Nodding and grinning at the promise of help, Wynne soon held up her hands to dampen her neighbor's enthusiasm. "Sheriff Mandy an' me sure do thank y'all, but I reckon we need-a wait fer tha first o' them strategy meetin's befo' we hammah out them details, yuh? Lawrdie, I sure ain't the world champion o' 'memberin' stuff, anyhows, so too much at once is only gonn' go pourin' outtah mah ears or som'tin…"
"Deal!" Brenda said, reaching over to shake Wynne's hand. Moving back, she looked at Wynne's black Silverado and then at her own dark-bronze Ford SUV. "You know… I had planned to slip into something less comfortable and then drive to town for dinner at Moira's, but… I don't want to leave you all alone out here. Diego's away and-"
"Aw, dontcha worry 'bout li'l ol' me-"
"No, but I just had an idea. What if we took my car and we both went? You could sit across the back seat with your leg up. I know you don't like Fords, but honestly, I can't drive your brute of a truck…"
Wynne rubbed her chin several times before she shot a long and intense glare at the bandage that protected her sore knee. There would be some pain involved, that was a given, and Mandy might not like it too much, but the doctors had in fact told her that the best way to make a full recovery was to use the knee instead of nursing it. "Yuh, that sugges-chun sure does sound awf'lly fihhh-ne, Brendah… I could mebbe play a round o' pool with somebodda an' say Howdy ta all them nice folks that I ain't seen since… Lawrdie, befo' las' weekend an' all. An' mebbe persuade ol' Slow Lane ta make us some o' that there top-quality pah-tah-tah salad he be so dang-blasted good at. Yuh… yuh… aw, whah'dahell not! Y'all got yahself a deal, there, Missy!"
"Neat!"
The rest of the lemonade in Wynne's tumbler had soon been thrown down her gullet. Getting up would be the hardest part as always, so she needed to gather up all her courage before the action. In short, she stalled. "Yuh, why dontcha change first. Then y'all could mebbe help me back ta mah own trailah fer some propah clothes. I feel a li'l undah-dressed he'."
"Oh, I think you have great legs, Wynne," Brenda said with a wink. "Actually, I hope I'll look just as good as you when I reach your age!" Snickering, she zipped up onto the porch and disappeared inside.
"Yeah, haw? Tawk 'bout a backhanded compl'ahment!" Wynne said over her shoulder before she broke out in a long chuckle. "Good shittt almighty, them things us Cowpoah-ks gotta lissen to… Lawrdie!"
-*-*-*-
Fifteen minutes later, Wynne found herself sitting across the back seat of Brenda's luxury SUV as the trio of gals drove north on the State Route. Her unusual seating position meant she couldn't wear the seat belt, but the annoying buzzer had been silenced by simply locking the belt into the clamp.
Up front, Goldie had started their short journey sitting on the plush passenger seat, but although Brenda's driving style was a great deal less fast-paced than Wynne's, the scaredy-dog had soon given up the unequal struggle with the grimness of reality and had hopped down into the footwell where she had curled herself up into a golden furball.
Wynne had changed into a pair of homemade denim shorts that didn't expose quite as much skin as the cotton ones had. Upstairs, she wore a dark-blue T-shirt featuring the likeness of Michael Waltrip and his #15 D.E.I. NAPA Chevrolet Monte Carlo issued in 2003 when he won his second Daytona 500. To combat the aggressive air-conditioning inside the luxury SUV, she also wore the denim vest she had made herself by cutting off the sleeves of an old, threadbare jacket. The ensemble was obviously framed by a pair of sports loafers and her battered and bruised cowboy hat.
"Say, Brendah," Wynne said, putting a hand on top of the backrest of the seat ahead of her, "what kind o' horsepowah does this he' Fohhh-rd got, anyhows?"
"I honestly don't have a clue. It's enough for my needs." Similar to Wynne, Brenda had changed clothes for their trip to town: sandals, lightweight harem pants, a short top that only just covered her belly-button, and finally a bucket sun hat that had turned into a fashion object just by being worn on top of her corkscrew curls.
Wynne nodded as she leaned back. "Yuh, okeh, I hear ya." Looking at the plush upholstery made of gray velvet, the inch-thick carpets on the floor and the shiny though subdued colors used everywhere in the interior, she had to admit that it was more luxurious than her Silverado. "It sure don't make much noise, neithah. I like 'em best when them vee-hickels make plentah o' noise. Like mah TransAm. Y'all done heard when I switch ta them open pipes, yuh? Lawrdie, that be-"
"Oh God, yes! The vibrations alone almost made me come!" Brenda said and broke out in a juvenile snicker.
"Aw… uh… okeh… yuh… okeh. Ain't dat som'tin?" Wynne said, scratching her chin and cheeks that had suddenly gained a reddish shade. "Uh… how 'bout a li'l music? Y'all got a ray-dee-ohh in this he' thing, dontcha?"
Nodding, Brenda reached for the infotainment system located above the center console. "We certainly do! Let me find the right station… yep, here it is."
The familiar jingle of the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack radio station - broadcasting out of Lansingburg - soon filled the Ford's cabin. It wasn't long before the East Texan songbird Amber Sheffler warbled about her long-lost love in the classic tearjerker Why Now?
Wynne and Brenda fell silent to listen to the sad, sad song. Once it faded down and was replaced by a mid-tempo instrumental by The Backwoods Crew titled Springtime In Georgia, Brenda glanced at her passenger by way of the rear-view mirror. "Did you remember to take an extra pill, Wynne?"
"Whah, I sure did. Yes, Ma'am, an' a whole glass o' watah, too. I bettah hit tha can first thing once we get ta Moira's. Woudden want no accidents while I be playin' pool. I didden ferget nabbin' the pill bottle, neithah. Ya know, jus' in case I'mma-gonn' need anothah one. Sure hope I don't, but anyhows. Them doctahs done tole they ain't addictive or nuttin', but so many bizarroh things alreddy done happened there ain't no reason ta challenge fate, yuh?"
"Let's knock on wood," Brenda said, searching around for something that could appease the old saying. The only thing she could find was a fake woodgrain panel on the dashboard, so that was given a quick knock-knock-knock.
---
The luxury SUV soon reached the sign at the southern city limits that read 'Welcome To Goldsboro, NV! Where Magical Things Happen!'
Wynne could hardly believe her eyes when she realized the sign hadn't been blasted to smithereens. It was almost tradition that nightly gun men would use the poor, defenseless sign for shotgun target practice every Friday and Saturday evening, but perhaps it had been too hot for them to go out.
Brenda slowed down at once to adhere to the local 25mph speed limit set up by the Town Council and enforced by the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. "Hey Wynne, would you happen to know why the speed limit is so low compared to all the other towns on the State Route? I mean, it's not like there's ever been a congestion problem or anything," she said as she moved past the first of Goldsboro's stores: Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports.
Main Street was as quiet as ever. A delivery van that had its rear doors opened was parked outside Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners knitting shop. Far ahead of the SUV, someone staggered along the sidewalk en route to Derrike Iverson's notorious dive. Even further ahead, up at the gas and diesel pumps in front of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop at the far end of the street, one of Tucker Garfield's bright-yellow tow trucks was being filled up to be ready in case it, and he, would be called out on an assignment.
"Yuh, I do, as a mattah o' fact," Wynne said, shuffling around on the plush back seat. "That wus nasty-ass Artie Rains who done ordah'd that back in them days where he an' his pack o' sewah rats done ruled the streets o' Goldsborah. They figgah'd they could bust mo' speedahs if tha limit wus lowah he' than elsewhe'ah. It worked, too. Then they would fine all tha white folks an' beat up them blacks an' Mexicans. When Gee Dubya Tenney an' ol' Rodolfoh started workin' here, Rains turned ta beatin' up them long-haired fellas instead so he woudden get in trubbel with tha de-per-ty union."
Brenda broke out in a shiver as she made a U-turn across Main Street to park in front of Moira's Bar & Grill. "Gawd, I'm glad I only caught the tail-end of their reign of terror. Okay, here we are. Sit tight, I'll be right over."
Working together like a pro-wrestling tag team in a championship bout, Brenda and Wynne managed to get the latter wiggled off the back seat without bumping into anything or stressing sore knee joints. "Lawwwwr-die," Wynne croaked as she put her sports loafers on the sidewalk and stuffed the hospital-issue crutch under her arm. "I ain't nevah gonn' moan an' groan no mo' 'bout them ol' folks who don't move too well… this is dog-gone humiliatin'. I sure be grateful fer yer help, Brendah."
Smiling, Brenda stole a small kiss on Wynne's cheek before she ran over to the glass door. "Oh, you're very welcome. Can you get over here on your own?"
"Haw, y'all bettah watch mah smoke!" Wynne said, setting off on the path she had traveled countless times during her years living near in or Goldsboro. That she was a good deal slower than usual was just a minor setback.
Stepping into the bar and grill was such a case of deja vu all over again that Wynne couldn't help but break out in a wide, cheesy grin. Moira's hadn't changed a bit over the course of the week she had been absent: the refrigerators holding all the lovely H.E. Fenwyck products were still humming, the pool table was clean, green and inviting, the video poker and keno machines played their regular trills, the red-and-white tablecloths continued to adorn all the tables, and the range hoods above the stoves continued to let out their jet-like whining.
Behind the counter, the late-twenty-something Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane was hard at work as ever juggling the cooking pots, frying pans and sizzling French-Fry baskets. A line of broad backs filled out the row of bar stools, and the good-natured ribbing that flew back and forth proved that nothing much had changed since the last time Wynne had been there.
Moira's Bar & Grill was filled to two-thirds' capacity, and Wynne let her eyes roam across the tables to see how many of the regulars had come by to eat supper. The elderly, blue-haired lady Mildred Herzberg shared a table with her beau Albert Rossmann as always. They had splashed out on an ice cream banana split, and they were so busy with their spoons they hadn't noticed Wynne yet. Albert wasn't in the best of health anymore, but the smile on his wrinkled face proved the banana split and the company worked wonders for him.
The next table saw the retired couple Esther and Eamonn O'Sullivan who both concentrated so hard on eating their fried frankfurters with mashed potatoes and brown gravy that they didn't have time for anything else.
The talented sketch artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen sat alone at a table with a mug of coffee, a thick slice of cheesecake and her huge portfolio containing all her sketches and drawings. She did in fact notice Wynne and soon broke out in an enthusiastic wave.
"Wynne Donnah-hew in da how-se, dontchaknow! Howdy, all y'all fine folks!" Wynne cried, whipping off her cowboy hat and waving it high in the air. When everyone cheered and waved back at her, the hat was soon back on her locks. "Awright! Mah kinda people!" she said with a grin as she hobbled over to the nearest vacant table.
Down below, Goldie couldn't decide where she wanted to go: the choice stood between snuggling up on the blankets inside the doggy-cave underneath the pool table, or staying with her owner. She moved her golden head back and forth several times before she shuffled over to the table where her owner was still trying to sit down - the doggy-cave just wasn't fun without Blackie.
Brenda soon returned holding two cans of soda. "The first round's on me," she said with a grin as she took the long way around Wynne's outstretched leg so she wouldn't knock into it. "So… would you like a Smooth Apricot or a Super Summer Sweet Apple Twist?" she continued, presenting the two cans.
"Haw… the apricot," Wynne said as she reached for the brightly-colored can, " 'Cos them Sweet Apple Twists give me tummy trubbel an' that sure woudden work in mah favahr right now, nosirree!"
"No, and there are limits to what kind of helping hand I'd give you," Brenda said with a wink.
Grinning, Wynne took off her hat and let it rest on the chair next to her. "Yuh-haw? Can't blame ya. Okeh, now that y'all got them sodas, tha chow gonn' be mah treat. I'mma-gonn' get mahself one o' Slow Lane's awesome dubbeldeckah cheeseburgahs an' a-bunch-a fries an' ev'rythin'. Whadda-y'all havin, Brendah? An' please don't say no green-grass salad or nuttin'."
"No, I'll have a vegetarian spring roll and a good helping of A.J.'s potato-"
"Lawwwwr-die!" Wynne cried, smacking her forehead. "I plum fergot we wus gonn' get that there pah-tah-tah salad o' his an' all… ya dang-blasted foo', Wynne! Okeh, scratch whut I done said. I'mma-gonn' have a beef patty an' fraaah'd onion rings an' some o' that there pah-tah-tah salad. Yes, Ma'am!"
Snickering, Brenda got up so she could look up at the counter. "I think I'll try my luck right away. There seems to be a lull going on up there at the moment."
"Whah, I sure be crossin' mah fingahs for y'all," Wynne said with a smile before she held up her hand to show her neighbor that she was in fact doing just that.
-*-*-*-
At the same time across Main Street, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski poured herself a mug of coffee from their machine. It was no longer the freshest after having cooked on the pad since noon, but it was Caffeine O'Clock so it didn't matter. To quell the worst of the bitterness, a healthy dose of creamer was added and stirred into the dark-brown liquid.
She couldn't be bothered to look at the ancient, outdated maps on the walls, the cracked linoleum, the drooping felt tiles in the ceiling or even the inner door to the adjacent jail house that had been rusted shut for decades. All that mattered at that exact moment in time was the coffee she was about to chug down and the prospects of the hot supper that A.J. 'Slow' Lane would wheel over at half past six.
After striding back to the biggest of the three desks in the sheriff's office, she made sure to check the level of water in Blackie's bowl. The black German Shepherd - who was resting on the blanket just inside the sticking glass door - had her pink tongue out as far as it would go to combat the oppressive heat. The best indication of how the heat affected the dog came in the fact that she had a plate in front of her with a full stick of beef jerky that she had barely nibbled on yet.
There was still some water left in Blackie's bowl, but it had already turned lukewarm so Mandy took the bowl and made a striding beeline for the restroom at the far end of the office to pour some cool, though not cold, water into it.
Returning, she put down the bowl before she looked at the other two desks in the office. The smallest of the three had once again been turned into a parking lot for files despite their best efforts to keep the clutter down to a minimum. All their hard work had been undone when headquarters up in Barton City had suddenly requested additional statistical data on the arrests-to-convictions ratio. Even a phone call from Mandy couldn't make the desk-jockey chiefs understand that the data would be greatly skewed because of the relatively high number of people under the influence of alcohol who were put into the holding cells - but rarely arrested as such - simply to stop them from driving home and thus endangering others.
The watch desk was manned by an old friend: former deputy sheriff and current civilian assistant Barry Simms. While the highest-ranking members of the Sheriff's Department continued to discuss the political ramifications of the ethnic composition of the Goldsboro office, Barry had quietly slipped back into the role he had played when he had been in uniform, i.e. the radio dispatcher who received the emergency calls from the public and relayed them to the other deputies.
As always, Barry smoked like a smelting oven. The impressive cone of ash and other smoking residue that peaked above the ashtray on the desk proved how heavy his habit was. The results of the constant smoking were evident in his pasty hue, yellowish eyes and amber fingernails as well as the insane amount of excess ash that had found its way onto his clothes.
Because of the incident report sheet and all the other important pieces of paper that took up space on the watch desk, he couldn't have an electric fan blasting cool air directly at him. He had a battery-operated one instead that was small enough to keep well out of the way of the important papers, but not strong enough by far to combat the heat. In short, his complexion had turned into an unhealthy mix of tomato-red and nicotine-amber. To cap it all off, his hair stood out in all directions as if he had been given an electric shock.
Being the sheriff, Mandy couldn't be allowed to look scruffy or untidy regardless of the temperature. Although she had rolled her shirt sleeves up to her elbows, the rest of her uniform was spotless right down to the necktie that had been tucked in between the third and fourth buttons as the uniform code dictated. Chuckling at the way Barry looked, she sipped her coffee and sat down at the sheriff's desk to get back to her own paperwork.
The portable radio on the watch desk soon came to life with a crackling: 'Mobile Unit Two to base. Mobile Unit Two to base. Barry, are you there?'
Barry was indeed there, but he needed to ignite his next cigarette with the dying embers of the old one before he could pick up the radio. "Base receiving, Mobile Unit Two. Go ahead, over," he said in a croaking voice that proved he was on the brink of one of his legendary coughing fits.
Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez's tinny voice continued speaking from the radio: 'I've completed the assignment at the northern city limits. The speed trap camera didn't catch a single vehicle today… well, Mr. Williams did in fact pedal his racing bike above the speed limit. Which is just frickin' nuts in this heat, but anyway… over.'
Mandy chuckled again. It seemed that Keshawn Williams, the owner of Goldsboro's very popular second-hand store, was determined to break the land-speed record for sports bicycles as he was often seen tearing up and down Main Street at maximum blast.
"Roger that, Mobile Unit Two. Stand by," Barry continued as he updated the incident report sheet with the time, the type of incident and the initials of the deputy at the scene.
'Mobile Unit Two standing by.'
Barry had time to take a leisurely puff of his cigarette before he looked up at the sheriff. "Ma'am, is there anything you want Rodolfo to do while he's out there?"
Mandy looked at the time before she got up from the swivelchair to sneak a peek at Moira's Bar & Grill across Main Street. There was still no sign of A.J. 'Slow' Lane and his food cart, so they might as well conduct a little more law enforcement business while they waited for supper. "Yes. Inform the Senior Deputy to give Mr. Browne's used-car lots a once-over. Then he can return-"
Before Mandy had time to complete the sentence, Barry's coughing fit arrived with a vengeance. He hacked, coughed and spluttered to such an extent that he sounded about ready to keel over. His face turned even redder than before as he slammed a clenched fist against his chest to get the clot of mucus to release.
Down on the floor, Blackie buried her head in her paws to protect her sensitive ears from the excessively gross hacking, coughing and spluttering that went on across the office.
"Or I could tell him myself," Mandy continued as she moved around the sheriff's desk to get to the portable radio. "Mobile Unit Two, this is Sheriff Jalinski. We've temporarily lost our dispatcher. I want you to patrol Mr. Browne's used-car lots. All three of them. Once you've done that, return to base. Over."
'Will do, Sheriff. I can hear Barry in the background! Mobile Unit Two out.'
Mandy scrunched up her face at the sights and sounds that emanated from Barry Simms. She was about to offer her assistance in smacking him on the back when the situation resolved itself with a wheeze, a moan, a groan and a belch to get rid of all the excess air he had inhaled during the coughing. After scratching an eyebrow, she returned to her desk and sat down once more.
---
The next ten minutes went by in relative peace and quiet, but as anyone who had ever spent a day in Goldsboro knew all too well, it was too good to last.
Having finished her afternoon coffee, Mandy had relocated to the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office to get some air that, although hot, was far less stale and smelly compared to inside. Barry continued to hack and splutter, Rodolfo was late getting back from the patrol, and A.J. Lane was even more late in delivering their suppers.
She glanced up and down Main Street several times. Nothing at all moved anywhere save for the shimmering waves of heat that rose from the asphalt. Sighing, she ventured back inside though the Clouds Of Stinky Doom that rose from Barry's home-rolled cigarettes - that were made of waste tobacco - grated on her good mood.
Blackie was given a quick fur-rubbing and back-scratching before the paperwork on the big desk couldn't be pushed off any longer. Sighing, Mandy sat down and took her trusty ball point pen. She had barely doodled her signature on the first of nine case files when Beatrice Reilly stuck her head out of the crew room at the back.
"Sheriff? Do you have a moment, Ma'am?"
The sporty, outdoorsy deputy in her late-twenties wore a white gi that she had put on in order to go through the various exercises listed in her compendium on self-defence tactics. Though the look didn't fit all, her athleticism made the gi appear cool and stylish.
"Oh look! It's Bruce Lee-nette!" Barry said with a laugh that suddenly turned into an explosive coughing fit even worse than the one he had just overcome.
As the hacking, coughing and spluttering turned into inhuman - and inhumane - levels of grossness, Blackie jumped up and let out a resounding, severely annoyed Woooooooof! before she zipped out of the sheriff's office to find a shady, and above all quiet, spot elsewhere.
Mandy had an urge to follow the black German Shepherd out of harm's way, but strode over to the watch desk to pick up the portable radio instead. Then she spun around on her heel and strode back to the inner door to join Beatrice in the crew room.
Several things had needed to fall into place for Beatrice to remain in Goldsboro: Not only had she been promoted to full Deputy Sheriff by the Town Council and Mandy - which had moved her into a higher pay grade - she had been given the opportunity to rent Ernie Bradberry's vacant mobile home down in the trailer park so she no longer needed to stay at the intolerable Mrs. Peabody's boarding house.
The job offer she had received from Sheriff Fitzpatrick to join his team at the Lansingburg office in Pacumseh County had been turned down, but no bridges had been burned in case something else would come up in the future. All in all, it had been a surprisingly positive outcome to a typical Goldsborian mess.
Beatrice closed the inner door once Mandy had come into the crew room. "Thank you for permitting me to do this during my shift, Sheriff," she said as she went back to the mat she had spread out on the floor. To have room for the exercises, she had moved the round table and its chairs over to the far wall by the lockers.
"No problem. It's not like we have a million things to do in this miserable heatwave. Do you feel ready to host your first class? It's on Wednesday evening, isn't it?" Mandy said, resting her hands on her utility belt.
Beatrice nodded as she moved onto the mat. "Yes, Wednesday at seven. I do feel ready, but… it remains to be seen if anyone will actually show up. My flyers have prompted far less response than I had hoped they would."
"Oh, that's too bad. I know you've worked very hard on that compendium."
"Yeah… but it wouldn't go to waste. Mrs. Travers has promised to help me set up an Internet site where I could present the exercises. It would obviously be better to have physical classes, but… well. I tried to bribe Barry into helping me, but I think he hasn't forgiven me for knocking him out all those years ago when we wrestled…"
Chuckling, Mandy scratched an eyebrow as she recalled the incident in question. Beatrice hadn't been in Goldsboro long when Barry had let his mouth run off with him by saying that he could outwrestle any 'girl.' The challenge had been met and Barry had been annihilated within seconds. "Ah… good point. So, what was it you wanted to show me?"
"Well, there's one exercise that I still have a few issues with," Beatrice said as she lined up on the mat. "It's when the perpetrator comes up on the intended victim from behind-"
The sound of Mandy's telephone ringing interrupted the Deputy Sheriff. Mandy let out a grunt when the caller-ID said Wynne. Beatrice was given a quick smile before the call was accepted. "Hi, hon. Listen, I'm right in the middle-"
'No, it's Brenda… we're over here in the bar and grill. Wynne is really hurting. Her knee is aching like crazy and she's run out of her medication-'
"Dammit!" Mandy cried, smacking her brow with her free hand. "All right. I'll be right over. All right? ETA two minutes." She closed the connection before Brenda had time to answer.
Beatrice moved off the mat and began to roll it up since it was obvious there wouldn't be time for testing the exercise. "Problems?" she said as she stuffed the roll under her arm.
"Yeah. Wynne's knee is acting up. I'll update you later," Mandy said, already striding over to the door to the outer office. Although she heard the portable radio come alive, she continued her firm stride until she reached the big desk. Once there, she yanked open the top drawer and retrieved a pill bottle identical to the ones they had at home.
Only then did she notice that Beatrice was trying to get her attention by waving the portable radio at her. "What is it, Deputy?"
"Rodolfo's Durango has broken down up at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. He thinks it's one of the driveshafts. He also said he'd like one of us to come and pick him up…" As she spoke, Beatrice had a look upon her face that said she couldn't quite believe how everything could happen all at once.
Mandy came to a screeching halt and buried her eyes in her hand. "Oh, for cryin' out loud! Very well… Deputy Reilly, please inform the Senior Deputy he'll simply have to use his feet this time. All right?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Beatrice said with a grin before she went back into the crew room to change into her uniform.
"And Mr. Simms," Mandy continued, swinging around so fast that she startled Barry into dropping his latest cigarette onto the incident report sheet.
Yelping, he brushed the ash and the stray embers onto the linoleum floor below so they wouldn't burn a hole in the important documents. Another yelp escaped him when he burned his nicotine-stained fingers. "Y- yes, Ma'am?" he said, flapping his aching fingers in the air.
Mandy simply rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. "Never mind. Carry on," she said before she strode over to the glass door that would take her away from the outbreak of madness.
"Yes, Ma'am…" Barry croaked, sticking the dropped cigarette back between his lips and lighting it at once. That the first match he took snapped in half was further proof that Goldsboro was having the last laugh.
Outside, Mandy looked around for Blackie without seeing her anywhere. A strong whistle did the trick as the black German Shepherd popped her head out from underneath another of the white-and-gold Dodge Durango SUVs. "Blackie, Wynne's in trouble," Mandy said before slapping her thigh and pointing at the bar and grill across the street.
Blackie responded with a Woof-woof-woof! before she crawled out of her little haven and moved out to the edge of the inner lane. Since there was no traffic, she was soon waiting by the door to the bar and grill.
-*-*-*-
By the time Mandy and Blackie entered Moira's highly popular establishment, they had no difficulty in seeing where they needed to go: a group of well-wishers and other folks - who had plenty of clever ideas and less-clever presumptions on what had happened and how it might turn out - had formed a thick circle around one of the tables.
"Stand back, please!" Mandy said, but her voice couldn't penetrate the constant din.
One of the voices belonged to Mildred Herzberg: 'I'm telling you, this is what happens when ladies drink too much alcohol! Wynne, it's not too late to repent your sins and change your ways, but you need to do it before-'
Another familiar voice soon joined in: 'That ain't got nuttin' ta do with it, Mildred! I ain't hadda drop o' beer all dang week!'
'Then what's that can there?'
'That right there is one o' them there energy drinks, yuh? A Go-Fastah-Longah Apricot-'
'Oh, so that's what they call it these days…'
'Mildred, y'all might considah gettin' new speck-tickles or som'tin 'cos it ack-chew-ly done says Go-Fastah-Longah-'
Mandy shook her head repeatedly before she barged her way through the crowd of onlookers while taking a deep breath. "Everybody! Go back to your tables and stay there! And those who are already sitting down, don't get up! Thank you!"
When the crowd finally dispersed - Mildred couldn't resist a mumbled parting comment of how sad a sight it was to see a such a nice, wholesome lady hitting the skids due to excessive alcohol consumption - Mandy stepped forward and crouched down in front of Wynne. "Hey… you look awful."
"Yuh, I reckon. Lawwwwwr-die, I sure be gladda see y'all," Wynne said in a croak. Her face had turned ashen and several beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Wanna tell me what happened?"
"Yuh, an' it sure wussen no beer! Naw, I wus playin' a li'l pool with Roscoe ovah yondah when I done took a wrong step or made a twist or som'tin. The game wus goin' so good I plum fergot 'bout that there dang-blasted knee. Well, it wussen 'bout ta lemme ferget it, that's fer dang sure! Then I hobbled back he' an' wanted ta take one o' them there pills… but then I realized that dog-gone pill bottle wus em'ty. I reckon I musta grabbed tha wrong one back hoah-me befo' me an' Brendah done drove up he'. An' it sure be kinda painful right now… yuh."
While Wynne spoke, Brenda came hurrying back carrying a makeshift ice pack made of a plastic bag and some crushed cubes that she had scooped up from the ice chest at the bar and grill's back wall. "Hello, Sheriff. I think our dear friend here is in a lot of pain," she said as she knelt next to Mandy. "Look, I've tried to make an ice pack…"
"And I have the spare pills," Mandy said, tapping her pocket. "While you try the ice, I'll get some water. I think you should take two pills this time, hon. You look about ready to pass out…"
"Yuh… yuh, I reckon I be upside down an' in da fence… Lawrdie, it sure ain't nice."
Smiling wistfully, Mandy got up so she could place a long, loving kiss on Wynne's lips. Two further, smaller, kisses and a little caress followed before she set off to get some water for the pills.
"Phew, did it get hot in here or what?" Brenda said with a saucy wink. "My hands are gonna melt the ice!"
"Uh… okeh…"
Moving with great care, Brenda applied the ice pack to Wynne's knee. It was too cold to remain there for any length of time, so she moved it back and forth where it was needed the most. "I wish Vaughn would kiss me like that. Well, he does… but only when we make love. The rest of the time, his kisses are just little pecks. Nothing to write home about. Ah, he's a guy. What do they know about kissing, right?"
"Uh… I dunno, Brendah. Can't say I evah done trah'd kissin' one o' them fellas or nuttin'."
"Really? Never?"
"Naw. I knew I liked them gals perdy much from the outset," Wynne said before she eyed Mandy returning holding a large glass of water. "An' some mo' than othahs, too! Howdy ag'in, darlin'. Y'all got tha watah?"
"I got the water," Mandy said and crouched down in front of Wynne. While Brenda continued working the ice pack, Mandy handed Wynne the glass of water before she dug into her uniform pants to get the spare pill bottle. "There aren't too many left in this one, either, so I think we should call Doctor Thornton and explain the situation. I'm sure he'll extend our prescription. Then we can order some more from the hospital's patient pharmacy."
"Yuh, I reckon I'mma-gonn' need two bottles mo'," Wynne said, taking the pills Mandy held out. "Mebbe only one if I quit bouncin' 'round like one o' them there jackrabbits. Lawrdie, I can't bah-lieve I wussen payin' no atten-shun ta that dog-gone knee when I done played…"
Blackie and Goldie had lined up in a row behind Mandy and Brenda. The dogs held their doggy heads close together hammering out a plan that would help their owner once they got back home. Plenty of quiet woofing and yapping were exchanged before they both nodded and withdrew to the doggy-cave underneath the pool table.
Wynne shook her head at herself before she took the pills and chugged down the entire glass of water. She had barely put the empty tumbler back on the table before she let out a groan. "Lawwwwwr-die… that gotta be some o' that there heavy watah or som'tin… I need'a pee alreddy!"
Brenda scratched her cheek in a clear sign of looking for the right words, but Mandy beat her to it by putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, Mrs. Travers. I got it. Wynne and I have both been through worse than a little splashing. Right, hon?"
"Haw! We sure have, darlin'," Wynne said with a smile. "Okeh, I reckon I can get up on mah own, but I'mma-gonn' need a hand gettin' out there an' onta tha can an' ev'rythin'. Yuh?"
"Let's get this show on the road," Mandy said as she put her hands under Wynne's arms to help her up from the chair.
---
Ten minutes - and quite a bit of kerfuffle - later, Wynne had moved from the eatery to the public restroom, back to the eatery to say Bah-Bah to everyone, and then out to Brenda's luxury Ford SUV.
Safely installed across the back seat, Wynne let out a deep sigh that came from the bottom of her soul. Her misery was compounded by the sight of A.J. 'Slow' Lane returning from the sheriff's office pushing an empty food cart. It meant that Mandy had missed their much sought-after supper.
The proverbial black cloud soon formed over Wynne's head to bring her mood down another few notches. At least the beef-and-fried-onions and A.J.'s special potato salad had been excellent, but even so, they couldn't offset all the bother and dramas she had caused for everyone. Another sigh escaped her.
Moments later, Brenda got behind the wheel and twisted the ignition key. "The Sheriff will follow us home, Wynne. I'm not sure I can get you out on my own now, at least not without hurting your knee even more. Vaughn wouldn't be worth a darn and Diego isn't home, so…"
"Yuh… okeh. I can't bah-lieve I be this dang-blasted helpless. It sucks, lemme tell ya! Brendah, y'all got mah wohhh-rd I'mma-gonn' make it up ta ya somehow…"
After activating the turning signal, Brenda drove away from the curb and south on Main Street. With the law directly on her tail, she went even slower than the local speed limit. "Oh, you don't have to-"
"Like hell I don't! As soon as I get ovah this he' bum knee, we gonn' organize one o' them there big-ass garden party barbecues back hoah-me with a ton o' wienahs an' burgahs an' Slow Lane's pah-tah-tah salad an' hawt saw-ces an' beers an' all them good things. Yuh? An' when Wynne Donnah-hew says so, y'all can take it ta tha bank!"
"In that case, I'm looking forward to it," Brenda said, looking at her passenger in the rear-view mirror. "Would you like to listen to some music-"
"Naw. Much obliged fer da offah an' all, but I sure don't feel like celebratin' right this minnit," Wynne said, crossing her arms over her chest.
By inching around on the back seat, she could see Mandy and the dogs trailing them in the Durango. When Mandy suddenly flashed the emergency lights as a little Hello, How Are You?, Wynne replied to the non-verbal conversation by taking off her cowboy hat and waving it.
Though it was a brief ray of light in a gloomy situation, Wynne let out yet another sigh and turned back to sit straight across the seat so she wouldn't put even more strain on her knee.
*
*
CHAPTER 3
Two days later - Tuesday, August 27th.
Some things had improved, some hadn't. Wynne's knee was among the things that had gotten better as time went on, but her general mood had gone in the other direction and was a mere step above being in the dumps.
The day had started out much better than recently - she had been able to get out of bed on her own without Mandy needing to hoist her aloft - but then the harshness of life had left her completely alone on a day where everything inside her cried out to be among her friends and acquaintances.
At present, she sat on the couch in the living area of her trailer with an empty coffee mug and an even emptier cookie jar on the table in front of her. The poor coffee table saw even more clutter than it had in recent days, and an entire pile of junk had tipped over and had fallen onto the floor when she had put down the cookies and the mug. That she couldn't even be bothered to cuss at the errant stuff proved exactly how flat her mood was.
A full-length NASCAR Winston Cup race played over on the TV, but not even the spectacle of the 1986 running of the legendary Southern 500 at Darlington could stir her emotions beyond an "Awesome," or an "Aw-yup!" when the race went well for her favorites or a yawn and a sigh when it didn't.
Down on the floor, next to the pile of clutter that had fallen off the table, Goldie snoozed in the smaller of their two doggy baskets. Now and then, she moved up her head in the clear hope that her owner would throw a treat in her general direction, but nothing ever happened.
When the yellow flags flew for a wreck on the back straight, Wynne shuffled around on the couch. A small glimmer of hope sparked within her when the shuffling didn't create the kind of stabbing pain it had just a couple of days prior. The heatwave was still going strong so she only wore a flimsy T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts, but the notion of returning to her regular long-legged jeans didn't seem as far-fetched as earlier.
"Haw, girl," she said to Goldie who sat up at once. The Golden Retriever already had her yap open to catch the treat that was certain to come, but when nothing happened, she got down on her stomach wearing a distinct doggy-pout. "Tamorrah, me an' mah darlin' Mandy gonn' start that there re-elec-shun cam-payne. Can y'all bah-lieve it alreddy been a-buncha years? I sure can't, no Ma'am. Lawrdie, I jus' hope nasty-ass Artie Rains an' them folks o' his ain't gonn' cause too much trubbel. Haw, whodahell am I kiddin'? They gonn' be causin' trubbel jus' by showin' up, them sombitches."
Yap…
"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie. But we got ol' Brendah an' Vaughn helpin' us so we got a good team, too. Yuh."
Yap?
"Naw, ol' Brendah ain't hoah-me taday. She an' her hubby are ovah in San Cristobal on some kinda bizzness conference thing or whutnot."
Yap?
"Y'all be askin' me? Howindahell should I know whut kinda bizzness thing?" Wynne said and broke out in a laugh. "Aw, an' ol' Diego done got hoah-me durin' tha night, too. Yessir, he done drove up at… shoot… whut wus it… a quartah ta three, I reckon. I hadda pee, so I wus up jus' at tha same time. All that there watah fer them pills… Lawrdie!"
Goldie nodded several times. She had no clue what her owner was talking about, but since it didn't involve feed or even something to drink, she really couldn't be bothered to listen to it all that hard.
When the green flag flew once more back at Darlington, Wynne shifted her attention from her dog to the TV. She watched another fifty laps or so before she had such an urge to do something else that she stopped the playback and turned off the TV before the race was over, and that didn't happen often.
Her bare feet had soon found the flip-flops down on the carpet. With a firm grip on the hospital-issue crutch, she held her breath, clenched her muscles and slowly lifted her rear-end off the couch.
Once she stood up straight, she let out a resounding "Awright!" at the success of getting up without the sensation of dipping her knee in hellfire. That her cry made the scaredy-dog Goldie jump up from the doggy-basket and yelp at the top of her lungs before zipping out of the living area to seek cover under the bed was an unfortunate byproduct.
"Yuh! Yuh, this be mo' like it," Wynne said to herself as she hobbled around the living area with far greater ease than earlier. Moving over to the TV set, she disconnected the flash drive - where the Southern 500 was stored - and put it inside the sideboard with all her old DVDs and even older VHS-tapes.
Moving back to the window, she glanced at the other trailers across the central lawn. Diego's mobile home was quiet as expected. Considering his early-morning return, it would be several hours before he would get up. Beatrice 'Bea' Reilly had yet to fully move into Ernie's old trailer, but she had taken to sleeping there to get away from Mrs. Peabody as fast as she possibly could. Bea, Mandy and Blackie had obviously left for Goldsboro several hours earlier.
As she craned her neck to the right, she spotted her matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition sitting still and doing nothing. She hadn't driven it - or even sat in it - since Mandy had driven her home from Ernie's rambunctious birthday party the previous weekend. A "Hmmm?" escaped her as she studied the thick layer of desert dust that coated all the truck's panels.
"Nuttin' ventured, nuttin' gained," she said in a mumble as she hobbled back over to the sideboard to get her car keys.
---
Since the black truck had been directly under the sun for nearly a week, it seemed possible to fry eggs on not only the hood and the bed, but the upper part of the dashboard as well. She needed to brush the red dust off the windshield, but even unlocking the aluminum box she and the expert mechanic Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson had welded onto the bed required oven mitts to operate.
"Holy shittt… this he' dang-blasted box be hottah than tha devil's buttcrack," she said as the lid finally opened so she could get to the broom she always kept there.
Before she could start on cleaning the windows and the headlights, she popped open the hood to check the levels of all the fluids. All the appropriate reservoirs seemed fine, and the dipstick showed the engine oil was ready to go as well.
The next challenge came when she wanted to reach into the cab to start the engine so she could get the A/C going. The necessary nursing of her left leg proved to be somewhat of a fumble as her shin constantly came into contact with the scorching-hot running board, but she managed to get the V8 started after stretching out in an arch that would have made anyone who witnessed it laugh at her.
She nodded to herself as the familiar burble came from the exhaust tips. The cold air swooshing around the cab soon took care of the murderous heat which allowed her to climb up onto the driver's seat. A brief stab of pain burst upward from her knee when she had to move the leg around the wheel well, but it settled down as soon as she could stretch it out again.
"Hot dang… this ain't bad… nosirree, this ain't bad! Wo-hoooooooooo, Goldsborah, he' we come!" she said as she caressed the steering wheel. There was a small matter of needing to use the bathroom become she could go anywhere, so she climbed down once more and hobbled back to the trailer with a hugely wide grin on her face.
---
Wynne and Goldie came back out onto the crooked back porch five minutes later. Although the denim shorts remained, her flip-flops had given way to the pair of sports loafers, and she had swapped the flimsy T-shirt for a baseball jersey carrying the likeness of Dale Earnhardt Jr. to celebrate his victory in the 2001 Daytona summer event. Up top, she wore her beloved cowboy hat as always.
"Awwww, ya sure?"
Goldie nodded.
"I can't tempt y'all ta come ta town with li'l ol' me?"
Goldie shook her head.
"But wotcha gonn' do he', girl? Ain't nobodda hoah-me or nuttin'…"
Yap!
"Haw?"
Yap-yap-yap!
"Yuh, okeh… grabbin' some chow an' watah-"
Yapppp!
"Lafayette's Dry Feed. Obvi'sly," Wynne said with a grin. "But ya really gonn' be all alone he'-"
Yap-yap-yappety-yap-yap.
"Ohhhh… y'all alreddy done got a date with ol' Freddie, haw? Fihhh-ne bah me, but don't do nuttin' I woudden do, yuh? Okeh, that sure ain't sayin' much, but anyhows. Aw, y'all know whut I done mean, yuh? Have fun, girl!"
Yap!
When all that yapping was replied to by a bassy WOOF from somewhere around the corner, Goldie spun around and ran off with her tail up and her tongue out.
"Haw, them dawggies, them dawggies," Wynne said and broke out in a chuckle as she went back inside to prepare Goldie's dry feed and water. "I really need-a ask Doc Gibbs 'bout a whole lotta stuff befo' them puppies suddenly start poppin' out an' all. Lawrdie, not ta men-shun mebbe we gonn' have a-buncha doggy-drama with Blackie… Mercy Sakes. Anyhows."
With the dry feed all set, Wynne checked, double-checked and triple-checked that she had taken the pill bottle that actually held her pills. The bottle was put through a solid rattling to make extra-extra sure the pills were in there. "A-yup," she said, stuffing the bottle into her pants pocket. "An' now… I reckon Goldsborah be callin' mah name… yessirree!"
-*-*-*-
Up in the sheriff's office eight miles north of the trailer park, Barry Simms sat at the watch desk smoking like an entire industrial complex as always. His color was no less lobster-like though the ambient temperatures had in fact gone down one or two degrees. In spite of his status as a civilian employee of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, he was subject to the departmental dress code that meant he needed to wear long pants and some kind of shirt regardless of what the thermometer said.
What the makers of the leaflet Proper Clothing For Civilian Employees couldn't have predicted was how much perspiration Barry was able to produce: his pants were just about soaked through at the seat, the knees and even the ankles. The shirt was in dire straits as well as it featured huge damp patches on his chest, back and under his arms. In short, the image he projected to the people entering the office was far worse than if he had simply worn some kind of shorts and a light-weight T-shirt like everyone who could, or would, come by.
Mandy stood by her desk across the office. She had to scratch an eyebrow and let out a somewhat amused "Hmmm…" at Barry's horrendously disheveled state.
The portable radio on the watch desk suddenly came to life when Beatrice Reilly's voice said 'Mobile Unit Three to Base. Mobile Unit Three to base. Barry, is the Sheriff present? Over.'
Barry naturally had to take a final puff of a cigarette before he reached for the radio. His dexterity seemed to be improving as he was able to grab the radio with his left hand while he used his right to sweep half a day's worth of ash off the incident report sheet. "Base to Mobile Unit Three. Yes she is, Deputy. Stand by."
'Mobile Unit Three standing by.'
"Sheriff," Barry said, holding out the radio, "it's Deputy Reilly."
"You don't say," Mandy said in a droll, dust-dry voice before she took the portable radio and pressed the transmit button. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Go ahead, Deputy. Over."
'Blackie and I have completed the assignment at Mrs. Pearson's store now. There was in fact a bizarre-looking individual walking around in her next-door neighbor's back yard, though not an alien from outer space as feared. It proved to be Mrs. Pearson's next-door neighbor. He wore gloves, a motorcycle helmet and seven layers of clothing because he needed to take out an infestation of… well, some kind of creepy flying insects… with boiling water and a bug-zapper. Over.'
Barry let out a chuckle as he updated the report sheet. The response initiated a small-scale coughing fit deep down his lungs, so he began pounding a fist against his chest in a pre-emptive measure.
"Very well, Deputy," Mandy said, taking a quick step away from the watch desk in case the small-scale coughing fit would evolve into one of Barry's notorious anything-but-small-scale explosions. "Continue your patrol. Please report in at the top of the hour. Oh, and make sure you and Blackie drink enough water. Over."
'Will do, Sheriff. I'm already down to the last third of my water. Over.'
"I see," Mandy said, looking across the street at Moira's Bar & Grill. "In that case, I want you to swing by the bar and grill for a refill before you continue your patrol pattern. Base out."
Once the portable radio was back on the charger permanently installed on the watch desk, Mandy - after giving a spluttering Barry a wide berth - moved over to her own desk. Halfway there, she changed her mind and strode down to the restroom to take care of some urgent business.
---
Washing her hands a few minutes later, Mandy cursed the state of the faucets. Though they had several different plumbers on speed dial, none of them had ever had any success in getting the plumbing and the faucets to work properly. Everything had been just fine before the entire restroom had been vandalized by a pair of escaped criminals, but nothing had worked since.
The locks on the doors to the three stalls frequently jammed, all three cisterns leaked, two of the wall-mounted fans in the stalls had broken down completely, and the mirror above the sinks had cracked. The faucets were even worse: sometimes they'd get hot water from the cold faucet, sometimes they'd get cold water from the hot faucet, and sometimes they wouldn't get any water out of either of them. Not to mention the fact that the water would sometimes come in a trickle, and sometimes come in a tidal wave violent enough to sink the Poseidon all over again.
Today, she was able to get the supposedly straightforward job of washing her hands completed with a minimum of drama save for an initial splash that peppered her uniform shirt with tiny, black dots of water. It wasn't perfect, but she'd take it as it certainly didn't happen often.
Male voices from the office caught her attention. After she had wiped her hands on a towel, she moved over to the door to return to work. She came to a halt when she realized the voices belonged to none other than disgraced former sheriff Arthur 'Artie' Rains and his number-one lackey, Jay Daniel 'J.D.' Burdette, who took care of the day-to-day operation of Sam McCabe's gun shop.
Both men were also among the leading lights of the Patriotic Coalition, the organization formed to create a legitimate front for the questionable - and always controversial - J6 Brigade that celebrated the insurrection in Washington, D.C.
'Barry, old pal,' Artie Rains said in a voice that he tried to butter-up as much as he could. The attempt wasn't too convincing given the fact it was marked by decades' worth of smoking cigars, chugging down bourbon and shouting obscenities at everyone who didn't meet his standards.
Rains continued: 'I don't understand how a cool guy like you can work for a woman. Especially not Manly. I remember how weird she was back in the old days… I'll bet she's just as weird now. Am I right or what? Women just ain't cut out for this kind of stressful work. Their brains can't handle the danger. Why don't you come over to us? If you join the Patriotic Coalition, I promise you can keep your job once we move back in here.'
Barry remained silent at first, but he eventually joined the hitherto one-sided conversation with a 'The sheriff has always treated me great. Better than you ever did.'
'Okay, but you were young and stupid back then. You needed to be smacked around a little to find your way. Yeah?'
'Well-'
'You don't have to say yes or no right now, Barry. The campaigns start tomorrow and then we'll see. Say… on that note, you wouldn't happen to know if Manly has some kind of, oh, timetable or campaign plans or some such lyin' around, would ya?'
'Do you really expect me to betray the sheriff's trust in me?' Barry said with an intensity he didn't usually reach.
'Would I do that? You got me all wrong, Barry. I ain't askin' you to give me Manly's plans. Maybe just photocopy them or something… nah, just messin' with ya, pal.'
Before Barry had time to answer, Mandy opened the door to the restroom, turned off the lights and entered the office. She eyed the visiting 'gentlemen' on her way back to the biggest of the three desks.
Both wore olive-green or khaki fatigues, hunting boots and military-style caps held in Woodland camouflage. Where the mid-thirty-something J.D. Burdette was lean, mean and wiry as well as being the owner of a good-sized mustache, Artie Rains was just as large and scruffy-looking as ever.
Though Artie Rains and Mandy were roughly the same age, give or take, his excesses made him look fifteen years older. The three-day stubble that adorned his meaty cheeks and wobbling double-chins didn't help, nor did his ungainly beer gut that was draped over his canvas belt in a most grotesque fashion. His hair was thinner than ever, but that deficit was overcome by the intense glare in his beady eyes when he spotted his old nemesis walking toward him.
"What's the nature of your business here, Mr. Rains?" Mandy said in an icy tone as she moved around the desk. Instead of sitting down, she leaned forward to put her fists on the tabletop.
J.D. Burdette pushed his cap back from his forehead before he let out a nasty chuckle.
Rains broke out in a one-shouldered shrug which was an odd sight given his bulk. "Oh, nothing in particular, Manly. Just chewing the fat with my old pal Barry here. A little reminiscing, you know. Back to the days when men had balls and the women loved 'em for it. Things like that. The good, old days."
"I see. May I suggest you do that some other time? Thank you," Mandy said, sitting down and scooping up the next batch of paperwork without waiting for a reply.
An ugly smile spread over Rains's features. A rumble from somewhere deep down his throat proved to be laughter. "Still threatened by my presence, Manly? I kinda like that. All right. We'll see you tomorrow. Bye, Barry… don't forget what I said. Yeah?"
Once the sticking glass door had been conquered, the two men left the sheriff's office laughing and slapping each other's backs for a job well done.
Mandy drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Returning to the paperwork, she doodled her signature a couple of times before the ball point pen gave up the ghost. It was the last thing it did. Without warning, Mandy bolted upright and threw the dry pen onto the linoleum floor with such force that it was reduced to its component parts upon impact.
Barry knew better than to speak up, so he kept his head down and carried on adding little lines in his retro Connect-The-Dots play book that he had bought up at Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures.
Breathing hard and rubbing her face even harder, Mandy counted to ten, twenty and ultimately thirty inwardly until she had cooled off enough to stride into the crew room for a dustpan and a small broom. The murdered ball point pen needed to be swept up before Blackie returned so she wouldn't injure a paw by stepping on one of the plastic shards.
---
Once that had been accomplished, Mandy stomped into the middle of the office floor and slammed her hands onto her hips. "I heard what Rains said to you. I also heard what you said about my trust in you. Well, that trust has only grown stronger. I want to thank you for turning him down like that."
"Oh… you're welcome, Sheriff…"
Nodding, Mandy relaxed her stance. She took brief glances at the wall-mounted clock and the coffee machine before she let out a snort at both. "No, let's break for lunch. I need something sugary… and some of Mr. Lane's sandwiches, too," she said, taking her Mountie hat. "Do you want a soda pop to go with yours?"
"Yes, please, Ma'am. A peach iced tea would hit the spot," Barry said with a smile.
"I'll only be a couple of minutes. If we're lucky, we might avoid further disasters," Mandy said as she opened the glass door. Stopping, she shook her head and let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, right. That'll be the day…"
---
Though Main Street was as deserted as ever, the sidewalk continued to suffer under the excessive weight of Artie Rains as he and J.D. Burdette lumbered toward Derrike Iverson's notorious dive further up the street. Mandy kept her eye on the two men until they went into the bar that every ordinary resident of Goldsboro avoided like the plague.
Grunting, she crossed Main Street and entered Moira MacKay's far friendlier Bar & Grill. The hands of time read five minutes to noon which meant she still had the place mostly to herself. That would change within ten minutes or so when the usual storm surge of self-employed contractors and manual laborers from the region's various major farms and slaughterhouses would sweep over the establishment and swamp poor A.J. 'Slow' Lane in work.
A lone patron sat at the video poker machine, but the sad trills the machine kept playing proved he was merely throwing away his money. Roscoe Finch, one of the members of the Goldsboro Pool Association, stood at the pool table chalking his cue while mulling over a shot.
Up at the electric stoves, A.J. had an entire row of pots and pans ready for the inevitable rush hour. The men and women who would show up would be thirsty, hungry and above all demanding, so he had pre-emptively prepared the most popular dishes in the hope of getting a head start for a change. Forty percent of the customers would be meat-potatoes-and-thick-gravy-people, and another forty percent would be fried-sausages-and-a-ton-of-fries-people. The remaining twenty percent were more difficult to pin down, so he had improvised a little by finding three extra buckets of his special potato salad, a pile of beef patties and several packs of minced pork perfect for spicy meat loaves.
Mandy let out a dark grunt when she realized it wouldn't be fair to ask A.J. to make a batch of his top-quality sandwiches on top of all the other things he had to do, so she strode over to the refrigerators to get some pre-fabricated ones instead. Once there, she nabbed a can of peach-flavored iced tea for Barry and a Summer Dreamz South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash for herself.
After showing the items to A.J. so he could put them on their tab, she strode back to the main entrance, but before she got there, a familiar voice rang out from the other end of the eatery:
"Yeeee-haaaw, Cowpoah-ks! Howdy, there, darlin'!"
Wynne's cheery voice made a lot of the tension fly straight out of Mandy's body. Turning around, she broke out in a wide grin at the sight of Wynne walking toward her with nary a hobble compared to earlier. Though the Cowpoke still used the hospital-issue crutch, it was obvious it was merely there for moral support.
"Hello, hon!" Mandy said, hurriedly closing the distance between them. "Oh, you look much, much better today… I saw it this morning, but I didn't want to say anything in case it was a false dawn.
"Yuh, it sure iz bettah taday, that ain't no lie. But Lawrdie, I wus jus' playin' pool with ol' Roscoe there when all that dang-blasted watah fer them pills done godda-best o' me. It tole me I hadda pee right that minnit an' ain't no second latah! Didden ha' no accident or nuttin', so that be good."
"Yeah. I promised Barry I'd be right back with lunch so I can't stay. Do you think you could come over once you've finished your game?"
"Haw-yuh!" Wynne said, whipping off her hat to wave it high in the air. "Ol' Roscoe be playin' like a dang beginnah taday anyhows, so there ain't nuttin' stoppin' me from comin' withcha right now! Nosirree… y'all go ahead. I'mma-gonn' follow at mah own pace. I prolly be bah in two minnits or som'tin. Okeh?"
"Okay. Can't wait," Mandy said with a wink.
---
Just as Wynne reached the glass door - that Mandy had kept open for her so she wouldn't have to risk a shoulder injury as well - she was joined by Beatrice and an overjoyed Blackie who let out a long string of ecstatic woofs while jumping up and down and racing back and forth on the hot sidewalk.
"Awwwwwwww, if it ain't mah Blackie!" Wynne cried, reaching down to give the German Shepherd a good fur-rubbing. "Yuh, that sure be right, girl, I be walkin' a whoooooole lot bettah now! Yuh? Betcha it won't be long before I can hop, skip an' jump through that there desert there with y'all an' Goldie. An' mebbe chug down a beer or two. Or three. Or som'tin."
Once Blackie had zipped inside for some water, Beatrice put her hand on Wynne's arm. "You look much, much better now. That's so great to see. You were really pale and drawn last night."
"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie. That wus aftah mah exercises. Lawrdie, them exercises… I swear they musta been drawn up by one o' them there sadists, yuh? 'Cos, hot-dang, they sure ain't fer weaklin's like li'l ol' me!"
Mandy soon appeared in the doorway. "Are you going to stand out there all day? Miss Donohue, there's something you and I need to discuss in the crew room. Urgently."
"Haw! Yes, Ma'am, Sheriff, Ma'am! I be right there, Ma'am!" Wynne said with a saucy grin as she stepped over the threshold and hobbled into the office. "Howdy, Barry. Still sweatin', I see," she said, adding a little wink to take most of the sting out of the insult.
Barry had already opened his mouth to reply, but the nature of the comment made him narrow his eyes and grab a big bite of one of the pre-fabricated sandwiches instead. As always, he had a lit cigarette somewhere within reach: this time, it had been placed in the ashtray where it sent another Cloud Of Stinky Doom rising toward the felt tiles in the ceiling.
---
Wynne had barely set foot and crutch in the crew room at the back of the office before Mandy wrapped her strong arms around her in a bear hug. "Haw! I reckon y'all needed a li'l physical contact… yuh, this deffa-nete-ly be nice."
They stood like that for a short while before their lips met in three kisses. The first was a shortie, the second a lengthy one and the third was another shortie to round off the sweet encounter. A few love bolts had time to fly between them before Mandy took a reluctant step back so Wynne could get to sit down at the round table.
Unlike earlier in the period where she had been ill, Wynne only needed to let out a brief grunt and an even briefer groan as she bumped onto the seat. Her knee did make its presence felt, but the sensation was merely discomfort rather than pain.
"Rains was here," Mandy said in a somber tone as she pulled over another chair so she and Wynne could sit close. "And Burdette, too. They were trying to get Barry to spill the beans about our campaign plans."
"Whah, them sombitches… I trust ol' Barry done tole 'em ta take a hike?"
"That's not really Barry's style-"
"Naw, I reckon it ain't…"
"But they certainly didn't get anything out of him. Dammit, Wynne… they're fighting dirty before the campaigns have even started! Just thinking about the nonsense we're going to see over the coming days, weeks… it's enough to give me a migraine.
Wynne reached up to fluff Mandy's mop of hair. "No wondah with such a haystack up top, yuh?" she said with a wink in the hope it would brighten the mood. "Mebbe we oughttah mosey on ovah ta Holly ta see if she can mebbe slot us in somewhe'ah?"
"Miss Lorenzen is one of Rains's supporters," Mandy said and let out a sigh. "And you know how she is. That's why I haven't had my hair cut for weeks now. It'll end up as another damned political lecture, I guarantee it."
"Yuh, okeh. I reckon y'all ain't wrong 'bout that, but she be tha only scissors lady in tha vicinity, yuh? 'Membah how awful it done looked when we trah'd ta do it usselves? Lawwwwr-die. An' dog-gone, it gonn' take us an enti'ah day if we gonn' hafta drive ta Barton City, or Cavva-Naw Creek or mebbe even ovah ta yer ol' stompin' grounds San Cristobal fer a haircut. Yuh?"
Mandy let out a long sigh. "Yeah. All right. But I can't just tear an hour out of my schedule. I'll need to go on a foot patrol first. Deputy Reilly didn't cover Josiah Street, so I'll start there."
"Works fer me, darlin'. While y'all go ahead an' do that, I'mma-gonn' meandah up ta Holly's salon. I can take mah sweet time an' siddown on one o' them there white benches until y'all get there. Yuh? Woudden dat be a plan?"
"Yes it would. And that's what we'll do, hon," Mandy said before she leaned in to give Wynne another of the special, lengthy kisses.
-*-*-*-
Half an hour later, Wynne sat on one of the Goldsboro Town Council's infamous white benches with the hospital-issue crutch next to her. The bench she had chosen wasn't too far from Holly's Homey Hair & Nails Salon so it wouldn't take her long to get the last stretch of the way when Mandy showed up. Even better, it was in the shade which made the heat tolerable.
As expected at half past noon, Main Street was awash with vans and trucks of all makes, shapes and sizes as the independent contractors and manual laborers rushed to Moira's Bar & Grill for their usual lunch-time highlight. A few visited Derrike Iverson's dive instead, but they were few and far between, mostly because everyone knew that the Deputies from the sheriff's office would set up spot-checks at the northern and southern city limits signs to catch those who wouldn't stick to sodas or iced tea for lunch. At present, Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez worked the northern exit while Beatrice Reilly took care of the one down south.
Wynne kept one eye on the traffic to watch the many different trucks that filed past, and one eye on her telephone where she was engaged in a 50-lap dirt-track race in the Rubbin' Fenders game app. When her car passed someone, she let out an "Awright!" but when she was knocked out of the way - or into the wall - the cry was often a "Whaddinda-?!" or even an "Aw! Ya sonova-!"
One of the vehicles passing by out on Main Street made a U-turn and came to a halt at the curb not too far from Wynne's bench. Wynne paused the game to take a look at the individual behind the wheel of the white, open-topped Jeep.
The driver proved to be a man in his mid-to-late thirties who wore cowboy boots, straight-legged dark-blue jeans, a white Western shirt - he rolled up the sleeves to flaunt his muscular forearms before he jumped out of the Jeep - and finally a cowboy hat that looked fairly new. It wasn't an original Stetson, but the design was close enough to fool all but the aficionados.
All in all, he presented an image of the All-American Hero with piercing blue eyes, a square jaw, broad shoulders and a purposeful gait. "Hello, Ma'am," he said to Wynne as he moved past her. Tipping his cowboy hat, he revealed that his brownish hair was held in a style typically employed by the military or law enforcement agencies: short, but not quite a crew cut or even a buzz.
"Howdy, pardnah. New in town?"
"That's right," the man said, coming to a halt.
"We got a Bed 'n Breakfast furthah down Main Street if y'all be lookin' fer someplace ta sleep or som'tin…"
The man shook his head. "I already have a room at Mrs. Peabody's boarding house. I appreciate the notion, though. It was nice talking to you, Ma'am." With that, he quickly stepped inside the hair salon.
"Haw… okeh," Wynne said, scratching her neck. "Didden even state his name or nuttin'. Them young folks these days… sheesh," she continued in a mumble as she returned to her game.
---
Ten minutes after the brief encounter with the Hero-type, Wynne spotted Mandy striding north on Main Street. Getting up from the bench only required a little effort - and a single groan - so she soon had time to wave her hat high in the air. "Howdy, darlin'! Y'all be lookin' a li'l hot. Didya catch any crooks or somebodda ovah yondah on Josiah?"
"No. Everything was quiet. Hot, but quiet," Mandy said while she used a handkerchief to dab her glistening forehead. "I gave number fourteen a thorough inspection so the Gilmores won't have any unfortunate surprises when they arrive tomorrow. It was tomorrow, wasn't it?"
"Aw… shoot… uh… tamorrah?" Wynne said, pushing her cowboy hat back from her brow so she had room to rub her brow. "Dag-nabbit, I plum ferget. I reckon so, yuh. Mebbe it wus tha day aftah? I mean, in two days or som'tin? Okeh, Audrey done called me on… shoot… tha day aftah I… naw, that ain't right…"
Chuckling, Mandy reached up to pull the cowboy hat forward once more. "We'll find out when they get here. In the meantime, let's find out what kind of political slogans Miss Lorenzen feels like rattling off today. All right?"
"Whah, that prolly be best, yuh. She jus' got a new custamah ten minnits ago. A fella I ain't nevah seen befo'. He done showed up in that there vee-hickel there," Wynne said, pointing her thumb at the white Jeep. "An' get this, he done stays at Missus Bizzybodda's!"
"Well, let's go in and say hello, then. If he lives somewhere in MacLean County, maybe we can talk him into voting for me," Mandy said with a tired smile. Putting a hand on the small of Wynne's back, she gave her plenty of time and space to hobble over to the glass door to the hair and nails salon.
The interior of the salon was brightly-lit and squeaky clean as always. Just like in the old days, the floor was held in a checkered pattern of black-and-white squares. Three barberchairs had been placed on round bases at the left of the store. A huge mirror, fifteen feet wide and three feet tall, had been bolted onto the wall in front the chairs. A shelf carrying various hair-care products for men and women ran the entire length of the mirror so the items would always be within reach no matter which of the chairs Holly would work at. A further three chairs had been lined up against the back wall underneath a row of retro hair dryers straight out of the 1960s, but none of those were in use.
Though the salon had air-conditioning, a heady mixture of scents - including styling foam, shaving cream and aftershaves, various skin-care lotions and lacquer as well as scented water used to soften stubborn knots - continued to linger. A radio played somewhere at the back of the salon in Holly's office, but the volume had been turned so far down it was hardly audible.
The out-of-towner Wynne had spoken to sat in the middle barberchair. Behind him, Holly Lorenzen strutted around on her trademark high heels while she trimmed his hair although it didn't appear to need any attention.
"Hello, Sheriff," Holly said. "Are you here to book a time?"
In addition to her two-inch-heeled pumps, the woman of indeterminate age - devious folks whispered that she was a full decade older than the late-forties she claimed to be - wore skin-tight, high-waisted crimson slacks and a honey-mustard blouse that featured elbow-length sleeves and a very low neckline. Up top, she wore a proper, old-school bouffant wig designed to cover for the unfortunate fact that her real hair was going gray.
To round off the colorful ensemble that invoked a sense of the mid-1960s, Holly insisted on wearing far too much makeup in spite of nearly all the other women in Goldsboro, Wynne included, telling her that it only detracted from her looks. Her standard reply was always that no man would ever look at her twice if she didn't do it.
Mandy had been studying the stranger's face in the reflection in the mirror, but she turned back to the hairdresser upon being spoken to. "That's right, Miss Lorenzen."
"Howdy there, Holly! A-yup, an' that goes dubbel fer me! Dubbel 'cos we be one-two, yuh? Not that there be two o' me or nuttin'… Lawrdie, I kinda-sorta done trah'd that once, an' that sure wussen funny, nosirree!" Wynne said with a grin.
The completely flat and neutral look on Holly's face proved she didn't seem to find Wynne's quip funny whatsoever. "I see. Well, if you can wait five minutes, I'll have room to cut your hair today. Both of you."
"Haw, works fer me… yuh. Sheriff Mandy?"
Mandy chewed on her cheek for a moment before she cast a glance at her telephone to read the time. "Very well, but I'll need to inform the watch desk first. I'll be right back."
"Okie-dokie!"
While Mandy went outside the hair salon to call Barry and let him know she would be detained for half an hour or so, Wynne hobbled over to the row of chairs underneath the old hair dryers. "Haw, these he' ca-razy ol' things sure be weird… kinda coo'-lookin', but deffa-nete-ly weird. Yuh?" she said as she sat down on the one in the center so she had plenty of room for her crutch. Only a single hiss escaped her, and she deemed that a great success.
Holly continued circling the new guy in town, snipping a little here and a little there. The fellow didn't wear a hairdressing cape, so Holly frequently used a brush or her fingers to sweep loose hairs off his neck and the collar of his white shirt.
Though Wynne had never been the world's most observant Cowpoke, she couldn't help but notice Holly's fingers lingering a little too long on the supposed All-American Hero's skin. Now and then, Mr. Hero looked up at the hairdresser with little winks and lopsided grins that spelled I Want You in pretty much every language.
"Say, pardnah," Wynne said, leaning back on the chair, "I don't reckon y'all men-shunned yer name or nuttin' when we done spoke befo'. Y'all got the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he', originally o' Shallah Pond, Texas, an' lately o' Goldsborah, Nevada."
"Bobby Johnston," the Hero said with a smile meant to make Wynne's heart flutter and get her ready to be buttered up one side and down the other.
Mandy returned to the hair salon before Bobby could work out why his patented charm had little effect on the denim-clad woman. Shrugging, he turned back to admire his reflection in the mirror while Holly continued to caress his skin at the neck.
Wynne let out a small grunt before she shuffled around in the old chair. "Is ev'rythin' goin' well back at da ranch, Sheriff?" she said as Mandy sat down next to her.
"No. Barry had a little crisis involving a coughing fit, a mug of hot coffee and his pants," Mandy said, scratching her eyebrow. "He had to call Deputy Reilly back from the spot-checks so she could monitor the watch desk telephone while he changed pants. And his undershorts."
"Lawwwwwwwr-die. Chestnuts roastin' ovah an open fi'ah, haw? Barry, Barry, Barry… nevah a dull moment. Anyhows, lemme intrah'dooce y'all ta Mista Bobby Johnston. He be tha guy ovah yondah, yuh? Mista Johnston, this he' be Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. Mebbe y'all could considah votin' fer her in this he' spe-shul elec-shun that gonn' start tamorrah an' all."
Holly - who had been busy swapping one of her long scissors for a tiny one that could take care of Bobby's nape hairs - broke in with a: "Don't be silly, Wynne. Why on Earth would Bobby do that when he's the candi- oh… I… I didn't mean… to…"
Bobby instantly swiveled around and shot Holly a dark glare that cut her off just as effectively as if someone had pressed her Mute button.
Mandy narrowed her eyes down into slits. "When he's the what, Miss Lorenzen?" she said in a tough, gruff, no-nonsense voice.
Since the bobcat had been let out of the bag, Bobby leaned back on the barberchair and crossed his legs at the knees. An expression of unbearable smugness spread over his square, clean-cut, All-American face. "When I'm the candidate for the Patriotic Coalition, Sheriff."
The words seemed to form clouds of toxic gases that just hovered in mid-air, contaminating everything they came into contact with. Holly blushed, Bobby grinned even broader and Wynne was about to blow up.
Mandy remained passive but didn't back down from challenging her opponent to a stare-down. It lasted for a while but ultimately ended in a No Contest when Bobby Johnston got up and put a $20 bill on the shelf under the large mirror.
"That should cover the haircut, Holly. Right? I'll be by a little later on to… ah, with your special bonus," he said, donning his cowboy hat. It was soon taken off again to be tipped at Wynne and Mandy. "Goodbye for now, Ladies. I'll see you tomorrow." After leaving the hair salon, Bobby drove his Jeep away from the curb.
"Y'all ain't gonn' be seein' nuttin' once I done give y'all a-cuppel-a black eyes, ya slick, dubbel-tawkin' sombitch!" Wynne growled as she got up from the chair at the hair dryer and hobbled over to the barberchair. "Holly, y'all bettah sharpen them scissahrs 'cos I want this ta be ovah an' done with in a dang-blasted hurry befo' anymo' o' them rats decide ta come ovah. Yuh? Darlin', are y'all still gonn'-"
"No," Mandy said and got up as well. "I'll wait for you by the bench. If I'm called out on an assignment, I'll let you know," she continued as she strode over to the glass door and opened it. Stopping her actions, she locked eyes with Wynne.
"Yuh… okeh. Catch y'all inna li'l while, then," Wynne said before Mandy left the salon.
Holly moved through the bead curtain from the storage room at the back, carrying an additional pair of scissors, a spray bottle of scented water and a comb with wider teeth that was perfect to deal with Wynne's long, thick hair. She broke out in a shrug when she eyed the empty chair where the sheriff had been sitting. "My, wasn't she touchy today. Just because she'll finally face some stiff competition-"
"Holly… no tawkin' 'bout no stiff competi-shun, okeh? No tawkin' 'bout no stiff nuttin', fer that mattah. Oh, will ya jus' cut mah dog-gone hair!"
After letting out an overly dramatic sigh that explained quite well what she thought of all the goings-on, Holly Lorenzen finally took the scissors to Wynne's locks.
-*-*-*-
Freshly trimmed, Wynne brought a scent of rose water with her as she stepped out of the hair salon and hobbled back to the bench where Mandy waited for her as promised.
The sheriff stood next to the white bench with her arms crossed over her chest and her boots planted firmly on the sidewalk. Her face had been transformed into a grim mask of sublime annoyance.
"Haw… wussen dat Goldsborah in a dang-blasted nutshell? Lawrdie, can it get any wohhh-rse? Don't nobodda answah that. So now we know who we be up ag'inst tamorrah, yuh? That slick sack o' bull dung sure ain't no Artie Rains ta look at, that be fer dang sure. Or even no J.D. Burdette. Naw, that fella gonn' give us plentah o' trubbel-"
"Enough about him, Wynne. Please."
"Yuh. I hear ya, darlin'. I done felt like pukin', too… sure ain't no lie," Wynne said as she sat down on the bench with only a single groan as an accompanying sound effect. She continued to hold onto the hospital-issue crutch to have something to play with. "So now y'all didden get no haircut. I reckon that means we gonn' hafta drive ta-"
"There's no time for that now. It'll have to wait."
"Okeh. Didya hear from tha sheriff's office or som'tin? Did ol' Barry really get his nuts roasted?"
"I haven't heard from them," Mandy said, letting out a long sigh. She finally relaxed her stance, but her face continued to hold such a grim tone that she couldn't even smile at Wynne.
"Okeh…"
Exactly on cue, a white vehicle rumbled past the bench and the hair salon, but the flatulating exhaust proved it was young Kenny Tobin rather than Bobby Johnston. Wynne briefly waved her hat at him before it was back on her locks. "Haw, I reckon he gonn' need a new pipe befo' this month be ovah. Yuh. It sure don't sound too well or nuttin'."
When Mandy didn't reply beyond a grunt, Wynne reached out in an invitation for holding hands. The request was met although a few seconds went by before they made contact. "What are your plans for the rest of the day, hon?"
"Aw, I wus gonn' head back ta mah Chev an' then drive up ta the Bang 'n Beatin'. Fat-Butt an' me gonn' work a li'l on mah TransAm. Them emblems we done ordah'd arrived the othah day, but it only be taday I be reddy ta play a li'l. Aftah that, I wus gonn' inspect that there loudspeakah truck we done rented fer tamorrah."
"Would you mind if I joined you? I need a free space to gather my thoughts," Mandy said, finally breaking out in the faintest of smiles.
"Lawrdie! I sure woudden mind, no Ma'am! Lemme get up-"
Mandy gave Wynne's hand a fair squeeze and even a little tickle. "No, I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll get your Silverado and come back here… then we'll drive up to Mr. Swenson. There's no point in overstressing your knee now that it's finally getting better."
"Y'all got'cha'self a deal, there, Sheriff! Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said as she dug into her pants pocket to find the keys for the black wonder.
---
It wasn't long before Mandy drove the Silverado onto the forecourt at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. Moving slowly past the gas pumps, they drove around the first of the low buildings until they reached the inner courtyard in front of the four-bay service garage itself.
A temporary, barn-like structure had been put up at the far end of the courtyard for the vehicles that were in long-term storage. One of which was Wynne's newest automotive project, a fire-engine-red 1989 Pontiac Firebird TransAm.
Fat, white lines painted directly on the flagstones marked out the only parking spot in the entire inner courtyard, so that's where Mandy brought the truck to a halt. Jumping out, she strode around to open the passenger door so Wynne could get her legs swung around without any medical dramas.
Only a little help was required from the athletic arms of the law, and Wynne soon had her boots and the assisting crutch down on the flagstones. "Haw," she said when she looked at the white paint on the ground. "I coudda sworn them lines wussen there tha las'time I wus up he' workin' on tha TransAm…"
"They weren't," Mandy said, keeping a hand ready in case Wynne needed a little support. "But Mr. Garfield complained to Mr. Kulick about not having enough room to manoeuver his tow truck when people just parked wherever they felt like it. Well, Mr. Kulick complained to Mr. Swenson who called Mr. Elliott at the hardware store who sent a junior employee with a bucket of paint and a very large brush. And now they have white lines."
"Lawwwwwwwwwr-die, that sure wus a long sentence! I need-a catch up with y'all befo' I can make any kind o' comment!" Wynne said, leaning her head back to let out a braying laugh. "But yuh, ol' Tuckah nevah done learned ta back up them big-ass wreckah trucks o' his… typical that he done went to Mista Koo-lick ta moan 'bout it instead o' jus' askin' Fat-Buhh-tt if he done had any paint or som'tin! Anyhows."
The tip of the crutch made a click-clack sound as Wynne hobbled across the flagstones toward the storage depot. Before she and Mandy could make it all the way there, the hefty Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson came out of the main garage wiping his filthy hands on a wad of cotton scraps as always.
The early-fifty-something ex-pat Swede had in fact slimmed down recently, but his belly and posterior were still on the large side which meant that his nickname was apt for another few years at least. For the uninitiated, his bulk, shaved head and bushy full beard made him unapproachable and intimidating, but it was only skin deep as he took great pride in being a lover rather than a fighter. His friends would swear that he was a cuddly teddy bear at heart, but those who wanted to test his mettle had better watch out.
Though every mechanic working at Otto Kulick the Third's body shop was required to wear a coverall in the company colors, they had been unable to find one in Fat-Butt's size, so he always wore a greasy, red T-shirt and bib dungarees that were covered in so many oily stains it was hard to tell they had once been blue. Down below, he wore large, clumsy safety boots that had often saved his feet from raging angle-grinders, unexpected surges of vehicular fluids, and even the occasional dropped sledgehammer.
"Oh! Hello, Wynne! It's so great to see you again!" he said in a voice that still held the typical sing-song Swedish accent.
"Howdy, Fat-Buhh-tt!" Wynne cried, waving her hat at her friend. "Yuh, it sure been one helluva while, that ain't no lie… mah knee, yuh?"
Bengt finally stopped wiping his hands on the twist. As always, he stuffed it into his rear pocket. "Yeah, I heard. Hello, Sheriff."
"Hello, Mr. Swenson," Mandy said with a smile. "We're here to look at Wynne's TransAm and the custom truck we rented for tomorrow."
"They're both in the barn. I'll get the batteries… we always disconnect them to prevent fires," Bengt said before he turned around to walk back into the main service hall.
---
A heavy-duty car cover had been swept over the TransAm to protect it from dust, bugs, bird droppings and other intrusive elements, but Wynne swept it off at once to marvel at her newest dream machine. A pile of money had been saved when the car didn't need to be resprayed after all because a team of car-care professionals had been by to give it a thorough washing, polishing and waxing. Their hard work had left the old car looking like a brand new one.
The saved cash had been spent on nicer wheels and on fixing all the inevitable things that would appear on a 30+ year-old vehicle. The hydraulics that controlled the pop-up headlights worked perfectly once more, as did the power window in the passenger-side door. The gas shocks holding up the huge liftback hatch in the rear had been replaced with more durable units, and every knob and switch on the dashboard had been scrubbed clean or given new lettering through laser-etching.
The four-speed 700-R4 automatic transmission had been given fresh oil as had the 350-cubic inch fuel-injected V8. The brakes had been upgraded to IMSA GT3 racing specifications and now featured six-piston calipers mounted on drilled and slotted rotors. The trick exhaust had remained as-was, but the rear-mounted stock muffler had been changed to a RoarMaster unit that would provide plenty of grrrrrrowl even when running the regular setup.
All that needed to be done was to add a few emblems and decals here and there. Many car enthusiasts preferred to have their cars 'shaved' - i.e. free of decorative or identifying objects of any kind - but Wynne was such a staunch traditionalist that she had flat-out demanded that everything should look exactly like it had when it rolled off the assembly line in Van Nuys, California in mid-1989.
Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson soon returned pushing a cart laden with several cans of soda, two heavy batteries and a small cardboard box that held the missing emblems and transfer decals. While he installed the batteries in the TransAm and the open-chassis truck, Wynne took the box over to a work bench where she unpacked it at once.
Mandy found herself to be the third wheel on the wagon, so she took the opportunity to grab a chair, sweep the seat, sit down and mull over the latest twists and turns in the never-ending saga of her re-election campaign.
Her heart told her that she had a moral obligation to not only run in, but win, the election so the residents in and around Goldsboro wouldn't have to live with Rains's unpredictable or downright destructive influence for another term. Had her rival candidate been one of the morally questionable deputy sheriffs she had worked with in the bad old days during her first years in Goldsboro, like Evan Chaff, Dan 'The Ferret' Murphy, Tony Reed or even Thomas 'Tom Thumb' Kincaid, she could have defeated them with one hand tied behind her back, but Bobby Johnston would be a different kind of opponent, that was a given.
Mandy looked up when she realized she had been spoken to.
"Would you like one, Sheriff?" Bengt said, offering Mandy a can of Summer Dreamz Cherry Cola.
"Oh… yes, please. Thank you, Mr. Swenson," Mandy said as she accepted the can.
Over by the work bench, Wynne took a brief break from unpacking the bubble-wrap plastic to let out a snort. "I sure can't recommend it, darlin'. Them things are horr-rr-ible, lemme tell ya!"
Mandy chuckled before she cracked the can open with a Pssshhht! not unlike those Wynne's beloved H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros used to make. "Well, I happen to think they're all right."
"Yuk! An' anothah yuk!" Wynne said before she concentrated on rescuing the emblems from the bubble-wrap.
Mandy fell quiet once more save for the inevitable slurps produced by drinking from any kind of can. That Artie Rains, his right-hand man J.D. Burdette or any of the other - occasionally wild-eyed - members of their merry band of conspiracy theorists, militia supporters, anti-government people and general troublemakers couldn't run for sheriff had been clear from the outset, but that they would call in a heavy hitter in the shape of an All-American poster-boy like Bobby Johnston came as a nasty surprise to her.
His looks and silky-smooth timbre were certain to invoke confidence and a sense of inherent trust in the voters who had yet to make up their minds. Public elections of any kind would always come down to looks and behavior. Bobby Johnston would be a perfect hand-shaker, baby-kisser and Mom-charmer, there was no doubt in her mind about that.
Everyone had something to hide, or at least something they preferred to keep out of the public spotlight. It was entirely possible that Brenda Travers could use her Internet skills to dig up shady affairs from Johnston's past, but once that particular demon had been let out of the magic mirror, nothing could get it back inside. A mud-slinging campaign would only produce losers and victims, she knew that all too well. In short, it had turned into a stalemate. A long sigh escaped her before she took a swig of the cherry cola.
"Tole ya them things wus undrinkable," Wynne said with a grin. The emblems and decals had finally been coaxed out of the bubble-wrap, and she was busy applying a Tune Port Fuel Injection decal onto the lower part of the left-front fender. Unfortunately, it required a little more flexibility than she was able to give it, so she grimaced several times as her knee sent up brief distress calls. "Aw-shittt… naw, this he' deal ain't gonn' work. Fat-Buhh-tt, I reckon y'all gonn' hafta put this he' li'l thing on… an' prolly them there TransAm deee-cals on them do'ahs, too, yuh?"
"I'll be right there, Wynne," Bengt said, peeking around the hood that he had opened in order to install the battery and to check various reservoirs and connections.
Nodding, Wynne hobbled over to Mandy. "Yuh, no trubbel, friend. Ain't no rush, neithah 'cos it done gives me a li'l time with Sheriff Mandy he'!"
A quick kiss and a little caress were duly exchanged before Mandy got up from the chair so Wynne could rest her knee. They remained close in case either of them got an uncontrollable urge to kiss the other. As it turned out, they both did, and at much the same time, too.
Snickering, Wynne pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Yuh, I reckon mah li'l ol' TransAm be 'bout reddy ta hit the road. Lawrdie, I can't wait ta crooh-ze t'ard tha sunset with y'all next to me an' them dawggies in da back."
"Well," Mandy said, winking, "we get kinda loud sometimes. Maybe we don't have to take the dogs on every adventure. We wouldn't want to scare the poor girls."
Wynne broke out in a grin that couldn't be saucier. "Good point, darlin'. Altho' I reckon Goldie woudden be too spooked or nuttin'. I been noticin' she an' Freddie done spent a-buncha time tagethah these past few days."
"Yeah… I wonder how Blackie will react if it ends with a litter of puppies."
"Ain't sure. An' I still ain't sure if it even be possible fer a Rottweilah an' a Golden Retrievah ta… uh… mate," Wynne said with a shrug.
The urge to connect in a sweet kiss once more grew too tough to ignore, so Mandy leaned in to steal a nice one straight off Wynne's lips. "We need to ask Doctor Gibbs before she gets pregnant. It might be dangerous for her."
"Lawrdie, I been speculatin' 'bout that fer a while now, but if it ain't one thing-" - Wynne pointed at her knee - "it be anothah, yuh? Aw, an' speakin' o' which… can y'all bah-lieve that dirty trick that there sombitch Johnston done pulled on us? Holly wus in on it too, fer that mattah. Tawkin' to us like there ain't nuttin' wrong nowhe'ah, an' then revealin' that he in fact be the fella tryin' ta steal yer job… whah, that jus' be disgustin' behaviah."
"I agree."
Wynne fell silent as she watched the hefty Bengt Swenson move down to sit on the floor. It was a sight to see as he did so with surprising grace and agility. He soon started applying the long T-R-A-N-S A-M decal that ran the length of the door an inch or so up from the lower edge.
"Darlin'… lemme play tha devil's advocate, yuh?"
"All right…"
"Y'alreddy perdy high-strung an' it ain't even started yet. Woudden it be bettah fer y'all ta take a step back an' push ol' Rodolfoh instead? He got many o' them same qualities that there ohhh-so-nice Mista Johnston got, yuh? 'Cos darlin', even if ya beat that nasty-ass Artie Rains an' his cronies this time, they ain't goin' away. This exact same shit gonn' show up ag'in tha next time. Yuh?"
Mandy let out a deep sigh, then she rubbed her face repeatedly. "Rodolfo isn't ready. Not by a long shot. He may look and sound the part, but we both know there's so much more to it than that. He's a great guy and a good Senior Deputy, no doubt about that, but I'm beginning to think he just isn't cut out to be a sheriff. In fact, I could see him turn his back on law enforcement if he and Miss de la Vega get married. Even more so if they have children."
"Ya reckon?"
"Yes."
"Haw… I didden ha' that on mah radar," Wynne said, scratching her neck. "Yuh, okeh, that would be like one o' them there aggravatin' debris cau-shuns in da middle o' green-flag stops. Som'tin nobodda wanna see."
Mandy nodded a couple of times before she let out a chuckle. "Probably. I think. In any case, Rodolfo isn't an option. Devil's advocate or not. And Wynne… honestly… do you think Rains could resist pulling the ethnic card if one of his favored sons was to face a Mexican-American in the battle for the sheriff's office?"
"Naw. That sombitch would go completely ovahboard, sure ain't no lie. Shit. Didden think o' that, neithah."
Over by the TransAm, Bengt got on his feet with hardly any effort at all. "Hey, Wynne… check this out!" he said, pointing at the decal at the foot of the door. "I'm gonna put the other one on now… how are those emblems coming along?"
"Shoot, they ain't comin' along at all, friend, 'cos I been yakkin'. An' we still need-a look at tamorrah's truck… dang, time sure be flyin'," Wynne said as she got up from the chair. Once the crutch was under her arm, she hobbled back to the work bench. "Darlin', how long can ya-"
"I'm afraid I can't stay any longer, hon," Mandy said, glancing at the time on her telephone. "I've been away from the office too long already. I'll call you at five, five-thirty, all right?"
"Shoot… okeh. I be he' workin' on da truck until it ain't fun no mo'. Then I'mma-gonn' drive back ta Moira's. Take care, darlin'. Y'all nevah know when ya might trip ovah a rat or som'tin," Wynne said, putting out her arms in an open invitation for a hug and perhaps even a kiss. A moment later, the sheriff rewarded her handsomely on both counts.