Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (47 page)

“Well, I’m not running anymore. This time, I’m trying to recruit an ally. A good neighbor. A man who respects the property rights of others.”

“I’ve always been a good neighbor,” Herman said.

“You’ve got more to fight for than any of us do, since you’ve been here the longest.”

“I’ll fight to protect what’s mine. I registered for the draft, though I had the bad luck to come of age between Korea and Vietnam.”

“You don’t have to go overseas to find the enemy,” the hippie said, and those gray eyes had gone even darker, on toward charcoal. “The barbarians are right at the gate.”

Herman’s stomach was in knots and his bowels gurgled, scoured raw by fiber. He didn’t like the distant anger in the hippie’s voice. That was a murderer speaking, someone who could deprive another human being of the ultimate in property rights, the right to possess a living and breathing body. He flinched when the hippie spun and stormed toward the computer.

“It’s a technological age we live in, Herman,” Peter Reynolds said, tapping some keys. “All the public records are right here on the county Web site. Birth certificates, deaths, deeds, criminal charges, tax liens. And look here. Building applications.”

Herman squinted, trying to see around the hippie’s back, that long pony tail nearly down to his rump. From behind, wearing a dress, he could have passed for a girl. Assuming he shaved his legs. But he heard women didn’t hardly do that anymore. Barbarians at the gates was right.

“Next door,” the hippie said. “The Devereaux heirs have been busy.”

“The dentist’s boys?”

“Yes. They’ve sold the lot to an outfit out of Texas. Highland Builders LLC.”

“Damn. I knew that was going to be developed sooner or later. Wonder who the new neighbor is going to be?”

“Neighbors,” the hippie said. “Plural.”

“Do what?”

“Apartment complex. Six buildings. A hundred-and-fifty-two parking spaces. Legal occupancy of up to 122 unrelated persons.”

Herman dug a finger into his ear, as if wax buildup prevented his brain from accepting the words he’d just heard. “No way. You can’t fit that many people on such a little scrap of ground.”

“You must have missed the zoning hearings. This application says the property was zoned for multi-family back in the 1980s.”

“Oh, that. We didn’t go to none of those. We stayed away as a protest against zoning.”

“They zoned anyway.”

“Tarnation.”

“A foreign developer like that has absolutely no respect for the neighbors. Oakdale would be changed forever. For the worse.”

“I’ll say. How we going to keep all them people off our property?
“You know what they say. A good fence is the first line of defense.”

Herman wasn’t sure he liked the gleam in the hippie’s eyes. Those were Osama’s eyes, the look of a man who would just as soon bury you as nail up a “No Trespassing” sign. He thought of the fence post with its embedded razor, the barbed hook big enough to snag a cat. He wondered what sort of contraption the hippie could cook up to deal with a major invasion.

“I’ll bet they’ll put up crooked fence posts,” Herman said.

“No doubt. A Texas developer wouldn’t know the first thing about building in the mountains.”

“And those apartments will have kids.”

“Lots of kids,” the hippie agreed.

“Squalling, squabbling little yard monkeys who will wear a path in your grass deep enough to bury a mule.”

“Or bury a person.”

Herman looked at the window, at the dark, empty field. Fireflies blinked above the ragged vegetation. A crabapple tree swayed in the wind. Headlights cut twin yellow arcs across the small plot of land as a pizza delivery car cut into the neighborhood. Herman tried to picture the security lights, the view-wrecking walls, the cars crowded around the buildings. Four stories of noise and strangers. Bad neighbors.

The best way to stop bad neighbors was with good fences.

Fences like the hippie made.

“Want to see my shop?” Peter Reynolds said.

“You bet.”

Herman was sure it was full of sharp, shiny things and heavy, black hammers. He got up from the couch, feeling younger than he had in years. His heart, which usually beat in a tired and uneven rhythm, now burned with pride and a sense of duty. There was work to be done and fences to be mended. Herman, as old as he was, figured he could still learn a thing or two about handling property disputes. They could beat this problem together.

After all, what else were neighbors for?

Bud Millwood pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, something he’d probably seen in a detective movie somewhere. Herman let the door stand open, and though the October air was brisk, he didn’t invite the deputy in. Herman had nothing to hide, but a man’s home was private property and Bud was here as an officer of the law, not as a friend. Plus, his breakfast was getting cold, and nothing went down rougher than cold oatmeal.

“Find anything on that Reynolds fellow?” Herman asked.

“No. It’s been two months. We figure he knew the Tennessee law was closing in, so he cut out, started a new identity, maybe drifted to Canada or Mexico.”

“That kind, they don’t understand the value of setting down roots. They think they can just barge in any old where and call it ‘home,’ with no respect for what went on before.”

“Maybe so,” Bud said. “But he left a lot of his tools and clothes and furniture. Like he got up and drove off in the middle of the night.”

“How else do shiftless hippies know how to do it?” Herman looked past Bud to 107 Oakdale. A metal “For Sale” sign was stuck in the grass, its hinged metal face swinging in the faint breeze. Bud had explained the property wasn’t a crime scene anymore because there was no evidence of any crime. A new neighbor would be moving in soon, now that the bank had taken it over. There was no way such prime real estate would stay on the market for long, what with the mountains becoming such a desirable destination and all, like the Chamber of Commerce said.

“Hard to believe he killed a poor old woman over a property stob,” Bud said.

“Well, that’s Tennessee for you. And hippies.”

“The M.E. over there said she bled to death real slow. She might even have still been alive when he poured the cement over her.”

Cement. Herman looked over at the Devereaux property, the site of the new apartment complex. Those Texas developers hadn’t wasted any time, they’d moved in the backhoes and bulldozers and already a cement mixer was maneuvering to pour the oversize footers, beeping as it backed up, its gray sluice chute extended.

“So, you sure you didn’t see nothing?” Bud’s mouth was tucked in tight at the corners, but Herman stared straight into his own reflection doubled back in Bud’s sunglasses.

“I’m a big fan of this Community Watch program, but even neighbors can’t keep track of every little thing that goes on. Crosses the line into nosiness.”

“Reckon so.”

“It’s just as well,” Herman said. “That fellow didn’t have any sense of pride nor place. Just look at that fence post up yonder, leaning like a Thursday drunk.”

Bud looked at the fence at 107 Oakdale, then at the construction site. “Going to get real crowded around here soon.”

“They call it ‘progress,’ I reckon.”

“Well, let me know if you remember anything. I got to get on to the real cases, not make garbage runs for Tennessee.” Bud started to the sidewalk, back to the white picket gate and his patrol car.

“Don’t lose no sleep over him,” Herman called after Bud, over the rumble of the earth machines. “To run out on a mortgage like that, and to leave the place in such a mess, it goes to show he had no respect.”

Bud stopped at the gate. “You said ‘had,’ Herman. Past tense.”

“He’s past tense to me. We don’t need people like that around, them who think their way is the only way.”

Bud nodded and lifted his hand in a half-wave, then climbed into his cruiser and eased up the street.

The red-headed girl passed in the other lane on her bicycle, the shaggy mutt running down the street after her, barking and snapping at the bike’s rear tire. That dog wasn’t as bad as its former master. At least the dog had a sense of territory. And it kept its bones buried.

Herman looked once more at the construction site, the men in their hard hats milling around the loud machines. The cement would be hard by sundown. New neighbors on the way. More barbarians at the gate. But, for now, the fences were mended and order restored.

He went into his garage to clean his tools.

THE END

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THE AGREEMENT

By J.A. Konrath

Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.

“I’ll see it.”

The mobster pushed more chips into the pile. He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal, because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet. Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.

If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.

Little Louie always brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.

Thirty thousand defied the imagination.

Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.

Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.

One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.