The parking lots had almost cleared out by the time Wynne came shuffling across the pavement like a hard-working pack mule. The dogs ran alongside her like they were trying to keep her on the straight and narrow. She whipped her head around to spot a familiar face that she could ask for a ride, but - as her typical luck would have it - she only saw strangers from out of town. One of the vehicles in the parking lot was a dusty, black Lincoln SUV that she gave an extra-wide berth.

At very nearly the last moment, she caught a glimpse of Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. stowing all his own things onto the bed of a white Dodge truck that had an extended crew cab. "Haw!  Juniah!  Juniah!  Ah need a wohhh-rd!" Wynne cried at the top of her lungs.

When Geoffrey Junior noticed her, she picked up the pace which left the cooler boxes, the cushions, the throws and all the other items she carried jingling and jangling like a manic symphony. "Howdy there, Juniah… Lawrdie, Ah need a ride. Ev'rehbodda done left me!  First Mandy drove off in that there Silveradah an' then me an' them dawggies got majorleh marooned way the hell out he' when ol' Ernie hadda leave in a dang-blasted hurreh. Y'all got plentah o' space in yer Dodge there, dontcha?"

The late-twenty-something Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. - the son of one of Goldsboro's last independent farmers - wore boots, jeans, a flannel shirt and a hunting vest that looked like he had snatched it straight out of Ernie Bradberry's closet. A John Deere cap sat crooked atop his short, brown hair. To spruce himself up for the date, he had fixed himself a goatee and a neat mustache, and he had even used a touch of aftershave. "No, I'm really sorry, Wynne," he said as he closed the Dodge's tailgate. "Roscoe and me already have our dates sitting in our laps… not when I'm driving, obviously, but-"

"Okeh, but that big-ol' Dodge there got a crew cab an' all…"

"It's full of tools and stuff… it's a working truck."

Wynne let out a grunt as she looked up at the Dodge's open bed. "Awright, but me an' them dawggies sure can sit up on that there bed, then!  Y'all bettah bah-lieve we can… ain't that right, girls?"

Woof!

"Yuh!  That means 'ya betcha' in dawggie lingah, Juniah!" Wynne said with a grin.

"It won't work. My dad would kill me, Wynne… I'm sorry."

"But… but… okeh. Woudden wanna getcha in trubbel with yer dad or nobodda. Shit."

"Did you ask Mr. Millard?  I saw him lumbering over to his huge Continental not two minutes ago," Geoffrey Junior said as he moved around the Dodge to open the driver's side door. Roscoe Finch and their two dates were already on the bench seat; Roscoe had his hands full with one of the girls which left the other one looking acutely and severely embarrassed.

"Aw, a Lincoln Continental… yuh, it hadda be a Fohrd product," Wynne mumbled before she looked back at Junior. "Naw, Ah ain't asked ol' Joe-Bob. Where he at, son?"

"Right over there," Geoffrey Junior said and pointed at a bright-red, barge-sized convertible from the mid-1970s. Just as Junior pointed, Joe-Bob Millard drove off for the exit.

"Awwwwwwwwwww-shitttt!" Wynne cried - then she dumped the cooler boxes and all the other things on the ground and took off after the convertible like she was trying to recreate the Colorado land rush. "J.B.!  Joe-Bob!  Hey!  Mista Manbeast!  Hey!  Ah be shoutin' mah lungs out he' fer y'all!  Dontcha dare drive that there big-ass cahr anehwheah befo' Ah hadda a wohrd witcha!  Hey!  Will ya hit them dog-gone brakes, fer cryin' out loud!"

When the convertible came to a gliding halt, its floaty suspension made it continue to bob and roll like a yacht caught in a wake on the open seas. Still grossly overweight despite the week-long diet - he had recently hit 371 pounds on the cattle scales that were the only ones that could deal with that kind of weight - Joe-Bob Millard tried to turn around in the seat to see who had called his name, but the simple maneuver took so long for the bulky former pro-wrestler that Wynne caught up with him before he could complete the turn.

"Lawwwwwr-die, mah feet… gonn' be killin'… me tamorrah… hell, they be… killin' me now!" Wynne croaked as she finally caught up with the convertible. Her mood was lifted when she noticed it was a 1976 Cadillac Eldorado rather than the Ford Motor Company product that Geoffrey Junior had believed it to be. "Joe-Bob… Jayzuz… J-B… me an'… them dawggies… need a ride… real bad… would ya mind… if we done… tagged along… ta… ta… Goldsborah… or mebbe all… the way home… ta that there… trailah park down south?"

The retired wrestler who had used the moniker The Manbeast Of Yucky Flats for most of his career hadn't been fit for fight in many a year. Now in his early sixties, his gray hair had actually grown longer and more voluminous than in his active days because he always shaved his head before going into the ring to appear more menacing. His wobbly double and triple-chins were covered in a fuzzy four-day stubble because it cost far too much energy to shave all those curves every day. The fleshy face held little of his old supposedly villainous persona, but he could still turn on the heat if he had to - it just didn't last as long as in the heady days of stardom.

He wore a cheap Stetson-lookalike hat and a burgundy Western-style shirt that was stretched out so wide across his gut it looked like a camping tent. Sitting behind the wheel, his belly reached out so far that most of his legs and thus pants were obscured, but he wore pale-gray Polyester slacks that had been tailor-made for him. "Uh… what… oh… hiya, li'l lady…" he said in a clear state of confusion.

"I sure ain't no li'l lady, Joe-Bob… it's me, Wynne Donohue. Lissen-"

"Oh yeah!  Now I recognize ya. Sorry."

"Haw, don't y'all be sayin' sorreh… I done heard that there wohrd too maneh dang times taday alreddeh…" Wynne mumbled and rubbed her brow. "But anyhows, y'all got plentah o' space in that there ha-uge convahrtible o' yers. Whaddaya say?"

A few seconds went by before Joe-Bob narrowed his eyes and let out an: "About what?"

Down at Wynne's feet, Blackie and Goldie shared a long doggy-look before they exchanged an annoyed woof and a despondent yap.

Wynne mirrored the large fellow in the convertible by narrowing her own eyes. The two charismatic people squared off like that for another couple of seconds before she pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Whaddaya mean 'bout whut?  'Bout givin' me an' them dawggies a ride home, fer cryin' out loud!  Didden Ah jus' ask ya that?  Ah'm perdy dog-gone sure Ah did!"

"Oh… right. Well, I don't know," Joe-Bob said and looked at Blackie and Goldie who sat on the pavement waiting patiently. "Are they potty-trained?  This upholstery is real velvet, you know…" he continued as he stroked the bright-red seats. In addition to the fluffy seats, the steering wheel had been wrapped in white leather and the dashboard was white Bakelite.

"Y'all be askin' if mah dawggies be potteh-trained?  Joe-Bob, Ah sure woudden ask that there exact ques-chun if Ah wore mah suppah on mah shirt!  Look at that there mess y'all got down ya gut, fella!" Wynne said and pointed at Joe-Bob's Western shirt. "There be ketchahp an' globs o' grease an'… is that mashed patatahs?  Why, Ah do bah-lieve that there be mashed patatahs, yessir. An' y'all be askin' if mah dawggies is potteh-trained?"

"Well, those stains are all dry. I didn't eat in my car, you know…"

That kind of logic was hard to counter so Wynne didn't even try. Instead, she let out a sigh and admitted defeat. "My dawggies are fully potteh-trained, Joe-Bob. Y'all can take that ta the bank."

Joe-Bob looked at Blackie and Goldie one more time before he shrugged. "Okay. Hop in."

"Lawrdie, we sure be thankin' ya!  An' mah feet sure be thankin' ya even hardah!  Dontcha go anywheah, Ah jus' gotta get all mah stuff. Y'all sappose it gonn' fit in that there trunk o' yers?  Hell, ferget Ah asked… y'all could fit King Kong in that big-ass trunk," Wynne croaked before she shuffled back to where she had dumped all her things.

---

"Mercy Sakes…" Wynne said a couple of miles south of Thunder Park Raceway. The Eldorado floated along the two-lane blacktop like a huge magic carpet. Its enormous engine - five-hundred cubic inches but hardly any horsepower - pulled very few revs but still burbled merrily whenever Joe-Bob put his foot on the gas pedal. Though they were going at fifty miles per hour, it only felt like thirty as a result of the big car's soft suspension and laid-back exhaust note.

Wynne needed to clamp down on her beloved cowboy hat or else it would fly off as the Cadillac was still open-topped despite the lateness of the day. "Joe-Bob… Mista, if I asked real politeleh an' all, coudden we stop so y'all could hoist that there rag-top o' yers?  'Cos, dang, this he' be freezin'!" A quick glance onto the back seat proved that even Blackie found it hard going - Goldie had long since curled herself up into a furball somewhere down in the footwell.

"One of the pneumatic actuators is broken. It only works manually now. And besides, that's why I have the heater on."

"Okeh, but the heatah sure ain't doin' nuttin' 'bout that there gale force breeze tuggin' on mah hair!  An' I don't mind pullin' the rag-top up fer ya!"

"That's nice, but I can't reach around it when I need to close it again."

"Well… yuh, but… aw, nevah mind," Wynne mumbled and pressed herself deeper down into the plush seat instead.

---

Ten minutes later, they needed to slow down as they reached the accident site on the State Route. Bright-red beacons and illuminated warning signs had been put up on either side of the road to warn the oncoming traffic. The entire stretch was awash in flashing emergency lights as the crews of two heavy-duty, four-axled recovery trucks from the Roadside Assistance Team out of Barton City worked hard to right the delivery truck.

Behind the rescue vehicles, one of the white-and-gold Dodge Durangos from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department shone its roof-mounted LED searchlights onto the lane the traffic was meant to use in order to safely drive past the accident site. Two people wearing fluorescent vests held illuminated batons that were continuously moved in circles to tell the drivers passing by to keep moving and not pause to take pictures.

The road seemed to reflect all the flashing lights in an odd way, and the scent that hung heavily over the entire area proved the road had taken an unwanted beer bath; Wynne's chin started quivering from the criminal waste of her beloved golden beverage as they drove into the first puddles.

"Hey, li'l lady, you're not gonna cry or something, are you?" Joe-Bob said once he had noticed the tell-tale quiver. "Never cry over spilled milk, ya know."

"Ah wussen gonna… I wus gonn' cry ovah spilled beah!  An' I ain't no li'l lady!"

"Sorry, Lynne…"

"Wynne!  Whaddindahell, J-B… I reckon y'all wus dropped on yer head once too maneh!  Cantcha see this he' dang-blasted deal is a downright tragedeh?!"

"Yeah, yeah, simmer down, li'l lady… Jeez," Joe-Bob said and shuffled around behind the steering wheel - an impressive feat given he could hardly fit in the first place. "An innocent question and you go all ballistic on me. You got the red or something?  No, you're too old for that. I'll bet you're menopausing or whatever it's called."

In the back, Blackie let out a brief yap that almost sounded like she was asking her owner for permission to take a chunk out of the impertinent driver, but she didn't get a reply.

Wynne just chewed on her cheek as she took in the terrible sight of the golden puddles they drove through. When they reached the people in the fluorescent vests, she immediately recognized the compact, athletic shape of one of them. "Haw!  De-per-ty Mandy!  Ovah he'!  Right ovah he' in this he' big-assed Caddy!" she cried as she waved her cowboy hat high in the air.

Breaking out in a dead-tired grin, Mandy saluted Wynne and Joe-Bob as they drove past in the bright-red barge, but she remained fully professional and never stopped swinging the illuminated baton around in circles like she did for all the people driving past.

"Yuh," Wynne said once the land yacht had gone back to its preferred cruising speed of fifty miles per hour, "that wus mah sweet, li'l de-per-ty awright. Lawrdie, she gonn' be so bombed out when she comes home tanight… or tamorrah. Yuh. How 'r all y'all girls doin' back dere?  Still hangin' on?"

When she received a pair of somewhat affirmative woofs and yaps in return, she nodded and hunkered down in the plush seats once more - there were still plenty of freezing miles to go until they would return home.

-*-*-*-

Joe-Bob Millard wasn't about to risk his Cadillac's paintjob by driving onto the coarse access road that led to the trailer park - a single look at the mix of dirt and loose gravel made him put his proverbial foot down and drop Wynne and the dogs off at the side of the State Route instead. After performing a somewhat clumsy seven-point turn to get the oversized land yacht turned around, he honked at Wynne and waved his fake Stetson in the air as he drove off back to Goldsboro.

"Haw… thanks fer nuttin', there, Mista Joe-Bob," Wynne mumbled as she, Blackie and Goldie were left on the blacktop with the cooler boxes, the cushions, the throws and all the other things they had brought to the race track. "Aw, I sappose it coudda been worse. Yuh?  He coudda charged me fer the extra gas that there barge done used ta get down he'. Anyhows-"

Woof!

"Yuh, Blackie, I agree. That 'bout sums up mah entiah dang-blasted day, that sure ain't no lie. Lawrdie, what a woofah it's been," Wynne said as she reached down to pull the carrier straps for the cooler boxes over her shoulders. Once that had been accomplished, she grabbed the rest of the heavy load and began to shuffle across the deserted two-lane road. "C'mon, girls, les'find some chow fer ya… betcha y'all be hungry an' all. An' thirsty… I sure be, tho' not fer watah if ya catch mah drift!"

Woof… woof?

"Yuh, that's right an' all… one o' them there white cans, yessirree!  I knew it woudden take ya clevah dawggies long ta figger it out!" Wynne said and let out a braying laugh.

---

After all the items had been dumped in the middle of the floor of the living area for later, Wynne grabbed a can of 1910 Special Brew and shuffled around to turn on a few lamps to amp up the coziness.

While she drew the curtains to shut out the darkness and any kind of otherworldly or supernatural critter or Peeping Tom who might lurk out there - she had enough experience with those kinds of ghoulies to know they were there even if they weren't visible - she happened to notice there was still a single light on over in the living area of Ernie's trailer. As she watched, she could see a shadow flicker across the wall indicating her friend was still up and about.

Brenda and Vaughn Travers had yet to return from their movie-and-dinner-date so their trailer was dark as were those of Diego Benitez and the Tooleys. The old fellow Zoltan Petrusco was still in hospital so all the curtains in his trailer had been drawn for days.

Literally holding the can, Wynne kept standing at the window observing her friend's place across the intervening grassy area; it had been the second trailer after her own to be placed at the near-perfect site eight miles south of Goldsboro. Mandy had only just moved in then as well so there were countless practical things they could - and did - help each other with. A great friendship had soon been forged between herself and Ernest Bradberry that had survived all the inevitable ups and downs as well as the often creepy dramas that had befallen them and the town of Goldsboro over the years.

She hemmed, hawed and sipped her beer for a minute or so while pondering what to do before she came to the clear and simple conclusion that if the situation had been reversed, Ernie would be the first in line to come to her assistance - or at least offer a shoulder to lean on. "Yuh, an' that's what I'mma-gonn' do," she mumbled to herself before she drained the beer.

While Blackie and Goldie had their muzzles buried in a bowl of fresh water and a pile of top-quality dog food respectively, Wynne changed her footwear from the pain-inducing decorated cowboy boots to a pair of sneakers that were far easier on her feet. All set, she gave the dogs a quick, little fur-rubbing before she left her trailer and strolled over to Ernie's.

"Hullo?  Ernie Bradberrah, y'all be dressed, son?" Wynne said loud enough to be heard through the closed door. Less than ten seconds went by before it opened and Ernie appeared in the doorway. It was obvious from his unsteadiness and bleary-eyed state that he was three sheets to the wind. "Howdy- Lawwwwwwr-die, wouldya lookie there!  Haw, friend, y'all sure is… uh… loaded," Wynne said and put her hands on her hips.

"Hiya, Wynne… wanna come in and share the misery?" Ernie said in a distinct slur - his eyes didn't seem to focus on Wynne but on something way out in the distance. "I got plenty of beers. Tho' about five-six-eight-something less than before…"

"Ack-chew-leh, I wus jus' gonn' stop bah fer a talk, but seein' how y'all be drunk as a skunk… Lawrdie, I'mma-gonn' invite y'all ovah fer a li'l late suppah, friend. Yessirree. Y'all bring them beers o' yers an' mebbe a jar o' that there awesome hawt sawce, yuh?  The mild one, if ya please, 'cos I ain't too int'rested in sittin' on that there crappah all o' tamorrah. Anyhows, I be providin' the chow an' the teevee entahtainment… unless ya jus' wanna talk 'bout this an' that an' ev'rythin' in between. Whaddaya say?"

Ernie shrugged. "I'm not gonna be good company tonight, Wynne…"

"Don't mean nuttin', friend. If y'all jus' feel like sittin' in mah couch drinkin' beer an' sayin' nuttin', that be fih-ne bah me. But I sure ain't gonn' leave ya bah yerself in this he' pitiful state. Nosirree. That ain't what good buddies do… an' that's what we is. Good buddies."

A faint smile spread over Ernie's bleary face as he broke out in a nod. "All right, I'd like that. Just gimme five minutes 'cos I gotta take a whizz first," he said and began to move away from the doorway. He intended to put a hand on one of his kitchen cabinets for support, but he missed by a wide margin and began to tilt forward instead.

Yelping, Wynne jumped into Ernie's kitchenette and grabbed hold of his belt at the last moment. His bulk nearly sent her downstairs on top of him, but she managed to get her free hand clamped around the edge of the kitchen table which kept her upright. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die!  Mebbe ya shoudden-a had that there last beer y'all chugged down… or mebbe that wus one o' them there earthquakes?"

Ernie let out a beery chuckle as Wynne released her grip on his belt. Staggering into the living area of his trailer, he soon put on some shoes so he could get the hot sauce from the shed behind his trailer and a few cans of chilled beer from the pit in the backyard.

"Hold it jus' a minute, there, Ernie," Wynne said and scratched her neck, "Didden ya say y'all hadda take a whizz?  I coulda sworn y'all done said-"

Ernie stopped what he was doing to stare at Wynne - then he was overcome by a certain high tide. "Oooohh… I do," he croaked as he staggered over to the door to the bathroom.

---

A short ten minutes later, Wynne's own kitchenette carried the scents and flavors of a miniature bar and grill. While Ernie killed off another can of Fenwyck beer - he had forsaken the Extra Strongs for a 1910 Special Brew - Wynne tended to a row of burger buns on their open-faced toaster. At the same time, her widest frying pan took care of a slew of wieners. She'd had the sausages in their refrigerator but no hot dog buns to go with them; conversely, she had two packs of burger buns but no beef patties to put between them.

"Yuh, this he' chow be comin' along niceleh, Ernie… thanks fer bringin' that there mild hawt sauce," Wynne said before she had to do a double-take at the sight of the look of doom, gloom and despair on her friend's face. Grunting, she reached out to give his arm a few comforting pats. "Lawrdie, I know exactleh how shitteh y'all mus'be feelin'… an' I ain't jus' talkin' 'bout them there Extra Strongs. Trus'me," she continued while she poured the hot sauce from its regular jar and into a pair of bowls that would be easier to dunk the wieners into once they were served.

"Yeah, this wasn't how I wanted to feel today. Anyway… you're welcome… you want a beer?"

"Naw!  I'mma-gonn' drink that there tap watah the entiah evenin'!" Wynne said and shot Ernie a wide grin. They chuckled at the silly exchange - neither of them could imagine any kind of situation that would see Wynne drink tap water. "Anyhows. Wotcha got?"

"Oh, I got plenty. A Double Zero?"

"Naw. I done had a-buncha those taday alreddeh… naw, I want one o' them awesome Dark Lagers ta begin with."

"You betcha. Comin' right up," Ernie said and dug into the bag that was filled to the brim with full cans.

"Jus' put it on them there coastahs there on the coffee table, friend. These he' wienahs ain't reddeh yet but they gonn' be perdy dog-gone soon… an' them buns too, fer that mattah."

Three minutes later, Wynne put two full plates on the table: one held a pile of steaming-hot sausages while the other had all the freshly toasted burger buns. The beers were cracked open and the TV entertainment was soon underway as well.

To honor Ernie's life-long allegiance to the Blue Oval, Wynne had dug out a two-hour highlights video of the 1992 Hooters 500 at Atlanta - the legendary championship decider. 'Million Dollar Bill' Elliott had won the race handsomely in his Ford Thunderbird, but the unforgettable Alan Kulwicki had taken the championship in a privately prepared and entered Ford that he had dubbed The Underbird.

Ernie's eyes grew wide and misty as the old broadcast started, and it even sounded like he sniffled a couple of times as he dunked a wiener in his own home-made hot sauce and took a bite out of the first burger bun.

When a smile slowly spread over her friend's face and he leaned back to watch the show, Wynne felt a rare peace fall over her. It had been the right decision to help him - not that she had ever doubted it. Chuckling, she settled down with a few beers, wieners and buns while they watched the classic race sitting next to each other on the couch like good buddies have always done.

-*-*-*-

The two hours flew by in a blur - the sausages, the burger buns and a good portion of the beers went by even faster. Blackie and Goldie were snoring loudly in their doggy-basket in the narrow hallway by the time Wynne crouched down by the old video to rewind the tape.

After muting the TV, she selected one of the news channels intending to get up to date with what had happened while she had been out at Thunder Park, but the stories and images were so depressing she soon zapped over to the Exclusive Home Shopping station instead - she wouldn't be caught dead with the jewelry they sold at extortionate prices, but at least the glossy world took her mind off the negativity the news had provided.

The whirring noise soon stopped and the tape was ejected automatically. Taking it, she put it into the proper cardboard box that she looked at with a nostalgic gaze. "Huh, I nevah figgered I wus gonn' watch this he' race ag'in… but when friends be hurtin', we all gotta make them sacrifices, yessir. Hell, it wus even kinda excitin' an' all," she mumbled as she put the tape back into the sideboard.

She needed to push several other favorite races aside - among many others, she had the 1994 Winston 500 at Talladega, the 1995 Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis, the 1999 Night Race at Bristol, the 2001 Pepsi 400 at Daytona and of course the 1998 Daytona 500 - to reach the back part of the shelf where she had found the 1992 tape.

The sounds of snoring produced by the dogs were echoed from the couch as Ernie had fallen asleep once the show had ended. His head leaned against the upper part of the backrest while his right hand rested on his belly - and even in his sleep, he still held onto a can of Midnight Velvet Stout.

A snortle-grunt-cough and a smacking of lips heralded the return of Ernie to the land of the awake, if not exactly alert. He looked around for a few seconds to get his bearings before the instincts took over: after letting out a belch to get rid of the excess inner pressure, he drained the rest of the stout in a series of gulps.

Once the can was empty, he leaned forward and put it into the recycling bag where it joined more than a dozen of its brethren. Before Wynne had persuaded him to do just a tiny amount of good for the planet by dumping all the empty cans - and there were a lot - into the recycling containers in Goldsboro, he had given them to Diego so the hobby marksman could use them for target practice.

He and Wynne locked eyes; she picked up his need to finally talk about what had happened, so she turned off the TV for good and sat down on the couch to listen. Beers were never far from their minds so Ernie opened a can of Double Zero while Wynne reached for a 1910 Special Brew.

"So…" Ernie said after a short pause. "Thanks for helpin' me out of my funk. Or the worst of it, anyway. That was a fantastic race for us Ford guys."

"Aw, ya welcome, friend," Wynne said with a grin. She reached over to give Ernie a little slap across the gut just for fun.

Ernie let out a brief, beery laugh before he grew somber again. "Man, I just need to get this off my chest. I raced home after the phone call… Bernadine was already here like I told you. She had made tea. I thought… tea… oh hell, this ain't goin' where I wanted it to go. You know?"

"Ayup."

"Well… bein' a Reverend, she doesn't need to consult anyone higher up the, uh… hierarchy, but she had talked to her sisters and her elderly mother who's got some kind of emeritus standin' in their church or something."

"Haw," Wynne said and held up a finger, "I ain't too much inta that there church thing… an', uh… I ain't got no clue whatsoevah what one o' them ah-marreh-tusses is."

"Me neither, but I think it means she's stepped aside but is still connected or involved or whatever. Anyway, one of Bernadine's sisters left the church when she got married and that hadn't gone down well with anyone. I said I'd never ask her to do that… just like she had promised never to push me into joinin' those folks. She knows it ain't my thing at all… and I know how important it is to her, so… so…" - a long swig followed - "so she told me she needed more time to… to listen to what her heart told her. A week. Or more."

"Owch…"

Another long swig followed - when the can was suddenly empty, Ernie threw it into the bag for recycling and grabbed the next one in a single motion. "Yeah. She moved back to her old apartment in Cavanaugh Creek. I know what my heart tells me, dammit!  It tells me I love her!  I thought the feelin' was mutual, but… crap, now I'm the heel for pushing her too far too soon. I don't know… maybe the church just speaks louder than I can."

Wynne leaned across the couch to rub her friend's shoulder in a supportive kind of way. "Yuh, that there storeh sure is one o' them there sad tales them music folks make Countreh an' Westuhrn tunes outta. Son, it ain't no lie that y'all an' Bernah-deene be kinda… naw, scratch that… be a whole lot different. Yuh?  I deffa-nete-leh hear ya when ya say ya love her, but mebbe the gap is jus' too dang-blasted wide ta bridge?"

"But you and Mandy are complete opposites!  You're doin' great… you always have…"

Wynne let out a brief grunt. "Yuh, we be doin' great now, knock on wood, but it wussen always so. Lawrdie, back durin' them first months, there wus the occa-shu-nal fiahworks display of the uncool kind out he' if ya catch mah drift. We didden always see eye-ta-eye on cert'in things. Hell, there wus maneh things we disagreed on. Still is, fer that mattah… but that there first week we done shared this he' trailah, haw, I be tellin' ya… that wus one helluva cul-chure shock fer both o' us. Yessir."

"I wasn't here for the first few weeks, but now you mention it, I do kinda remember a couple of little arguments between ya," Ernie said thoughtfully.

"Huh, some o' them wussen so li'l, friend… at that tih-me, we wus both kinda rusteh when it came ta the fih-ne art o' livin' tagethah. Sharin' everythin'… puttin' up with yer pardner's funneh habits o' doin' some stuff or othah… yuh. That wus one helluva wake-up call, lemme tell ya."

"But you overcame it."

"Yessir. We did, an' tho' we still see plenteh o' things differentleh, we ain't had no bad spats or arguments or yellin' incidents or nuttin' since them earleh days. Okeh, I be thinkin' it's prolleh a li'l different fer us spe-shul gals, tho'… we ain't got a wide selec-shun ta choose from unlike all y'all othah folks, so… but anyhows, ya know. It means that now an' then, we gotta work a li'l hardah ta keep' everythin' goin' smoothleh."

"You split from that other woman… what was her name… we met her last year."

"Phyllis. Yuh. Me an' ol' Phyl done split up, awright… an' now y'all be askin' how come?  'Cos we wus too similar, that's how come!" Wynne said before she broke out in a slightly wistful laugh.

A pair of headlights suddenly illuminated the area between the trailers. As the lights swung around to shine at Wynne's windows, she got up and peeked around the curtains. "Haw!  Mah sweet, li'l de-per-ty fih-nalleh made it home in the Silveradah. Lawrdie, she done looks like she wus pulled through one o' them there dang-blasted meat grindahs…"

"Well, I guess that's my cue," Ernie said and attempted to get up from the couch. It took him three tries to get his heavy rear-end off the couch, and even then, he had to wait for a few seconds for the beer-induced swaying to stop.

"Not if ya ain't reddeh ta leave, friend," Wynne said as she shuffled back to the coffee table to begin to collect the empty bowls and plates they had used for their improvised late-night supper.

At the same time, Mandy opened the screen and inner doors and entered the kitchenette. After taking a long step over the doggy-basket so she wouldn't disturb the sleeping girls, she leaned against the wall at the living area and let out a long sigh. Pale and haggard from not only the tiring work at the accident site but from controlling the aggressive thief out at the race track as well as all the other things on her lengthy agenda, it was obvious she was in no mood to have visitors regardless of the circumstances.

A single look at the senior deputy convinced Ernie that it was indeed high time to vacate the premises. "No, I better get back to my own little world. But tell ya what, Wynne, talkin' about it really helped… I didn't think it would, but it did. All I can do now is to cross my fingers and hope for the best."

"The Rev'rend is one helluva sweet gal, Ernie…" Wynne said and wrapped her arm around her friend's shoulder. "Som'tin good's gonn' come outta this he' mess, I be willin' ta bet mah bottom dollah on that. Yessir. Aw, an' a worh-rd o' advice befo' ya leave… I'd stay off them Extra Strongs if I wus you!  Jus' fer tanight, anyhows."

Ernie broke out in a beery laugh. "I will," he said and turned around to get away from the coffee table. When he moved a little too fast, he tilted to the side and almost went into an uncontrollable tail spin onto the floor - he managed to get a hand on the backrest of the couch before his mustache, teeth, nose and brow were introduced to the carpet.

"Hoooooah-leh shittt, Ernie!" Wynne said and hurriedly reached out for her friend. She grabbed hold of his belt to keep him upright; he performed quite a balancing act of his own as well and was soon standing on both feet once more. "Y'awright there, buddy?  Lawrdie, y'all wus 'bout ta do one o' them there faceplants, dontchaknow!  Hell, I bettah walk ya home!"

"Thanks, Wynne…" Ernie mumbled as he pulled up his drooping pants.

---

Once Wynne had made sure that Ernie was comfortable in his EZ-Chair - the advanced piece of furniture could stretch out fully so it could double as a sofa bed of sorts - she hurried back to her own trailer to reconnect with Mandy after the crazy day they had been through.

Stepping over the doggy-basket in the hallway, she only needed to move over to the refrigerator to hear a new set of snoring that came from the living area. She tip-toed further on and peeked around the corner; she had to put a hand across her mouth to quell the burst of beery laughter that threatened to escape when she saw Mandy sitting in the exact same spot on the couch that Ernie had just vacated. Even better, the senior deputy was just as fast asleep as he had been.

Mandy's expensive Mountie hat hadn't made it any further than the seat next to her while her uniform jacket and her boots had ended up on the floor. The utility belt carrying the can of pepper spray, the portable radio, the spare clips of ammunition and the service firearm had been put across the backrest of the couch for safekeeping.

"Lawrdie… I oughtta get a raise!  Look at all them dead-tiah'd folks I need'a tuck in tanight!" Wynne whispered in a highly amused tone. Tip-toeing over to Sleeping Beauty, she leaned down and placed a kiss on Mandy's parted lips.

The senior deputy's eyelids eventually fluttered open. Her pale-green orbs scanned the room for a moment or two before they zeroed in on Wynne. Mandy was just as bleary-eyed as Ernie had been earlier in the evening, only the circumstances were different - and then she broke out in an enormous yawn that threatened to dislocate her jaw. Plenty of smacking of lips followed before she clambered to her feet and returned the previous favor by giving Wynne a kiss. "I guess I fell asleep," she said and stretched this way and that to get the worst sleepies to go away.

"Yuh, that wus 'bout the long an' the short of it, yes Ma'am!  C'mon, les'get this he' yoo-niform off ya so ya can head ta bed. I got them boots o' yers… an' yer jacket!" Wynne said and reached down to grab the various items.

After taking her Mountie hat and the utility belt, Mandy shuffled through the short hallway and went into the bedroom. "I need a shower first. I reek of beer."

"Haw!  That sure ain't the worst y'all can reek of, de-per-ty… hell, I don't mind a teeny-tiny bit!"

"But I do. Is Mr. Bradberry all right?  He looked a little unsteady," Mandy said as she unbuckled her waist belt and loosened her pants and her shirt. Once she had gained a modicum of physical freedom, she moved over to the gun cabinet to lock away the weapon and the spare ammunition.

"Yuh, ol' Ernie be jus' fih-ne an' all. He done fell asleep in that there EZ-Chair befo' I had even left that there trailah o' his," Wynne said and sat down on their bed. She slid the boots into position under the bed's frame before she held up the uniform jacket so Mandy could put it on the appropriate hanger. "We done watched an old Nascahr race tagethah. Aw-yuh, we kinda ate them wieners we had in the fridge. An' them burger buns too. Man… deah Ernie wus in a bad, ol' state 'cos that there Rev'rend Bernah-deene done tole him she wussen reddeh ta hear them weddin' bells jus' yet. She gone home ta Cavva-naw Creek fer a li'l thinkin' break."

Mandy let out a dark grunt as she took off her shirt and her undershirt. "I hope he wasn't that inebriated when he drove back here," she said as she put both items into the laundry basket.

"He wussen. He only hit them Extra Strongs aftah the Rev'rend done tole him. He hadda leave early out from Thundah Park… that's why me an' them dawggies wus hitchin' a ride with that there Joe-Bob Millard fella. Haw, I didden know he wus such a grouch… but he wus. I always reckoned he wus a jovial kinda guy, but naw. He ain't."

Another yawn spread over Mandy's face. She looked at Wynne, the small bathroom out in the hallway and finally at the soft, inviting bed like she was trying to make up her mind. "Hon, are you sure you wouldn't mind sleeping next to someone who smells of stale beer?  I'm way too tired to take a shower…"

"Lawrdie, Ah'm insulted y'all even hafta ask!" Wynne said in an accent that she had turned up to maximum while she pressed her hands to her bosom to add another layer to the silliness. "Whah, de-per-ty Mandeh, Ah'd be honored ta share this he' bed with someone like that!  An' besides, Ah smell o' beer too, or ain't ya noticed yet?"

"I've noticed," Mandy said and let out a tired laugh.

"Yuh!  An' now I gotta get rid o' them beers som'tin fierce… they wus plenteh an' I gotta pee plenteh, too!" Wynne continued as she inched toward the bathroom with her legs firmly crossed.

*
*
CHAPTER 5

A morning after a wet night tends to be foggy, and the one a certain Wynne Donohue was suffering through was no exception. All she could do was to slouch on the sofa at the coffee table in the living area after having wrapped herself in a cozy bathrobe. She nursed a mug of black, strong coffee and occasionally nibbled on a sesame-seed bagel that featured an easy-handed spread of blackcurrant jam.

Although her eyes were open they didn't see much, and although she was technically speaking still among the living, her brainwaves barely raised a blip on her inner radar screen. The world seemed to run in super-slow motion as she sat there and simply focused on breathing.

She let out a long sigh after taking another sip of the strong coffee. "Ah be gettin' ol'… Ah didden even drink that maneh beers yestahdeh… but all that there runnin'… an' the long day out at Thundah Park… an' the late night… an' Ah be so used ta them there Dubbel Zerahs now them reg'lar beers make mah head cave in… Lawrdie… Ah ain't be gettin' ol', Ah be ol'… ol' an' hung ovah," she croaked before she took a large bite out of the sesame-seed bagel.

Blackie and Goldie had understood they needed to be quiet for a change, so the two dogs had already left and were storming through the desert behind the trailer while engaged in a furious game of doggy-tag. Now and then, their merry yapping and woofing filtered through the doors proving they were having a wonderful time.

Mandy exited the bathroom while continuing to dry her hair with a large towel. She came over to stand in the doorway to see if Wynne was on the phone with someone - after all, she had spoken out loud. A chuckle escaped the tough senior deputy who was far less foggy than her partner despite her fatigue the night before.

Moving back into the bedroom, Mandy readied her spare uniform and began to put it on. The boots turned out to be too dusty for her professional pride to deal with, so she found the shoe polish kit and gave them such a strong rub-down they could be used as mirrors.

There was still plenty of time before Rodolfo would arrive to pick her up, so she went into the kitchen to fix herself a cream-cheese bagel and pour herself the day's first mug of coffee from the potful Wynne had made. As she took a medium-sized sip, she reeled at the taste and strength of the liquid that had to be undiluted, grade-A rocket fuel rather than coffee.

She found it utterly undrinkable so she poured the rest of the mugful back into the pot so Wynne could have it later. Instead, she grabbed a carton of peach-flavored iced tea from the refrigerator that she knew would go well with the cream-cheese bagel.

A thought entered her mind that she acted on at once - re-entering the bedroom, she reached into a pouch on her utility belt and took one of the electronic breathalyzers. "Hon," she said as she returned to the living room, "just to be on the safe side, I'd like you to do a breath test. You know how I feel about driving too soon after a wild night."

"Yuh… yuh, Ah do," Wynne croaked and reached up to take the small plastic bag that contained the electronic gadget. After tearing the bag open, she let the breathalyzer fall into her hand - it looked like the reed for a clarinet, and that was pretty much how it was used, too. Putting it into her mouth, Wynne drew a hugely deep breath and blew into the reed until her face was crimson and she had turned cross-eyed.

The electronic gadget revealed at once she would still be so far over the limit she might as well hand over her driver's license at once.

"Haw!  Wouldya lookie there… Ah done reckoned Ah wus flyin' high, but that there figger is comp-pah-lete-leh off the scale. Ya learn som'tin new ev'ryday around he'," Wynne croaked as she looked at the row of red LEDs that had lit up on the side of the gadget. "Yuh, de-per-ty, Ah promise Ah ain't gonn' be drivin' nowheah until at least noon or some such. Zat gonn' work?"

"Yes. By then, the last traces of alcohol will have gone from your system. Thank you," Mandy said and leaned down to kiss Wynne's neck.

"Aw, yer welcome an' all… Ah ain't shtoopid, jus' a li'l slow… naw, make that donkeh-slow taday… Ah may ha' driven undah the infloo-ence a couple-a times back in mah youngah years, but Ah would nevah do that now, no Ma'am. Haw!  Wotcha sappose gonn' happen if Ah give one o' them there reeds ta Ernie?  Darn thing prolleh gonn' blow up or som'tin!"

Chuckling, Mandy kissed Wynne again before she moved into the kitchen to throw the disposable breathalyzer into the special garbage can they had for electronic equipment. Once she had done so, she picked up the carton of iced tea and the cream-cheese bagel; both offered just what she needed at that moment in time.

"Anyhows," Wynne said and got up from the couch on leaden and slightly unsteady legs. "It don't mattah none 'cos Ah got plenteh ta do he'. Ah be thinkin' that Ah'mma-gonn' borrah Diego's laddah an' climb up on that there roof o' ours… Ah done noticed the othah day we got a buncha twigs an' stuff up there. Woudden want aneh pigeons or nuttin' ta shit all ovah the dog-gone place an' spe-shually not that there satellite dish. An' wouldya bah-lieve, Brendah Travahs done offah'd me a lesson in that there John Jetson- naw… that wussen what she called it… whut wus it… that there thing where she twists herself inta all them weird shapes… a short wohrd…"

"Yoga!" Mandy said from the bedroom.

"Yuh, Ah be thinkin' that wus it… yuh."

The service firearm and the spare clips of ammunition were next for Mandy; the task was soon accomplished after which she put on her uniform jacket and zipped it to look the part. As she returned to the kitchenette where Wynne had begun to do the dishes, she emptied the carton of iced tea and finished off the bagel - then she put her hands on her hips and let out a chuckle. "Please don't take this the wrong way, hon, but… I think you need to go easy on the yoga lesson. Not just today but in general."

"Ya do, huh?" Wynne said and broke out in a lop-sided grin. "Weeeellll… Ah be thinkin' y'all mebbe right 'bout that, de-per-ty. This he' boddeh sure is built fer lovin' an' not that there yodel thing."

"Yoga."

"That too."

The sound of a vehicle approaching proved to be Rodolfo Gonzalez. There was just enough time for a final kiss before Mandy took her Mountie hat and strode out to the waiting Durango. She and Wynne waved at each other before The Last Original Cowpoke of the trailer park fell back into the foggiest of foggy states.

---

Just past two in the afternoon, Wynne, Blackie and a severely hung-over Ernie headed onto the State Route in the Silverado to drive north to Goldsboro. The usual quartet had been reduced to a trio since Goldie had elected to remain at the trailer park to cheer up Renee Tooley who had to stay home from school after developing a case of the sniffles.

In fact, it was closer to a duo plus a half, because even the gentle rocking of the Silverado as it made the transition from the dirt road and onto the blacktop made Ernie let out a groan, a moan and a grunt - he had to clutch his throbbing, thumping, pounding head until the truck had righted itself and began to move in a straight line.

Blackie sat between her owner and the drowsy Ernie, and that suited the German Shepherd just fine for a change after the previous evening's ride in Joe-Bob's open-topped Cadillac had blown enough wind through her fur to last a week if not more.

"So… ya heard anythin' from that there Rev'rend o' yers?" Wynne said as she pulled out to pass a slow-moving agricultural vehicle that hogged the northbound lane.

"No."

"Oh… awrighteh then. Change o' subject… how maneh beers did y'all say we drunk las'night?"

"I dunno exactly," Ernie said in a voice that was quite a bit slower than his usual speech pattern. He tried to shuffle around to sit better, but when even that simple gesture sent a clap of thunder rolling through his skull, he gave up and simply sat there like a sack of cement. "Either we had twenty beers or I misplaced some cans… that's never happened before, so I think we drank 'em."

"Hot dang!  Twentah cans in toah-tal… no wondah mah head wus feelin' woolleh this he' mornin'… not ta men-shun mah tongue. That wus even woolleh'er. Lawrdie. Mah headache sorta went away aftah I done had some real strong coffee an' a buncha pretzels an' all. Wotcha trah ta fight that there hang-ovah?"

"The usual… cactus juice. Didn't work. Lemon pulp soakin' in a tablespoon of cooking salt-"

Squirming, Wynne cast a brief glance at her friend before she concentrated on the road once more. "Ew, fer cryin' out loud, Ernie…"

"-didn't work either. Get this, I even had a Coke. Didn't work."

Blackie let out a short Woof! that meant that if the humans around her would stick to her diet of cool, clean water, there would never be any unwanted woolliness anywhere - unfortunately, even that short woof made Ernie wince hard and clutch his head. The German Shepherd just stared at the odd reaction like she couldn't quite fathom what could have caused it.

"Huh. Well. Okeh. Y'all got it bad, son… Lawrdie, the stuff we need'a do, yuh?  I mean y'all drinkin' a Coke an' all… Mercy Sakes, yuh?"

Once the latest clap of thunder inside Ernie's skull had receded, he nodded in a slow, overly careful fashion before he let out a croaking "Yeah, tell me about it…"

"Yuh. Twentah beers. Lawrdie. Y'all musta drunk most o' them twentah… I sure didden get ten. Nosirree. Or mebbe I did… naw. Or mebbe… naw. I did hafta stumble out ta that there bathroom at dark o'clock an' get rid o' 'bout ten gallons, tho'!"

Ernie tried to chuckle, but even drawing a breath to do so made another clap of thunder clear its throat and head for the stage. Ultimately, he just let out a grunt. "Me too. Only I couldn't be bothered to find the john so I just took a leak in my livin' room trash can…"

Blackie whipped her furry head around and let out a perfectly insulted Woooof?! that made Ernie moan, grimace hard and slam his hands around his head to stop it from blowing apart at the seams.

"Aw, fer Chrissakes, Ernie!  Ah didden need'a know that!" Wynne croaked and slapped her forehead. It pushed her beloved cowboy hat back, so she reached up at once to pull it forward again. "Good shit almi'ty, not that there mesh trash can?!  Please tell me it wussen the mesh trash can…"

In addition to Wynne's beloved cowboy hat that she would never leave home without, she wore her full Last Original Cowpoke outfit: faded blue-jeans, the In GM We Trust sweatshirt and her denim jacket - the sheepskin gloves had been put into the left-hand side jacket pocket. The only things missing from the regular ensemble were her decorated cowboy boots. Like she had predicted, her feet were sore beyond belief after running back and forth the day before, so she had chosen a pair of old, well-worn sneakers that were far more comfortable to wear.

"It wasn't the mesh can… it was the other one…" Ernie said before he reached into one of the pockets of his hunting vest to get an H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero. The can was soon cracked open and poured down.

"Gladda hear it. Yuh, take a beer, friend… mebbe it helps," Wynne said with a grin.

---

The slow-going, woolly day received its first major blow fifteen minutes later when the Silverado had been parked outside Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports on Main Street up north in Goldsboro. While Blackie kept watch outside to make sure no suspicious-looking individuals would even dream of pulling a heist on the store that was so important to her owner, Wynne and Ernie stood at the counter wearing identical expressions of deep shock and blank horror.

"Ya wanna run that bah us ag'in, Grant-mastah?" Wynne said, speaking in a dull croak. " 'Cos, dang, fer a moment there, Ah coulda sworn y'all wus sayin' ya ain't got none o' them there Fenwycks left…"

Grant Lafferty, who was a toupéed fellow in his mid-sixties, shrugged and adjusted his square reading glasses that sat low on his nose like always. "I don't, Wynne. Their delivery truck never made it here last night. From what I understand, it was involved in an accident," he said while looking at his two customers over the rim of his glasses.

The owner of the only liquor store for miles and miles in every direction wore a knitted Navy-blue cardigan over a tan shirt. Further down, he wore high-waisted, dark-gray pants and a pair of tweed slippers - his bunions still gave him far too much grief to wear anything but soft footwear.

His favorite pipe had yet to be lit, but that, a pouch of tobacco and a book of matches were lined up and ready to go when the clock reached the top of the hour - out of principle, he would only start smoking at three in the afternoon.

Known as the 'Grant-Master' because of his encyclopedic knowledge of beer and spirits, he had an almost obsessive focus on the layout of his liquor store: the hundreds of bottles on the shelves were sorted by manufacturer, type and shade of the liquid. The dark-brown spirits came first, then amber, then clear, and finally a few bottles of fruit wine, coolers and pre-mixed drinks - he considered the latter group grossly inferior products, but there was a market for it so he needed to keep them in stock or else people would go elsewhere.

The other end of the store was dominated by an astronomical amount of cans and beer bottles from known and unknown breweries all over the world. The H.E. Fenwyck products were on a stand separate from the other beers so Ernie or Wynne wouldn't have to wade through all the other brands to get their favorite. At present, the stand was empty.

Wynne nodded. "Yuh, it sure wus, Grant… it done flipped ovah out yondah… there wus a rivah o' beer all ovah the road an' all," she said while she pointed her thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the previous night's incident out on the State Route not too far from Thunder Park Raceway.

She turned to look at Ernie for moral support, but he continued to resemble a sack of cement on legs and was thus unable to provide anything for anyone. "But… but… Grant… dontcha got nuttin' in stock or nuttin'?  Ah mean… y'all got a whooooooooole buncha beers he'… there gotta be some cans o' Fenwyck someweah!  Anywheah!  Anythin'!  Nuttin'?"

Grant shook his head. "I don't have anything left, Wynne. Mr. Bradberry, you bought four crates just last weekend…"

Ernie took a deep breath - then he let it out in a deep sigh while he mirrored Grant's gesture by shaking his head in a slow, deliberate fashion. "Long gone."

"Well. All right," Grant said and broke out in a shrug, "I can't help you with H.E. Fenwyck products until the next delivery truck arrives, but-"

"Haw…" Wynne interjected, "an' when's that gonn' be, exactleh?"

"Next weekend-"

"Next weekend?!  Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die!"

Ernie let out a long groan and clapped his hands around his head to stop his brain from escaping through his cranial orifices. Once the thunderclap had receded, he shot Wynne a dark look.

"Whoops," Wynne said with an embarrassed grin. "Sorry 'bout that yellin' there, buddy… I kinda fergot y'all wus still bein' hung ovah an' all… but we's gotta wait a week fer that there beer… a whole week… dad-gummit…"

Grant chuckled and adjusted his reading glasses; not that he needed them to see the shocked expression on Wynne's face - Ernie's hung-over state meant the bad news had yet to claw its way through the slush inside his skull. "Well, I have plenty of other brands you could try in the meantime."

"Naw… naw, Ernie an' me be Fenwyck folks. Ain't that right, friend?" Wynne said while she looked at Ernie, but he couldn't even nod. Sighing, she turned back to Grant. "Yuh. Okeh. No Fenwycks. Okeh. Lawrdie. That wussen the news Ah wus hopin' ta hear taday. Nosirree… so… now what we gonn' do?" she continued before she shoved her beloved cowboy hat back from her brow.

"Maybe we should drive home and sleep for a week…" Ernie said in a mumble.

"Not a bad ideah, that… but naw, how 'bout we went ovah ta Moira's an' played a li'l pool or som'tin'?  Hey, mebbe ol' Moira got some o' them there Fenwycks left in her refri-gy-rators!"

Ernie broke out in a slow shrug. "It's worth a shot… but I ain't playin' no pool today…"

"Les'trah, friend!  Okeh, Grant-Mastah… me an ol' Ernie he' gonn' be bah next weekend fer them Fenwycks, yuh?"

Grant adjusted his reading glasses again. "Be my guest, Wynne. You and Mr. Bradberry are really the only ones buying them, but I'll keep a pallet in reserve for you just in case the demand goes up."

"Yessir!  We sure do 'preciate it!" Wynne said and saluted Grant Lafferty before she and the morose Ernie left for the Bar & Grill across the street. "C'mon, Ernie… wake up, son!  I hear a pool cue callin' mah name… an' that sure ain't easy fer that there long thing 'cos it only got an eye but ain't no mouth or nuttin'!  Get it?  Eh?  Get it?"

A prolonged groan was Ernie's only answer.

-*-*-*-

Two and a half hours later, Rodolfo Gonzalez returned to the sheriff's office after finishing one of the regular late-afternoon foot patrols. The glass door had barely closed after him before he made a beeline for the coffee machine to pour himself a mugful. The hot coffee seemed to hit a dry spot as he let out a prolonged "Ahhhhhhh," once he had taken the first swig.

Mandy did some paperwork at the desk Artie Rains had used during his reign. The piece of furniture was far less grungy after the drawers had been emptied and the thorough scrub-down the rest had been exposed to, but the woodwork still held a whiff of Rains' bourbon as well as other unfortunate smells.

She considered writing a new letter to the Town Council to ask for special funding to renew the entire interior of the office, but knew it would be a exercise in futility despite the sorry state of the cracked linoleum, the blinking strip lights, the door that had rusted shut and the archaeological artifact on the watch desk - the Bakelite telephone - that had been in use since at least the 1970s. During their trek through the old filing cabinets, they had found copies of nearly a dozen letters sent to the Town Council from various sheriffs over the years asking for extra funding. The pleas had all either been ignored or flat-out rejected.

Barry Simms sat at the watch desk looking miserable. He continued to be under the weather but had agreed to come to work under the condition that he would be allowed to wear a baby-blue scarf that his aunt Mildred had knitted for him - though the accessory was wrapped around his neck and throat, he hacked, coughed and snorted even harder than usual.

He had a mug of steaming camomile tea standing in front of him on the desk, but it was still too hot to drink. In addition to the volcanic clouds of foul-smelling smoke that he spewed out whenever he puffed on his home-rolled cigarettes, he constantly sucked on sweets to keep the saliva going so his throat wouldn't tie itself into a knot of barbed wire.

It had been a quiet day as witnessed by the empty page on the notepad and the pile of spent tic-tac-toe games that had been spread over the watch desk. A yawn broke out all over Barry's face - it necessitated removing the ubiquitous cigarette, but it was soon back between his lips.

Mandy rubbed her forehead and put down a ball point pen that had seen plenty of action over the course of the day. Swiveling around on the chair, she eyed the coffee machine - a moment later, she decided to take a leaf out of Rodolfo's book by getting up and pouring herself a mugful. "Do you have anything to report, Deputy?" she said as she put the pot back onto the heating pad.

"Very little. It's generally been a nothing day out there," Rodolfo said before he reached for one of the home-made hazelnut-chip cookies that had been made and donated to the cause by Barry's other aunt, Beulah Herzberg. Although the cookies were supposed to be made from an award-winning recipe, their texture was in fact closer to hardtack or dog biscuits and required frequent dunking in the coffee to be edible.

Rodolfo did so several times in the hope of getting it to dissolve enough for him to bite it in half without risking his teeth - he'd had little success so far. "There was a slight skirmish up at Derrike Iverson's dive. Our old friend Robert Neilson and another barfly had been drawing cards to settle who should buy the next round… or rounds, to be precise. Well, they got into a heated argument when the other barfly tore Robert Neilson's expensive set of cards in half after he had lost the draw."

Mandy let out a brief grunt. "Robert Neilson again. Do you know when Mr. Iverson's liquor license is up for renewal?"

"Ah, no. I'll bet Don does, though. He's into all those details. I'll ask him tomorrow." Rodolfo took a swig of coffee and dunked his hazelnut-chip cookie seven times before he cocked his head and shot Mandy a puzzled look. "Why?  Are you thinking about revoking it?"

"Perhaps. Mr. Iverson needs to know his pal Rains isn't running the show any longer. There have been too many incidents up there recently."

Rodolfo's puzzled expression changed into one of worry; he took another swig of coffee to offset it. "I agree, but… that's not gonna go down well among Derrike's regulars…"

Mandy moved back to the sheriff's desk and put her own mug onto a coaster before she sat down once more. "I'm sure it won't, but I'd rather listen to angry drunks than having to call in the crime scene technicians from Barton City because some fool buried his hunting knife in some other fool's gut. That's the way Iverson's is headed."

Rodolfo had been about to add another five dunks to his cookie, but he stopped what he was doing to stare at the senior deputy. "Oh… you really think so?"

"I've seen it happen before."

A few pregnant beats went by before Rodolfo nodded and finally went back to the strenuous dunking - even after being submerged a dozen times, the cookie was still hard enough to let out a clank- clank- clank when he tapped it against the side of the mug. "Mmmm. Let's try to avoid that," he said quietly before he proceeded to take a bite of it regardless of its state.

Nodding thoughtfully, Mandy began leafing through the paperwork on her desk before she realized she was only procrastinating. She turned around to look at the clock on the wall - the hands showed it was high time to make another attempt at convincing the store owners and other influential people of Goldsboro that they would be far better off with her in the driving seat compared to an out-of-towner like Todd Andrews in the upcoming elections.

She cast a glance at Barry who continued to wheeze, moan, hack, blow his nose, suck on sweets and spew foul smoke. Shaking her head, she got up and took the portable radio and her Mountie hat. "Rodolfo, you're in charge until I get back," she said as she tapped the radio's rubber antenna against the younger deputy's chest. "Try not to kill Barry while I'm away… we have a manpower deficit as it is."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Rodolfo said with a grin as he strutted over to the sheriff's desk, put down the mug and the rest of the cookie and pulled out the swivel-chair. After Mandy had left, he thumbed his nose at the hacking Barry before he got down to some serious business by reaching into the rear pocket of his uniform pants to get the comic book he had hidden there.

-*-*-*-

Moira's Bar & Grill had turned busy as the merciless hands on the clock had moved around to the time where most people preferred to eat supper. The frying panels were all in use as were three of the four French-fry baskets. Above the stoves where A.J. 'Slow' Lane toiled away at what he called high speed, the industrial-strength range hoods created a whine not dissimilar to an interceptor jet taking off from an aircraft carrier.

The overstressed and underqualified young man was heckled and jeckled by the people sitting at the bar counter when pitch-black smoke and a foul stench rose from a frying pan that stood on an old-fashioned gas ring. Try as he might, he was unable to save the seven slices of bacon that had become charred lumps of coal rather than juicy pieces of meat - while he scraped, scraped and scraped a little more to get the sorry remains off the frying pan and into a trash can, one of the French-fry baskets began beeping furiously indicating it had been inserted into the boiling oil for too long.

Nearly all of the tables in the bar and grill were occupied: singles took up the majority of them as they came in for a bite and a peek at the day's newspapers, but there were couples there as well who would typically stop by for a quick meal before heading further up Main Street for the movie theater. Cutlery hitting plates and the constant din of the many guests formed the soundtrack with the range hoods doing their worst to add a droning noise to the mix.

Away from all that, the video poker machines close to the pool table and the refrigerators played their electronic trills to show they were ready to be used. A pair of hopeful patrons decided to try their luck and inserted their hard-earned coinage into the appropriate slots.

Wynne couldn't care less about video poker and the machines' promise of a quick profit for a meager wager. She had a far greater prize in sight - literally, as the final can of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero had been placed on the edge of the pool table acting as the incentive to do her best with the pool cue.

Not that she hadn't already won every round she had played against Ernie. Her hung-over friend was usually a good player, but the foggy conditions between his ears and the fact that his heart continued to be heavy with grief over Bernadine's escape to Cavanaugh Creek meant he was unable to hit more than one in three balls that he attempted to knock across the pool table.

While the two humans continued to walk around the pool table engaged in friendly banter, Blackie had a cozy time in the doggy-cave underneath it. She had a bowl of fresh water at her disposal, she had been sleeping a little where she had dreamt of performing heroics and getting her just rewards, and she had even been given a small plate of spiced beef jerky by A.J. 'Slow' Lane. That it was so charred that she wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole was a little unfortunate, but it was the thought that counted - though how the human had managed to char the jerky when it was supposed to be served cold was beyond her.

Ernie's next shot went wide for the umpteenth time in the game so he stood aside to give Wynne room at the table. While he waited for her move, he stuck a finger in his left ear and gave his auditory canal such a strenuous workout he was almost surprised when no sawdust trickled out.

"Wynne shoots… an' awwwwww-yup, she scores!  Down da hoahl!  Mercy Sakes, ain't that som'tin'?" Wynne cried as she sunk the final ball into the pocket on the far side of the table. Grinning, she grabbed the very last can of Double Zero that Moira MacKay had had in her refrigerators, cracked it open and chugged down half of it in one go.

"Congrats. That makes it twelve-zip tonight. Wanna go for best of thirteen?" Ernie said with a tired grin. "Nah, scratch that. I think I'll see if Slow Lane can whip up a cheeseburger. I need somethin' salty and greasy. You need anythin' while I'm up there?"

"Yuh, I sure could eat some o' them there fries," Wynne said as she racked the rented pool cues.

"I'll get him to make a large box of 'em. We can share."

Grinning, Wynne began to scoop up the colorful balls from the six pockets so they would be ready for the next players who had already been waiting for a little while. "Haw!  Works fer me, friend!" she said before she handed over the table to a young fellow who was there with a date.

-*-*-*-

Mandy had a reason to be cautiously optimistic when she left the Yarn Spinners store. The owner of the central hub of home-knitting for the entire county was a highly-respected figure in the special community, and when she had an opinion about something, people listened. She had spoken to more than fifty of her regular customers to convince them that Mandy Jalinski was the steady helmsman that Goldsboro needed after the tumultuous years under Artie Rains' leadership. Not all had agreed, but quite a few had, and that could cast the foundation Mandy needed to defeat her opponent in the election.

She knew that Grant Lafferty was on her side as well as were several of the other store owners. Cletus Browne from the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, the local veterinarian Dr. Byron Gibbs and Tabitha Hayward from the Goldsboro Town Museum had agreed to spread the word. She already had the female owner of the Tack & Saddle leather goods shop in her corner which didn't hurt.

Wyatt Elliott had offered to donate ten thousand dollars to the campaign so she could have proper advertisements in the print media and on the most popular TV stations. The offer came with the slight catch that he expected her to appear in his own ads after the election - that was the kind of deal that her predecessor would have jumped at, but it was the exact reason why she had declined.

The terrible mess created by the giant lizard-creature and the Air Force's bungling of the supposedly top secret transport had caused a bad dip in everyone's view of her, but it had only been temporary. The largest stumbling block continued to be the simple fact that she was a woman who aspired to fill a position that a large number of the locals considered to be a man's job. It was the same kind of thinking that had led to her being the only female deputy in the entire MacLean County Sheriff's Department for nearly a decade - she had no idea how she could prove to the nay-sayers that she was fit for the job if the solid results she had achieved over the years weren't enough to sway them.

Her big advantage was that she was a local and that she knew everyone and everything that was to know about Goldsboro. Todd Andrews didn't. Although he and his wife Kerrie were straight-up people, the fact they came from Brandford Ridge had a greater importance than they imagined. That town was nearly sixty miles away to the south-west, and in the eyes of most of the Goldsboro locals, that was so far it might as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

Mandy came to a halt at 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop to look at the impressive displays and dioramas behind the bullet-proof glass. That the owner hadn't lived up to his nickname but had told her to her face that he'd never vote for a pinko liberal woman who - on top of everything else - didn't even live with a man but an empty-headed waste of space still burned in her mind.

Grunting, she moved away from the gun shop to continue her trek along the campaign trail - next up was the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor.

---

She remained in a positive frame of mind as Wynne's bosses Nelson McConnell and Trent Lowe had also been sympathetic to her well-rehearsed spiel. Returning to the sidewalk, she looked through the list of potential backers that she had compiled. It was time for some police business now the election campaign was going well for a change, so she put the list away and crossed over Main Street.

A short while later, she walked into Moira's Bar & Grill on a specific mission: she was there to question A.J. Lane on what it had been that Robert Neilson had shown him on the telephone out at Thunder Park the day before.

Her law enforcement instincts took over the moment she set foot in the popular eating establishment that was filled to the brim with people. Before she moved up to the counter, she performed a thorough and deliberate visual sweep of the dinner guests to see if anyone was too interested in her or perhaps trying too hard to remain out of sight.

She had to chuckle and shake her head in amusement when she spotted Wynne and Ernie sharing a table with Blackie. An empty plate dotted with a few ketchup stains had been pushed aside, but a large box of French fries still saw frequent action. It appeared the two race fans were discussing the fascinating, high-brow and plain, old intriguing question of why Nascar's carburetor restrictor plates meant to slow down the cars on superspeedways got off to such a fabulous start in 1988 and 1989 only to create progressively worse races until rock bottom was struck with the dullest Daytona 500 of them all in the year 2000 - that the main focus of their discussion was something that happened more than twenty years ago didn't seem to come into play at all.

Mandy's face fell into her professional mask as she moved past the various tables to get to the counter. Although the young man she was there to see had turned sweaty from the frantic work, he actually had a moment of tranquility as only one of the French-fry baskets was in use and only a single frankfurter sizzled on the cooking panels. "Mr. Lane, I need a word," she said in her trademark, no-nonsense Senior Deputy voice once she reached the row of chairs at the counter.

"Ah… all right. I can't leave the stoves… Moira would kill me if I did," A.J. said as he wiped his hands clean on a dishtowel that was already quite filthy.

"I understand. It won't take long," Mandy said and reached into a pocket to get her trusty notepad. "What did Mr. Neilson show you on the electronic device yesterday evening?"

The young man's eyes grew wide and darted around the Bar & Grill before he shuffled over to the French-fry basket to give it a stir. "Ah… well… that was… that was nothing, really. Just a little… ah… video 's all."

"You need to be more specific, Mr. Lane."

A.J. blushed. He scratched his burning neck and cheeks a couple of times but eventually mouthed 'porn' without actually saying the word. His cheeks caught fire as he took a pair of sausage tongs and rolled the frankfurter over onto its other side.

Mandy let out a grunt as she updated the page in her notepad. "I see. That doesn't pose a problem unless the business was conducted by a minor-"

"God, no!  It was just a regular… uh…" - A.J. lowered his voice and leaned in toward the senior deputy - "a regular striptease video…"

"Very well," Mandy said and made a note of it. "Mr. Lane, I trust you already know that Mr. Neilson is a bad influence on most people he comes into contact with. Even beyond his frequent DUIs, he's a confidence artist and a crook. He'll give you a little treat and expects a major favor in return."

"Ah… yeah. Yeah, I know," A.J. said as he took a hot dog bun and briefly put it on the cooking stove to give it a crispy outer layer.

"Good. I advise you to stay clear of him. He'll only drag you down to his level," Mandy said and closed the notepad.

"I… I will, Deputy…"

Nodding, Mandy turned away from the counter and moved back through the crowded bar. She intended to stop at Wynne's table but found that her partner had left in the short time she had been speaking to A.J. "Good evening, Mr. Bradberry," she said as she gave Blackie a good rubbing behind her furry ears.

"Evenin', Deputy," Ernie said in a sluggish voice that still hadn't regained his usual speed and vitality.

"Where did Wynne go?"

"She went over to the takeout folks to look at her driving schedule for tonight. She'll probably be back in five or ten."

"All right. Thank you," Mandy said and took a final glance around the Bar & Grill. There didn't seem to be anything she needed to take care of, so she nodded a 'good evening' to Ernie before she left for the sheriff's office.

-*-*-*-

Further up Main Street, Wynne whistled while she strolled along the sidewalk. She waved a few Howdys and Whassups to the people who drove past her in their large, larger and huge pickup trucks, and she was generally in a fine mood despite the severe lack of H.E. Fenwyck products in Goldsboro.

She had barely made it to the corner of the narrow alley where the Nissan was being prepared by her colleague when she came to a dead stop. A man in a black suit and wearing black shades spoke to the junior employee responsible for processing the orders and putting the various items into the heating box. The dreaded debt collector appeared more menacing than ever as he pushed a photo - that Wynne could only presume was of her - into the near-sighted junior employee's face. The young man nodded and glanced at his wristwatch like he was telling the scary man in black when Wynne was supposed to come in for work.

"Awwwww-shittt… not that dang-blasted Turr-minatah fella ag'in," Wynne croaked as she tried to become a shadow along the brick wall. The Houdini-act didn't work too well since the bricks were red and she wore blue denim all over, but at least she hadn't been spotted yet. When the debt collector's sixth sense seemed to alert him to her presence by making him turn his head toward her, she spun around and stormed back down Main Street to find a safe haven from the man in black.

Most of the stores had already closed for the evening so she had few options; the last resort would be to hustle Ernie and Blackie out to the Silverado and race for home, but that seemed a little too drastic. The lights were still on in the sheriff's office, but she knew she would never be able to come up with a good excuse as to why she would barge in like that - instead, she aimed for Moira's, stormed through the door and flew back to the table where Ernie and Blackie waited for her.

"Whoa!" Ernie said as Wynne fell down into the chair opposite him. "Damn, can we hustle a little less, please… my headache had just died down," he said in a croak as he grabbed his pounding head.

"Ah jus' bumped inta that there fella ag'in!" Wynne said as she leaned across the table so she could speak in a whisper. "That there debt collectah!  Ain't that sombitch evah givin' up?  Dag-nabbit… Ah'm gettin' seriousleh concerned now!  Who knows what kinda gangstah done sent him ta get me!  Mebbe some Vegas-style hot shit who done found me in that there phonebook an' wants ta put da squeeze on me!  Mercy Sakes, Ernie, Ah ain't done nuttin' to nobodda an' that sombitch still be comin' aftah me!  Lawwwwwr-die, Ah need a beer!  An' we ain't got none!  Crapola!"

When the door to the Bar & Grill opened, Wynne dove for cover underneath the table - she moved so fast even Blackie only had time to let out a surprised Woof?!

Wynne stayed well out of sight until she recognized Joe-Bob Millard's excessive bulk lumbering past on his way over to the video poker machines. "Dang-blast this he' buncha dumb-ass'ery," she growled as she climbed back onto the chair. "This he' deal gonn' end badleh. Ah'm tellin' ya, Ernie… this he' deal gonn' end badleh!"

"Let's hope it ends soon," Ernie said in a mumble, " 'cos this is gettin' ridiculous…"

Blackie agreed and let out a Woof! before she cast a pointed look at her owner; unfortunately, Wynne was too busy calming her nerves by throwing French fries into her mouth to notice.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

Twenty-four worrisome minutes later - that Wynne had spent staring at the empty shelf in Moira's refrigerators where the H.E. Fenwyck products could usually be found, at Ernie's hang-dog face and at the front door in case the man in black came for her - she dug into her pocket to find her telephone. She didn't want to leave her hung-over and morose friend, but the white digits on the display told her it was high time to head across Main Street once more. The first chicken run of the evening couldn't wait much longer regardless of how she felt or how much she had been spooked by the constant presence of the supposed debt collector.

"Yuh, that be 'bout it fer me fer tanight, friend," she said and put away the telephone. Moving her hand into another pocket, she pulled out a few dollar bills that would cover her half of the French fries and the can of low-low-low-quality beer Ernie had bought as a desperate, last-ditch effort to get some of the golden liquid down his gullet - the faces they had pulled when sampling the awful brew wouldn't have looked out of place in a Z-grade horror movie. "Haw!  At least I know fer a dog-gone fact ya ain't gonn' be drivin' home buzzed tanight," she said and she handed Ernie the keys to her Silverado.

Ernie let out a croaking chuckle as he took the keys. Movement behind Wynne made him look in that direction. "No… fat chance of-"

When nothing further came from Ernie, Wynne - who had her back to the door - took a deep breath while her eyes grew wider and wider under the brim of her cowboy hat. "He be right behind me, ain't he?  That there nasteh debt collectah fella… yuh?  Good shit almighteh, Ernie… it done happened. It fih-nalleh done happened. It wus a ple-shure knowin' ya, friend… Ah sappose all good things mus'come to an-"

"Hello, Ernie," a female voice said from somewhere behind Wynne.

Spinning around so fast her hat could barely keep up with the rest of her, Wynne stared wide-eyed at the Reverend Bernadine Russell who stood by the table wearing sensible shoes and a tan overcoat that covered what looked to be a yellowish flowery dress. "Hoooooah-leh shittt!  If it ain't the- uhhhh… pardon mah French, there, Rev'rend," Wynne said and whipped off her hat to hold it against her chest.

"Oh, that's all right, Wynne," Bernadine said in a quiet voice.

Wynne just stood there staring until Blackie put her teeth around a denim sleeve and began to pull her owner away from the table to give Ernie and Bernadine some privacy. "Yuh, yuh… Ah be goin', Ah be goin', Blackie…" she said as she crabbed sideways to get back to the pool table. On her way there she sent Ernie a thumbs-up with her right hand while she crossed her fingers on the left to cover all eventualities.

By the time Wynne bumped into the pool table, Bernadine had sat down on the recently vacated chair. She and Ernie leaned in to meet at the middle of the table to have a quiet conversation amid all the typical bar-room noises. Wynne didn't even notice that she had interrupted a game of pool until she was tapped on the shoulder by the player. Excusing herself, she crabbed onto the video poker machines where Joe-Bob Millard continued to pour quarters into the slot in the hope of scoring big.

"Oh… it's you, li'l lady," he said as Wynne came to a stop next to him. Because of his bulk, he had to stand nearly a foot from the machine which made it exceedingly difficult for him to insert the coins to play the electronic game.

Even while Wynne let out a groan, her eyes never left the two people sitting at the table. "Snakes Alive, J-B… how maneh tih-mes do Ah gotta tell ya Ah ain't no li'l lady," she mumbled.

"Whatever," the retired pro-wrestler said before he inserted another quarter that made the video poker machine deal a new virtual hand of five cards. He clicked on the appropriate buttons to hold a jack of clubs and an ace of diamonds before he pushed another button that made the machine re-deal the three remaining cards. The new hand was a bust which made the machine send out a sad, little trill and erase all five cards. Grunting, he inserted another quarter to start over.

One minute went by. Then another. Then another. Wynne continued to stare at the table. Another minute went by. And another. And another. The tension had grown so thick that she was about to chew on her fingernails - something she hadn't done since she was a little girl - when a loud, cheerful whoop exploded from Ernie's side of the table. A split second later, the rest of the Bar & Grill fell quiet as everyone looked around to see what on Earth had caused such an outburst.

Another split second after that, Ernie jumped up from his chair, ran around the table, dove back down on Bernadine's side and mashed a great, big, wet kiss straight onto her lips - then he reached around his bride-to-be and pulled her into a hug so large she almost disappeared in it.

"Woooooo-hooooooooooooh!" Wynne cried at the top of her lungs; she whipped off her hat and waved it high in the air. Blackie joined in by releasing an entire string of thunderous, but cheerful, barks. The actions caught everyone's attention as most of the dinner guests were still staring rather than eating. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die, this he' day turned out fih-ne aftah all!  Yessir!  Holy smokes, mah friends, Ah do bah-lieve mah very good buddeh Ernie Bradberrah he' got som'tin he wanna tell ya!  Or yell ya, fer that mattah!"

Ernie couldn't pry the grin off his face with a crowbar - not that he wanted to. Stepping into view of the dinner guests, he threw his arms in the air and proclaimed: "We're gettin' married!"

Everybody in Moira's Bar & Grill including Blackie immediately whipped their heads around to stare at Wynne Donohue. The German Shepherd soon let out a choked-up snortle at the humorous misunderstanding.

Wynne stared just as wide-eyed at the other patrons as they stared at her. "Whaddindahell-za-mattah with y'all!  Ernie an' the Rev'rend gonn' get hitched!  He ain't gonn' marreh me, fer cryin' out loud!" she said as she pointed at Ernie and Bernadine.

A chorus of "Ohhhh…" rippled through the other guests before the entire restaurant let out a collective cheer - then everybody got up and began to congratulate the happy couple. The volume grew to such a level that Moira MacKay came out of the back room to see what was going on. The tempestuous owner of the best bar and grill in Goldsboro, and in fact the entire county, slammed her hands onto her hips while she took in the scene.

It wasn't until someone nearly knocked over a table to get to Ernie and the Reverend that Moira went into action. "All right, that's enough!  You heard me!  Everybody, sit down and get on with your dinners!  Congratulations, Mr. Bradberry… Miss Russell. I'm happy for you," she said and shook the hands of the future married couple.

"Thank you, Miss MacKay," Bernadine said before she wrapped her arm around Ernie's rotund waist. She looked at the beaming fellow next to her whose glistening eyes proved that she had made the right decision to come back after only a day instead of the full week that had been her plan.

"And Wynne," Moira said and spun around to face her former employee, "what the hell are you still doing here?  Don't you know what time it is?  Aren't you supposed to be over at the-"

"Awwwwwww-shittt!  I fergot that there stinkin' tih-me…" Wynne croaked and slapped her forehead. "Ernie, man!  Rev'rend!  Ah'm so happy fer y'all, but Ah'm so durn late Ah'mma-gonn' get in deep, deep trubbel if Ah-"

"It's okay, Wynne," Ernie said with a grin as he waved her off. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later."

"Ya betcha!  C'mon, Blackie… we gotta hustle som'tin fierce, an' y'all bettah take that lit'rally!" Wynne said and took off for the door. Storming outside, she only made it two steps onto the sidewalk before she bumped squarely into a tall man clad in black.

Wynne's hat went one way and the man's leather portfolio that he had carried under his arm went the other - the two items met again down on the sidewalk where the cowboy hat ended up upside down on top of the portfolio.

"Owch!  Mah nothe… Ah bumped mah nothe ag'in… Ah hate it when that happenth…" Wynne croaked as she clamped two fingers down onto the bridge of her abused member. While she did so, the victim of her involuntary headbutting slapped a hand across his face and let out a mumbled stream of inventive swear words.

Blackie hadn't been hindered by the living roadblock, so she had already made it halfway across Main Street. When she noticed her owner had hit a snag, or perhaps a minefield, somewhere along the way, she returned to her side and sat down on the sidewalk while her tail wagged merrily.

"An' Ah los' mah dog-gone hat, too-" Wynne said before she interrupted herself when it dawned on her what had just happened. Staring at the man in black, she tried to come up with a good excuse - or even a bad one - but all she could think of was either to run away or to lie through her teeth. Ultimately, she chose the second option. "Watch where ya goin, ya big lump!" she croaked as she moved past the tall man.

"Miss Wynne Donohue?" he said in a voice that was fairer, more educated and certainly far more sophisticated than his gruff exterior hinted at. His left cheek had grown red - and apparently numb judging by the way he tried to pinch it - after the nose-first collision so he had to rub his cheekbone for a short while longer. Crouching down, he picked up the leather portfolio and opened it.

"Uh… naw. Naw, that sure ain't be this li'l ol' gal, nosirree. Naw. Naw," Wynne said as she plonked her hat onto her dark locks. Underneath the hat, the gears in her brain tried to engage but all that came out of it was a lot of creaking and grinding. "Ah be… Ah be…" - A pickup truck with a large sewage tank installed on the back happened to drive past at that exact moment. She glanced at the company name on the side of the tank and broke out in a wide grin. "Yuh, Ah be Septic Sammi, the sewah gal. Yessir!  Mah bizzness slogan is You Dump It, Ah Pump It. Yessir. Som'tin wrong with yer septic tank, Mista?  Lawrdie, y'all oughtta get in touch with mah secretareh an' she'll trah ta fit ya inta our bizzy schedule. Ah be thinkin' Mond'y next week or som'tin…"

Down on the sidewalk, Blackie let out a Woof? that sounded exactly like she was saying 'Now what's gotten into her?'

The man in black calmly reached into the leather portfolio and retrieved the color photo he had been showing around Goldsboro for the past several days. The woman in the photo was undoubtedly the same one he was talking to. He turned the photo around to show it to 'Septic Sammi.' "I'm Seymour Warrington. We need a serious word, Miss Donohue."

"Naw-naw-naw, Ah ain't got no clue who dat dere Wynne Donohue be or nuttin'. Ah be Septic Sammi… the… sewah… gal… aw, shit." Wynne's voice trailed off into nothing when the proverbial black flag was displayed from the even more proverbial flag stand. A black flag was best answered by a white one, so she took off her hat and looked toward the heavens. "Yuh, Ah be Wynne Donohue. Now, lookie he', Mista See-Moah… befo' y'all lead me around that there cornah an' beat the browns outta me or whatevah y'all be plannin' ta do fer not pay-in' a bill that wussen even needin' ta be pay-ed, can ya at least tell me whoindahell Ah done P.O.'ed enough fer that sombitch ta send one o' them there Turr-minatahs or enforcahs or whatevah y'all ack-chew-leh be aftah me?"

Blackie was interested in finding out as well, so she turned her furry face toward the man in black.

Seymour Warrington narrowed his eyes as he slid the color photo back into the portfolio. "I didn't get all of that, but I'm afraid you've misunderstood why I'm here, Miss Donohue. I'm from Jennings, Young & McKinney, the law firm handling your late aunt Martha Faye Donohue's last will and testament. I'm working for Mr. McKinney, the official administrator of the will. He-"

"Whut?  So ya ain't no debt collectah or nuttin'?  Haw!  Well, ain't that embarrassin'," Wynne said and scratched her ear - down on the ground, Blackie did the same with a hind-paw. "Mista Ma'kinny?  Wussen he that there ol' lawyah-fella with them white whiskahs an' them round glasses who done tole me som'tin about… uh… som'tin… at that there funeral?"

"Yes, that sounds about right," Warrington said in a puzzled tone.

"How 'bout that," Wynne said and moved her hand from ear to neck so she could scratch that part as well.

Seymour Warrington looked up and down Main Street in the hope of finding a less public spot to continue the conversation. Turning back to face Wynne, he said: "Miss Donohue, I would prefer if we spoke in private. I have important news for you."

"Lawrdie… haw. Nuh, we ain't really got nowheah that be mo' private than he'. C'mon, les'go sit on that there bench ovah yondah," Wynne said and pointed at one of the white park benches the Town Council had put up along Main Street. Blackie responded before Warrington did, and she took off toward the bench so she could get the best seat - right in the middle so everyone would have a good look at her.

---

Two minutes later, Wynne stared at the letter given to her by the man from the law firm. The powder-blue envelope carried her name and address on it, and it had been written in her aunt's elegant, though aged, hand with what appeared to have been an old-fashioned fountain pen. The envelope still carried a scent of Martha Faye's favorite perfume, a touch of lavender.

"Miss Donohue," Seymour Warrington said and crossed his legs at the knee, "before you read that letter, please allow me to fill you in on the details."

"Go right ahead, Mista… 'cos I'm beginnin' ta bah-lieve I ain't got no ideah 'bout nuttin' anymo'…"

"Your aunt Martha Faye Donohue was an avid coin collector. It had been a life-long hobby of hers that had started when she was five years old and she found a brand new, shiny dime on the street. That was a lot of money back then for a five-year old, but she decided to keep it rather than spend it."

"Yuh, I 'member that storeh!  An' I 'member mah aunt talkin' 'bout that there collec-shun o' hers. Haw, I even done saw a couple-a them there big-ol' bindahs them coins wus in. It wussen realleh mah thing but ev'rehbodda wus always gossipin' about it at family get-tagethahs an' such…"

"Quite, Miss Donohue. As the years went by, your aunt's collection grew and she had coins from all over the world. A vast majority of which was regular currency that held little value. Some were valuable, however, and were kept in a safety deposit box in her bank's vault. A small number of coins… a set of four, in fact… were so valuable they were kept inside a bomb-proof case that had been stored in a steel cage in the vault-"

"Snakes Alive, Mista!"

"Your late aunt sold those very coins through an auction house just a month prior to her passing-"

"Lawwwwr-die… y'all ain't be shittin' me up one side an' down the othah he', 'r ya, Mista See-Moah?"

Seymour Warrington narrowed his eyes and looked at Wynne's wide-open face. It was obvious he hadn't understood a syllable of what she had said, and equally obvious he didn't want to ask out of fear of getting an even more incomprehensible answer. "I didn't quite catch that, Miss Donohue, but never mind now," he said after a few seconds. "Your late aunt named you specifically in her last will and testament as one of the leading beneficiaries of her estate."

"So… whut… I inherited mah aunt's house or som'tin?  She didden ha' no cahr, I be perdy sure o' that-"

"No, Miss Donohue, you inherited the coin collection. All of it. Including the profit gained from the recent sale of the rare coins. That sum has been locked into a fund set up in your name-"

"Woah, woah, woah… hold 'em hosses, pardner," Wynne said and put a hand on Seymour's arm. "Ah hear what y'all be sayin', an' y'all be sayin' wohrds like rare coins an' profit an' som'tin or othah 'bout a fund or som'tin… that's all fih-ne an' dandeh, but that can't be right, son. I know it jus' can't be right. There gotta be some kinda mistook somewheah around he'… 'cos… dang, I know mah Aunt Martha Faye an' me done liked each othah a helluva lot back in the day, yuh?  But her coin collec-shun?  Naw. Naw, there gotta be a mis-"

Seymour Warrington shook his head. "There's no mistake, Miss Donohue. Like I said before, your aunt named you specifically in her last will and testament. You have inherited the entire coin collection."

Wynne's eyes narrowed as the news sunk in. Blackie sensed something major had just happened, so she inched to the side to lean against her owner's denim-clad presence. "So… can y'all gimme a figger o' worth or some such?  Lawrd knows I ain't too clevah with them words, but I do know figgers. Sorta."

Nodding, Seymour looked through his papers to get the exact figure. "After the auction house had deducted their salary and various other fees and taxes, the sale of the set of four rare coins alone brought home three point six million dollars."

Wynne stopped thinking, blinking and even breathing - she just sat there like a marble statue. Her inactivity grew so lengthy that Blackie nudged her several times with her muzzle simply to see if she was still among the living.

The need for oxygen overcame the shock after a very, very long moment, and she drew a long gasp of air. She nodded; then she shook her head; then she nodded again. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a tuna stuck on dry land but no words ever escaped her. She only realized she was still clutching the letter from her aunt when Blackie nudged it to let her know she really ought to read it.

"Miss Donohue?  Miss Donohue, are you all right?  Do you need a glass of water or something?" Seymour Warrington said with genuine concern in his voice - he waved his hand in front of Wynne's wide-open eyes without getting much in the way of reaction.

"Naw… Ah coulda used a Dubbel Zerah but there ain't none left… dad-gummit," Wynne eventually said in a voice that broke halfway through the sentence from the shock alone.

"I see… I'm not sure what that means, but all right. In any case, I have been authorized to give you an advance on the contents of the fund. I hereby hand over a check made out to you on the sum of five thousand dollars," Warrington said and presented Wynne with another envelope. "Do you have a branch of your preferred banking connections here in Goldsboro, Miss Donohue?"

"Hell, we ain't even got one o' them ATM gizmos he'… we gotta drive ta that there Barton Citeh. Up north some ways," Wynne said and stared at the second envelope. Unlike the one from her aunt that had a lot of love put into it, the new one was simply a dime-a-dozen envelope featuring a bog-standard paper label that had her name typewritten onto it. "Five thousand dollahs?  Ah ain't never had no five thousand dollahs in mah hand befo'…"

"You have quite a lot more than that now, Miss Donohue. May I suggest you take this opportunity to read the letter from your late aunt?"

"Haw… mah aunt… the lettah… okeh," Wynne said and began to tear open the first, powder-blue envelope - she made sure to do it carefully so the letter itself wouldn't be harmed. As she opened it, the scent of lavender spread from the high-quality stationery inside. It made a wistful smile spread over her face as she remembered Martha Faye Donohue who had been a typically honest, down-to-earth and quick-witted Texas-gal with plenty of heart, soul and the occasional salty comment about this or that.

The letter read:

'Dear Wynne. When you read this, I'll have left this world behind to rest under a tree in the Garden of Eden. That's where I hope to end up, at least. Please don't get too shocked when I remind you I wasn't always a prim and proper old lady - big band music and swinging skirts were meant for each other.

When I realized the end was in sight, I took a long and hard look at my heirs to see who deserved what. Most of my possessions were easy enough to distribute among my relatives, but then my thoughts fell on my very special niece who went through so much hardship and so many heartaches in her youth.

I remembered the long talks we had, you and I, on every subject known to Woman. You came to me because you never really hit it off with your mother, my younger sister - I certainly couldn't, or can't, blame you as neither did I. Wynne, you soon understood we shared more than met the eye, and that discovery only made our conversations deeper and more valuable to both of us.

I grew up in a different era where such matters simply weren't spoken of, so our talks helped me reconnect with the person I still was on the inside. I don't know which of us gained the most from the time we spent together, but I do know that I, even as a mature spinster, was able to grow and feel more secure with my identity, where I stood in life and perhaps even my place in the world in general.

All that came to me when I looked at the list of my possessions. Once I had thought of you, Wynne, I knew instantly that you deserved something special. My entire coin collection and the value it holds. It was mine and now it's yours - do with it as you see fit. Sell it, keep it, auction it off for charity or blow it all on the slot machines or blackjack tables in Las Vegas. The choice is yours.

As I reach the end of this letter, I need to add a final piece of advice. If my screwy brother Charles (you know him as Chuck) tries to claim the coin collection for himself, tell him Martha Faye said he can go kiss a duck. He'll know what that means and I hope the old fuddy-duddy chokes on it.

And with that, Wynne, I bid you farewell. Have a wonderful life.

Eternally yours,
Martha Faye Donohue.'

Wynne let out a deep sigh and leaned against the backrest with a thousand-mile stare shining from her eyes. Her childhood and adolescence had been difficult to get through on several different levels. A great deal of her troubles, even into adulthood, stemmed from a single incident that saw her world falling apart one early evening when she was seven years old. Back home in Shallow Pond, Texas, she had been playing in her tree house in their back garden with a few kid friends when she had suffered an accident that would haunt her for decades.

Losing her balance, she had fallen eighteen feet down onto the grass and the tree's roots where she had landed squarely on her head - it was only through a sheer miracle that she didn't break her neck and die right there. The next lights she saw were those installed in the ceiling of the hospital she had been rushed to. Her mother had been at work at the time, so the person finding and helping her had in fact been Martha Faye.

The damage the accident had caused to her neural pathways meant the next few years had been hellish for her to get through. Even some of the kids from her neighborhood that she had considered good friends had bullied her mercilessly because she walked funny, spoke slower than they did, couldn't ride a bike and needed special care in school to counter her learning disabilities.

Things grew worse when she reached puberty and discovered that her preferences were different to those of her few remaining friends. She hated her life, the world and the medicine she needed to take because it rendered her incapable of doing many of the things her peers did at that age, like getting a driver's license.

The only thing worse than taking her medicine was not taking it - she learned that the hard way during one of her more rebellious phases in her teens. As the drug wore off without a new dose ready to take over, her neural system collapsed which made her lose control over her faculties. It sent her into such a raving meltdown that it caused her to be arrested and rushed to hospital on suspicions of having an acute LSD overdose. The scathing irony was of course that she had too few rather than too many chemical agents in her system.

The long, intimate conversations she'd had with Martha Faye had helped her through all that and through the scary discoveries she had made about herself during her teen years. Her aunt had helped her realize there was nothing scary about any of it, and that it was possible to live a full and rewarding life despite what the Reverend and Wynne's mother said to the contrary about the subject.

As the years went by, her medical dramas grew fewer and she was able to live a more normal life while still needing a steady intake of medicine. Suddenly one day, she had decided she needed to move on. Without facing opposition from any of her close family members - perhaps they were happy to see the back of her - she had loaded her original Chevrolet truck with all her stuff and had driven over to Martha Faye's house for a final chat that had turned into a two-day stop-over filled with tears, hugs, sweet tea and butter cookies.

Then she headed west-north-west from Texas without having a set destination. Eventually arriving at the southern city limits sign of a small desert town called Goldsboro, Nevada, she felt in her heart and soul that it was a good area to settle down in.

Her first two weeks in Goldsboro had seen her rent a room at Mrs. Peabody's boarding house, but she had soon had enough of the stern lady's personality and archaic rules so she had bought a home trailer with the last of her own money bolstered by a small loan from her aunt. She chose a beautiful spot overlooking the unspoiled desert eight miles south of the town - and the rest was history.

Wynne sighed again. She slowly returned to the present just in time to notice her name being called in a fairly angry fashion from across the street. "Wha'?" she croaked and looked around.

Her other boss from the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor, Trent Lowe, stormed across Main Street with a face like thunder. When he reached Wynne, Blackie and Seymour Warrington, he slammed his hands onto his hips - a gesture that looked odd given the fact he wore a white apron and a ridiculous-looking paper hat. "Miss Donohue!  I would like an explanation for your no-show, please!  I had to send Jamie out on the run, and you know how easily flustered he gets. I thought you had maybe fallen ill, but now I find you here, chatting with some fellow!"

"Awwww-shittt," Wynne groaned as she looked at the digital clock on her smartphone.

"I'm still waiting for an explanation, Miss Donohue. And it better be a good one," Trent said through clenched teeth.

"Ah wus on mah ovah ta the Nissahn, Mista Lowe, honest Ah wus… but then Ah bumped inta Mista Warrin'ton he' an' Ah sorta got sidetracked…"

Trent Lowe glared at the man in black before he turned his angry eyes back to zoom in on Wynne. "That may be, but couldn't you have called to say you had been detained?  You know that Jamie isn't fully qualified to drive the truck!  We need to keep our customers happy, Miss Donohue, or they'll go elsewhere."

"Yuh, yuh, Ah know all them things, Mista Lowe, but Ah jus' wussen aware tih-me wus flyin' bah so durn fast."

"You didn't show up for work so you're obviously not getting paid for the run, Miss Donohue. Don't try to argue that because that's final."

Wynne nodded; she took off her cowboy hat to wipe her brow. "Yuh, Ah hear what y'all be sayin', there, Mista Lowe. Ah'm sorreh."

Blackie didn't seem to agree with the most recent developments, and she let her feelings be known to the world by letting out a thunderous bark that made Trent Lowe and Seymour Warrington each jump a foot in the air.

The bark rolled across the street until it reached the sheriff's office. Rodolfo Gonzalez had just opened the glass door to go out on one of the regular evening patrols when he heard the commotion. Recognizing the bark and seeing the odd scene at the park bench, he turned back to Mandy: "Ma'am, I think you may want to see this. Looks like Wynne is having an argument with her boss."

"It can't be Wynne… she'll be out on her run by now," Mandy said and glanced at the clock on the wall. Getting up from the desk, she only needed a single look at the scene across the street to recognize it was indeed her partner and Blackie. "Hmmm. All right. Thank you, Deputy. I got this one."

"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo said before he went off on the patrol, leaving the hacking, coughing and sniffling Barry Simms all alone in the office.

---

Continued

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