HAMMER DOWN!
by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This slice-of-life dramedy is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: September 1st - 19th, 2022.
This is the fourteenth story about Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the Royal Academy of Bards.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: In Goldsboro, Nevada, the popular Dirt Stock Car Championship visits Thunder Park Raceway to run the EverFresh Two-Fifty - the spectacle has the entire town flocking to the track to see the drivers duke it out in their colorful racers. While Sheriff Mandy Jalinski and her deputies work flat out to keep the peace, Wynne Donohue and her best bud Ernie Bradberry spend the long, hot Saturday up on the grandstand chugging beer, watching the racing and reminiscing about the old days. It's Ernie's last weekend in town, and Wynne is determined to make it a memorable one…
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CHAPTER 1
To those not in the know, seeing two dogs - a fierce-looking, black German Shepherd and a rather less fierce-looking Golden Retriever - standing guard at an empty lawn chair by the side of the road would strike them as odd. Even odder would be the open H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company parasol, the pair of white cooler boxes and the 150-yard long, neon-orange extension cable that provided constant power for the latter.
There was logic and reason behind all of it, and a simple look at the calendar would explain a great deal: the date was Friday, May 27th, i.e. the first day of the big dirt-track stock car event up at Thunder Park Raceway a handful of miles north of Goldsboro, Nevada. The EverFresh Two-Fifty had been advertised for more than a month and a half in all the local media to stir up spectator interest, and the buzz that had been created proved the money that the EverFresh Corporation and their line of antiperspirants and deodorants had put up been well-spent.
The road the odd set-up had been placed at was the State Route that ran past a small trailer park some eight miles south of Goldsboro. Surrounded by the endless, beautiful desert on all sides, the collection of mobile homes presented a closely-knit, friendly community populated by hard-working folks of all ages and personalities.
The empty lawn chair by the side of the road was reserved for the rear-end of the early-fifty-something Wynne Donohue who had been the first to put a trailer at the scenic spot. The woman, best known as The Last Original Cowpoke, had needed yet another bathroom break, but she was in the process of hurrying back to the chair so she wouldn't miss any of the teams en route to Thunder Park.
Wynne upped her tempo even further when she heard the sound of a truck engine working hard somewhere in the middle distance. "Dang! One o' these he' days, I'mma-gonn' bah mahself one o' them there porta-pottehs," the proud dame mumbled as she lowered herself onto the lawn chair.
The searing ambient temperatures meant she'd had to forego her regular outfit of decorated cowboy boots, faded jeans and a denim jacket - instead, she had jumped into tennis shoes and a pair of mid-thigh shorts she had made herself from an old, discarded pair of jeans. Further up, she wore a white, V-neck T-shirt and a loose flannel shirt to protect her shoulders from the merciless sun. Her intense blue eyes were hidden behind a brand-new pair of pitch-black wrap-around shades that made her look sizzlin'-hot and ice-cool at the same time.
Her headwear remained the same: come hell or high water, the battered, sweat-stained and low-crowned cowboy hat would only leave her dark locks for four things: one, when she needed it to fan her flushed self; two, when she donned her ear protectors to work on her old truck; three, when she went to church - and that happened once a year at the most - and four, at bedtime when she snuggled up next to her main squeeze, the sheriff of Goldsboro.
Wynne's comment about the porta-potty made the black German Shepherd let out an amused Wooooof? that sounded like she was asking her owner why she didn't just use the Really Large Desert Bathroom instead of the tiny, white one back home at the trailer.
Too many seconds had already gone by without consuming the golden nectar known as beer, so Wynne got up and went over to the nearest cooler box. She scratched her chin a couple of times before she went for one of the dark-golden cans containing the 1910 Special Brew.
It had barely been opened with the familiar psssshhht! when a hauler truck appeared through the typical desert haze half a mile south of the entrance to the trailer park. Wynne let out a whoop and hurried back to the lawn chair.
As the truck from the Ohlsson Bros. Race Team drove past, Wynne greeted it in style by hooting, hollering and waving her beer high in the air - the dogs soon joined in with a few celebratory woofs, barks and yaps. The enthusiastic greeting was rewarded by several stabs of the truck's airhorns as it drove past.
"Haw-yuh! Lettem roll up at Thundah Park, yessir! Now we be talkin'," she said before the can of beer met her lips and rendered her unable to do anything but gulp 'n swallow.
---
Four further trucks drove past before a brief lull developed - the team haulers had all been greeted in Wynne's typical exuberant style so she and the dogs were happy for a little respite. The contents of the can of 1910 Special Brew had long since gone down her gullet, so it had been replaced by a Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer that only lasted a short minute.
As Wynne got up once again to get another can of nectar, the keen hearing of the German Shepherd Blackie and the Golden Retriever Goldie picked up a distant engine note that was clearly not produced by a hard-working diesel truck.
Woof!
"Whazzat, Blackie?" Wynne said while she rummaged around in the cooler box to find another Double-Zero.
Woof-Woof!
Backing away from the cooler, Wynne cocked her head as the sound of a highly-tuned muscle car engine reached her own ears. "Aw-yuh, wouldya lissen ta that there mechanical symphoneh. That be a General Motahs cah-r, awri'te. A three-nineteh-six if I ain't mistaken. Yuh. RoarMastah mufflahs, too. An' it sure be haulin' ass. Lawrdie, I reckon I know whut that there cah-r mi'te be… an' who be drivin' it."
An interested Yap? was uttered by the Golden Retriever who got up and shuffled over to sit next to her owner's legs.
"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie, there, Goldie. Sure ain't," Wynne mumbled as she took a long swig of her beer.
A few moments later, a black 1988 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS came into view going at full song. The black body panels, the silver-gray stripes at the lower lips of the doors, and the white lettering on the sides proved it was an Intimidator tribute car - the only visual difference were the forward-slanted race numbers on the doors that read 82 instead of 3.
When the driver spotted the trio of spectators at the side of the road, the Monte Carlo slowed down at once until it came to a burbling halt next to the lawn chair, the Fenwyck parasol and the cooler boxes. Though the engine was turned off after a few moments, the electric fan continued to hum to keep the hard-working heavy metal lump cool.
The window net at the driver's side was soon lowered to provide room to climb out for the person behind the wheel - though it was a street car, the doors were welded shut like on the real thing.
"Whah, if it ain't ol' Phyl. Howdy," Wynne said in a voiced tinged with a certain amount of embarrassment. Vivid memories of the handful of hot summers spent together with Phyllis O'Connell ran past her mind's eye. As the memories faded from view, they left a dark undertone of a betrayal of her wife-for-life Mandy Jalinski. In turn, that left a sour taste in her mouth that no amount of beer could cure.
Blackie seemed to sense her owner's ambivalence toward the other lady, but she was uncertain if she should greet her with an upbeat bark or a warning-growl. Ultimately, she chose an upbeat bark, as did Goldie.
Phyllis O'Connell grinned at her ex. Though she had just turned forty, the race car driver's physical presence proved she was in great shape. Like always at the start of the racing season, her blond hair had been trimmed short so it wouldn't get in the way when she needed to put on her fireproof balaclava and the crash helmet. She wore light-weight ankle boots, sandy cargo pants and a black chintz car coat over a white T-shirt - fingerless, high-grip driving gloves and mirrored Aviator shades completed the ensemble.
"Hiya, Wynne. Lookin' good… but I didn't expect ya not to, know what I mean? Hiya, Blackie… Goldie," Phyllis said and took off her Aviators. The expensive frame was folded up and stuck down the upper hem of her T-shirt. Her pale-brown eyes did a quick tour of Wynne's inventory before they locked onto her face.
An uncharacteristic growl escaped the Golden Retriever's throat. The sound made it clear the status-quo-loving Goldie had changed her mind from earlier as she sensed the presence of the other woman might upset the proverbial apple cart.
"Much obliged… but Phyl, lissen-"
Before Wynne could go on, the hauler belonging to Phyllis' team rumbled past. Phyllis waved at the truck driver who responded by yanking the cord for his airhorns. Unlike the Intimidator tribute on the '88 Monte Carlo, the truck was painted in the gold-and-black colors of their sponsor, the EverFresh Corporation, who also footed the bill for the entire event. A large likeness of Phyllis had been attached to the truck's side next to a picture of the #84 EverFresh Fighting Spirit Chevrolet Lumina dirt stock car she drove in the championship.
Once the truck had rumbled past, Phyllis turned back to Wynne. "Are you and the deputy still together?"
"Yes Ma'am, but she ain't no de-per-teh no mo'. She be the sheriff o' Goldsborah now," Wynne said and stuck her hands into her rear pockets like she often did when the situation was just on the wrong side of embarrassing. To steer the conversation back to safe waters, she said: "Haw, an' congratula-shuns on winnin' las'yeah's championship an' all. I thunk 'bout contactin' y'all las' Octobah, but… a cuppel-a things done happened an' I didden get 'round ta it or nuttin'."
"Ah, never mind that now," Phyllis said and waved her hand. "Thanks, Wynne. Let's see if I can repeat it. I think we got a pretty good shot, but you never know with these things."
"Naw… sure ain't no lie. I done seen enuff racin' ta know."
Though a great deal of time had passed since the women had split up for good, the chemistry between them was still as strong as ever. In their heyday, their relationship had been fiery and fluctuated between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows; the fights had been wild and the make-up sex wilder.
One morning after a ferocious night that had contained plenty of both elements, Wynne realized she had reached a point of her life where she needed real love and not just raw, animal attraction. After she had spent the entire day wringing out her soul to explain her heart's needs and desires, Phyllis' only answer had been to pack her bags and move out. Come nightfall, the trailer had been dark and quiet for the first time in ages.
"Anyhows," Wynne said in a mumble.
Phyllis grinned again before she put on her Aviators. "Yeah, I better be going. Hey, what's that I hear about you owning a bed-and-breakfast now? Up in Goldsboro, right?"
"Yuh, 's right. Me an' ol' Moira done went inta bizness tagethah an' renovated the ol' buildin' next ta the bar an' grill. Yuh. Ya rent a room there?"
"Yep. Catch ya in town, Wynne." The Aviators were moved up just long enough for Phyllis to wink at her ex - it earned her an embarrassed grunt from the woman in question and another growl from Goldie.
After climbing aboard the Monte Carlo, Phyllis started the engine, found first gear and took off in a explosive roar that made the fat rear tires light up. Reams of pale-gray smoke billowed out of the wheel wells as the muscle car gained speed - it left a pair of twenty-foot-long black lines behind on the tarmac.
Wynne chewed on her cheek as she watched the black car fly up the State Route toward Goldsboro. "Lawrdie, Ah need-a beah," she mumbled before she plotted the shortest route back to the cooler box.
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It took close to an hour before the irregular flow of race trucks slowed down to a mere trickle. Hungry and almost out of beer, Wynne vacated the lawn chair, folded it up and stuck it under her arm. "C'mon, girls," she said and patted her thigh. Once she had the full attention of her dogs, she whistled and pointed at the trailer park which sent them running ahead like they had trained.
After disconnecting the smaller of the two cooler boxes from its near-endless power cable, she grabbed its plastic handle and commenced the trek back to her mobile home.
Such a journey only required putting one tennis shoe in front of the other enough times to reach her front door, but the heat and the amount of beer she had consumed ganged up on her to make it a difficult adventure - and she needed to do it twice more to collect the other cooler box, the heavy parasol and the extension cable itself. A long, pained sigh escaped her when she realized that the idea wasn't quite as good in real life as it had seemed when she had cooked it up sitting in her soft, comfortable couch.
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Back home in her trailer after what felt like three trips around the Equator, she needed to draw a cold washcloth across her forehead and neck before she could move onto the rest of the day's program.
Her stomach soon made its presence felt by letting out a few growls. Shuffling into her kitchenette, she downed an entire can of Go-Faster-Longer apricot-flavored energy drink while she unwrapped and wolfed down a large chicken-and-bacon sandwich she had made earlier in the day.
Getting the food and the high-intensity caffeine drink down in her gut should have given her a fair-sized kick, but it didn't - the sight of Blackie and Goldie snuggled up in their doggy basket down on the kitchen floor made Wynne break out in a ten-inch-wide yawn.
"Lawrdie, Ah be gettin' old… whutevah next… slippahs an' cheroots?" she mumbled as she tore off her tennis shoes and shuffled into the bedroom for a short nap.
---
The forty-minute nap gave her the boost she needed, so she pulled a filthy, old coverall over her nice clothes, grabbed her tool box and ventured back outside - she had a vintage truck to tinker with.
Blackie and Goldie soon ran around the corner of the trailer to join their owner at the truck. After giving the neatly-groomed lawn between the trailers a thorough check, the dogs reconvened at a blanket that Wynne had spread out for them under the H.E. Fenwyck parasol. They exchanged a few muted barks and yaps to let the other know what they had found before they rubbed shoulders and settled down.
Before long, Wynne's smartphone was docked into a pair of external speakers that her neighbor and friend Brenda Travers had helped her set up. The DJ on the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack radio station broadcasting out of Lansingburg cued a block of commercials just as she turned up the volume, but there was nothing she could do about that.
The first commercial was the ubiquitous promo for the EverFresh Two-Fifty. The latest one featured an audio clip of Phyllis O'Connell mentioning a special raffle where one lucky winner would get a free pit pass to visit any team entered in the event.
Upon hearing the voice, Goldie responded by letting out a deep, guttural growl that made Blackie shoot her a puzzled glance.
Wynne let out a sound reminiscent of a cross between a snort and a groan as she got down on her pro-quality workshop rolling board. "Lawrdie, I sure hope ol' Phyl got herself a big, fat paycheck fer all them co-muhr-shuals she been doin', 'cos, dang… two months straight o' nuttin' but the EvahFresh Two-Fifteh he' an' the EvahFresh Two-Fifteh there… 's gettin' ta be kinda much," she mumbled as she shoved herself in under a beat-up and broken-down 1979 Chevrolet K10 pickup truck she had bought on a whim as a restoration project.
The commercial block finally ended which allowed the DJ to continue with the hour's theme: Country Rock from the mid-1990s. Soon, a live recording of Tyrone Shaw's number one hit from 1995, Lipstick & Chrome, started playing.
Taking a wrench to the K10's leaky rear-end took all her concentration so she didn't notice the blue-and-silver-metallic Ford F350 Super Duty Crew Cab truck that entered the trailer park. The gravel crunched underneath the large tires as it came closer in a slow but purposeful fashion until it reached the lawn; once there, the Ford turned away from the central area and drove over to one of the trailers on the far side.
When the driver hopped out, Blackie noticed at once and let out a couple of happy woofs. Goldie did one better by getting on her feet and hurrying over to the mysterious guest.
Wynne heard the barks but had little time to see what it was about. Clenching her jaw and her abdominal muscles, she grabbed the handle of the wrench with both hands and tried to force it to the side to get the reluctant bolt to release. A torrent of grunts, groans and mumbled curses escaped her as she discovered the bolt wasn't just reluctant but downright obstinate. The grunts and groans turned to "Uhhngg… uhhngg… uhhhhhh-ngg! Uhhngg… Soooh-mbitch! Whah, Ah oughtta… aw-ri'te, if y'all want it da hard way, dad-gummit, y'all gonn' get it da dang-blasted hard way, son! Don'say Ah didden warn ya!"
'Excuse me, lady! Do you know where I can find the movie star Wynne Donohue?' a male voice said somewhere out on the lawn.
Although the voice had been distorted - like someone had pinched their nostrils while speaking - it only took Wynne a second or two to make the connection. "Lawwwwwwwr-die! Ah do bah-lieve Ah done heard a familiar voice!" she cried as she wheeled herself out from underneath the truck.
A single look confirmed her suspicions, so she jumped up and spread her arms out wide - only then did she notice her efforts with the wrench had been a success after all, because the entire front of her coverall had been coated in an oily sludge and ancient rear-end grease. Chuckling, she yanked the work clothes off her shoulders so she could carry out the hug she had been aiming for.
Soon, Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry was pulled into a strong hug that offered plenty of wide grins and mutual back-slapping. "Whah if it ain't mah deah, ol' friend Ernie Bradberreh…" Wynne said as she took in the sight of her buddy. After moving clear so she could step out of the coverall, she cocked her head and let out a grunt of surprise when she realized Ernie's usual chubby frame had become a great deal less so.
Now in his very-late forties, Ernie continued to wear his usual combo of work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, a hunting vest and a Built Ford Tough baseball cap, but it didn't take an optician to see that he had lost weight. His mullet and walrus mustache remained as voluminous as ever, but several of the double-chins had gone and his shirt was no longer stretched beyond breaking point at the buttons - the pale-brown leather belt he wore around his waist wasn't even locked onto the outer stop.
"Whaddinda-wohhhhh-rld?" Wynne said as she took a longer look at her old friend. "Whe'dahell da rest o' ya, buddeh? Tell me, that there Rev'rend Berna-deehne done run ya ragged or som'tin? Or mebbe she has ya eatin' that there wabbit-food twentah-foah-seven?"
"Nah. It was just time for a little change."
"Lawrdie, I call that a big, ol' change!" Wynne said as she put her hands on Ernie's shoulders. Down on the grass, Blackie and Goldie seemed to agree as they let out several cheerful yaps and woofs while circling Ernie's legs. "Yuh. Whah, I do hope y'all still be drinkin' beah? I been guardin' a stash o' that there Fenwyck Centennial Brew the Grant-Mastah done ordah'd fer us."
Ernie grinned and hooked his thumbs inside his vest. "I still drink beer, yeah. So…?"
"So whaddahell 'r we standin' he' fer? There be beah ovah inda trailah," Wynne said and matched the grin with one of her own.
---
A pair of identical pssssshhhht! echoed through the living area of Wynne's trailer just shy of three minutes later. Occupying the couch, she and Ernie leaned closer to clink the cans together. "Down the hatch, buddeh!" she cried as she and Ernie threw their heads back and let gravity take care of the rest.
Wynne had sprung for one of the red cans that contained the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company's limited-run - and quite potent - Centennial Brew, but Ernie had been unable to resist the lure of a Midnight Velvet Stout when he had clapped eyes on the black can among Wynne's stash.
"Man, I wish ya done called ahead or som'tin!" Wynne said and reached over to poke her friend in the side. "Me an' mah sweet, li'l Mandeh ain't got nuttin' in that there refri-gah-ratah o' ou'ahs… an' that ain't no exaggera-shun, nosirree. I coulda ordah'd some o' them Chickeh Kingz mystereh boxes or som'tin!"
"I just came to do a little packin' and to use it as a base for sleepin' during the race weekend. I didn't want to intrude," Ernie said with a shrug.
"Aw, whaddahell kinda bullcrap is dat, Ernie?! Ain't we been buds fer ye'ahs an' ye'ahs? We sure has," Wynne said and shuffled around on the couch so she could look Ernie in the eye. The 'packing' part made the corners of her mouth droop for a moment, but the bad feeling was quenched by a long swig of her strong Centennial Brew.
As she spoke on, she waved the red can around to underscore her words: "Okeh, I'mma-gonn' tell ya whut we gonn' do… yuh? First, we gonn' chew the fat an' swig some beah, yuh? Okeh?"
"Sure," Ernie said with a grin as he held up the black can.
"An' when that ain't fuh-n no mo', we be goin' ovah ta yer trailah fer a li'l packin'. Yuh? We do that fer a li'l while an' then y'all an' me an' them dawggies gonn' drive up ta Goldsborah, yuh? Then I'mma-gonn' shove ol' Slow Lane asih-de an' make us a cuppel-a King Kong-sized steaks an' fries an' all the dang-blasted trimmin's. Yuh? Whaddaya say ta that, buddeh?"
Ernie grinned a little more before he emptied the first can of many. "You had me at chewin' the fat, Wynne. Gimme the latest from around town!"
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Once the trail fat had been well and truly chewed - and a six-pack of Double-Zeros had been reduced to empty containers - Wynne and Ernie shuffled across the lawn to get to the trailer sitting opposite Wynne's. "I have a stack of brand new packing cases in the back," Ernie said and changed course to get over to his F350 first.
He handed Wynne seven sheets of cardboard when he returned to her. Since unfolding the sheets into proper boxes required a lot of arm-waving, they did it on the lawn to avoid having their elbows knock various things off the shelves.
As they worked, Ernie glanced at the other trailers and the landscape surrounding them. "Damn, I'm gonna miss this little corner of the world. I mean, okay, we've had our fair share of bad stuff out here, but Cavanaugh Creek is something else. Busy, polluted, noisy… downtown is a human cesspool and there's plenty of crap goin' on out in the supposedly classy suburbs as well. Just the other week, the Vice Squad of the CCPD performed a large-scale bust at a private massage parlor! Not half a mile from Bernadine's church! I'm tellin' ya, the top brass damn near had a collective heart attack…"
"Lawwwwwr-die! Yuh, them big citehs jus' ain't fit fer human bein's. Anyhows. The view o' that there desuhrt at sunrise an' sunset, yuh? Ya sure don't get that in Cavvah-naw Creek, or aneh othah big citeh fer that mattah… nosirree. Sittin' on mah porch with mah darlin', eatin' watahmelon or some such on them hawt summah evenin's… it don't get no bettah than that," Wynne said as she pushed, pulled and folded all the usual cardboard wings and flaps to get it to resemble a packing case. Once it was done, she grabbed the next sheet and started over.
They worked in silence for the next few minutes until they each had seven packing cases ready to be stuffed full of Ernie and Bernadine's possessions. Dusting off her hands, Wynne stood up straight and let out a brief sigh. "This prolleh gonn' sound morbid an' all, but I ain't nevah leavin' this he' place. I done found mah oah-n heaven ri'te he' on Earth, yuh? Them folks gonn' carreh me outta he'… whenevah that may be. Yuh? That's all I be sayin' on that there subject, but y'all can take it ta the bank."
Ernie reached over to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "I hear ya. Anyway, how are the Tooleys? And Diego? Is Brenda still doing her yoga thing each morning?"
"Yuh, she sure is! An' she be mo' agile than evah!" Wynne said while a cheeky grin spread across her face. "Aw, ol' Diego be fih-ne, he jus' ain't hoah-me this he' weekend. Neithah 'r them Travahs fer that mattah."
"Is Vaughn Travers still a wishy-washy fella?"
"Haw, he sure is!" Wynne said with a broad grin that faded when her thoughts turned to the next of her neighbors: "Anyhows, Frank Tooley done fell off that there wagon ag'in. He an' Estelle ain't havin' the best o' tih-mes. She be workin' her bee-hind off doin' at least two jobs ta provide fer their famileh, but Frank be spendin' them hard-earned dollahs at Derrike's gettin' loaded jus' 'bout ev'reh ni'te."
"Damn, that sucks…"
"Yuh. Li'l Renee 's doin' fih-ne… but she gone a li'l mo' quiet than she been until now so I reckon she be feelin' that there strain on her mommah. Mandeh an' me 've had the li'l one ovah fer a sleep-in a cuppel-a tih-mes when there wus a li'l too much shoutin' goin' on in their trailah… catch mah drift?"
"Yeah…"
Wynne piled three of the empty packing cases on top of each other but didn't yet pick them up. "Tell ya one thing, tho'… if Frank evah lays a fingah on Estelle or Renee, he bettah head inta that there desuhrt an' keep runnin' 'til he can't run no mo'. If he don't, I'mma-gonn' pummel 'im but good. Yuh. He knows it, too. He ain't dumb, jus' feelin' way too sorreh fer hisself." Grunting, Wynne picked up the assembled cases and walked over to the front door.
Ernie moved ahead of her to unlock it. Once the path was clear, Wynne stepped inside and deposited the cases on the living room floor.
"Is Frank working now?" Ernie said once he had retrieved and put down the next batch of packing cases.
"Naw. An' he ain't doin' nuttin' ta find 'nothah one, neithah. I trah'd askin' 'round town, but his reputa-shun as a hevveh drinkah counts ag'inst 'im. He ain't the first fella in the woh-rld ta be fiah-ed from his job, but he sure does sound lack it when he be cryin' in his beah. Aw-hell, 'nuff 'bout ol' Frank now. C'mon, buddeh… les'do this so we can head up ta Goldsborah fer a li'l chow. Okeh?"
"Yup," Ernie said and picked up the first of the empty cases. "You wanna do the bedroom, the bathroom or the pantry?"
"Lawrdie, I done seen the darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne an' y'all's bedroom! Ain't gonn' be that one, nosirree… I mi'te pass out from an ovahdose o' da feminines!"
Ernie let out a knowing laugh as he shuffled over to the bedroom to see for himself. The first laugh was joined by another one just like it as he waved Wynne over to take a gander at the state - or rather the colors - of the room. "Yeah, tell me about it. Y'know, I never thought I'd have a bed with flounces and shit on it. Pink flounces…"
Wynne nodded a couple of times as she took in the sight of the highly feminine bedroom. She took in Ernie's rugged presence before she glanced at the lacy curtains, the cutesy bedspread and the decorated porcelain vases holding dried flowers that had been placed on an old-fashioned dresser. "Yuh… pantreh, he' Ah come," she said and made a beeline for the well-stocked back room - a loud cry of 'Boc-boc-chickenshit!' accompanied her there.
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Half an hour later, Wynne knelt on the pantry's dusty linoleum floor trying to get an errant can of baked beans to roll back out from underneath a fixed metal shelf. The canned food had ended up in there after she had dropped three of the four dust-covered cans she had tried to get off the top shelf in one go, but the fact it was her own fault did nothing to appease her.
She used a broom to make sweeping swings under the fixed shelf while mumbling a long line of inventive curses, but success wasn't exactly forthcoming regardless of her choice of words. It hadn't been a total loss as she had found a petrified stick of bubble gum, two dollars in small change and a multi-legged something-or-other she felt no need to be introduced to. Fortunately for all concerned parties, the insect had shared her view of the situation and had zipped back underneath the shelf before she could whack it.
When the can finally grew tired of playing hide and seek and rolled back out, Wynne let out a triumphant chuckle that lasted all of three seconds - then she clapped eyes on the expiry date.
A brief scramble later, she established that the can of beans wasn't the only one that had gone far beyond the expiry date printed on it - a can of asparagus, a ready-to-heat chili con carne and even a can of Spam that had all shared the top shelf belonged in the Goldsboro Town Museum instead of in anyone's pantry. "Good shit almi'teh… these he' ol' cans be… awwww-this jus' ain't ri'te, friend! Them dang-blasted baked beans is fifteen yea'hs outta date, Ernie! Fifteen!"
'Well, don't open it!'
Wynne rolled her eyes and leaned back on her thighs. "Aw, an' there I wus, thinkin' we coudda hadda grand ol' feast or som'tin! O' course I ain't gonn' open it! Wotcha take me fer, Ernie?" she said loudly while she studied the ancient cans.
Before Ernie could add another quip to the good-humored banter, a woman let out a frightened cry out on the lawn. A couple of barks and happy yaps followed before another cry was heard.
"Now whaddahell?" Wynne said and got up from the floor. She zoomed over to the windows overlooking the lawn in four long strides in case they had been visited by yet another of the supernatural, otherworldly or just plain monstrous beings that seemed magnetically attracted to Goldsboro and the trailer park.
The cause for the commotion proved to be an Asian woman in his late twenties or early thirties. She clutched a jerrycan to her chest while Blackie and Goldie ran around her letting out a disharmonic concert of happy yaps - it was clear by the terrified look on her face she was afraid of the playful dogs.
"Shoot… y'all can sit tight, Ernie… I jus' gotta deal with a li'l drah-mah."
Ernie came out of the bathroom holding a plastic bottle of shampoo and a very feminine-looking pink hairbrush. "Monsters?"
"Naw. Or mebbe yuh 'cos it sure don't look lack someboddah done 'preciate the welcomin' parteh," Wynne said as she stuck her bare feet into a pair of neon-green flip-flops and left the living area.
Grunting, Ernie went into the bathroom to put the two items back where he had found them; then he grabbed his latest can of Double-Zero and vacated the premises as well.
---
Blackie and Goldie zipped around their new playmate in dizzying circles. Happy to have found someone who could beat an armadillo or even a possum when it came to the classic game of Playing Dead, they only reacted to the second, piercing whistle that came out of their owner's mouth.
When they spotted the familiar thigh-clap, they left their new playmate behind to gather at the denim-clad legs - it only took a few seconds for the hand to point at the far side of their home trailer. Blackie let out a puzzled Woooof? to seek clarification, but it seemed their owner wasn't in the mood to explain as she made a big number out of pointing a second time.
Blackie and Goldie exchanged a few woofs and yaps before they ran off to continue playing out of sight of the peculiar humans.
The Asian woman let out a deep sigh of relief as she relaxed her tense stance. The jerrycan she had been clutching to her chest was put on the ground so she could dab her glistening brow with a handkerchief that already appeared to be soaked. She wore open-toed shoes that looked as if they would be far more at home on a smooth parquet floor than in the rugged terrain found in or near the desert; further up, she wore a red, large-flowered tunic that came to just below the rear of her dark-blue jeans - the latter clothing item displayed plenty of road dust all the way up to her knees. A wide waist-belt kept the tunic in place while an equally wide sunhat reached out past her shoulders to cover all of her dark hair.
Standing at only five-foot-two, she was a whopping nine inches shorter than Wynne so she had to lean her head back when she was spoken to.
"Howdy!" Wynne said with a grin as she put out her hand. "I be Wynne Donnah-hew an' this he' strappin' fella be mah friend Ernie Bradberreh. Can we help ya or som'tin? I be guessin' we can 'cos y'all seem kinda lost."
"Hi. I'm Nancy Tranh Nguyen," the woman said and shook hands with the local residents. "Actually, I know exactly where I am… my camper van broke down a couple of miles south of here-"
"Shoot! Been dere, done dat. Sure ain't no fun, no Ma'am," Wynne said and broke out in a somber nod.
"Ah… yes… but anyway, I was wondering if somebody here could lend me a little diesel? Just enough to reach Goldsboro and… the gas… station. No?" Nancy said in a voice that trailed off when Wynne began to shake her head no more than halfway through the sentence.
Wynne scratched her neck several times in rapid succession. "Naw. This sure be one o' them there shitteh situa-shuns an' all, but there be a cuppel-a li'l issues with that there nih-ce request. One, ain't noboddah he' uses dee-sel so ain't noboddah got nuttin'. Ou'ah friend Diegoh Benitez… he lives right ovah yondah, yuh?" - Wynne pointed at Diego's trailer - "used ta have one o' them there dee-sel generatahs fer when da powah went out, but the darn thing done crapped out on 'im an' he didden get a replacement. An' two, that there gas sta-shun be closed fer the entirah weekend 'cos ev'rehboddah at the Bang 'n Beatin' be up at Thundah Park workin' as assistant mechanics an' whutnot. Haw! Or mebbe y'all is with them race teams he' fer the EvahFresh Two-Fifteh?"
"Race teams?" Nancy said and furrowed her brow in a clear bout of puzzlement. She let her eyes move from Wynne to Ernie a couple of times before they settled on Wynne. "No, I've bought a house in Goldsboro. On Second Street-"
"Aw-yuh, in that there new zoah-ne them Town Council folks done planned out?"
"I believe so, yes. I bought it online and I've never actually been there. In any case, I'm moving in today and I have all my things in a U-haul that's hooked up to my camper," Nancy said and pointed over her shoulder. "Dammit… with this heat, all my things are likely to cook inside the trailer…"
Wynne let out a grunt of sympathy. She and Ernie only needed a single glance at each other before they broke out in identical grins. Nodding, Ernie shuffled over to his Ford to get it ready - unlike Wynne's Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition, the F350 had a trailer coupling.
"Tell ya whut we gonn' do, Nancy," Wynne said with a grin. "Ol' Ernie an' me an' y'all gonn' drih-ve down ta ya campah van an' check it out. Mebbe it jus' be an em'teh fuel tank or mebbe it be som'tin worse, yuh? We sure ain't no propah mechanics or nuttin' but mebbe that there problem is obvi's or som'tin. Ya ain't nevah know befo' ya done clapped eyes on it, yuh? Anyhows, if the durn thing don't wanna run or som'tin, ol' Ernie gonn' hook that there Yoo-haul up ta his own Foh-rd. Yuh? Izzat awri'te with y'all?"
Nancy needed to narrow her eyes as her mind tried to parse the tidal wave of words. She nodded a couple of times before the meaning had made it through all the appropriate filters. "Oh! Yes… yes, of course. Thank you very much. I only have twenty dollars left in cash-"
"Hold 'em hosses, pardnah," Wynne said and shook her head hard. "This he' be Goldsborah, dontchaknow. Ain't noboddah expectin' nuttin' in return. We all jus' wanna help someboddah when they be in trubbel. Tell ya whut… once ya done got settled in an' all, come ovah ta Moira's Bar an' Grill, yuh? It be ri'te there on Main Street… sure ain't no missin' it or nuttin' 'cos it done says Moira's ovah the doah. Friendliest eatin' place in all o' MacLean Counteh, yuh?"
"Uh… okay… Moira's?"
"Yuh. Da bar an' grill. An' som'tin else, there, Nanceh…" Wynne said and put a motherly hand on Nancy's elbow. "Whutevah ya do, stay da hell away from Derrike Ivahson's shitteh dih-ve on the othah sih-de o' Main. Y'all gotta promise me that. Them folks usin' that rat hole fer boozin' an' yakkin' sure ain't among the fih-nest o' the bunch, catch mah drift?"
"Noted. Thank you for the heads-up."
"Aw, ya sure is welcome an' all."
While Wynne had delivered her warning, Ernie had reversed the F350 over to the two women. Climbing out, he shuffled around the truck and opened the rear door to the crew cab - in regular work trucks, the rear compartment would have been a rudimentary affair, but his custom special was equipped with soft seats and acres of plush velvet that carried the same blue-and-silver tones as the paint job. "My'Lady… your limousine has arrived," he said with a grin.
"Ernie Bradberreh, I be guessin' y'all ain't includin' me in that there statement, 'r ya?" - Ernie shook his head - "Naw, didden reckon ya wus. Anyhows, Nanceh, ol' Ernie be one o' them there Blue Oval boys. Ya know, Foh-rd enthusiasts? So he be prone ta spewin' all sorts-a… wait-a-minnite… whut make is ya campah van, anyhows?"
"It's a GMC Vandura," Nancy said as she slid onto the plush seat.
"Haw! General Motahs fer the win," Wynne said with a grin - it faded when she realized the reason for Nancy Tranh Nguyen showing up in the trailer park in the first place was that her GMC had suffered mechanical issues. "Uh… yuh. Or som'tin."
"Or somethin'," Ernie said and delivered a wink that was anything but subtle. "Maybe you oughtta bring your really large tool box? I mean… a General Motors vehicle breaking down? It's bound to be something major-"
"Y'all bettah not be pullin' that there Built Foh-rd Tuff bull on me, son! Ah be in a good mood taday so Ah'mma-gonn' let it slih-de this tih-me. Yessir," Wynne said while she narrowed her eyes down into icy-blue slits - she couldn't hold the glare for long and soon broke out in a laugh.
She was about to climb onto the front seat when a distant sequence of happy woofing reached her ears. "Aw… Nancy, y'all sure didden look too comf'tabbel 'round them dawggies befo'… am I ri'te in sayin' that?"
The woofing had already made a concerned expression fall over Nancy's face, and she glanced out at the lawn to see if the dogs were meant to come along. "I'm afraid that's the case… I guess I'm… well, kinda frightened of dogs."
"Haw, 's awri'te, there, Nancy," Wynne said and scratched her chin. "Tell ya whut… okeh, he' whut we gonn' do. Ernie, y'all an' Nanceh drih-ve ahead. Yuh? Me an' them dawggies gonn' follow in mah Silveradah in two minnites. Okeh?"
Ernie gave his friend a thumbs-up. "Works for me, Wynne. I reckon you probably couldn't keep up, anyway." Before Wynne could as much as open her mouth to moan about his cheekiness, he had put his boot on the gas pedal. The engine roared which made the F350 shoot away from the lawn at a high rate of knots.
Wynne slammed her hands onto her hips as she glared at the custom Ford driving off. She mouthed a few choice words before a deep sigh escaped her. "That cheekeh so-an'-so! Dang, Ah'mma-gonn' miss ol' Ernie… ain't noboddah else evah dare teasin' me lack that… hell, ain't nuttin' Ah can do 'bout it now. Jus' gotta getta most outta it while he be he'."
Turning around, Wynne sighed again as she shuffled back to her trailer to round up her canine companions and to visit the bathroom - the latter was rather more urgent than the former.
*
*
CHAPTER 2
Meanwhile up north in Goldsboro, a lethal dose of venom flew out of the eyes of Junior Deputy Sheriff Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly and onto the item she had been sent to investigate.
For the third time in as many weeks, somebody had used the southern Welcome To Goldsboro, NV. Where Magical Things Happen! sign for target practice. Set up at the northern and southern entrances to the town, the signs had been meant to improve the community's image so it would no longer be known as Calamity Central, but they seemed to have acted as an open invitation for all sorts of riff-raff instead.
Beatrice Reilly had been handed the tedious task of taking photographic evidence of the latest bout of vandalism. The most recent deputy in the Goldsboro office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department made sure to snap as many pictures as she could so she didn't have to go back to it - at least not until the next time somebody would take potshots at the poor, defenseless signs.
The deputy had been a devout idealist since day one, but her stay in Goldsboro had made her turn into a stickler for upholding the town's rules and regulations. She took pride in the fact she had issued more fines and citations than her two fellow deputies and her sheriff combined, and she was determined to be a rock of law and order amid all the chaos and confusion that seemed to haunt Goldsboro on a regular basis.
The cold shoulder she was beginning to be treated to in certain circles failed to bother her. In fact, she preferred to keep a certain distance between the local population and the law enforcement officers simply because their vital role of upholding the laws would suffer if personal feelings were to get in the way. The last thing she wanted was to have 'special friends' among the residents; they would inevitably grow too chummy and expect certain favors in return.
Her black-and-gray uniform was in pristine condition. Plenty of shoe polish and elbow grease had been applied to the black boots that had grown so shiny they could be used as mirrors. The pale-gray pants carried severe creases all the way up to the leather utility belt and the black shirt - the latter clothing item had been starched to literally keep it in shape across her chest and shoulders.
The sizzling ambient temperatures had forced her to go without her uniform jacket as even the summer design was too warm to be practical, but she had transferred the most important items to the pockets of her pants. Her necktie was tucked in between the fourth and fifth buttons as the uniform code demanded, and her pale-gray Mountie hat was free of dust or lint and sat straight across her brow.
Once the vandalized sign had been photographed from all angles twice over, Beatrice put the camera away and reached for the portable radio on her utility belt. "Deputy Reilly to base. Deputy Reilly to base, over," she said before releasing the key.
'Go ahead, Deputy,' a male voice said - it belonged to Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez.
The acknowledgment was marred by static so Beatrice twisted one of the knobs before she replied: "The vandalism has been thoroughly recorded. Unless you have something for me at the office, I'll head out on foot patrol now. Over."
'Stand by, Deputy.'
"Deputy Reilly standing by," Beatrice said and took the opportunity to pick off a piece of fluff that had found its way onto her uniform pants. The delay grew lengthy so she turned around to observe the State Route heading south. After the influx of race haulers earlier in the day, the road through the desert had once more become devoid of any vehicles.
The radio soon came back to life with a crackling 'Base to Deputy Reilly. Base to Deputy Reilly.'
"Deputy Reilly ready to receive. Over."
'The Sheriff requests that you join her for traffic control,' Rodolfo continued from his spot less than two-hundred yards further north on Main Street. 'Scuttlebutt has it that some of the younger members of the race teams might be planning to do a little drag racing at the intersection. Over.'
A grim mask fell over Beatrice's fair face at the news of youthful exuberance and thus potential delinquency in her town. Reaching behind her with her free hand, she checked her utility belt's various pouches that carried her metal handcuffs and an extra set of plastic cable ties, her two canisters of pepper spray, the three spare magazines for her service pistol, and - perhaps most important of all - a brand new book of fines that contained seventy crisp, clean and above all empty pages just waiting to be handed out to various scoundrels.
"Deputy Reilly responding expeditiously to request. ETA three to four minutes. Reilly out," she said before she hooked the portable radio to her belt and took off in a purposeful stride.
---
Sheriff Mandy Jalinski was already present at Goldsboro's sole set of traffic lights at the intersection of Main and Second Street. The compact, athletic woman stood on the adjacent sidewalk with her arms crossed over her chest and her boots firmly planted on the ground to create an intimidating presence despite her slender build.
One of the Dodge Durangos used by the Sheriff's Department had been parked in the northbound lane of Main Street; all its emergency lights were flashing to tell the would-be racers they might as well drop their notion of having a little motorized fun at the expense of road safety.
A string of vehicles were lined up in front of Moira's Bar & Grill. Though most of them were vans or trucks carrying pit equipment and various spare parts for the race teams, three low-slung, souped-up muscle cars mingled with their far larger brethren: a familiar, black 1988 Monte Carlo SS throned at the head of the line, but the ruby-red Ford Mustang GT and the Plum Crazy-purple 1970s-vintage Dodge Challenger that were parked among the vans and trucks didn't look to be any slower.
Twelve or so young men had a loud and undoubtedly fun, ol' time on the sidewalk in front of the bar and grill. Some wore team or manufacturer outfits, but most were dressed in what seemed to be the standard uniform among the group: boots, jeans and white T-shirts or wifebeaters. Voluminous mullets formed the order of the day for all of them; the older among them sported impressive facial hair while the younger folks had yet to reach a stage beyond less-impressive patches of fuzz.
Though noisy and somewhat rambunctious, the young men seemed to stay within acceptable limits of public behavior, so Mandy relaxed her stance and strode across Second Street to get closer to the epicenter.
It pleased her to see that Moira MacKay had heeded the request of only selling H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros over the race weekend. Countless beers were consumed by the young men, but they were nearly all the familiar silvery cans containing the non-alcoholic brew - the few beers present that were more potent were produced by other breweries and had most likely been brought to Goldsboro by the teams.
Two of the young men - who had apparently been at the tail-end of the line when smarts were handed out - continued a small-scale shoving match despite Mandy's presence. The match had the potential to evolve into something involving bloodied noses, band-aids and holding cells, so Mandy cleared her throat in a clear and decisive manner once she reached the combatants.
One of the men drew a deep breath to inform the intruder that butting out would be best for their health, but he calmed down when he noticed the star on the uniform.
"There'll be no fighting on my streets, Gentlemen," Mandy said in her patented I'm The Sheriff And Don't You Forget It voice. She made sure to look everyone present in the eye so they knew there was substance behind her words. "Do we have an understanding?"
A chorus of "Yes, Ma'am," was soon heard.
Mandy eyed Beatrice Reilly who jogged across Main Street to provide suitable backup from the other end of the sidewalk in front of Moira's. "Good. Are you all mechanics or truckers?"
"Yes, Ma'am…"
"Do your crew chiefs know you've stopped for a refreshment here in Goldsboro?"
"No, Ma'am…"
"In that case, maybe you ought to continue up to Thunder Park before they come looking for you?"
"Yes, Ma'am…"
A lot of nervous glances were exchanged among the young men before they split up and went to their respective vans and trucks. Soon, all but one of the race support vehicles left the curb to continue north on Main Street - the reason for the delay that kept the last one there came a few moments later when a mechanic hobbled out of Moira's Bar & Grill trying to get the zipper and button of his jeans to work together with the leather belt and the brass buckle.
"Whaddahell?" the fellow said once he realized he was all alone save for the sheriff and a deputy. "Now a guy can't even take a dump without his buddies leavin' him for dead! I mean… dayum!"
Mandy had to stifle a rare chuckle as the annoyed man climbed behind the wheel of the last remaining hauler truck and took off in a strongly-smelling cloud of soot and diesel smoke. According to the colorful artwork on the side, it was one of the vehicles carrying spare parts for Team Price-Robertson and their #9 Cazamore K-Nine Companion Quality Dog Food Ford Taurus.
With Main Street falling quiet once more, Beatrice put the book of fines into the pouch where she had taken it. She strode over to Mandy who studied the three very different muscle cars. "Sheriff Jalinski," Beatrice said as she gave the cars a brief once-over as well, "do you want me to run the license plates through the DMV to check for outstanding traffic citations? We're bound to find some."
"They haven't broken any laws here, Deputy," Mandy said and eyed the youngest member of the Goldsboro office. "If they do, we can throw the book at them. But not before."
"Ah… yes, Sheriff," Beatrice said and put away her regular notepad that she had already retrieved from her breast pocket. "If there's nothing more here, I'll return the camera and resume my regular patrol."
"Very well. Were you able to get the photographs of the vandalized city limits sign?"
Beatrice tapped the old-fashioned camera she carried around her neck. "Yes, Sheriff. I counted ten bullet holes in the sign. Someone had tried to make a smiley face…"
A small grunt escaped Mandy; furrowing her brow, she looked toward the southern end of Goldsboro. The vandals always carried out their business at night because they knew the sheriff's office wouldn't be open - no one would be present to hear the shots. "I see. Deputy, we may need to pull an all-nighter at some point in the near future. We cannot allow this to go on much longer."
"I agree, Sheriff. And I volunteer. I'm willing to begin tonight… I only need strong coffee and a pack of trail snacks," Beatrice said and put her hand in the air like she was back at the Girl Scouts of America.
Mandy had to hide a grin at the Junior Deputy's eagerness. "I'm afraid we need to wait until after the weekend, Deputy Reilly. Trouble could arise out at the race track. If so, we may have to move fast and decisively. A full squad is required."
"Ah… of course. Well, if that's all, I'll resume my patrol," Beatrice said and took a step back before she saluted her superior.
Sheriff Mandy mirrored the salute before she spun around on her heel and strode back to the Durango to turn off the emergency lights - with Main Street as deserted as always, there was no need to continue such an unnecessary strain on the SUV's battery.
-*-*-*-
Ten miles south of Goldsboro - and thus two miles south of the trailer park - Wynne had her Silverado's radio tuned to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack. While she drove south on the State Route to find Nancy's stricken GMC camper, she sang along to C.W. McCall's truck-driving classic Convoy in a rather loud, colorful and unpolished fashion.
Even more loud, colorful and unpolished were Blackie and Goldie's attempts at providing a woofing, yapping backing track. Blackie sat high atop the passenger seat so she could look out. Goldie rested down in the footwell like always, but the Golden Retriever seemed to feel braver than usual because she hadn't rolled herself up into a golden furball - yet.
As the song faded out, Wynne reduced the volume by a couple of notches. "Dag-nabbit, girls! Convoy… ain't that jus' theee most fa-bew-luss truck-drih-vin' soh-ng evah or whut? O' course, that there li'l ol' West Bound An' Down ain't bad neithah… haw."
Almost on cue, a black Mack RS pulling a silver tanker roared past her going in the opposite direction on the State Route. The sight made Wynne crane her neck in an impossible angle to look at the rapidly disappearing Mack through the rear cab window. "Whaddinda-wohhhhh-rld? How 'bout that, girls? Mebbe I oughtta watch whut I be sayin' taday. Lawrdie…"
Woof!
"Whazzat?"
Wooooofff…
"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie, there, Blackie… I always oughtta watch whut I be sayin'… yuh."
---
The spot where Nancy had left her camper was soon reached. Ernie had crossed over the two lanes and had parked the front-end of his Ford up close to the GMC's engine bay in case it only needed to be jumped to return to life - the two hoods were up to ease the access.
There was no point in parking behind the Ford, so Wynne trickled past the vehicles and made a U-turn down the far end. She pulled the mat-black Silverado to a halt a good thirty feet behind the U-haul and soon turned off the engine. "Y'all girls need-a lissen now, okeh?" she said to her dogs. "That there nih-ce lay-dee don't 'preciate all y'all dawggies so ya need-a stay he' fer the tih-me bein', yuh? I'mma-gonn' keep that there-"
Woooof! Woof-woof-woof!
"Yuh, Blackie, I know… ain't nuttin' fuh-n in needin' ta stay he', but them's the ruh-les this he' tih-me, yuh? I'mma-gonn' keep that there air-condi-shunning system runnin' so ya don't melt… okeh?"
After the stereotypical downcast woofs and happy yaps had been uttered by the two dogs, Wynne reached over to give them a good fur-rubbing before she vacated the truck and shuffled up to see what Ernie was doing.
The high ambient temperatures meant a heat haze shimmered above the desert floor. The dust, the sand, the flat rocks and the sparse vegetation all seemed to dance the strangest of tangos as the shimmer distorted the sun's murderous rays. A strong smell of tar and other components rose from the baking-hot blacktop - when it mixed with the smells coming from the warm tires, it created an unpleasant environment for everyone.
"Aneh luck, there, ol' buddeh?" Wynne said once she reached the open engine bay.
Ernie shrugged; he was in the process of rolling up an electronic measuring instrument. "Some. The battery-tester says there's plenty of life in it… and speakin' of plenty, there's plenty of diesel left in the tank."
"Aw… shoot."
"Yeah," Ernie said and scratched his mullet. He took off his Built Ford Tough cap to scratch the rest of his hair as well - the heat made it glisten. Once he had plonked the cap back onto his locks, he shuffled around the front and climbed up behind the wheel. "Check out the noises it makes when I start it, Wynne… maybe you can think of somethin' to try."
"Okeh. Hit it," Wynne said and moved over to the engine bay to see what the serpentine belts and all the other moving parts would do as the diesel lump would spring to life. Once the glowplugs had engaged, the starter motor cranked which in turn produced a terrifying shake-and-rattle that nearly shook the engine straight off its mounting points.
"Holeh shittt!" Wynne cried as she leaned down to put a hand on the diesel V8's two cylinder banks. One side vibrated like an earthquake while the other felt as dead as yesterday's Filet-O-Fish. A quick look down each side of the large camper proved that it belched out smoke signals from the left-hand exhaust pipe while the one on the opposite side had no visible emissions at all. "Okeh, okeh! Cut it out befo' it starts crappin' out its guts!" Wynne cried and waved her hand.
"I have a suggestion but no theories. You?" Ernie said once he joined Wynne at the engine bay.
Wynne shoved her cowboy hat back from her brow as she took in the sorry sight. "Shoot, I dunno nuttin' 'bout them deeh-sels or nuttin', but if this wus a reg'lar gasoleeh-ne engine, I say it obvis'leh done lost an entiah bank o' cylindahs. Haw, do them deeh-sels even have rocker arms? Valve springs? I guess they gotta, yuh? Mebbe a spark plug wire came loose?"
"Diesels don't have spark plugs, Wynne… they have glowplugs for cold starts."
"Shoot. Okeh, mebbe it done burned a piston 'cos it wus runnin' too lean or som'tin an' then it kinda-sorta created a catastrophic chain reac-shun or…? Lawrdie, I be talkin' outta mah ass on this one. I ain't got no clue whaddahell 's wrong with the darn thing. Y'all said ya done hadda sugges-shun… lack whut, Ernie?"
"When in doubt, try the Net," Ernie said and found his smartphone. A few look-ups here and there caused him to let out a string of grunts. "Okay, it's a Detroit Diesel. Three-seventy-nine cubic inches. Fuel pump is mechanical, not electronic. I guess this old thing is from the mid-eighties, right?"
"Yuh… yuh, I reckon y'all could be ri'te, buddeh," Wynne said and shoved her cowboy hat back from her brow as she glanced at the Vandura's grille and other design elements.
"It's got a Borg-Warner three-speed auto-box, but that's not the issue here… okay… back to the engine… known problems," Ernie continued as he tapped, swiped and tapped a little more - Wynne just stared at her friend's gestures with a blank expression on her face.
It took Ernie a little while to find a list of known issues for the type of engine, but none seemed to match the situation at hand: "Oil leak because of broken seals… no. Cracked cylinder heads due to casting failures… no. Hmmm. Overheating due to central fan failure… no… obviously," he said as he pointed at the rotating fan installed on the ear of the centrally-mounted radiator.
"Crap, we gonn' need ol' Tuckah Garfield out he'… or Fat-Butt Swenson, but the ol' Swede ain't in town. He gonn' be up at that there Thundah Park ri'te 'bout now, dontchaknow."
"Yeah. Dammit." Ernie checked the time on his telephone before he let out a dark grunt and put it away for good. "Oh, great. Friday afternoon. Tucker's gonna be spit-flyin' P.O.'ed. I'll bet ten bucks he'll bounce around like a beach ball once he gets here."
"No takahs 'cos that be a suckah bet right there, son! Hey, where da nih-ce lay-dee Nanceh at, anyhows?"
"She went up in the camper to make us some coffee."
"Okeh… who's gonn' break the crappeh news to her?"
Wynne and Ernie looked silently at each other for a couple of seconds before they settled it the only way they could: with a best-of-five of the classic rock-paper-scissors game. Wynne's legendary rotten luck meant she lost four of the five games, so she was given the task of delivering the bad news while Ernie hooked up a tow rope so they could move the camper in order to get to the heavily-laden U-haul.
---
After going around the back of the Vandura, Wynne stepped up on the lower of the two metal rungs leading to the open door. She knocked on the doorjamb before she ventured inside. "'Beg pardon… Nanceh?" she said, taking off her beloved cowboy hat while she waited.
"Oh, hello. Please come in," Nancy said and got up from a small bench installed at the front end of the camper. The hinges at the base of the bench proved it could be converted into a bed when the situation called for it. The round table in front of the bench could be moved aside and tilted upright to provide additional storage space, but it was presently home to a large portfolio that had been opened to reveal a drawing of some kind.
A tiny kitchenette had been placed directly inside and to the right of the rear access door. A black coffee machine had been put up next to a pair of gas rings, and a pleasant smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
Three mugs were lined up and ready to be used - all three sported home-made designs that had been printed on them by one of the online services specializing in such products: one had watercolor paintings of poppies on it, the next had a charcoal drawing of Mount Rushmore and the final one showed a funny, little cartoon character depicted in various everyday situations like playing baseball, flipping pancakes and walking a dog.
The interior of the camper-conversion wasn't as large as Wynne had imagined, but it was cozy and neat, and the 1980s-style design certainly put a smile on her face. The smile faded when she remembered why she was there: "Shoot, Mizz Nanceh… I'mma-gonn' hafta be da bearah o' bad news. Me an' ol' Ernie ain't got nuttin' we can do ta fix that there dee-sel o' yers. It gonn' take some profe-shunnal tools an' expuhr-teese an' all ta diagnoh-se it, but we ain't got none o' that. 'Fraid we gonn' hafta get it up ta da Bang 'n Beatin' ta let ol' Fat-Butt an' his boys have a look-see. Yuh?"
It took Nancy Tranh Nguyen a couple of seconds to parse the flow of words that streamed out of The Last Original Cowpoke, but when she had, a somber mask fell over her face.
"Yuh, prolleh wussen wotcha wanted ta heah, but…" Wynne said and put out her arms in a shrug. "Naw, tell ya wotcha we gonn' do. Yuh? Once we done had some coah-ffee an' mebbe a cookie or som'tin, Ernie an' me gonn' hook up yer Yoo-haul ta Ernie's Fohr-d an' then we gonn' truck up ta Goldsborah an' help ya unpack an' get ev'rehthin' insih-de. Okeh?"
"Oh, I don't want to take more of your time…"
Wynne shrugged again. "Yuh, well… Ernie onleh he' fer the weekend, but I ain't got nuttin' but tih-me, so… anyhows. We done take great prih-de in the communiteh spirit he' in li'l ol' Goldsborah. It all be a big circle, yuh? Help someboddah an' you mebbe ha' someboddah ta call on when da cowflop realleh gets smelleh, yuh?"
Nancy's eyed popped open at the colorful phrase, but she eventually nodded and even broke out in a small smile. "Yeah. I see your point. I don't know how much I'll be able to help with anything, but… I definitely see your point. Thank you."
"Aw, yer welcome an' all. Say, wotcha got there, anyhows? That there drawin' there looks realleh coo'," Wynne said and pointed at the page in the portfolio.
Smiling, Nancy turned back to the round table and picked up the drawing. Made with a charcoal pencil, it was a still-life of a gas station. "I needed a break so I stopped at a huge Gas 'n Go! down in Nowhere. Ever been there? It's an odd place… far away from everything. Just depressing."
"Yuh. Yuh, I done been in Nowheah. Ya deffa-nete-leh be ri'te 'bout that… it sure is one helluva weird, weird place," Wynne said and scratched her neck. She couldn't help but recall her experiences with the ghostly Butchered Backpacker, a local urban legend who - obviously - took a liking to her when she drove through the region on her way back from her aunt Martha Faye's funeral in Shallow Pond, Texas.
Nancy hadn't noticed the distant look in Wynne's eyes, so she continued to present the charcoal drawing. "Years ago when I realized I had a talent for sketching, I threw myself at it heart and soul. Charcoal, watercolors, broad brush… I've tried a lot of things. I've been selling my sketches and drawings online for a couple of years now."
"Haw, ain't dat som'tin? Yuh, that one is realleh coo'. It sure do looks lack that there gas sta-shun down yondah unlack them there abstract paintin's that don't look lack nuttin' at all save fer some blah-blah bein' puked all ovah the canvas. Yuh."
"Thank you," Nancy said with a grin.
Behind Wynne and Nancy, Ernie stepped up on the lower rung and peeked inside. "I've hooked up a tow rope so we can pull the camper away from the trailer. Wynne, would you mind operatin' the lock on the-"
"Hold 'em hosses, pardnah… coah-ffee an' cookies first," Wynne said with a grin. "Haw, y'all did say ya had some cookies, right?" she continued as she turned back to Nancy.
"Well, I actually didn't… you did."
"Aw…"
Moving over to one of the cupboards, Nancy opened it and pulled out a purple cookie tin. "But it just so happens I have a brand new pack of butter cookies stored away for a rainy day!" she said with a smile.
"Lawrdie! Ernie, towin' ain't no competi-shun fer coah-ffee an' buttah cookies! Tawkin' ta the nih-ce lay-dee sure ain't gonn' hurt none, neithah. There be plentah o' tih-me fer towin' latah. Yuh?" Wynne said before she grabbed one of the mugs and made a beeline for the bench at the far end of the camper.
Grinning, Ernie took off his Built Ford Tough cap and followed his friend inside.
-*-*-*-
By the time the two-truck convoy reached Goldsboro, Main Street had once again become a parking lot for support vehicles belonging to the race teams - some of them had arrived late while others had already been out at the track to offload their expensive cargo. Vans and trucks of all sizes were parked at the curb stretching from Moira's Bar & Grill and all the way up to 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop several hundred yards further north.
A group of mechanics and other team personnel mingled on the sidewalk holding cans of beers or soda. Older and more sedate than the group of guys who had been there earlier in the day, the new people knew how to behave themselves.
Just to be on the safe side, the men had been joined by Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez, but the Mexican-American with the movie-star looks had little to do. Not being interested in any kind of motor racing meant he had little to add to the one-sided conversations that all revolved around spring settings, shock adjustments, stagger sizes and cross-weights, but his presence garnered a few questions about the life of a deputy sheriff in such a small community.
On the other side of the street, several of the storeowners had convened on the sidewalk in the hope of perhaps luring some of the team personnel into their shops. Unfortunately, it seemed there wasn't much interest in either Cathy Pearson's Tack & Saddle leathergoods store or Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners - even the sign in the window that said Quality Yarn, Cotton, Sewing Thread & Knitting Equipment Sold Here! didn't create much buzz or paying customers.
J.D. Burdette, the right-hand man at Sam McCabe's gun shop, was the only one of the group whose store could attract more than a fleeting glance, but it seemed nobody was interested in buying any weapons, ammunition or hunting equipment. A few mechanics did in fact enter Derrike Iverson's dive to dip their toes into the local watering hole, but none spent more than a couple of minutes in there before they were on their way back to Moira's far classier establishment.
While all that was going on, the alley behind the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor was home to a whirlwind of hectic activity. Even the owners of the franchise, Nelson McConnell and Trent Lowe, had donned aprons so they could help their regular employees carry scores of boxes of fried chickens and French fries to the Nissan delivery truck. The staggering amount of orders that had been made by telephone or through the website had nearly brought the rotisserie ovens to their knees, but everything had held up and the fowls had been fried - it seemed that just about everyone out at Thunder Park wanted Chicky Kingz' products for supper.
Wynne's Silverado continued to follow Ernie's Ford and the U-haul trailer, but she slowed down and came to a halt in the middle of Main Street as she clapped eyes on Phyllis' Monte Carlo that remained parked outside Moira's. Her fingers tapped the rim of the steering wheel while she assumed an expression that could be interpreted as annoyed.
Blackie let out a Woof? that made Wynne reach down and rub the black dog's fur. "Yuh, Blackie… dunno whah I get this he' feelin', but there be som'tin 'bout Phyl bein' he' that bothahs me. I thunk she undahstood that I done moved on an' that I ain't wanna get involved in nuttin' that can rock me an' Mandeh's boat, but I jus' got one o' them there nasteh feelin's she didden undahstood nuttin' aftah all. I dunno, mebbe I be seein' spooks in broad dayli'te or som'tin… haw, bad choice o' words… nevah mind. Les'get ovah ta Second Street an' help Ernie an' the nih-ce lay-dee, yuh?"
A loud, excited Woof! came from Blackie who couldn't wait to be let out of the truck. Predictably, Goldie - who was down in the footwell - was more apprehensive, but a single yap did come out of her.
---
The intersection at Main and Second was soon dealt with as the traffic lights had been turned off to save a few dollars on the electricity bill. Second Street was as deserted as ever despite the looming presence of Wyatt Elliott's hardware store on the left-hand side.
Wynne had to chuckle at the sight of a bare metal pole sticking out of the ground at the entrance to the new section of town - the pole was designed to carry the name of the street, but bureaucracy and miles of red tape had intervened.
A land developer working out of North Greenville had offered the Goldsboro Town Council a sweet deal: if they would officially incorporate an unowned stretch of land off Second Street into the town's designated area and then sell it to him for a nominal price, he would lay down sewers, build a paved access road, install electricity and erect seventeen standard houses that would be affordable for regular incomes. The Town Council would reap the tax revenue and the increased business in town while the land developer would get his money back through selling the homes.
The resulting heated debate among the members of the Town Council had needed several days to run its course, but an agreement had been reached and all but two of the houses had already been built. Fourteen of them had been sold with one held back in reserve so it could be used as a full-sized showroom until the remaining two could be brought onto the market.
The only fly in the ointment had been the land developer's suggestion that the access road would be named after him considering that he had paid for it. The Town Council had flat-out rejected that idea, but had yet to come up with a suitable replacement despite receiving a tall pile of suggestions from the Goldsborians and Tabitha Hayward, the curator of the town museum - thus, the newest section of town was still known as the 'alley off Second Street.'
Wynne drove into the open alley and soon came to a halt a short distance behind the U-haul trailer. A couple of the residents came out onto their porches or lawns to gawk at the unusual goings-on - she knew a couple of them, so they were offered a brief wave before she turned to Blackie and Goldie. "Girls, the deal ain't changed. Y'all gotta stay in da truck while we be he', okeh?"
Goldie responded with a happy yap, but the Wooooooof… that came from Blackie's throat proved she didn't quite see the fun part of staying in the truck all over again.
"I know, Blackie. Trus'me, I know. Yuh? I promise y'all gonn' get some o' them there real nih-ce dawggie treats once we get back hoah-me, yuh? Goldie, I bet-"
Yap-Yap-Yap-Yap-Yap-Yap!
Chuckling, Wynne reached over to pat the golden head. "Yuh, I done hadda a hunch ya'd be sayin' som'tin lack that! Blackie?"
Woooofff…
"Okeh, then," Wynne said and opened the door. "I'mma-gonn' be bah a cuppel-a tih-mes ta check up on y'all. Yuh? See ya latah, girls."
Once the door had been closed, Blackie and Goldie exchanged a series of barks and yaps that meant: 'This blows! I can't believe we're stuck here… again!' -- 'Maybe we are, but think of the yummy treats we'll get.' -- 'Yeah, right… there's always something weird happening just when we're about to eat!' -- 'I guess that's true… no, let's keep it positive. We'll get the really yummy treats this time!'
Blackie didn't have a response to that, so she turned around to look out of the windshield at their owner and the other two humans as they began to carry square boxes from the trailer to the house.
---
Half an hour later, Wynne, Ernie and Nancy had been joined by Eamonn O'Sullivan and his wife Esther who lived next door. Although the latter pair could only provide words of encouragement and other kinds of running commentaries rather than raw muscle power - Eamonn was a fifty-nine-year-old disability pensioner and Esther a sixty-two-year-old stay-at-home wife who had a few problems with varicose veins on her calves - the U-haul was soon emptied without dramas of any kind which had to be a record in Goldsboro.
While Esther invited Nancy over to her house so they could make some fresh lemonade for the hard-working movers, Wynne attempted to wipe her neck and forehead on a handkerchief that had ceased being clean and dry after the tenth time she had used it.
Eamonn and Ernie discovered they had something in common as they had both married into families that had strong religious ties: Where Ernie's wife and mother-in-law were important people in the Church Of The Holy Crusader, Eamonn explained that his wife's father, a Rabbi Elder in the largest Jewish community in the State they had lived in originally, had been so dead-against giving his daughter away to an Irish-Catholic that he had all but disowned her.
Wynne followed the discussion from a distance but knew better than to add her two cents' worth - her opinion on most religious persuasions could be summed up as You Can Have Whichever Faith You Like, But Keep It The Heck Away From Me. Instead, she dug into her jeans pocket to retrieve her telephone - Tucker Garfield's number was soon found in the registry.
'Yeah?' the familiar, gruff voice soon said at the other end of the connection.
"Howdeh, Tuckah… this he' be the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew speakin'. Lissen, I know it be kinda late on this he' glorious Frah-deh, but we wus wonderin' if y'all could perhaps-"
'Will you get to the Goddamned point, Wynne? I got myself a cold beer and a hot TV-dinner here and I prefer them to stay that way!'
Wynne rolled her eyes repeatedly. "Yuh, yuh, yuh… keep ya shorts on! Holeh shittt, where ya mannahs be, son? I be callin' y'all 'cos we got a sal-vitch job fer y'all that mi'te earn ya a few bucks an' all, but Lawwwwwr-die, if y'all ain't int'rested in earnin' a few bucks, then be mah guest an' be all man-bitcheh 'bout it! Yessir!"
Instead of replying, the somewhat crude smacking noises that came over the connection proved that Tucker had dug into his TV-dinner to get it while it was fresh out of the microwave - a long slurrrrrp of beer followed before he could be bothered to speak: 'All right. What kind of salvage job? And where?'
"An ol' Gee Emm Cee Vandoo-ra needs-a be towed up ta that there Bang 'n-"
'They're closed for the weekend.'
"No shit, Tuckah! Whut, ya don't reckon ya mi'te put it in that there innah courtyard o' theirs or som'tin?"
The crude smacking noises and subsequent slurping returned for a lengthy spell; this time, a belch came hot on the heels of the slurrrrrp.
Wynne rolled her eyes again as she glared at the telephone. She was about to hang up on Tucker Garfield when she decided to give him a second chance. "Say, ol' pardnah… with all that there smackin' an' burpin' there, it sure ain't gonn' be long befo' ya done put away whutevah that thing is ya be eatin'."
'Nuked meatballs, brown gravy and mashed potatoes,' Tucker said and belched for a second time.
"Nih-ce. An' them belches sure is deli-shuss ta lissen to, yessir!"
'Take it or leave me alone, Wynne. You never said where the GMC was located.'
Wynne shook her head; this time, her eyes didn't just roll - they went on a complete tour of the vast sky above her. "Aw, jus' 'bout two mih-les south o' the trailah park. That there dee-sel engine gone bah-bah… it onleh be runnin' on 'bout foah cylindahs or som'tin. It's a campah so I reckon y'all need-a tow it instead o' usin' the crane-"
'I don't tell you how to do whatever-the-hell it is you're doing, so don't tell me how to do my job,' Tucker said before he fell silent again to finish off his TV-dinner and his can of beer.
"Lawwwwwr-die, y'all sure is in a winnin' mood taday! Good shittt almi'teh, Tuckah!"
A whole sequence of crude, nasty smacking noises was capped off by a resounding belch and the sound of a can being crushed. 'Whatever. Do I need to swing by you to get the keys, or…?'
"Yuh. We done locked it 'cos there be plenteh o' personal stuff in da back. We be waitin' in the alley off Second Street. Yuh? Can't miss us. Okeh? Whaddaya say?"
'Yeah, okay. See ya in a little while. I need to take a piss before I can go anywhere.' - With that, the connection was closed.
Wynne could only stare at the blank display on her smartphone. "An' a vereh nih-ce day ta y'all, too, there, Tuckah… Merceh Sakes." Once the telephone was back in her pocket, she glanced over at Eamonn and Ernie who continued to swap horror stories about the in-laws; during the conversation, Nancy and Esther O'Sullivan came out of the neighboring house carrying pitchers of lemonade and a tray holding tumblers.
"Haw, that there lemonah-de sure looks nih-ce an' all… Lawrdie, I need-a get som'tin ta drink," Wynne mumbled before she shuffled over to the others to get a tumbler and something to pour into it.
-*-*-*-
Life went on as normal in the sheriff's office on Main despite the row of colorful vans and trucks parked across the street - it seemed that everyone in the office understood they needed to recharge their batteries ahead of a Friday and Saturday that not only had the potential to turn messy, but that would require a great deal of overtime.
Even regular Friday evenings had a tendency to get busy, but this particular Friday was the last of the month - i.e. pay day for not only the weekly salaried but also for those who were paid by the month. On top of that, the big event out at Thunder Park would draw a huge crowd from near and far.
The linoleum on the floor remained as cracked as ever, the maps on the walls were still several generations out of date, the door to the adjacent holding cells was still rusted shut, the wooden jamb of the main entrance had become warped which had led to the glass door sticking at times, and nobody had been by to change the strip light that had gone on the blink earlier in the year.
The desperate deputies had had the choice of either turning insane from the incessant blinking or simply yanking it out of its socket; they had chosen the latter option, but the severe action had caused the plastic fixture itself to crack and become unusable. At least the coffee machine worked - it burbled merrily proving that a fresh pot was almost ready.
Mandy sat behind her desk reading case files, complaints from citizens, communiqués from headquarters up in Barton City and the weekly forty pages' worth of minutes informing her of the debates held by the Town Council. The latter insisted on sending the updates in print regardless of Mandy's oft-repeated pleas to stop wasting all that paper and to send it electronically like the rest of the world.
Across the office, Rodolfo sat at the watch desk reading one of the Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp paperbacks that had struck a chord with all the deputies - even Beatrice Reilly who had considered them misogynist and loathsome until she had actually read one.
The ancient Bakelite telephone on the watch desk remained silent which was a good thing, especially on a pay-day-Friday. An empty plate filled with sandwich crumbs and small globs of Ranchero seasoning dressing dotted with ground chili-peppers had been put on the desk next to an empty can of Summer Dreamz Sporty Red energy drink.
A persistent, and persistently gross, hacking and coughing emanated from the smallest of the three desks. Deputy Barry Simms - whose waxen skin, amber fingers and yellowish eyes had taken him years of nicotine abuse to achieve - continued to huff and puff on his latest home-rolled cigarette while he sorted old cases files in chronological order.
The cigarette's glowing tip sent out foul-smelling smoke created by the waste tobacco he bought wholesale directly from the factories. As the smoke reached and caressed the felt tiles in the ceiling, it was actually possible to see them shrivel up and shift in their mountings. One ashtray would never be enough to meet his high demand so he had no less than three lined up in various places on the desk - all three resembled a volcano after a catastrophic eruption: ash and other kinds of debris as far as the eye could see.
The final member of the roster of deputy sheriffs sat by herself in the crew room at the back of the office. Beatrice Reilly was the only one among the personnel assigned to the Goldsboro office who could operate the advanced electronic typewriter they had been given as a replacement for one that had almost celebrated a century in active duty. At present, the rate of her vigorous typing resembled the noises made by a squadron of Apache attack helicopters on a strafing run of an enemy compound.
Out in the main office, Rodolfo yawned and flipped the page in Sally Swackhamer's latest lurid adventure Check Your Six, Sally. Barry smoked, hacked and coughed a little more. Mandy tapped the Town Council papers into order and put them back into the Letter-sized envelope they had arrived in. She let out a sigh, leaned back on her chair and cast a casual, somewhat disinterested glance at the activities across the street.
As she watched, three people exited Moira's Bar & Grill. Unlike the mechanics and the other members of the racing teams, the new people wore fashionable, street-smart clothes. Splitting up, they moved to the three muscle cars that were parked in front of the eatery.
Before Mandy could even open her mouth to make a comment on the latest development, the driver of the car at the back - the Plum Crazy-purple Dodge Challenger - floored the throttle which made the rear wheels break traction at once. Reams of pale-gray tire smoke billowed away from the powerful car; at the same time, the V8 engine roared to such a degree the storefront window panes up and down Main Street began to rattle.
"What the hell?!" Mandy barked and jumped up from the chair. Even though she flew out of the office and onto the sidewalk to make herself visible, it didn't stop the driver of the purple car from roaring away from the curb and onto Main Street.
Two seconds later, the modern, ruby-red Ford Mustang GT followed suit and laid down a pair of black stripes across the southbound lane. The raspy exhaust note bounced off the houses along Main Street as it roared north toward the city limits sign and the opening stretch of the State Route.
Mandy slammed her hands onto her hips as she glared at the last remaining muscle car. Unlike the other two that were new to town, the black-and-silver Monte Carlo seemed familiar even beyond the legendary Intimidator color scheme, but it wasn't until she spotted the female driver leaning against the side of the black car talking into her telephone that the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place.
A grunt turned into a sigh as Mandy crossed the street in her customary stride - she needed to fan her nose several times to find some fresh air as the cloud of tire smoke produced by the Challenger was slow in dissipating. Several people had come out of Moira's to see what the hubbub was about, but they soon went back inside at the sight of the sheriff on a mission.
"Miss O'Connell, I need a word," Mandy said in a stern voice once she was close enough. "May I suggest you tell your racing colleagues to calm down the next time they're in town? That kind of reckless behavior is unacceptable."
Phyllis put her telephone away before she turned to face the sheriff; her mirrored Aviators were soon clipped onto her shirt's upper hem. She offered the uniformed woman a sincere smile to keep a positive facade. "I'll tell them. But a little tire smoke and a few stripes on the ground has never hurt anyone, sheriff."
"That's irrelevant," Mandy said and crossed her arms over her chest. "We have laws in this town. A thirty miles per hour speed limit is one of them. Main Street is often used by slow-moving tractors and other types of agricultural vehicles."
Phyllis looked all the way up and down the street that was as deserted as ever - in the far distance, a white pickup truck drove out of an alley and rumbled north toward the desert. A chuckle escaped her. "Yeah, it's almost Times Square, isn't it?"
"It's the principle, Miss O'Connell," Mandy said in a gruff tone.
Tension mounted as the two women looked at each other for a few moments in a stony silence. Phyllis eventually nodded and pushed her Aviators up the bridge of her nose. "I understand. I'll tell them," she said as she folded up her leg and climbed through the window to get behind the wheel of the Monte Carlo.
"You do that," Mandy said and took a step back in case the souped-up muscle car would take off like a moon rocket. Phyllis seemed to have gotten the message as she left the curb and drove north at a regular speed.
Mandy remained on the sidewalk in front of Moira's until the black racer was nearly out of sight at the far end of Main Street. A thunderclap of mechanical origin suddenly burst out of the unmuffled exhaust pipes as Phyllis stepped hard on the gas upon reaching the northern city limits sign. The back of the car stepped out as oodles of power was forced onto the road, but the experienced champion caught the slide with no dramas. A plume of road dust soon obscured the black lightning bolt, but there was no question it raced along at triple-digit speed.
Shaking her head and letting out a huff of annoyance, Mandy strode back to the sheriff's office to resume dealing with the dreary paperwork.
---
Over at Nancy Nguyen's new house, everyone waited for Tucker Garfield to arrive in his big, yellow tow truck. Eamonn and Esther O'Sullivan had gone back to their own home for a little afternoon nap and to begin preparing for dinner, respectively, while Nancy had already started exploring the first of the packing cases where she had stored her drawings.
Ernie had a big grin on his face as he tried to teach Wynne how to play Pinkie Porker's Flying Circus on his telephone. It seemed the finer aspects of the colorful game - not to mention the combination and sequence of keys that needed to be manipulated for the pig to stay airborne - went clear over Wynne's head as her little, pink piggy repeatedly smacked into telegraph wires, treetops, tweety birds, stinging hornets and other dangerous obstacles.
Seven spent piggy-lives later, she handed the telephone back to Ernie. "Naw. This he' Pinkeh Porkeh gah-me ain't mah-de fer mah fingahs, nossirree. Lawwwwr-die… I ain't much fer gamin' anyhows… unless them clevah folks make some kinda Nascah-r gahme, I ain't sure I evah-"
"Oh, someone already did."
"Haw, realleh?"
"Sure," Ernie said and accessed the game shop he always used. A few swipes and taps later, he held up the telephone once more. "Okay, they can't call it a Nascar game 'cos of the licensin' and stuff, but it's definitely a stock car game. It's called Rubbin' Fenders and it's available in three versions… dirt track, paved short-track and superspeedway."
"Snakes Alive! Now whah diddencha show me befo' instead o' them there flyin' porkahs, Ernie?" Wynne said before a hugely wide grin rendered her unable to speak. Grabbing the telephone, she only had time to drive half a lap of the dirt-track version of the game before the peace was disturbed by Tucker's yellow tow truck rumbling into the alley off Second Street. "Awwwww-shoot… o' course ol' Tuckah hadda come now! Dang-blasted… Lawrdie, we bettah get back ta da real woh-rld," she continued as she returned Ernie's telephone.
The Ford F750 tow truck was soon parked behind Wynne's Silverado. Tucker Garfield took off his sunglasses and donned his thick work gloves before he climbed down from the cab. The cigar he champed on was unlit like he was yet to make the connection that to smoke it, he needed to light it.
Though slender and wiry - and the owner of a ruddy, drawn face - the mid-forty-something Tucker was strong and had an equally strong presence that had a tendency to overpower the more sensitive of the town's residents. One of the regulars at Derrike Iverson's dive, he had been fired from the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop after showing up for work on a Monday morning still under the influence of the wet weekend. Instead of crying in his beer about it, he had become an independent tow-truck owner-operator who worked for all who could cough up the cash required for the job at hand.
In addition to the thick gloves, he wore safety boots, a greasy ball cap and a banana-yellow boiler suit that had seen better decades. The boiler suit was unzipped to half-mast revealing a black T-shirt that said Real Men Have Big Cranes written on it in white, stylized letters.
His scrunched-up face told more than a thousand-word story could - to call his mood foul would be an understatement. He was never in a good mood as such, but the fact that Wynne had called on a Friday afternoon after the week's logs and statistics regarding fuel consumption and miles driven had already been updated and closed had soured his disposition even further.
The cigar was given a strenuous workout as he stomped over to the waiting people. "All right, where the hell's that GMC so I can get this over and done with? Channel Seventy-Eight's showing a big wrestling special later, and I'm telling you right now, there's no way in hell I'm gonna miss that. No way," he said in the confrontational tone of voice he had been working to perfect for most of his adult life.
Wynne narrowed her eyes and counted to ten inwardly. Ten wasn't enough, so she continued to fifteen and then twenty. "Izzat a fact, Tuckah?" she said and slammed her hands onto her hips. "Whah'dahell didden ya jus' set ya video recordah or whutevah y'all got? Dag-nabbit, son, y'all need-a work on yer attah-toode!"
"Crap," Tucker mumbled around the cigar.
"An' the Gee Emm Cee ain't he'! I done tole ya that alreddeh ovah that there phoah-ne, 'member? It be parked by the sih-de o' the State Route down a cuppel-a miles south-a the trailah park! All ya hafta do he' is ta get them keys an' go down dere an' tow the dang-blasted thing up ta tha-"
Tucker waved his hand in dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. I get that part. So where are the keys?"
Before Ernie or Wynne could reply, Nancy Nguyen came out of her new home holding the set of keys for her vehicle. "I have them right here, Mister," she said as she hurried along the narrow sidewalk to get to the tow truck driver.
The change in Tucker Garfield was immediate and impossible to miss as he stared wide-eyed at the Asian woman hurrying toward him: out of nowhere, his hard expression softened and he even whipped off his baseball cap to try to beat his stubborn locks into shape. When he realized he was still champing on the cigar, he yanked it from his mouth and stuck it in a pocket for later - the resulting slobber was wiped off on his sleeve.
Wynne and Ernie exchanged a long look of raw, undiluted surprise.
"Well, hello there, Miss," Tucker said in a buttery voice that nobody knew he possessed. He put out his hand at once to give the lady a proper handshake. "I'm Tucker Garfield. Best tow truck guy in all of MacLean County. Real nice to meet you."
Nancy, who didn't know Tucker's regular persona, smiled at the wiry fellow while she shook his hand. "Hello, Mr. Garfield. I'm Nancy Tranh Nguyen."
"Nancy… that's pretty. With that last name, you must be of Vietnamese descent."
Another puzzled look flew back and forth between Wynne and Ernie.
"Why, thank you! Yes, I have Vietnamese roots, but I was born here. My family was airlifted out of Saigon in 'seventy-five," Nancy said with a smile before she put the keys in his hand. "Well, here they are. I'd like to ask you to be careful with it. It's almost forty years old so it probably doesn't have the same strength as the modern cars and trucks you tow… and it's a camper, so all the cupboards are full. Please?"
"I'll treat it as tenderly as my firstborn, Miss," Tucker said sporting a wide smile.
By now, Wynne had already begun to study the skies above to see where the Intergalactic Star Cruiser controlling Tucker Garfield's mind was hiding. There didn't seem to be anything up there, or at least not nearby, but she knew how clever the space aliens were - a cloaking device would probably not be beyond their skills. She stared at Ernie who could only shrug.
"All right," Tucker continued, "I better get busy. Ah… could I perhaps have your telephone number so I can call you once I've brought the GMC up to the garage?"
Wynne couldn't hold back an amused snort, but not even that could make Tucker revert back to his old self. "Yuh, whah dontcha get bizzeh, there, Tuckah? Don't ferget that there rasslin' gig on teevee latah tani'te."
"Huh?"
"The rasslin' thing y'all done tole us 'bout. Wake up, son!" Wynne said and finally broke out in the cheeky laugh she had been saving throughout the odd scene.
A split-second's worth of fire flashed through Tucker's eyes, but it only lasted until Nancy handed him a note with her phone number. "Thank you, Miss. I'll take real good care of your vehicle."
"Oh, please call me Nancy."
Tucker broke out in a wide smile as he put his ball cap back on. "Only if you call me Tucker. I'll be in touch."
Smiling back, Nancy waved at the truck driver as he climbed up behind the wheel of the F750 and reversed out of the alley and onto Second Street.
Wynne took off her cowboy hat to give her scalp a thorough rubbing. "Lawrdie… Ernie?" she said as she plonked the battered, old headwear back onto her locks.
"Yeah?"
" 'Member that there mooh-vie we done saw once… uh… Inva-shun O' The Pod People or som'tin? Yuh? I be gettin' da feelin' someboddah decided ta remah-ke the dang-blasted thing without tellin' us good folks 'bout it…"
"Yeah… I know exactly what you mean. That was weird. Hell, was it even Tucker?"
"Whah, it sure did look lack him… mebbe he got a twin brothah we ain't nevah heard nuttin' 'bout? Naw, I ain't got no clue, Ernie…" Wynne said and threw her arms out in a wide shrug. "Ain't no clue whut-so-whoopin'-evah…"
---
The remaining twenty packing cases didn't take long to transfer from the U-haul to Nancy's living room floor, so Ernie and Wynne soon waved goodbye to the town's newest resident.
"She be a nih-ce lay-dee… hope she ain't gonn' be caught up in none o' that there typical Goldsborah shit," Wynne said on their way back to their respective trucks.
Ernie dug into his pants pocket to find his keys; once he had them, he pressed the button on the key fob which unlocked the custom Ford and prepared it for an imminent start. "I agree. It's bound to get better sooner or later, though," he said as he leaned against the Ford's fender.
Wynne let out a dark grunt. "Ya reckon? I sure don't. Naw. This he' shitteh deal been goin' on fer way, way, way mo' than a centureh alreddeh. Yuh? It almost be lack som'tin iz constantleh feedin' the misfer-toone he'."
"Do you believe in reincarnation? Past lives?"
"Uh… not realleh. Whah?"
"Oh, nothin'," Ernie said with a cheeky grin. "I just thought you might have been here before. Considerin' your legendary plum-rotten luck, maybe you happened to come by durin' one of your past lives and… oh, I don't know… peed in somebody's fountain or somethin'."
"Ernie Bradberreh, I know bettah than ta pee in anehboddah's fountain! Yuh? Lawrdie!"
"Well, obviously! But maybe one of the other Wynnes didn't? The Old West was merciless, you know. There sure weren't many public outhouses around. But plenty of beer for two bits…"
Wynne stared at her friend for several long seconds before she broke out in a slow, deliberate shake of the head. "Naw, this is gettin' too ree-dee-cue-luss. How 'bout we moseh on ovah ta Moira's fer that there li'l, ol' steak dinnah I done promised ya?"
"How about we drove over there? Last one to show up buys the beers," Ernie said and suddenly jumped up behind the wheel. He started the Ford at once and reversed out of the alley at such speed that Wynne could only stare wide-eyed at his progress.
"Lawwwwwwwr-die… I ain't nevah seen Ernie move that fast befo'… whaddinda-wohhhhh-rld? 'R we back ta them there parallel dimen-shuns ag'in or whut? Haw-shoot… I guess I be buyin' them beers, then," she mumbled as she shuffled back to her Silverado where Blackie and Goldie waited for her with varying degrees of patience.
*
*
CHAPTER 3
Nearly five minutes went by before Wynne had handed out enough doggy-loving for Blackie to calm down, so she knew the beer-bet with Ernie was lost - therefore, she was in no rush as she drove down to the far end of the cul-de-sac in the new section of town, made a lazy U, drove back past the houses belonging to Nancy Tranh Nguyen and Eamonn O'Sullivan, and finally headed out onto Second Street.
A short minute later, she reversed into the alley adjacent to Moira's Bar & Grill. She was perhaps a little wary of parking there after the bad experience with the vampyre ghoul that had attacked her and Brenda Travers during the film shoot earlier in the year, but the strong LED light that had been mounted on the wall did in fact help - when it was turned on at night, it seemed a small sun had descended upon the Earth to cast its penetrating light all over the dark alley.
After getting out of the truck, a grumpy Blackie let out a constant stream of guttural growls that meant 'I'm telling you right here and right now! That was the last time I was cooped up in that thing for that long… the next time, I'm going to gnaw my way through the upholstery to get out!'
Goldie responded with a few yaps that were on the happier end of the scale: 'Oh, it wasn't that bad… nothing scary happened. I thought we had a fun time together.'
Blackie didn't know how to respond to that, so she settled for walking alongside her owner's bare legs.
Wynne took in the grand sight of the many colorful support vehicles that continued to be parked in front of the eatery. Seven trucks, two vans and a minibus were lined up nose-to-tail on the wrong side of Main Street - all of them sported large graphics on the side telling the world which team they belonged to.
Almost by instinct, Wynne walked straight past three Ford trucks to get to the handful that came from teams using General Motors equipment. She looked into the cabs in the hope of finding someone to talk shop with, but the trucks and vans were all empty. "Haw, look at them classic racin' numbahs, girls," she said as she took a step back to check out the artwork on the vehicles. "Yuh, we be havin' the twentah-two… the eight… the seven'een… the foah… aw, an' someboddah even be usin' the twentah-nih-ne… yuh. 'Member that cah-r, girls? The white twentah-nih-ne Cup Monte Carloh? Merceh Sakes, that there race there at Atlantah in oh-one… Lawrdie, tawk 'bout an emoshu'al rollahcoastah. I ain't nevah gonn' ferget that."
Woof!
"Haw… well, I guess ya woudden 'member nuttin' 'bout that 'cos ya wussen born then, wus ya?"
Woof… - Yap!
She chuckled at the puzzled look on her dogs' faces before she stepped over to the door to Moira's. Opening it, she had already drawn a deep breath to deliver her usual greeting: "Howdy, y'all! Wynne Donnah-hew in da howse!"
Cutting herself off mid-stream, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the heaving mass of team personnel that crowded Moira's establishment. Everywhere she looked, men - and one or two women - wearing team colors stood ten deep.
The tables were all occupied, the lines in front of the refrigerators and the restrooms were lengthy, and the bar counter had disappeared behind what had to be thirty people. The video keno and poker machines all cycled through their demonstration modes that offered plenty of flashing lights and cheery electronic music, but there were no takers as the tall bar stools in front of the entertainment equipment had been commandeered by people eating rather than playing.
Moira's Bar & Grill could be a noisy place on Fridays and Saturday evenings when the jukebox played and the beer and chasers warmed the patrons' bellies and fogged their brains, but it was nothing compared to the constant barrage of noise that existed inside the eatery at present.
Everyone ate, drank, yakked, laughed and chilled out. The only spot in the establishment that didn't feature many happy faces was the line leading to the restrooms - there, everyone bore anguished expressions while performing the age-old dance known as the Side-Step Shuffle.
Up at the industrial stoves, Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane raced back and forth to take care of five baskets of sizzling French fries, a pile of hamburgers on the flat-top fryer, a bunch of spare ribs that were being slow-cooked in a large pot of spiced brown gravy, and even a handful of spring rolls that needed to be turned over at regular intervals on a frying pan. Off to his right, their brand-new industrial-strength microwave oven was ready for a slew of baked potatoes that waited on a grating - since the potatoes formed the side-dish for the spare ribs, they had to be done at the same time as the slow-cooking meat, and that necessitated a set of calculations worthy of the moon landings to get right.
While all that was going on, some of the guests tried to place new orders while others tried to pay their tabs. Despite Moira MacKay, the fiery owner of the establishment, pulling double duty at the cash register and the draft taps to keep up with demand, 'Slow' Lane was overworked to the point of being on the verge of hysteria. His face had gained an unhealthy ruddiness, and his apron and clothes sported countless splatters of gravy, grease and other unidentifiable substances.
"Holeh shittt! Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhh-rld?" Wynne croaked. She even needed to take off her beloved cowboy hat to have room for the huge, neon-green exclamation point that developed above her dark locks. "Haw, I ain't nevah seen this he' maneh folks in he'… evah! Good shittt almi'teh, this is too dang much! An' bah-bah King-Kong-sih-zed steaks an' fries… awwwww-dang'it."
Down on the floor, Blackie and Goldie only had a view of what seemed to be a thousand legs and feet all competing for the same space. All the humans in the room seemed to wear boots of some kind that would cause untold pain for a paw if the two were ever to meet - and with such a massive crowd, the risk of a close encounter of the ouchy kind was enormous.
To get away from the madness, Blackie tried to plot a course over to their safe haven, the doggy-cave underneath the pool table, but she had to give up when she was unable to even see the playing table from her vantage point.
"Ernie? Ernie? Aw, whe'dahell's ol' Ernie at?" Wynne said and scratched her neck. She scanned the crowd one by one to find her buddy, but she had so little success she soon realized she needed a plan B.
Whipping up her telephone, she found Ernie's number in the registry. She could see on the display the call had been accepted, but the barrage of noise surrounding her was so immense she couldn't hear a thing of what was being said over the connection even with an index finger jammed into her other ear. "Haw-shoot… now I ain't nevah gonn' find ol' Ernie… dag-nabbit! An' I be so dang hungreh I could eat the ass off-a dead cah-yote. Ain't that typical, girls? Girls?"
When no barks, woofs or yaps filtered up to her ears, she glanced down only to see an empty floor. "Awwwww-fer cryin' out loud! Now I done lost mah dawggies as well! Wynne Donnah-hew, this he' deal gonn' end badleh fer someboddah… I jus' know it!" she said as she looked all around for her little friends.
A thunderous bark off to Wynne's left was the first hint of Blackie's present location - it seemed the black German Shepherd was over by the refrigerators somewhere. "Blackie! Goldie! Girls, hang ti'te 'cos Mommah's comin'!" she cried as she fumbled and stumbled her way through the throng of people.
By the time she made it to the refrigerators, several mysteries were solved in a single go: not only had she found Blackie and Goldie, Ernie was there as well - the latter held a tray loaded with wrapped sandwiches and a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros.
"Hiya, Wynne! What kept ya?" Ernie shouted to be heard over the constant racket. "I thought you had made a wrong turn somewhere!"
"Huh? Whazzat? I can't hear a dang thing o' wotcha sayin', son!" Wynne said and put a hand behind her ear. "Aw-nevah mind. Whe'dahell ya go? I been lookin' all ovah fer y'all since I got he'. An' them dawggies done left me as well…"
"Goldie had a little accident!"
"Whazzat?"
"I said, Goldie- oh, screw that," Ernie said and inched his way past several team mechanics who suddenly crowded him at the refrigerators. Once he was at Wynne's side, he had a clear path to shout into her ear: "Someone stepped on Goldie's paw! She's sitting in the nook next to the ice fridge!"
"Awwwww-shittt!" Wynne cried and hurried over to her dog at once - she had to barge several people aside to get there, but she couldn't care less about their well-being when she had an injured dog to worry about.
The Golden Retriever had backed into the farthest corner of the establishment to get away from the stomping feet that surrounded her and her furry companion. She nursed her right-front paw so it was obvious which one had been on the losing end of the altercation. Blackie had kept a close guard of her dearest friend, but she moved aside to allow Wynne room to kneel and literally take matters into her own hands.
Wynne ran her fingers across the paw, the joint and up the furry leg without finding any dislocations or fractures. Letting out a sigh of relief, she offered Goldie a fair-sized fur-rubbing before they both got back on their feet.
Ernie had followed Wynne over to the refrigerator stocked with ice cream and crushed ice intended to be used in various drinks. He continued to carry the tray that held the sandwiches and beers. "Wynne! How about-"
"Haw? Whazzat?"
"We got beer and grub! Let's get the hell outta here!" Ernie shouted into Wynne's ear - she offered him a big, waving thumbs-up in return. He turned around to aim for the front door, but Wynne grabbed his shoulder, shook her head and pointed at the nearby corridor leading to the rear exit instead.
Goldie whimpered at the prospect of wading through the forest of legs all over again, but Blackie let out a series of reassuring woofs and barks that meant: 'Don't worry. I'll take a bite out of anyone getting too close to you.'
-*-*-*-
After Wynne had locked the rear exit from the outside, she, Ernie and the dogs went over to one of the picnic tables that had been set up in Moira's back yard. Though the ambient temperature was still high, a handful of wide parasols created plenty of shade over the tables which made sipping the beer and munching the sandwiches a pleasurable affair.
On their way out of the restaurant, Wynne had grabbed a gallon-sized plastic jug of water and a ceramic drinking bowl, and she poured the former into the latter so Blackie and Goldie could have something to drink as well. "Sorreh, girls… ain't gonn' be no jerkeh for y'all taday… coudden find aneh on that there shelf so I reckon it wus all sold or som'tin. Or mebbe ol' Slow Lane been chewin' on it hisself, I dunno. Anyhows, there wus nuttin' there so…"
Woof-woooooof…
"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie, Blackie, but I ain't no magi-shun, yuh? I can't make som'tin outta nuttin' when there ain't nuttin' ta make som'tin outta!"
Blackie let out a sound akin to 'Huh?' but she couldn't get a clarification as her owner had already sat down at the picnic table to eat.
---
The beer and food had been taken care of a short quarter of an hour later. Wynne needed to chase down the sandwiches with a shot of sweet lovin', so she and the dogs strolled across Main Street while Ernie called his wife Bernadine to get the latest from home.
She tipped her cowboy hat at Septic Sammi 'The Sewer Gal' who drove past in her Ford F350 Dually that had a large septic tank occupying the entire back-half of the cutaway chassis. As always, the slogan on the side of the brownish tank said You Dump It, I Pump It.
Wynne's cowboy hat was soon thrust into a second career as a nose-fanning accessory as she waited for the truck to drive past. A glance at the septic tank itself struck a spark of inspiration in her mind; the spark ignited a long fuse that took the scenic route through her gray matter until it ended up as an idea: "Haw!" she exclaimed at a volume that made Blackie jump into an offensive stance and Goldie to let out a whimper and hide behind her owner's legs.
"Girls, lissen ta this! Sammi sure got a good slogan an' all, but her bizzness logo be dullah than cow dung. Yuh?"
Wooooof?
"I be gettin' ta whah, Blackie. Okeh, so mebbe that there nih-ce artist lay-dee Nanceh there could draw one o' them there li'l cartoon folks I done clapped eyes on back at her campah… shoot… where wus that- haw, they wus onda mugs! Sure wus!"
Woof…
"Yuh, I know all y'all ain't got no clue whut I be talkin' 'bout 'cos ya wussen theah, but trus'me on this one, okeh? Nanceh could mebbe draw one o' them li'l folks in a big sih-ze an' sell it ta Sammi as her new logo or som'tin. Naw-naw-naw… her mascot! Aw-yuh, that sure would be so dang awesum' it don't get no awesum'ah! Awri'te, I'mma-gonn' suggest that whenevah we be meetin' that there nih-ce artist lay-dee ag'in, yessirree! Okeh, we can move on now."
Blackie just shook her head in a state of complete and utter confusion; Goldie let out a few sounds that could be interpreted as snickers as she resumed strolling across the two-lane Main Street.
The sticking glass door to the sheriff's office created an obstacle Wynne hadn't counted on, so she nearly bumped her nose against the pane. The door eventually released with a howling squeak that made everyone inside stare at her. "Howdy, y'all! Wynne Donnah-hew an' comp'neh be he'! Barreh… Rodolfoh… Quick Draw. Plugged anehboddah taday, Bea?"
Beatrice Reilly offered Wynne a lengthy, sour look before she returned to her paperwork. A mumbled "Not yet," was soon let out.
Blackie growled at the deputy before she and Goldie ran over to the blanket that had been put on the floor by the window - it was the only spot in the entire office where the linoleum wasn't cracked.
An ash-covered Barry sat at the watch desk. He offered Wynne and the dogs a brief wave before he broke down in one of his customary coughing fits that always left him red-faced and with one foot in the grave - it also earned him a long sigh from Beatrice.
Rodolfo had been busy pouring beans and clean water into the coffee machine to make the next potful, but he dusted off his hands and offered Wynne a big grin. "Hiya, Wynne. It must be hotter than hell down south where you live… you're not wearing your regular jeans and boots."
"Yuh… yuh, it sure be hawt taday, awri'te," Wynne said with a grin. Pushing the cowboy hat back from her brow, she shoved a small pile of paperwork aside to rest a buttock on the sheriff's desk.
Beatrice glanced at the gesture before she let out a huff. "Please don't sit on the desk like that, Miss Donohue. It's disrespectful to Sheriff Jalinski."
"Izzat a fact, Quick Draw? Lawrdie, I pay mah taxes an' all… an' dat means I can sit wherevah I durn well lack. Hell, if y'all must know, I can tell ya I been sittin' on the sheriff a cuppel-a tih-mes!"
Beatrice huffed and Rodolfo let out a cheesy laugh at the news - but Barry did one better by blowing out an explosive snort that turned into a coughing fit that sent ash and pastry crumbs flying everywhere. He even needed to stub out the latest cigarette while he smacked his fist into his chest to release the clot of mucus blocking his airways, and that didn't happen often.
"Lawwwwr-die, Barreh… mebbe ya oughtta be thinkin' 'bout writin' yer las'will an' testament, there, 'cos… dang, son!" When Barry waved his hand to show it was all fine and good, if a little gross-sounding, Wynne shrugged. "Okeh… anyhows. Where y'all be keepin' that there li'l, ol' sheriff o' yers? I sure ain't be seein' mah sweet darlin' Mandeh nowheah."
Beatrice couldn't be bothered to answer since she was still Far Too Annoyed With The Whole Situation, and Barry was too busy hacking up a lung. It all meant that Rodolfo had to step in: "The sheriff is on speed trap duty up at the northern end of town. We've had a little problem with speeders today."
"Aw! Okeh… yuh, I guess that be inevitabbel with all them racin' folks goin' through town an' all. Much obliged, there, Rodolfoh. How 'r things goin' with yer darlin' Dolores an' all?"
"Oh, we're doing great, thanks-"
Beatrice looked up to cast an icy, dark glare at Wynne. "This is the sheriff's office, Miss Donohue, not a gossip parlor. If you insist on talking about private matters, may I suggest you go up to Miss Lorenzen's hair salon? I'm sure she'll be more accommodating."
A guttural growl escaped Blackie's throat, and Wynne wasn't far behind in producing a similar sound. She slid off the edge of the desk and put her hands akimbo. "Whoa… whaddindahell crept up yer ass taday, Quick Draw? I mean, realleh… did someboddah leave ya a Dear Bea lettah on yer pillah or som'tin?"
Rodolfo and Barry exchanged a quick look - if it turned into a catfight, they would need to vacate the premises double-quick.
"Mind your own damn business!" Beatrice growled before she returned to her paperwork.
Wynne mouthed a few silent curses before she let out a harrumph and a "C'mon, girls… we bettah off hittin' the high road. Ain't no point bein' he' when mah darlin' Mandeh ain't he', anyhows. Catch ya on the flip-flop, Rodolfoh… an' Barreh, best o' luck with that there hackin' there. Yuh?"
With that, Wynne spun around and stomped over to the sticking door. The handle was given a good yank which made it fly open at the first try. Once Blackie and Goldie had run outside, she made sure to close the glass door in much the same fashion as she had opened it.
---
Across Main Street, she and the dogs ran into Ernie who was in the process of downing a can of Double-Zero - it didn't take him long to recognize the murderous look in Wynne's blue eyes, so he reached into his vest pocket to find a can for her.
"Thanks, buddeh… owe ya one," Wynne growled as she tore open the metal flap with the good, old psssshhht! Most of the beer disappeared within a few seconds after which she belched and rolled the cool can across her flushed forehead.
Ernie let out a chuckle as he studied his friend's body language. "What, did you and the sheriff get into a shoutin' match or somethin'?"
"Naw, Mandeh wussen theah. It wus Quick Draw. Lawrdie, I ain't sure whut her problem with me is… but she sure does got one, I'm tellin' ya," Wynne said and rolled her eyes. "Naw. Naw, I ain't gonn' let'er ruin' mah day. Not with y'all in town. C'mon, buddeh… les' crooze around a li'l. Yuh? I got som'tin ta show ya up at the Bang 'n Beatin', anyhows."
"Sure," Ernie said with a grin. "Wanna use my Ford or your Chevy?"
"Aw, mah Silveradah fer sure, pardner! An' lemme tell ya som'tin else… it got eight o' them there cupholdahs, yuh? An' them cupholdahs be the right sih-ze fer them cans o' beah as well!"
---
Fully equipped with another six-pack of Double-Zeros, Wynne and Ernie drove out of the alley adjacent to Moira's and trickled across the sidewalk. She paused there for a moment pondering the best course of action before she turned right onto Main Street.
Blackie throned on the back seat with her head out of the open window to catch the headwind; Goldie was less brave as usual, but at least she had her muzzle resting on the seat so she could get a fleeting glimpse of the sky through the rear window.
Wynne made sure to keep the digital speedometer glued on twenty miles per hour so their cruising would remain nice and easy for all involved. She briefly had the radio on, but they only caught the tail-end of one of Peggy Sue Buford's many hits before the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack went to a commercial break. She wasn't in the mood for that, so she turned it off again and let the V8 and the exhaust pipes take care of the soundscape.
It wasn't long before they reached the vandalized southern city limits sign. "Welcome ta Goldsborah… whe' magical things happen… whaddabuncha bull dung… an' someboddah always use that dang sign fer target practice. A dang-blasted waste o' tax dollahs if y'all ask me," Wynne said in a voice that was far less cheery than usual.
"Well, I didn't 'cos I agree," Ernie said as he looked at the sign with the many holes - a quick U-turn later, they cruised northbound at the same, slow speed.
"Yuh…" Wynne said with her right hand resting loosely atop the steering wheel. "We sure done a'lotta weird an' fu-hn stuff tagathah, didden we? Lawrdie, jus' drivin' up da street lack this brings back a'buncha mem'ries. Yuh? Mebbe one or two bad, but deffa-nete-leh also plentah o' good mem'ries. Lookie there, da Grant-Mastah's sto'ah," Wynne continued as they trickled past Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports where they had both spent vast sums of money on beer.
Ernie nodded. "I'll miss the Grant-Master. There are obviously liquor stores in Cavanaugh Creek, but they cater to a different group. Do you know if he sells his stuff online?"
"Ain't got a clue," Wynne said as they moved past Grant Lafferty's and past the alley next to it. " 'Member when Mandeh done wrote ya a ticket fer peein' in the alleh ovah yondah? That wus that there sah-me ni'te Goldsborah wus invaded bah them buhhh-tt-ugleh rotten zohm-bies an' all."
On the back seat, Blackie let out a happy bark at the memory of some good, old critter-chasin'; Goldie whimpered and slammed her eyes shut just in case one of the aforementioned zombies would pop up and frighten her all over again.
"Hell-yeah, I remember," Ernie said and looked at the mouth of the alley as they drove past it. "That was the night I wrecked my old truck!"
"Aw… 's ri'te… holeh shit."
"Yeah, I had to swerve to avoid hitting one of those cadavers out in the desert. My truck rolled over in the ditch and I lost my original Ford cap!"
"Snakes Alive, I durn-well hate it when da shit jus' piles up. Lawrdie. An' there we got-a sheriff's office… but I ain't gonn' go back dere until mah sweet, li'l Mandeh comes back from traffic doo-teh, nosirree."
They moved northbound for a short stretch; as they came close to Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners and Cathy Pearson's Tack & Saddle leathergoods store, Blackie let out a bark at the owner of the latter who was busy sweeping the sidewalk - when Cathy waved at the black Silverado, everyone waved back.
"An' dem Chickeh Kingz, o' course," Wynne said once they reached the takeout parlor where she had worked for a while. "I wondah if they still got that there Nissah-n delivereh truck them folks had me drivin'… naw. Or mebbe they do, but it sure ain't there ri'te now," she continued as they drove past the opening to the courtyard where the Nissan was usually parked.
Derrike Iverson's dive was given the cold shoulder by all as Ernie and Wynne had both been handed lifetime bans by Derrike - Ernie for frequenting Moira's Bar & Grill, and Wynne for being involved with Mandy Jalinski who had become Public Enemy No.1 with the crowd of anti-establishment types who hung out at the dive.
"Lawrdie… seein' them benches ovah yondah makes me think-a the hubbub when'da Town Council done put 'em up… didden they cost som'tin lack thirteh-five grand in total ta put up, or som'tin?" Wynne said and pointed at one of the white benches that lined Main Street at irregular intervals. "An' they wus saposed ta bring in them too-rists an' all. But shoot, I ain't nevah seen a single too-rist restin' their bee-hinds on aneh off'em."
"No. More wasted tax dollars," Ernie said while he looked beyond Wynne's pointing finger. He let out a dark chuckle at the sight of the bench. "I do remember the time when Artie Rains hauled us off to the county courthouse for drinking beer in public."
"Haw-yuh… man-o-man, that wus one o' the nastiest jobs that nasteh-ass Artie Rains evah done pulled on us. Lawrdie, if Judge Etherin'ton hadden thrown the case out 'cos them Dubbel-Zerahs be non-alcoholic beahs an' all, I do bah-lieve ol' Artie woudda locked us up an' thrown away the dang-blasted key."
"Yeah… and I even considered Artie Rains a friend at the time."
Wynne let out a dark grunt. "Yuh-well. Lack them folks done said in that there teevee show from a cuppel-a ye'ahs back… ain't nuttin' gonn' kill a friendship fastah than one off'em bein' an a-hole."
Ernie, Blackie and Goldie all furrowed their brows - the dogs shot each other a puzzled glance in the hope the other could decipher their owner's somewhat cryptic statement, but neither had any luck.
" 'S mah opinion, anyhows," Wynne continued, unaware that her passengers had lost the thread somewhere along the way.
---
The cruising Silverado was soon overtaken by a couple of the support vehicles that had taken up curb space back at Moira's. They all honked at the black truck for driving so slowly in the middle of the street, but the karmic cycle worked in a hurry as they had to slam on the brakes at the sight of the portable 'alligator head' speed-measuring camera next to the Durango from the Sheriff's Department.
"Da Spartan Wings sports goods sto'ah… haw, I be tellin' ya, I still chuckle when I think-a how that there young sales clerk fella there done stared at me when I asked if them nih-ce folks done sold them hoolah-hoop-things. It wus fer li'l Renee Tooley's birthdeh, yuh?"
"Oh… right. I was about to ask, actually," Ernie said with a grin.
"They didden sell none so we hadda buy it onlih-ne. I ain't nevah forgettin' that there pack-itch it done came in, neithah," Wynne said and thumped her hand onto the rim of the steering wheel. "Dang thing wus… haw, it wus big as a dang-blasted howse! Them postal folks coudden vereh well fold it or nuttin', yuh? Me an' Mandeh done spent an hou'ah tearin' off adhesive tape an' layahs o' cardboard an' some kind o' dubbel-layah papah an' a ton-a styrofoam shit… haw, it wus a mess awri'te."
"Did Renee like it?"
"Yuh, she done played with it a whole summah. It wus moneh well spent. An' the' we got Missus Bizzehboddehs boardin' howse… hardleh aneh good evah done came outta that place, ain't dat ri'te? I ain't got no int'rest tawkin' 'bout her. Okeh, he be the mooh-vie theatah. Lawrdie, I done laid down a lotta bucks in there ta begin with. Aw, them awesum' John Wayh-ne cavalcades they done had when they first opened."
"And then they fired you," Ernie said with a chuckle.
"Yuh. Fer tawkin' ta them good folks there ta buy mooh-vie tickets. Ain't nevah undahstood that. Okeh, so I wus saposed ta sell a'lotta popcorn an' cotton candeh but I didden 'cos I done tawked, but… eh. Haw, I sure be happeh they got a new daileh managah or whutevah that fella's title is. Wotshisname… Rosengren? Rosenquist? Rosen-someboddah?"
"I don't know. I haven't been there since last November. Remember when we double-dated and watched the action comedy with the nutty detective agency?"
"Yuh! Yuh, that wus goofeh fuh-n. If onleh they didden show so dang-blasted maneh o' them there dumb supah-hero mooh-vies, I mi'te catch a few mo' showin's each month. Whaddahell's wrong with a good, ol' Westurhn now an' then?"
"Yeah… speakin' of which, do you know if your horror Western will ever hit the silver screen?"
"Naw, it won't. It be one o' them there mah-de fer hoah-me entahtainment kinda flicks. 'S prolleh a good thing, tho'… good shittt almi'teh, imagine if Cowpoah-ks Versus Da Undead Vampyh-re Ghouls done had a pre-meer he' in Goldsborah? I wus gonn' hafta wear a papah bag ovah mah head fer the next six months or som'tin…"
Chuckling, Ernie reached over to nudge Wynne's shoulder.
"Yuh. But it wus fuh-n, tho'. Them folks done flew me ovah ta that there Hollehwood an' all… an' I saw a real mooh-vie stoo-dioh an' ev'rehthin'. The shootin' wus kinda fuh-n even if learnin' them lih-nes wus tuff."
"I'll bet."
"Man, I ain't nevah done figgah'd them stoo-dioh li'tes wus so hawt! I be tellin' ya, y'all didden need no stove ta cook eggs! Aneh surface would do undah them li'tes. I ain't sure how it gonn' turn out 'cos I only done seen a quick preview trailah, but… yuh… it sure ain't gonn' be The Searchahs or Eldahradah or aneh o' them there classic Westurhns. Is jus' a monstah flick set in the Ol' West, yuh?"
"Maybe so, but I'm still going to buy it when it comes out," Ernie said with a grin.
Just as Ernie reached the end of the sentence, the black truck reached the northern city limits sign. Pulling over at the side of the road, Wynne waved her cowboy hat at Mandy who had created a base on the opposite side.
Since no vehicles approached from either side, Mandy strode over to the mat-black Silverado to get a faceful of licks from Goldie and give a good fur-rubbing in return. Once she had wiped off the doggy-slobber with a handkerchief she leaned against the driver's side door. She and Wynne exchanged a warm look before she got up on tip-toes, dove into the cab and placed a quick kiss on her partner's enticing lips. "Hi, hon. Thanks for swinging by. I needed to see a friendly face."
"Lawwwwr-die, so did Ah! Howdy, darlin'! Lookie he' who be in town taday… or fer da entiah weekend, ack-chew-leh."
"Hello, Mr. Bradberry," Mandy said and put her fingers to the rim of her Mountie hat. "I take it you're here for the race?"
Ernie nodded as he leaned forward so he could lock eyes with Mandy. "That's right, Sheriff. And to fill some packing cases."
Mandy mirrored the nod as she reached into the open window to caress Wynne's cheek. She ran her fingers across the smooth skin a couple of times before she added another kiss just because. "Hon, you look flushed. Remember to drink plenty in this heat… and I mean water."
"Aw-yuh, I be drinkin', Sheriff Mandeh," Wynne said with a grin that soon faded. "Haw, I be flushed 'cos Quick Draw Bea be on mah back fer some bizarroh reason. I ain't got no ideah whaddahell's wrong with'er, or whut I done did ta her fer that mattah. But she sure wus on mah back taday. Lawrdie."
"She's been that way for a couple of weeks. Constantly biting everyone's head off," Mandy said and rolled her eyes.
A few seconds went by in silence before Ernie added: "Maybe she's found out she's pregnant." When he was met by two pairs of human stares and a doggy snicker from the back seat, he broke out in a shrug. "What? It happens… I oughtta know."
"Whah, o' course it done happens… but Quick Draw Bea?! Naw, I sure do find that awfulleh hard ta bah-lieve, buddeh!" Wynne said with a broad grin; it faded when her brain caught up with her mouth a short while later. "Well… on the othah hand… mebbe… shoot, mebbe she done found out she had a stowaway an' announced it ta'da fellah responsible an' he done took off or som'tin? That sure would explain one helluva lot. Yuh…"
"That's just conjecture, Wynne. To change the subject, I met and spoke to Miss O'Connell earlier," Mandy continued as she resumed caressing Wynne's cheek.
"Yuh? I hope ol' Phyl didden offah y'all aneh hassle or nuttin'…"
"She didn't, but some of her associates did. That's why I'm sitting up here doing this now. The drivers of a red Mustang and a purple something-or-other did burnouts in front of Moira's… then they broke all speed limits racing out of town. I cannot and will not accept such behavior."
"Naw, no wondah. Them foo's. That be whut them folks got that there Thundah Park fer, anyhows. Awri'te, Ernie an' me be on da look-out fer them vee-hickels. Wotcha say? A red Stang and a purple… whut?"
"I don't know, hon. That's your field of expertise," Mandy said with a smile. "I do know it was a classic of some kind. I'm guessing from the sixties or seventies."
Wynne nodded before she turned to Ernie. "Purple, yuh? Gotta be a Moah-par o' some kind. Dustah, Dart, Supah Bee, Chargah, Challengah… one o' them fer sure."
The distant roar of a powerful engine alerted the sheriff who turned to look north. It didn't take long before a low-slung two-seater came into sight racing south on the State Route. It was still too far away to identify, but the plumes of road dust that were kicked up behind it proved it was moving fast. "I need to get back to work. I'll catch you later tonight. Love you."
"Haw! Luv ya too, there, Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne said and waved her hat all over again. Once it was back on her dark locks, she started the engine and selected a gear. Before she drove off, she said "Hey Ernie… whaddahell does conjack'chuah mean?" out of the corner of her mouth.
"I have no clue, Wynne. How do you spell that?" Ernie said with his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek.
"C… o… n… som'tin-som'tin'-som'tin… aw… whodahell gives a stuffed turkeh. C'mon, les' crooze."
---
A few minutes later, the black Chevrolet drove into the inner courtyard of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. Wynne had to navigate around a large dumpster, a pile of used tires and a couple of car-shaped lumps covered in tarpaulins before she came to a halt at one of the sliding doors. "C'mon, Ernie… there be som'tin I been meanin' ta show ya," she said as she climbed down.
Blackie and Goldie let out a few woofs, barks and yaps in anticipatory joy, but they were disappointed once more when Wynne said "Stay, girls! It ain't safe fer y'all he'."
Walking over to the sliding door, she needed to put up her hands to block out the reflections in the panes of plastic in order to look through them. "Lookie there, Ernie… ol' Joe-Bob's Caddeh. Yessirree, Fat-Butt Swenson an' me still be workin' on it, but we be gettin' there. It hadda few mo' problems that we kinda thunk it did once we got down ta'da nitteh-gritteh, but it ain't nuttin' a li'l elbow grease can't fix. Yuh. I be hopin' ta take it out fer the Foah-th o' Joo-lie parah-de in 'bout six weeks' tih-me. Dontcha reckon it gonn' look awesum' drivin' up front with The Las' Oah-riginal Cowpoah-ke behind that there white steerin' wheel an' mebbe the winnah o' the beauteh pageant or someboddah in da back?"
Ernie put up his hands as well to be able to see the 1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible that had been wheeled over into a corner of the garage. All four hubcaps were missing, and the grille, the front bumper and a few other smaller pieces of brightwork had been disassembled - the items rested on blankets that had been put on the floor next to the huge land yacht. Red and yellow paper tags had been attached to the various parts: red indicated that re-chroming was necessary; yellow meant that a thorough polishing would do the job. "Or maybe Mary-Lou Skinner and the rest of the Town Council?" he said and nudged Wynne in the side.
"Haw… in that case, ol' Fat-Butt an' me need-a beef up that there suspen-shun first… but anyhows. Yuh. Can't wait."
"So you own it now? I mean officially?" Ernie said as they moved away from the sliding doors and walked back to the Silverado.
"Yuh. I done bought it offa the ol' rassler's famileh. Well, the executah o' Joe-Bob's bizzness, anyhows. He done hadda powah o' attorneh. The Manbeast still be hangin' on up in that there care hoah-me in Barton Citeh, but he ain't all there anymo', ya know? I went up there ta see 'im but I wish I hadden. He be sittin' in a wheelchair an' can't walk or tawk or nuttin' no mo'. Somebodda gotta feed 'im an' change his diapah. The ol' fella gotta be hurtin' lack hell inside, but ain't nuttin' noboddah can do 'bout it. It done makes mah heart sick, lemme tell ya."
Ernie nodded as he opened the passenger-side door and climbed back up into the cab. "Yeah. Strokes are so unpredictable."
"Yuh," Wynne said and tapped her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. "Aw, anyhows. Les' crooze back. Mebbe we be luckeh an' them folks who done passed us goin' north left some space fer us back at Moira's. I feel lack shootin' a cuppel-a frames."
"We could play for beer," Ernie said with a grin.
Laughing out loud, Wynne started the engine at once. "Y'all got yerself a deal, there, pardner!"
A Woof-woof-woof-woof! of relief from the back was Blackie's way of informing the world she couldn't wait to finally leave the darn truck - the black dog was soon given a little nudge by her golden-furred companion who yapped in sympathy.
-*-*-*-
Inside the sheriff's office at the same time that Wynne and Ernie drove back, Barry Simms sat at the watch desk munching on a ham-and-cheese sandwich and slurping a mug of coffee that had so much milk in it had turned chalky-white. Never the most careful eater, his uniform shirt saw more crumbs and stains than the plate the sandwich had come on.
Although a stack of paper napkins had been included in the sandwich-delivery from Moira's Bar & Grill, he couldn't use it to wipe his mouth as it would inevitably be a fire hazard given the close proximity of his latest lit cigarette - thus, the mustard that had been spread between the slices of ham and cheese were all over his upper lip and left cheek.
The sheriff and Barry's fellow deputies were busy elsewhere which left him all alone in the office. He made sure to get the most out of it by taking an extended break that included reading a few chapters of Check Your Six, Sally, adding a few words to a crossword puzzle, updating his shopping list and using his personal smartphone to check out the Goldsboro Movie Theater's website to see which film would headline the next Cult Classic Night.
He scrolled and swiped past a few irrelevant pages before he found the listing he had been searched for. An "Oooh! Neat!" escaped him when he read that the next classic would be Old Yeller from 1957.
In the middle of all that, the ancient Bakelite telephone rang; it prompted Barry to exclaim an insulted huff at the audacity of the unknown caller to disturb him during his hard-earned break. It rang for a second time before he had found - and dusted off - the report book where he needed to update all incoming calls.
"Good afternoon, you've reached the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, the Goldsboro office. How may we help you?" he said as he held the ball point pen ready. Speaking made the cigarette in his mouth bob up and down, and the tip of ash broke off and ended up making a mess down on the crotch of his uniform pants.
'Please! I need help! My name is Nancy Tranh Nguyen and I've just moved into a house over here on Second Street! I… I… oh, I have a fire… an electrical fire in my kitchen! Please…'
"I see," Barry said and updated the information. He furrowed his brow and used the butt of the pen to scratch his ear. "How do you spell your name, Miss?"
'I need help! Now! Please! Oh, I… I can't-'
When the connection was lost in the middle of the woman's reply, Barry let out another insulted huff before he got up from the swivel-chair and moved over to the large windows overlooking Main Street. When he was unable to see any columns of smoke, he grabbed the portable radio that had a permanent place on the watch desk.
Before he could use it to hail either the sheriff or Deputy Reilly, Rodolfo came back from the bathroom drying his hands on a paper towel. "Was that the telephone, Barry?"
"Yes… someone whose name was Tryin' Again or something weird like that. She said she had an electrical fire in her kitchen, but it sounded a little too theatrical if you ask me."
"Tryin' Again? Are you shitting me, Barry?"
"I'm not… that's what it sounded like! Honest!"
"Well, it doesn't ring a bell either way. Where did she call from?" Rodolfo said as he joined Barry at the windows. The paper towel was soon crumpled up into a ball that was thrown into the trash can next to the watch desk.
"Second Street."
The senior deputy let out a chuckle and patted his younger colleague's shoulder. "Well, there's your answer right there, Deputy."
"Huh?"
"Nobody lives on Second Street. The new neighborhood is built around the alley off Second Street. Any local would know that. That woman's probably sitting in Massachusetts or somewhere and looking at World Maps on her telephone without knowing any details."
Barry furrowed his brow again. "So why did she call the Goldsboro office?"
"Duh, Barry… it's a prank call!"
"Ohhhhh… right. That would explain it. I can't see any smoke, anyway. Okay. On the other hand, maybe I should radio Deputy Reilly and ask her to check it out once she gets back from the impound yard?"
"When did she leave?"
"Five minutes ago. Maybe a little more now."
Rodolfo scratched his chin for a moment before he broke out in a shrug. "How about calling Reilly on the phone instead? That way, the sheriff can't listen in."
"Good thinking," Barry said and soon swapped the portable radio for his personal telephone. A few moments later, he said: "That's a no-go. I only get her voice mail."
"Okay."
The deputies fell silent for a moment longer while they stood by the window to scout for any tell-tale columns of smoke or someone running to or fro in a panic. When nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen, they both shrugged and moved back to their desks.
A black shadow moving past the window caught Barry's eye, but it was only Wynne's Silverado cruising south on Main Street. He watched it for a few seconds before he scratched his neck. "Wynne's out there… maybe I should try calling her…?"
"What's that, Barry?" Rodolfo said as he stood up straight once more; the senior deputy had been leaning down to tie his shoelace that had come undone.
"Oh… nothing," Barry said and reached for the mug of coffee and the half-eaten ham-and-cheese sandwich - the pulp paperback wasn't far behind.
-*-*-*-
Wynne let out a long string of chuckles at a joke Ernie made just as they arrived at the intersection at Second Street. A weird, unpleasant smell tickled her nose which made her scratch the spot in question. When the bad smell grew stronger, she looked over her shoulder to see if Blackie or Goldie had farted, but since they didn't behave any differently to normal, the rapidly blossoming smell remained a mystery - then it grew downright putrid. "Aw, pee-Yoo! Whaddindahell goin' on with that there stench? Ain't that plastic meltin' or som'tin? An' wheredahell it be comin' from?"
"Beats me," Ernie said and stuck his head out of the open window to give the outside air an extra check.
While he did that, Wynne studied all the truck's instruments to see if any of them crept upward to the red zone, but none did. "Whaddahell is this he' thing?" she mumbled.
"There's a Godawful stench outside… somethin' definitely burnin' somewhere," Ernie said as he pulled his head back inside.
"Yuh… but wheah?"
For once, Goldie was the first to spot an important development in the latest weird thing they had been thrust into the middle of: she let out a couple of yaps at the sight of humans running around down by the entry to the alley off Second Street.
Since the yaps didn't seem to register with her companions, she turned her golden head to see why they had yet to acknowledge her major discovery. Seeing the three others all doing their own thing made her let out a stronger Woof! When even that was ignored, she drew a deep breath and produced the loudest bark for many a year.
"Holeh shittt! Goldie!" Wynne cried upon returning to the seat after a brief spell as an astronaut; the crown of her cowboy hat had in fact been pressed flat by the headliner as she had jerked upward. "Aw, wotcha tryin' ta tell us, girl?"
Wooof-woof-woof-woofen-woof… yap-yap-yap!
"Haw?" Wynne said and began to look around. "Merceh Sakes, Ernie, lookie there! Ovah yondah! Mo' trubbel! Hang onto yer asses, ev'rehboddah!"
The command was soon followed by a foot planted on the gas pedal. The V8 roared to life and sent the black Silverado hurtling around the corner on squealing tires.
She kept her foot on the floorboards for the short distance before she spun the steering wheel to the right and blasted into the alley. Ninety feet further on, she jumped onto the brake pedal which made the heavy truck almost stand on its nose - in the back, Goldie slid off the seat and ended up down in the footwell.
Blackie let out a bark that meant 'Our owner did actually say we should hang onto our-' but she couldn't complete the woofing statement before Goldie replied in time-honored fashion by uttering several four-letter barks.
Wynne and Ernie didn't have time to listen to their dogs arguing - they had both jumped out at the sight of Nancy running towards them flailing her arms in the air.
"Oh, thank Gawd you're here!" Nancy said in a frayed voice that was on the verge of breaking. "There's a fire in my kitchen! An electrical fire! My coffee machine burst into flames and began to melt! Everything is crackling and sparking!"
"Ernie an' me gonn' deal with'it, Nanceh! Call them de-per-ties fer help onna dubbel!" Wynne said decisively.
"I already did! They never came!"
Wynne was already on her way over to the house when she came to a hard stop and spun around upon hearing Nancy's comment. "They whut?!"
"They didn't come! And I don't know where the sheriff's office is!"
"Aw, sombitch! Whatta-buncha frickin' sombitches them de-per-ties is!" Wynne said and smacked her fists together. "Snakes Alive, Mandeh gonn' rip 'em a new one once she done hears abouddit!"
While Wynne and Nancy spoke, Ernie spotted one of Nancy's neighbors running toward the house holding a regular fire extinguisher. "Shit," he croaked as he tried to up his own tempo even further. "Stop! Hey, Mister! Don't use that Goddamned fire extinguisher! If ya shoot water on an electrical fire, ya gonna make everything ten times worse… we need foam or fire blankets… plenty of 'em!"
Another neighbor shouted that he had some thick blankets in his truck, so that part seemed to be taken care of. The amount of smoke that trickled out of the open front door was still manageable, but it was clear it was high time that something was done about it.
Once Ernie had been given a large wad of sturdy fire blankets, he folded three over each arm and left the rest for his fire-fighting partner. "Wynne! We got some blankets! We're ready!"
"Okeh, Nanceh… Ah gotta go'ah. Please keep an eye on mah dawg- aw-shoot… nevah mind," Wynne said before she hurried over to the spot where Ernie had dumped the extra blankets. Grabbing the entire pile, she drew a deep breath and ran up the garden path.
Once she reached the door that Ernie had already gone through, she bared her teeth in a nervous grimace. She looked at her bare legs and flimsy flannel shirt - neither clothing item was particularly appropriate for the situation.
'Wynne! It's only in the kitchen so far!' Ernie shouted from inside the house.
"Yuh! Ah be ri'te theah an' all!" Wynne shouted back. She gulped down a big lump and ran through the open door.
The main entrance led into a corridor that had three sliding doors on each side plus a regular door down the far end - the latter was open and the lights were on revealing it went to a narrow staircase.
The first room on Wynne's right was the living room where they had piled up stacks of packing cases earlier in the day. A small utility kitchen had been placed opposite the living room, but a single glance proved it wasn't where the fire had broken out.
Running ahead, Wynne soon reached the second sliding door on the left; the fierce stench that overpowered every other smell proved the room was home to the seat of the fire, and the grayish smoke that filled the air confirmed it beyond any doubt. "Ernie?!" she shouted though she tried to hold her breath for as long as possible.
'Watch your legs! The floor's on fire!' Ernie shouted back. 'The blankets ain't doin' a good job 'cos melted plastic and shit is drippin' down from the kitchen table the whole, damn time! Ya need to find the master circuit breaker and turn off the Goddamned power!'
"Ten-foah, good buddeh!" Wynne shouted and hurried away from the kitchen door. She ran along the corridor trying to remember where the panel was - she had seen Nancy use it to turn on the power when they had arrived earlier in the day, but now the location refused to come back to her.
The next sliding door to the right was the bedroom, so Wynne carried on toward the next one after that. She had already opened the door to the bathroom when she remembered the panel was in the half-height basement down the short flight of stairs beyond the open door at the far end of the hallway.
Storming down the staircase, the first thing she did was to smack her head against the low ceiling. A resounding "Owwwwch! Sombitch!" escaped her as she hunched over and hurried across the dusty floor to get to the metal panel. It was protected by a closed hatch, but she soon worked the catch that held it in place. "Ernie! Can ya heah me? Ah be turnin' off that there powah now!"
Instead of waiting for a reply that would possibly never come, she flipped the circuit breaker which plummeted the semi-basement into inky darkness. Panting hard - and rubbing the sore spot on top of her head - she inched her way back to the pitch-black staircase. It took her several tries for her foot to find the lower step, but once she had it, she stormed back upstairs and into the kitchen.
"Thanks, Wynne!" Ernie said while beating the fire blankets against the flames on the floor. "We almost got this thing beat! Watch yourself over by the melted coffee machine… that plastic gotta be five-hundred degrees hot!"
"Ah heah ya, good buddeh," Wynne said and stared wide-eyed at the smoldering plastic that had once been a coffee machine; it had made some pretty fine coffee out in the camper earlier in the day, but now it had been reduced to a misshapen blob of goo that resembled a piece of modern art.
To help Ernie beat down the last of the flickering flames, she snapped out of her wide-eyed stupor, grabbed another of the blankets and draped it over the smoldering spots to seal off the oxygen.
---
Once everything had been put out, Ernie and Wynne moved around the house to open every window they could find to get a decent cross-draft going.
Hacking and coughing like Barry 'Mister Sixty-Cigs' Simms on a bad day, Wynne needed to bend over and put her sooty hands on her bare knees. She left a pair of charcoal-gray palmprints behind, but the filth was the least of her concerns.
"You okay?" Ernie said while he opened the final window.
"Yuh. Sure. Jus' winded 's all. An' Ah bumped mah noggin, too! Dang, this wussen whut Ah wus hopin' would happen taday! Merceh Sakes, Ernie… les'gedda hell outta he' befo' mo' weird shit gonn' happen…"
Back on the street, Wynne was soon assaulted - though in a good sense - by a pair of eager dogs. Blackie and Goldie jumped up and down and even tried to lick off the worst of the soot that clung to her arms and legs, but she kept them away from the black smudges so they wouldn't ingest something that would be harmful to them.
After looking around to make sure Ernie and Nancy were safe - the latter was being comforted by Eamonn and Esther O'Sullivan - she whipped up her smartphone and found Mandy's number in the registry.
'Hi, hon,' the sheriff soon said at the other end of the connection.
"We done had a nasteh round o' trubbel he', Mandeh. There wus a fiah in one o' them new houses off Second Street-"
'Dammit! Has anyone been injured?'
"Naw, ev'rehboddah's fih-ne. Jus' a li'l hackin' an' coughin' an' shit. Ah done bumped mah noggin… anyhows, there be a huge backstoreh ta it that Ah ain't got tih-me ta tell now, but eahliah taday, me an' Ernie done helped a nih-ce lay-dee move in. Nancy Noo-yen, yuh? Her famileh be from that there Viet-Nahm ovah yondah. Okeh, there wus an electrical fiah in her kitchen, yuh? An' she done called them de-per-ties o' yers fer help but noboddah done showed up!"
'What?!'
"Yuh, them foo's coudden be botha'd ta get their dang-blasted fingahs out an' come ovah he' ta kill that dang-blasted fiah! So me an' Ernie hadda go in lack a cuppel-a dang-blasted smoah-ke jumpahs with a buncha blankets an' shit ta do it ou'ahselves! Ah mean, whaddindahell?! An' we sure wussen dressed fer such a bahr-becue, neithah, lemme tell ya!"
'I'm on my way,' Mandy said and closed the connection at once.
Wynne coughed a little more as she put her telephone away. "Yuh… that gonn' be a fuh-n tawk. Not. Hey Ernie, ol' buddeh?"
"Yeah?" Ernie said, chugging down the upper half of a bottle of mineral water. Once he had made it halfway through, he took off his Built Ford Tough baseball cap and poured the rest of the water all over his mullet to cool down.
"The sheriff gonn' be showin' up aneh minnit now. 'R all o' Nancy's drawin's an' sketches an' whutnot safe?"
"Looks that way. She and Esther are checking everything over. The fire never spread beyond the kitchen table and floor," Ernie said before he shook his head to get the excess water out of his hair - the gesture made droplets fly all over. The heat beating down from the clear blue sky made them evaporate almost before they hit the pavement. "Dammit, I didn't know how crappy linoleum reeked when it melted. And that coffee machine ain't gonna make coffee again, that's a fact."
"Naw. Musta been one o' them short-circuits or som'tin. Mebbe faulteh wires… but Ah sure ain't hopin' so 'cos then it means the entiah house needs-a be checked from A ta Zee befo' Nanceh can move in."
"Yeah…"
The familiar sound of a frantic electronic siren could be heard in the background. It seemed to pause for a short minute before it resumed its journey toward the alley off Second Street.
"Shoot, if onleh Nanceh wussen scared o' mah dawggies, we could offah her the trailah where ol' man Zoltan Petruscoh lived. I mean, fer temporareh accomoda-shun in case this he' house needs-a be gone through with a fih-ne-tooth coah-mb an' all."
"Or my trailer."
"Or yer trailah, yuh. But it ain't gonn' work 'cos she be 'fraid o' Blackie an' Goldie. She don't need-a be, but I sure know 'bout bein' pressured inta doin' som'tin ya ain't wantin' ta do, so I ain't gonn' men-shun it or nuttin'. Not until we know fer a fact what's gonn' happen ovah he', anyhows."
Down by the entrance to the alley, the sheriff's Dodge Durango came blasting around the corner on two wheels. The siren continued to blare which caused even more of a ruckus in the hitherto quiet alley, but it was turned off as the vehicle approached the house. The emergency lights stayed on even if it was somewhat superfluous.
Mandy's face bore the color of an August thunderstorm as she climbed down from the Durango. After striding around the front, she yanked the passenger-side doors open to reveal Barry and Rodolfo who both wore sheepish expressions.
Wynne, Ernie and the dogs made sure to stay well back from the scene that developed when Barry and Rodolfo met Nancy Tranh Nguyen. After much nodding, head-shaking and apologizing, the deputies were ordered into the house to help the newest resident of Goldsboro clean up the mess that had grown far worse than necessary due to their lack of action.
"Lawwwwwwr-die, sure been a while since I las'saw Mandeh that spit-flyin' fureh-uss… Merceh Sakes," Wynne said and scratched her neck. Down at her feet, Goldie nodded and let out an affirmative yap.
"Yeah, no kiddin'," Ernie said, but he was interrupted by the characteristic drone of a powerful, low-revving diesel engine before he could really get going.
Two stabs of an airhorn heralded the arrival of Tucker Garfield and his large, yellow wrecker truck. Nancy's GMC Vandura had been hooked onto the Ford F750's rear towing deck by a pair of sturdy bars and plenty of chains that were certified for heavy, high-stress loads. Special locking clamps were attached to the front wheels to keep them running straight, and all in all, the old GMC was more secure towed than it ever had been with someone behind the wheel.
Tucker poked his head out of the driver's side window to stare at the Durango that still had its emergency lights flashing; then he looked ahead at the crowd of people who had assembled in front of the house he was aiming for.
Coming to a halt, he jumped down from the yellow machine and stomped the rest of the way - the unlit cigar was given such a strenuous workout by his teeth that it all but crumbled on his way over to Wynne, Ernie and the others. "All right, what the hell is going on here? Where's Nancy? What's that frickin' stench? And why the hell are all you people standing around here for? Don't you have anything better to do?"
Wynne stepped forward trying to keep her voice as calm and positive as possible to keep the tow-truck driver from going off like a hand grenade: "Tuckah, there been a fiah in Nanceh's new hoah-me. She be all shook up but ain't none da worse fer weah. She be ovah bah them O'Sullivans, yuh? There sure wus a fiah, tho'. A big, ol' electrical one that stunk ta hi'heaven, yessir. Her coffee machine done melted all ovah da floah. Ernie an' me done put it out."
Tucker stared at the house before he whipped his head around to send a dark glare at Wynne. "You? Why the hell didn't those dumb-ass deputies do it?"
" 'Cos they wussen he'. Look, that there be a long storeh, Tuckah. How 'bout we done moseh'ed ovah ta the O'Sullivan howse so y'all can see Nanceh an' mebbe getta quick beah or som'tin? An' tawk so we can getcha up ta speed?"
"Will ya cut to the Goddamned chase, Wynne! Why weren't the morons here? No, enough of this crap… let me through," Tucker said and barged past Wynne who could only scratch her neck.
Ernie mirrored the gesture to get the last water out of his hair; he even stuck a pinkie in his auditory canal and gave it a good wiggle-waggle to get to the bottom of the well. "Wynne, I think you said a little too much this time…"
"Haw… ya reckon?"
Down on the sidewalk, Blackie and Goldie let out a Woof! and a few subdued yaps as they both seemed to agree with their owner's friend.
Wynne crouched down and pulled her dogs in for a smaller, but no less loving, fur-rubbing session than usual. "Yuh, mebbe I did… shoot, that wussen what I meant ta do."
A Thump! and a howl from somewhere inside the house added yet another layer of drama to the chaotic mess. A moment later, Tucker was led back out by Mandy who held him in a tight armlock; the tow-truck driver was eventually released from the grip and sent on his merry way.
Wynne could only stare wide-eyed at the spectacle. Her stare only grew wider when Mandy strode back into the house after telling her that "Mr. Garfield just gut-punched Deputy Simms."
"Holeh shittt… Tuckah be a strong, ol' sombitch. Poah Barreh," Wynne croaked as she turned to stare at Tucker Garfield who climbed aboard his wrecker truck and reversed out onto Second Street - with a meaty roar from the F750's diesel engine, the yellow truck and the old GMC were soon on their way up to the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop like the original plan had been.
"Poor Barry, my butt," Ernie said. "If he hadn't been such a lazy bum, none of this would have happened. No, that's it… I'm goin' over to Moira's to get myself a beer or six. And man, I'm so hungry my guts are slappin' against my spine. The sandwiches were great, but it's high time for some ribs and sweet potatoes. Come hell, high water, race teams or another fire, I'll be over at Moira's. You comin', Wynne?"
"Yuh… yuh, in a cuppel-a minnites, buddeh. Keep 'em beahs coo' an'da spiced brown graveh hawt fer me, yuh?"
"Will do," Ernie said and began to make his way back down the alley.
It didn't take long before Rodolfo and Barry exited the house. With the Senior Deputy's help, a green-tinged, hunched-over Barry hobbled over to the Durango to have a lie-down on the back seat - his necktie was all askew, his uniform shirt had been pulled out of his pants and his regulatory belt had been undone to ease the throbbing pain in his gut.
As Rodolfo walked past Wynne on his way back inside the house, she stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. "Haw, Rodolfoh, ol' pal… y'all reckon it be safe fer me ta tawk ta mah darlin' Mandeh ri'te 'bout now?"
"That would be a 'hell no,' Wynne," Rodolfo said with a grin and a wink.
"Awww-shoot," Wynne said and put her hands on her hips. "I need-a tell'er that me an' them dawggies be ovah at Moira's with Ernie. We gonn' be havin' an earleh suppah an' all…"
"I'll tell her. Well, she may bite my head off before I get a chance to do so… but I'll try."
"Haw! Much obliged, Rodolfoh… I'mma-gonn' make a note o' it 'cos I always repay them favahs."
Rodolfo let out an embarrassed chuckle; after scratching his smooth chin, he broke out in a shrug. "Not this time, Wynne. I'm as much to blame for this mess as Barry."
"Okeh. In aneh case, we be ovah at Moira's. Yuh? Bah-bah, Seniah De-per-teh!" Wynne said before she whistled and patted her thigh to get her dogs' attention. Once she had two pairs of doggy-eyes trained on her, she pointed at her black Silverado to tell them where to go.
"Bye, Wynne. Wish me luck."
"Good luck, buddeh. An' tamorrah, we gonn' be at the races, yessirree!" Wynne said with a grin before she shuffled off to get back to her Silverado so Operation Spare Ribs & Spiced Gravy could commence.