Peckerwood (12 page)

The dude behind the counter didn’t look up when Terry came through the door. He was busy bagging some liquor for the old lady writing a check at the register. He did a quick scan of the store and counted two other customers, but no one he immediately took to be a threat. Too late anyway. He was climbing over the counter and pushing the cashier’s head onto its surface already.

“Open it.” He said. The cashier was crying and struggling to get the register open with his left hand, while Terry touched the skin beneath his left eye with the tip of the blade. The woman buying the liquor looked at Terry and frowned. “Shut up,” Terry cut her off before she could say anything.

From the back of the store he heard a woman gasp and drop her purchase. She moved in blind flight for the door. Just as she reached it, Cal came in, bag over his head and pistol raised. He pointed it right in the lady’s face and she shrieked. Cal held his finger up to his lips to shush her. “Back up, now.” He said. He moved her toward the back of the store and grabbed the cowboy too. When they were safely in place standing against the beer cooler, Cal called out “Clear.”

“Get that bitch open,” Terry yelled. He let the cashier stand to operate the register and in a second the drawer popped with a
ping
. “Get a sack.” The cashier pulled a plastic bag out and fluffed it open. “Put the money in it.” He did so, sobbing under his breath. “And shut up with that crying. Makin’ me sick over here.”

The old lady meanwhile had bent over her checkbook and been scrawling away. She looked up at the cashier and said, “Can I get cash back?”

“Hoah shit! That was intense.” Cal pounded the steering wheel as they tore ass out of the parking lot. He looked sideways at Terry whose black mood had indeed lifted. A little adrenaline was always good for his sour patches. “How much?”

Terry was looking behind them, but no one was following. “Better take a different route back.”

“You think?” Cal made some quick mental adjustments. “How much, already?”

Terry opened the paper bag and began organizing the handful of green bills. “Not too much, partner.”

“Fuck it. Who cares? Feels good.”

“Yeah. Guess it does.” Terry decided not to count it yet. With his head proper cleared, he felt he was able to address their blackmail enterprise. “Alrighty, what’s the plan for these pictures?”

Cal settled down a bit. He was glad his partner was leveled off by the jack they’d just pulled, and he was glad he seemed ready to talk directly about the pictures and what the forward course of action would be, but he didn’t exactly trust Terry’s mood to stay balanced long. He’d have to proceed cautiously. Try not to make the wrong jokes. On the other hand, don’t let Terry catch you being careful, ’cause that’s likely to set him off, too. “Well, shit, I figure we mail em to him at the TV station with a note. Maybe a place to make a payment drop.”

During the heist, Cal had grabbed a six-pack from the fridge. Now Terry popped the tabs on two, giving one to Cal, and taking a big blast from his own.

“Huh. Not bad. But how do we make sure that nobody else opens up the pictures? We don’t wanna let more people in. Complicate it,” Terry said, taking a swig from a warm Stag. “So how you figure we go about making contact with the preacher?”

Cal took a drink and focused on the road. “Shit, kemosabe, I’d say you already did that.”

Terry stopped drinking and glared at Cal, but his hard look didn’t last. He cracked a smile that leaked beer down his chin, then choked on the swallow he’d been working on. He felt foam burning his nostrils and wiped his mouth and nose with his shirt.

Cal smiled. Good to have his friend back.

MONDALE

When Townsend pulled up outside the Hickerson house, Mondale was sitting on the slanted front porch intently smoking a cigarette. He nodded at the deputy and stood, getting the pops out of his knees and back.

Townsend got out of his car and came across the lawn to meet Jimmy. He looked spooked. “What’s the matter, deputy?”

Townsend wouldn’t look at his face. “Musil says you’d better get back to the station straight away.”

“I was planning on it. What’s going on?”

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Kinda figured that, son. You know what about?”

Townsend shook his head and looked at the ground. “Think you’d better talk to Bob.”

“Kid, don’t get squirrelly on me.”

“No, sir.”

Jimmy was uneasy, but decided it would be better to deal with Musil face to face than this kid who looked like he might puke if he were asked any more questions. “Fine. You know Terry Hickerson by sight?”

Townsend shook his head.

“Well he’s the only shitbird likely to come around anyway. He runs with a guy named Dotson. Big ol’ boy, thin red hair. Hickerson’s a skinny runt and he’s likely to be jumpy. Wouldn’t put it past him to be packing either, so try not to make him nervous. Let him know I need to see him down at the station. He gives you any trouble, you let me know.”

Townsend nodded.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Relax, would you? You’re making me nervous.” Jimmy got into his car and started it up. He radioed Wanda at the station to let her know he was on his way.

Her voice came back choked and tight. “Okay, Sheriff.”

Shit
, thought Jimmy. This was gonna be bad.

CHOWDER

When he got to the store, he could see that it had been a busy afternoon. Either the rain and mist from the night before or, more likely, some unaccountable herd instinct he’d given up on second guessing over the years put folks in a fishing frame of mind. Bait, pussy or crank, it didn’t matter, there were unseen forces driving the market. Retail. Shit.

Tate looked up from the register where he was restocking cigarettes. “Jeez, Chowder, you missed a rush.”

“Hettie showed up yet?”

“Yeah, she’s in the office, prepping the deposit.”

Chowder crossed behind the counter and to the office. He opened the door and found his wife sorting through stacks of cash separated into denominations, little piles of coins and an unruly handful of credit card receipts. “You settle that batch yet?”

“Just did,” she answered without looking up.

“Alright. Leave the rest. I’m gonna need to do this now.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out.”

Chowder walked toward the back door and called for Tate to follow him. When he’d unlocked it he waited for Tate to catch up. Tate arrived with a neatly tied thirty-three gallon trash bag twenty seconds later.

“Figured I’d grab this while we were headed toward the dumpster.” Chowder rolled his eyes as he watched the little douchebag heave the trash into the refuse bin.

When Tate turned around, Chowder broke his nose with right jab.

“You’re fired, Tate. Come around any more, I’ll have to kick your ass.”

“Wha tha fa?” Tate managed through the bloody fingers covering his mouth, but Chowder had already shut the door behind him, and he was left standing alone in back of the bait shop.

MONDALE

When Jimmy arrived at the station, it was midafternoon and the shift change had already happened. His day should be ending about now. On the drive over he’d already been making dinner plans in the back of his mind. Thinking about chancing by the grocery store again. Maybe he’d run into Julie. Could happen. He tried to think of something practical to pick up. Chicken breasts – make a salad with em. Or stir-fry it with some rice and broccoli. Something he’d never tried before. No more corn dogs.

But he was just trying to distract himself. Something unpleasant was waiting for him. Musil wanted to talk to him, to ‘Jim.’ Probably meant a personal issue. Work related, he’d have said ‘Sheriff,’ county stuff he might’ve said ‘Jimmy.’ But just ‘Jim’ indicated a personal issue. The familiar mixed with the formal in a way he just couldn’t reconcile as harmless.

Something involving the ASA maybe. A complication with Chowder-related issues. Incident out at Darlin’s or some meth bust not on the agreed-to schedule he and Chowder had set. Something messy like that, probably. Which meant his day wasn’t really over. He’d probably be lucky to have the energy to heat up the rest of the corn dogs when he got home. Hell.

As he opened the station door his cell phone rang. Stepping through, he leaned on the reception desk to fish it out of his pocket. Wanda was getting ready to leave for the day and she gave him a worried look like she expected he was going to ask her to stay or had some unpleasant task in mind for her tomorrow. He got a hold of the phone, and the caller I.D. said it was Julie. How’d she have this number? He didn’t remember giving it to her last night. Maybe she’d got it from Eileen some time before.

“Hey,” he said. He smiled at Wanda and waved her on. She could go home, he’d just stopped there to answer his call. Wanda still looked nervous, but she made to leave at his gesture. She put her hand on his shoulder as she passed and he turned to watch her leave. She’d worked for him for seven years and she’d never touched him before.

Julie’s voice answered, “Hey, yourself.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Oh, you think I’m stalking you?” There was mirth in her suggestion. This was good. Just what he needed, a little emotional pick-me-up to get through the rest of his long night.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I just don’t recall giving it to you.”

“Would you have?”

“’Course.” Wanda turned to look at him through the front door from the parking lot. He waved and she returned it, if hesitantly. “What’s going on?” He turned to head for his office.

“I really enjoyed dinner last night. Best corn dogs I’ve ever had.”

“Well, thank you. I try,” he whispered. His own voice sounded very loud in the station. He looked around and realized it was because no one else was speaking. In fact no one else was working. Everyone was looking at him.

“I was thinking maybe we could do it again?”

“Tonight?” It felt like everyone was listening in on his personal conversation.

“But you could come over to my place this time. I’d like to cook you dinner. You could bring some beers or something.”

“Well that sounds nice actually, but I don’t know if tonight’s going to work.”

“You’re not afraid, are you, Jimmy?”

“Well.” She was blunt. Realizing he was, in fact, not eager for anybody there to know who he was talking to, or about what, he turned around and cupped his mouth over the phone. “As an elected official, I have to be, a little bit.”

“Bullshit, Jimmy. Come on over tonight. I won’t take no for an answer.”

He was simultaneously thrilled and appalled that she’d called him. On the one hand she was an attractive young woman whose company he enjoyed and on the other she was the same age as his own daughter and her forwardness raised some red flags for him.

Bob Musil stepped out of the break room and stood statue still, his arms folded across his chest and eyes locked on Jimmy. Mondale acknowledged him with a tilt of his chin and gave him a raised hand like he’d be right with him.

To Julie he said, “I might have to work.”

“Really?”

“Something’s come up. I’d love to say yes, but I’m afraid I’ll have to call you back.” He could feel her disappointment seeping through the phone and it pleased him and kept his own disappointment company. “But maybe.” He sensed her brighten. “I’ll just have to call you back.”

“Alright.”

He hung up and turned around. Nothing moved in the whole station. Everyone looked at him with earnest expressions of what? Had that little shit from Jeff City made some kind of public statement? Had the lawyer really learned something about his arrangement with Chowder? Learned about the whores and crank labs? The people they’d killed to keep gangsters out of Spruce? His staff looked shocked and ready to rush him.

“Jim, why don’t you come in here and have a seat.”

“What the hell, Bob?” He went into his office and Musil closed the door behind them. “What’s going on?”

Musil stood at the door as if checking to make sure no one was listening outside. Then he turned to face Jimmy, but said nothing.

“Spit it out, Deputy. Stepping on my last nerve, here.”

“I think you should sit, Jim.”

“The hell you say.”

“It’s about the wrecked truck this morning.”

That was a relief. Mondale’s shoulders dropped as the tension left them and he pulled out the chair in front of him. As he began to sit an awful thought occurred to him, “Jesus, Bob. What’s going on?”

“Jim, it’s about Eileen.”

“My Eileen?”

TERRY

It was near dark when they pulled up outside of Terry’s house. “Where the hell did my truck go?” he said.

Cal shrugged. “Wendell take it for a joyride?”