by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This slice-of-life dramedy is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: November 2nd - 14th, 2023, as a NaNoWriMo project. Expanded November 29th - December 4th, 2023.
Yes, this is yet another entry (the twentieth!) into the long-running series featuring Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
Phineas Redux - thank you very much for your help! :D
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: Wacky, wackier, Goldsboro, Nevada. Over the course of a week, the residents of the small desert town - better known as the Calamity Central of the World - see more than their fair share of the chaotic, bizarre, wild and crazy when everything happens from exploding septic tanks to prisoners trying to escape the long arm of the law. The Last Original Cowpoke Wynne Donohue and Sheriff Mandy Jalinski are soon, and literally, caught in the middle of messes that'll take all their skills to straighten out…
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CHAPTER 1
Monday, February 20th - early.
The two-lane blacktop that connected many of the hamlets, medium-sized towns and larger cities in MacLean County, Nevada seemed to exist in a void. Though it ran for nearly 250 miles from Cavanaugh Creek in the south to the county capital Barton City in the north, there was no traffic to speak of in spite of the supposed morning rush hour.
The State Route carved an arrow-straight path through the eternal desert as it moved up into the hills through Haddersfield Pass, down again at the abandoned mining camp Silver Creek and past several trailer parks - including one that had experienced enough chaos and weirdness to last a lifetime - before it formed the main streets of a string of small towns.
A muted roar proved to be a white-and-gold Dodge Durango from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department that cut through the early-morning gloom en route to Goldsboro. The small town - 'Where Magical Things Happen' according to the expensive city limits sign put up by the Town Council - had already come into view in the near-distance though the SUV's driver was still a few miles away from the town's southern outskirts.
The earliest indications of Spring may have been knocking on the proverbial door, but the wide-open expanses of the desert meant the ambient temperatures dropped like a rock over the course of the night, so the driver of the Sheriff's Department's Durango, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski, had the heater on as she closed the distance to the town. The early rays of the sun cast long shadows across the blacktop prompting her to don a pair of state-issue, but nevertheless fashionable, sunglasses.
Early-morning fatigue gnawed on her bones so her face was an inanimate mask as she approached the town that was colloquially known as Calamity Central - not just of MacLean County or the state of Nevada, but the entire world.
The night had been far too short after she had needed to spend several hours providing moral support and physical comfort for her wife Wynne Donohue after the unfortunate finish of the previous day's running of the Daytona 500 NASCAR race.
Not only had two of Wynne's top favorites crashed out close to the checkered flag while contending for the victory, the legendary race had been won by a driver who would never be on Wynne's Christmas card list. At least he was driving a Chevrolet and not a Ford or Toyota which, according to Wynne, would have been just about the worst thing that could have happened outside of a natural disaster.
Despite the fatigue, Mandy broke out in a muted chuckle at the thought of Wynne's scrunched-up face as the winning driver had performed the traditional post-race burnouts along the tri-oval section of the front straight. Her chuckling continued all the way past the southern city limits sign that - for a change - hadn't been vandalized since she had seen it last.
Goldsboro's Main Street was just as deserted as ever. Most of the stores had yet to open so the street and sidewalks had an eerie mood akin to that found in a real ghost town. In the far distance up at the northern end of town, a field tractor lumbered northbound hauling a load of hay, but that marked the entire activity along Main Street.
Mandy had barely parked the Durango in front of the building housing the sheriff's office and the adjacent jail house when her telephone started ringing. She and her deputy sheriffs still wore their winter uniforms, so she needed to rip open several velcro pockets until she found the annoying noisemaker. A puzzled grunt escaped her when the caller-ID said Wynne.
After accepting the call, she leaned back in the seat to stay within the reach of the heater for as long as possible. "Hi, hon. Did you forget to tell me something? It hasn't even been fifteen minutes…"
'Howdy, darlin'… aw-yuh,' Wynne Donohue said at the other end of the connection in her customary yard-thick Texan drawl. 'This he li'l situa-shun be one o' them there good news, bad news kinda deals. Yuh? Y'all want them-'
"Good news first, please."
'Yuh, I reckoned y'all would want that. Okeh. Som'tin done happened he', but I didden get hurt or nuttin'-'
Mandy let out a "What the hell?!" before she sat up straight.
'Yuh-yuh, I be jus' fine an' so be them dawggies. Li'l Goldie done got hella scared but that ain't nuttin' new, so-'
"I've been away for fifteen minutes!"
'Yuh… mebbe it done waited fer y'all ta leave, dontchaknow…'
"Cut to the chase, Wynne… what happened?"
'Lawrdie, he' be where them bad news come along, okeh? We gonn' hafta do some redecoratin' of ou'ah bathroom an' all. Yuh. 'Membah them there weird gurglin' noises from da septic tank the othah day?'
"Uh… yeah?"
'Well, aftah y'all done left, I hadda go, ya know, an'… yuh… it done started gurglin' all ovah ag'in 'cept it wus much worse. An' then that there septic tank an' da crappah done blowed up on me. Ka-bloomey. It done went skaah haaaaah-'
"It what?!"
'Yuh. Sure ain't exaggeratin' or nuttin'. It wus like one o' them there top-fuel dragstahs, yuh? Or mebbe a moon rocket. I'mma-gonn' hafta hose down that there bathroom befo' we can do anythin'. Aw, an' we gonn' hafta buy some new toothbrushes an' stuff. Towels. Bathrobes. Cotton wool-'
"Ohhhhh-"
'Washcloths. Them scented bubble-bath soaps an' all. Light fix-chures in da ceiling. Mebbe a new mirrah an' some new tiles-'
"Oh, for cryin' out loud!"
'Them li'l things. Yuh. Betcha happy this ain't no smella-phone, 'cos… yuh… it sure ain't peaches an' cream he', catch mah drift…'
Mandy smacked a hand over her eyes and shook her head several times. "Can you handle it? Do you want me to come home-"
'Naw, I alreddy done called Septic Sammi. Ya know, Da Sewah Gal. She gonn' be he' befo' long. An' ol' Diegoh be helpin' me with them shovels an' stuff. Yuh. Good thing I ain't squeamish or nuttin'. Haw.'
"You need to shovel it out?!"
'Uh… yuh. An' some gallon-sihhh-zed buckets an'… an'… aw, I be sure y'all ain't needin' ta hear that.'
A long, deep, slow, tormented sigh escaped Mandy as she just sat there in the Durango. She shook her head another couple of times before she pulled the little lever to open the door. "Okay," she said as she stepped out onto the windswept, deserted Main Street.
A quick glance up and down the street proved she was the only person out at that time of the day. "Tell you what, hon," she continued into the telephone as she strode away from the police vehicle and over to the sheriff's office, "perhaps you should stay away from knives, scissors and other sharp objects today. And the microwave. You know how accidents always come in threes."
'Yuh. An' this wus only the second shitty thing that done happened. Da first wus las' night when them RCR cars done wrecked ovah in Daytoh-n. Yuh, I hear ya, darlin'. I'mma-gonn' do a li'l mo' shovelin' an' them I'mma-gonn' find mahself a secluded spot out on da porch an' chug down some coah-ffee. Yuh. Anyhows, I jus' wanted ta letcha know, yuh?'
"I appreciate it, hon. I need to go, but please promise me you'll take care the rest of the day," Mandy said as she dug into her pocket to find the keys for the office.
'Haw, I sure will, darlin'! Yes, Ma'am, I ain't gonn' be doin' nuttin' dain-ge-russ or nuttin'. Not even watch them haaah-lights o' that there Daytoh-n race. Naw, I sure ain't.'
After unlocking the front door, Mandy put her shoulder to it so the warped woodwork would release it's death grip - the whole thing uttered a wild squeak as it was forced open. "Thank you. Talk to you later."
'Bah-bah, darlin'! This he' be da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off!'
Stepping into the sheriff's office, Mandy made a beeline for the coffee machine to get the day, and in fact the entire week, started in the best possible fashion. It took her no time to fill the glass pot with water or to add the ground coffee beans - the day's first smile spread over her lips as she pressed the little button to make the machine come alive.
As expected of the Sheriff of Goldsboro, she wore the regulatory winter uniform in the shape of black boots, dark-gray pants featuring a black stripe running up each pantleg, a black shirt with pale-gray pockets and shoulder straps, and finally a pale-gray necktie that had been tucked in between the third and fourth shirt buttons as the uniform code dictated. The insulated, heavy-duty winter jacket was worn on top of everything else, but that and her expensive Mountie hat were soon hanging on the appropriate nails on the wall behind her desk.
The clock mounted on the wall only read a quarter past eight. It was several hours earlier than normal which meant that she had it all to herself for at least an hour and a half. The first of her deputies would only arrive for work at a quarter to ten or so, and that would give her plenty of time to go through the previous day's unfinished pieces of business.
It was far too early in the day to order something sweet from Moira MacKay's famed Bar & Grill across Main Street, so Mandy reached into one of her desk's drawers to find a roll of Dream-Cream cookies instead.
The coffee machine hissed and spluttered three minutes later indicating the dark-brown liquid was ready for consumption. Grinning, Mandy jumped up from her swivel-chair to fill her favorite mug.
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The digits displaying the time on Mandy's smartphone had just rolled over to 9:45am when Junior Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly entered the office. As always, the youngest member of the law enforcement personnel working at the Goldsboro office was dressed to the nines with every part of her winter uniform following the code to the letter.
Though it wasn't strictly necessary, Beatrice saluted Mandy before she moved down to the smallest of the three desks in the office. In her late twenties, Beatrice was a stickler for the law, for neatness and for doing things the proper way.
It came as no surprise to anyone that her desk was literally wiped clean at the end of each shift, or even that she kept such stringent order in the three drawers that everything was lined up with military precision. As a result of that, a surefire way for her colleagues to get her wound up was to make a mess in one of the drawers, or to remove an item simply to see how long it would take her to realize that something was missing. The average time was less than a minute, so the joke wasn't all that funny after all.
"Good morning, Sheriff," Beatrice said as she took off her Mountie hat and the winter jacket. While she hung the items on the row of coat hooks on the walls, she eyed the coffee machine that had been given a new potful of water to prepare for the other deputies. It hadn't been turned on yet, but it would only be a matter of seconds before the Junior Deputy did so.
"Good morning, Deputy Reilly," Mandy said and leaned back on her swivel-chair. They let the coffee machine do the talking for a few seconds before Mandy reached for a note on her desk. "It's been a fairly regular morning so far. Mr. Williams from the second-hand store called to ask if we could spare anyone who could lend a hand offloading a delivery truck. I told him we couldn't."
"It's surprisingly hard work."
Looking up, Mandy nodded at her deputy's comment. "Yes. It took nearly a week for Wynne's muscles to return to normal after the last time. She likes the store, but not what it did to her lower back."
Beatrice let out a "Mmmm!" as she pulled out her chair and sat down in the proper, regulatory H-shape where her back was straight up, her legs straight down and her feet were flat on the floor
Mandy soon returned to her notes. "Mr. Rossmann reported a prowler at his opposite neighbor's house. A quick investigation-by-telephone revealed it to be a professional gardener working for the neighbor. The neighbor in question sent me a photo that confirmed it."
Another "Mmmm!" soon came from Beatrice.
Mandy chuckled as she swapped her incident notes for her telephone. Finding the photo took no time, so the telephone was soon held up for Beatrice to see. "You'd think the wheelbarrow, the gardening tools and the bright-yellow logo on the side of a bright-green van would have provided enough clues for Mr. Rossmann, but apparently not."
The photo prompted Beatrice to chuckle and shake her head.
"Oh," Mandy continued as she put the telephone back on the desk, "and Mrs. Skinner called to invite me to an official meeting at her house at noon."
That Albert Rossmann saw imaginary bad people all over town and beyond was hardly news, but the call for a meeting between the sheriff and the senior member of the Goldsboro Town Council made Beatrice furrow her brow. She locked eyes with Mandy for a few seconds before the coffee machine interrupted the seance by hissing and spluttering - the Junior Deputy was over there in a flash. "Sheriff, I know I can't ask how my evaluations are coming along… but…"
"You can ask all you wish," Mandy said, tapping a stack of files into order, "but I'm not at liberty to say anything. It's meant to be confidential until the final report is released."
Beatrice nodded several times before she took the first sip of the coffee. "Yes, Ma'am. To eliminate the risks of bribing or even blackmail. I understand perfectly. Can't be too safe these days."
A few minutes went by filled with the typical sounds of case files being opened and closed, ball point pens scribbling on paper, coffee being slurped and the time tick-tocking away on the wall-mounted clock.
After doodling her signature on the last page and subsequently closing the file, Beatrice let out a brief sigh. "I feel I've done a good job over the course of the examinations. The only thing that really went south was that damned hiccup out in the desert during the FBI field exercise. My biggest problem is impatience."
"Patience is an acquired skill. It'll come through experience," Mandy said as she got up from her swivel-chair and moved over to the large windows that offered her a view of Main Street. "And in that particular instance, you achieved a success rate of ninety-five percent or so. That you tripped over the proverbial final hurdle was unfortunate, yes, but it didn't detract too much from the rest of your efforts."
Beatrice let out a brief grunt. "Special Agent Lydecker didn't seem to think so…"
"Hamilton Lydecker has no say in the matter. I do," Mandy said in a sharp voice that soon softened. Since nothing happened out on Main Street, she turned around to shoot her deputy a look of sympathy. "Deputy, I can't and won't tell you anything about my conclusions. Suffice to say you'll be a great Senior Deputy one day, I'm sure of that. Maybe even Sheriff in a decade or so. Who knows. The first step on that journey is to move out of the Junior Deputy stage."
Beatrice cocked her head and shot Mandy a curious look. A few seconds went by before she broke out in a nod. "Thank you for the compliment, Ma'am."
"You're welcome. Oh… I'm thinking that's Deputy Gonzalez and Miss de la Vega," Mandy said as she turned back to look out of the window.
Outside, an elegant, black Mercedes-Benz S-class sedan had pulled over to the curb. Its shiny wheels and dark-tinted windows gave it an air of class that was a good reflection of the woman behind the wheel.
Dolores de la Vega, a livestock broker for one of the largest cattle ranches in the region, stepped out of the luxury vehicle and waved at the people watching her from the office. She wore black shoes with a one-inch heel, a black pant suit that was obviously tailor-made for her, and finally an elegant, cape-like shawl that graced her shoulders - the shawl was crimson to add a splash of color to the ensemble.
In her mid-thirties, Dolores had all the classic attributes of a Latin beauty: a medium-brown complexion, delicate features, long, dark hair and dark-brown eyes that could shoot fire if the situation called for it. The eyes were initially hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses, but she pushed the shades up into her hair when Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez exited the Mercedes. They were soon engaged in a steamy kiss that saw Dolores cock a leg back in a humorous fashion akin to how the heroines would always react in the Golden-Age Hollywood romances.
Rodolfo wore the same winter uniform his fellow deputies did, but his suaveness somehow made it look cooler. The Mexican-American with the slicked-back hair and the movie-star looks had taken advantage of the new, more lenient rules regarding facial hair to grow a pencil-mustache that made him appear even more like a proud Caballero.
While the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office was home to a display of dazzle and glamour rarely seen in Goldsboro, the town's third deputy shuffled along to get to work.
Though Barry Simms was in fact only thirty, his waxen skin, amber fingers, reddish eyes and persistent cough made him look twice that - all a result of smoking more than sixty home-rolled cigarettes each day. In order not to go bankrupt from feeding his habit, he bought 200-pound bales of waste tobacco wholesale from the factories. That the end product reeked to high heavens was none of his concern. As always at the start of his shifts, his hair was wet-combed and his uniform was neat and clean. Neither would last past noon.
When he reached Rodolfo and Dolores who continued the sizzling session in full view of everyone, he lit yet another cigarette - the third after leaving his apartment four-hundred yards up Main Street - with the dying embers of the old one. He let out a brief chuckle that turned into a cough, but he managed to stop a full-blown fit by slamming a fist into his chest to release the clot of mucus that had already built up.
The sticking door proved too much for his semi-scrawny frame to deal with, so he had to wave Help! to his colleagues inside. When Mandy yanked the door open, Barry coughed a couple of times and stepped inside.
Mandy shot her deputy a dark look as he made a beeline for his regular spot at the watch desk. "Hold it, Deputy Simms," she said before he had even had time to take off his Mountie hat. "You're going out on foot patrol with me. Now."
"Foot patrol… now? But I haven't even had coff-" Barry said in a voice that went into a register best known as 'nasal whining.'
"Now," Mandy continued, donning her winter jacket and her own Mountie hat.
Barry's eyes made a tour of the office that started at the coffee machine and went over to Beatrice Reilly who offered him a smirk. Next up, he zoomed in on the watch desk and the sweet stash of chocolates, hard and soft candies, sour drops, wine gum and countless other goodies he kept in one of the drawers. Once all that had been fantasized about, he locked eyes with the sheriff whose stern gaze left no room for misinterpretation. Shrugging, he shuffled back to the sticking glass door.
"Deputy Reilly," Mandy said as she took two of their portable radios off the rack next to the watch desk: #1 for herself and #3 for Barry, "you have the watch desk for now. Once the Senior Deputy comes up for air, I want you to continue sorting through the old files."
"Yes, Sheriff," Beatrice said and made a quick salute.
Nodding, Mandy turned to face Barry Simms whose gloomy face proved he wasn't too pleased with his immediate itinerary. "Let's go, Deputy. We have a lot of ground to cover. Miles of it, in fact," she said as she guided him out of the door and onto the sidewalk.
Dolores and Rodolfo were still too busy kissing to be disturbed so Mandy didn't even bother. Instead, she set off northbound on Main Street in her typical stride that soon saw Barry letting out an impressive collection of wheezes, moans, huffs and puffs simply to keep up with the Sheriff as she hurried along.
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Meanwhile, back at the trailer park.
After dumping yet another load of the browns into a freshly dug pit out back, Wynne Donohue put down the four-gallon bucket she had been using for the horrendous task. A deep sigh escaped her.
Wearing thick gloves, the safety boots and the dirt-brown coverall she always used when tinkering with one of her restoration projects, the 52-year-old ex-pat Texan had rolled her long, dark hair up into a bun to keep it safe from any potential splashing. To protect it even further, she also wore a NASCAR corporate merchandise beanie hat that, much to her chagrin, carried the racing number and logos of one of the Ford teams - at least the sponsor colors used to be on one of the Chevrolet teams, so it wasn't all bad.
Wynne had been given the beanie hat as a gift by one of the other residents of the trailer park, Brenda Travers. The spirited lady may have had a degree in computer science, but she was less-well-versed in the finer details of the age-old General Motors vs. Ford Motor Company rivalry so she had just picked a colorful one that had caught her eye. Wynne wasn't one to reject a gift, but she made sure to keep it at the back of her closet so it wouldn't get into a wrestling match with the rest of her clothes that were typically commemorative T-shirts and sweats sporting General Motors-centric slogans such as In GM We Trust.
Snapping out of her brief stupor, Wynne rubbed her aching back, adjusted the white bandanna she had wrapped around her nose and mouth, and went back to the nauseating work.
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As she poured one shovelful after the other into the bucket inside their temporarily uninhabitable bathroom, happy yapping, woofing and deep barking filtered through the trailer's walls. "Yuh, somebodda sure knows how ta have a good time an' all. Lawrdie, I ain't nevah seen them dawggies run away so durn-tootin' fast. Sure can't blame 'em, tho'. This he' brown fountain wus the darndest thing I ever done saw… an' that sure be sayin' one helluva lot, yessirree."
'To whom are you speaking, Wynne?' a male voice said somewhere behind her in a comical, exaggerated tone - it caused her to turn around and let out a highly eloquent "Haw? Whazzat? Who dat dere tawkin'?"
"Who do you think's talking, Wynne? I've been here the whole time. Tell me, are you yakkin' to yourself?" Diego Benitez said before he pulled up a bandanna similar to Wynne's. The late-forty-something, heavy-set Mexican-American soon broke out in a cheesy grin that was perfectly visible through the kerchief. Like his trailer-park neighbor, he wore a filthy coverall that could take all kinds of punishment.
Diego didn't wear a baseball cap for a change, and that fact brought the three-inch-long white scar on his forehead into prominence - it stemmed from a gunshot injury he had sustained when the trailer park had been invaded by foot-tall green goblins a few years back.
"Yuh… yuh, I reckon I am, Diegoh. It sure beats shovelin' this he' shit an' all," Wynne said before she returned to the grim task. "Them dawggies behavin' themselves awright?"
"So far," Diego said before he went outside to grab one of his own shovels and an old bucket that he had brought along. "Ol' Freddie is having the time of his life playing with Blackie and Goldie."
"That be good ta hear, yessir. He mebbe a big dawg, but he be really vulnerable aftah them formah ownahs o' his treated him like… well, crap. An' speakin' o' which, mah bucket is full an' all. Y'all wanna take ovah he' for a mo' or two while I go empty the durn thing inta that there pit we done dug?"
"You betcha," Diego said and put down his own bucket.
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The majority of the residual matter of the brown surge had been defeated fifteen minutes later, but the smell proved to be a tougher opponent. Despite all the windows standing wide open, the air quality couldn't be described as glorious.
Two stabs of an airhorn in the middle distance made Wynne exit the trailer and walk into the central lawn to greet the rescuer. Now that she was out in the open, she pulled the bandanna down to her chin to breathe easier. Salty beads of sweat ran into her eyes, but neither her gloves nor her sleeves were in any kind of condition to be used for a brow-wiping purpose. A "Hmmm?" escaped her as she pondered what to do, but the sight of a three-axled utility truck pulling into the area between the trailers made her forget all about her sweaty discomfort.
She had already moved up a hand to wave at Sammi when it dawned on her that The Sewer Gal had bought a new work truck. The double-ellipse on the grille proved the vehicle was a Toyota Tundra rather than the GMC Sierra 3500-Heavy it had been since the dawn of time. "Buh… Sammi be drivin' a Tah-yodah… whaddahell's da wohhhh-rld's comin' to?" she said in a mumble. Shaking her head in disbelief, she stepped forward to greet the expert on all things sewage.
Sammi 'The Sewer Gal' Seaborn climbed out of the cab and hopped down onto the grassy ground. The buff and tough mid-thirty-something - whose hair was permanently trimmed to a half-inch buzzcut for obvious reasons of hygiene - wore safety boots and a set of heavy-duty bib overalls that covered several layers of short-sleeved sports jerseys.
As she walked around her truck, she donned armpit-length gloves of the same type veterinarians always used when they had to examine rearward-facing orifices on cows, horses and other large quadrupeds. The long gloves were slowly pulled up over the countless, colorful tattoos that covered her arms, shoulders and even up onto her neck.
"Hiya, Wynne!" she said as she moved over to an access panel beneath the large sludge tank installed on the back of the Toyota's cutaway chassis. A large sticker on the tank displayed the company's new mascot: a funny cartoon character designed by one of Goldsboro's most recent residents, the talented sketch artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen.
The truck's engine continued to run, and it changed its exhaust note to a deeper, growlier hum as Sammi manipulated a few levers that readied the primary suction pump and loosened the coiled-up hose.
"Howdy, Sammi… Lawrdie, y'all be drivin' a Tah-yodah all offa sudden?"
"Yeah."
"How come?"
Sammi shrugged before she made sure her gloves were on tight. "They offered me a better credit deal than the guys at GM Commercial."
"Okeh… that sure be imp-ahr-tant an' all, but-"
"And the shit smells the same no matter which truck you're standing next to," Sammi said with a grin before she turned to the coiled-up hose.
"Haw… aftah tha mornin' I jus' had, I reckon I can't argue with dat logic, no Ma'am…"
"Okay, let's get the show on the road," Sammi continued as she grabbed the locking clamp and began to pull out the long, flexible hose. She had been at the trailer park often enough to know where the septic tank's breather valve and main waste pipe were, so she made a beeline for the spot at the base of Wynne's trailer to get everything hooked up.
"Lemme tell y'all whut done happened, yuh? That there septic tank there made a whole buncha weird noises these past cuppel-a days an' all. It done sounded like it wus gurglin' or som'tin. Ain't nevah heard that befo'," Wynne said and broke out in a wide shrug. "Ack-chew-ly, it done sounded like mah belly does when I been eatin' a chili peppah or samplin' a hawt saw-ce that wus too strong fer mah gizzards."
Sammi's grayish eyes twinkled at the comparison. Working with efficiency and professionalism, she pressure-tested the breather valve to make sure it was unrestricted before she worked the couplings to attach the clamp to the waste pipe. "Maybe it swallowed a gurgle-monster whole, huh?" she said on her way back to the truck's access panel.
"Haw… yuh… I woudden bet ag'inst it or nuttin'… not he' in Goldsboro…"
"Stand clear," Sammi said, grinning at the sight of Wynne hurrying away from the vents in case the near-nuclear explosion would be repeated. "Here we go," she continued as she lowered the lever to activate the primary suction pump.
The truck's engine note grew even deeper as it needed to provide power for the pump. Soon, the hose bulged out proving the nauseating work was underway.
Wynne took an additional three steps back as the hose began shimmying like a rattlesnake dancing to a psychedelic soundtrack, but everything seemed to hold up. "Say, y'all want a beer or som'tin? I got plenty an' them things wussen within tha blast zone."
"No thank you, Wynne. Never at work," Sammi said with a smile. "I don't really need anything right now. Let's take a rain check on a soda pop or something, okay?"
"Haw! Y'all got yerself a deal there, Sammi."
While Wynne spoke, Sammi kept an eye on the panel's gauges that displayed the level of vacuum required to empty the tank. She reached up to tap a finger against one of the gauges just to make sure it was providing a trustworthy reading. "Well, the good news is that your septic tank isn't leaking. The suction PSI is almost off the scale meaning it's a rock-solid system."
"Haw, that be som'tin at least… yuh. But it sure don't explain that there weird gurglin' or the runaway nukular detona-shun I done witnessed."
Sammi chuckled as she watched the needle on the pressure gauge begin to climb - an indication of the greatly reduced amount of sludge in the septic tank. "So your crapper really did blow up?"
"Lawrdie, it done blowed up but good! An' there I wus with mah undies around mah ankles an' all. Only jus' made it outta there a second or so befo' the dang thing said kaboom. An' once it done said kaboom, it done said splat-splat-splat for nearly a dog-gone minnit! 'Cos them there things there rained down from tha ceilin' an' wherevah else they done ended up. Wussen particularly fun ta lissen to… or smell… sure ain't no lie."
"I'll bet," Sammi said before she turned back to the panel. All the gauges were still in the green so there didn't seem to be a natural explanation for the explosive outlet of gases. "All right… and… any moment now… that's it, your tank's empty," she said as she switched off the suction pumps.
Wynne shrugged again as she watched Sammi stride over to the breather valve and the waste pipe. The consummate pro soon released the clamps to detach the hose - hardly any time went by before it had been rolled up and locked into position on the Toyota Tundra. "Okeh. That be som'tin at least… but it sure don't explain that there stick o' dyhh-no-mite that done blowed up an' all. Aw, we prolly ain't nevah gonn' figger out whaddahell caused that durn thing."
"It's hard to say exactly, but it was obviously one hell of a gas bubble," Sammi said with a wicked grin. "I do know one thing, though… the next time you hear the Gurgling Gargoyle, promise to call me at once!"
"Haw! I'mma-gonn' be on da phoah-ne as fast as mah fingahs can hit them li'l bars an' icons an' whutnots, yes Ma'am!"
"My bill's in the mail as soon as I get back to base. All right?"
"Sure thing, Sammi. Ya betcha," Wynne said and put out her hand for the traditional greeting - she reconsidered at once when she clapped eyes on the rubber gloves that Sammi was busy yanking off her arms. "Haw… anyhows, y'all bettah take care goin' thru' Goldsborah, yuh? We done had plenty o' brown accidents alreddy. An' I know fer a dag-nabbin' fact that shit happens!"
Wynne broke out in a long series of snickers at her own joke - it made Sammi Seaborn shoot her a cheeky look in return. The Sewer Gal soon climbed back behind the wheel and pulled the cord for the airhorns. "See ya, Wynne!" she said loudly before she slammed the door shut and reversed out of the central area.
Wynne - whose baggy coverall and horrible beanie hat were as far removed from her regular, classy Last Original Cowpoke duds as humanly possible - remained on the lawn for a few moments longer that she spent waving at the best sewage expert in all of MacLean County.
-*-*-*-
The next forty-five minutes went by in a blur for Wynne. The forced march carrying buckets from the bathroom to the temporary waste pit out back had been completed, the pit had been covered over - and a few choice words had been said about the pit's contents just like a funeral elegy that turned into a roast because the deceased person had been an S.O.B. - and every square inch of the bathroom's interior had been hosed down three times.
At present, two of the deck chairs on Wynne's crooked porch were occupied by a pair of tired, aching sewage-plant workers in the shape of Wynne and Diego - the former had brought a cooler box with her that she dug into.
Pssssshhhht!
"Thanks, Wynne," Diego said as he took the beer offered to him. He shot a brief glance at the metallic-blue can of H.E. Fenwyck's Dark Lager before he put it to his lips and chugged down most of it in one go.
Pssssshhhht!
"Yer welcome, pardnah," Wynne said before she was too busy drinking from her own can of Double-Zero non-alcoholic brew. "Haw-crap, this sure wus a shitty mornin' an' all," she continued as she leaned back on the chair and crossed her legs at the knee.
Though a simple motion, it made a stab of pain shoot up from her lumbar region causing her to complete it just a little slower. "Owch… dang that dag-nabbit back o' mine…" she said in a mumble - a new swig of beer dampened the worst of the pain.
"Maybe the Sheriff can give you a backrub tonight?"
"Whah, I sure hope so. Anyhows. Ain't nuttin' like smellin' a ton o' stinky-poo ta clear them sinuses. I reckon it be mah own stinky-poo so I ain't got no right ta complain… too much… yuh."
"Can we talk about something else?" Diego said with a tired chuckle. "Like what the hell actually happened yesterday afternoon? I've never heard you yelling like that. I was getting a little concerned that you and the Sheriff had gotten into a catfight or something…"
Wynne let out a sigh as the memories of the previous evening came back to her. "Naw, it wus that there Daytoh-n' fih-ve-hundred. Yuh. Them RCR Chevrolets got caught up in somebodda else's wreck. Tha three an' the eight been up there near the lead all dang evenin'… I ain't sayin' them guys wus gonna win at a cantah or nuttin', but they sure wus in da hunt. An' then they done got wrecked out. Both offem. At da same, dang-blasted tihhh-me. Lawrdie, I jus' about blowed up worse than the crappah did. I had smoke pourin' outta mah ears an' all, sure ain't no lie. Aw, I can't tawk 'bout it. The darn thing still be too raw."
"Okay," Diego said, letting out a series of chuckles into his can of Dark Lager at Wynne's obvious frustration.
Grunting, Wynne swapped her own can for a colorful brochure she had picked up the day before when she had been in Goldsboro to stock up at Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports - nobody could live on beer alone, so she had bought two bags of potato chips, two bags of pork rinds and no less than three packs of beef jerky to accompany her latest haul of seven six-packs of assorted H.E. Fenwyck products.
"Check this out, Diegoh," she said, holding up the brochure so her friend could see it. "They gonn' be havin' a gigantoh dawggie show up at Thundah Park Raceway da second weekend o' April. Yuh. Da twelfth, thirteenth an' fo'ah-teenth. If I ain't mistakin', that be a Frah'dy, Satahr'dy an' Sun'dy."
Diego managed to hide the goofy grin he had already lined up, but he did cast his good friend and neighbor a sly look as he said: "Ya don't say? Weekends are typically Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays," in an amused tone of voice.
"Yessir, an' I be thinkin' real hard 'bout enterin' Blackie an' Goldie inta some o' them there competi-shuns. Them folks got one o' them there Dawg Agility course, a beauty pageant an' a whole buncha dif'rent stuff. I reckon me an' Sheriff Mandy gonn' do it. Blackie's a cinch for that there obstacle course an' mah darlin' Goldie gonn' sweep da competi-shun offa the runway in that there pageant, dontchaknow. Y'all reckon ol' Freddie be reddy fer-"
"No. Not by a long shot. There'll be far, far too many people around. That would be cruel to him," Diego said in a voice so determined that Wynne understood at once there was no point in asking again.
"I hear ya, buddy. But anyhows, me an' them dawggies deffa-nete-ly gonn' go up there. Mebbe Sheriff Mandy too if da job 'll let her have a day off. I mean, som'tin positive 'z bound ta happen soonah or latah, yuh?"
Several crickets had time to chirp before Diego cast Wynne a long, pointed glance.
"Yuh," Wynne mumbled into her beer, "I dunno whaddahell I wus thinkin' even sayin' that. Lawrdie." Once the can had been emptied, she scanned the vast sky above the trailer park for any unexplained phenomena like red lightning bolts, hovering UFOs or even dark shadows that could possibly be flying vampyre ghouls. A satisfied grunt escaped her when everything seemed quiet for a change.
'Quiet' was an attribute rarely associated with Goldsboro or the trailer park, so the peace was disturbed a scant minute later when Wynne's telephone rang deep inside her coverall's liner pocket.
"That ain't mine," Diego said with a grin.
Wynne had already pulled the zipper down to half mast to reach inside the old garment. "Naw, it be mine. Mebbe it be ol' Brenda callin' me ag'in from Noo Yawk City with one o' them there video-thingies. Shoot, tha las'time she did that, I done spent twentah minnits jus' trah'in' ta get that durn thing ta play. Haw… no, it ain't. It be ol' Cletus instead," she said as she accepted the call. "Howdy, Cletus. Y'all got da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he'. Tawk ta me, good buddy."
'Hello, Wynne,' Cletus Browne said at the other end of the connection. Speaking in his regular velvety tones that the top-professional used car salesman had spent years perfecting, he continued: 'I may have found your dream car.'
"Yuh? Sure like tha sound o' that. G'wan."
'Well, I don't actually have it yet-'
"Awwww! Whadda'tellya about messin' with mah feelin's, Cletus! Fer cryin' out loud!"
'No, no, don't blow a gasket… I'm not yanking your chain! Honest!'
" 'Honest' ain't no comfortin' wohhh-rd comin' from a used-car salesman, buddy!"
'Trust me, Wynne, it'll be here tomorrow or the day after. Okay, it's on a flatbed because the brakes are shot, but-'
"Cletus-"
'I promise it's a solid vehicle. Scout's honor!'
"Y'all nevah wus a scout!"
Diego broke out in a laugh before he reached into the cooler box to get another can of beer - a smile spread over his lips when his journey of exploration produced a 1910 Special Brew.
'Sure I was! I was scouting out the girls all the time! Hear me out, okay? I don't want to say too much now. I'll let you know when it's here so you can come up and see it in person. I'll only give you a small sprinkling of clues, all right? Just to get the excitement rolling.'
"Yuh… okeh. It bettah be a General Motahs vee-hickel."
'It's an 'eighty-nine Pontiac… sporty, not an econo-box.'
"Okeh. Y'all be off ta a good start an' all," Wynne said as she reached into the cooler box for another Double-Zero. The can was soon opened with the traditional Psssshhht!
'A Tremec series seven-hundred R-four tranny. Four speed Turbo Hydramatic.'
Wynne had time to take a long swig before she said: "Okeh. Unusual in a sporty car, but okeh. Keep tawkin'."
'Custom exhaust with an X-center and upgraded tail pipes. The catalytic converter's been replaced recently. RoarMaster muffler and three-inch stainless tips out back. Pre-muffler, it's got straight pipes up front.'
"Oooh! That there setup be makin' plentah o' that there good noise…"
'The car itself is a three-owner, high-milage vehicle, but the engine is a renovated, low-milage three-fifty V-eight with a tuned port fuel injection system-'
Wynne already had the can of beer up to her mouth for her next swig when Cletus's words made her pause. "Wait a minnit, pardnah… that there fuel injec-shun bettah be workin' purr-fectly 'cos them things are hella expensive ta work on… an' it sure ain't nuttin' me an' Fat-Buhh-tt can do usselves, nosirree. That job done requires profes-shunnal tools an' all. Not ta men-shun profes-shunnal skills."
'From what I know, the system is in A-Okay condition, Wynne. It's a replacement motor because the car's latest owner didn't notice the radiator leaking. It ran dry and cooked the original three-oh-five engine beyond salvage.'
"Lawrdie, that sure wus shitty… but okeh, it done happens," Wynne said, finally taking the swig.
'That's all I'm saying for now, but I promise you that it's a solid vehicle all in all.'
"Hmmm… I be gettin' one o' them there no-shuns there mebbe som'tin y'all ain't tellin' me, pardnah," Wynne said and leaned forward on the deck chair.
Cletus's broad grin could almost be seen and heard over the connection. 'And that would be a correct notion, Wynne. I guarantee you'll let out a proper Texas Yeee-Hawwww when you see it.'
Wynne leaned back - it caused a carving knife to slice across her lumbar region, so she leaned forward again in a hurry. "Yuh? Haw, I gotta admit y'all got them juices flowin' an' all. Lawrd knows I need a li'l fuh-n in mah life right 'bout now. It' gonn' be he' tamorrah or tha day aftah?"
'One of the two, yes. I can't say for sure, but I'll call you as soon as it's here.'
"Y'all got yerself a deal, there, pardnah. Okie-dokie," Wynne said and offered her neighbor Diego a big thumbs-up that he responded to in kind even without knowing any of the details. "But hear this, Cletus… I'mma-gonn' chase y'all up one side o' Main Street an' down the othah if this he' vee-hickel turns out ta be a waste o' mah pre-shuss time. Ya read me, good buddy?"
'I read you loud and clear, Wynne. It won't be a waste of your time, I guarantee it.'
"Okeh. Much obliged fer the heads-up, Cletus. Tawk ta y'all latah. Bah-bah," Wynne said before she closed the connection. She nodded to herself as she leaned back on the chair once more - the carving knife slicing her lumbar region made an unwelcome return, so she needed to take it far easier than she had anticipated.
"What was that?" Diego said as he reached for his third beer in the past fifteen minutes.
"Aw, ol' Cletus reckons he done found me a new restora-shun project. A sporty Pontiac from 'eighty-nine. I ain't gettin' mah hopes up too haaah, tho'. Cletus is a mi'ty fine fella, but there ain't no denyin' he be one helluva used-car salesman. Ain't no tellin' how this car really done looks or nuttin'. But a girl can dream, can't she?"
There was no time for a reply before all three of their dogs came racing around the corner playing a frantic game of Chase Your Tail. The black German Shepherd Blackie had the lead as she was the most agile of the three. The Golden Retriever Goldie was a little too much of a scaredy-dog to play hard with the big dogs so she kept back a little. The black-and-dark-brown Rottweiler Freddie - a.ka. the former Hellbeast Of Rattler Gulch - brought up the rear. Just like his new owner Diego Benitez, Freddie was a little heavy-set but had oodles of power when it counted. He let out a deep, booming WOOOF! that made everyone aware he had arrived.
Grinning at the sight, Wynne got up from the deck chair to stretch her aching back. "Lawrdie, I need a showah som'tin fierce. Y'all don't mind that I be usin' yours?"
"Of course not. Knock yourself out. I don't have any of those fluffy girl-towels, though… only guy-towels. And I don't have any girl-soap either. Only guy-soap!"
"Ain't gonn' be no problem, buddy. I can go fer a day without smellin' o' lavendah," Wynne said and thumped her friend's shoulder. "Hell, not even mah two-dollah EvahFresh deodorant survived the nukular blast… not ta men-shun Mandy's pricey stuff. Shoot, I bettah raid a drug sto'ah befo' mah darlin' comes home."
"Oh? Would there be trouble in paradise?"
"Haw-yuh. An' then some… Lawwwwwr-die!" Wynne said as a glum mask of concern fell over her face. It grew from simple glumness to outright worry when she realized that all the hard work she had carried out over the course of the morning had caused her to skip several very important cogs in the thought process.
-*-*-*-
The dark mask was mirrored on Mandy Jalinski's face eight miles north of the trailer park. In her case, the glumness stemmed from Deputy Barry Simms's complete and utter inability to complete a simple patrol, not to mention his breathlessness and fatigue after a mere hour and a half pounding the sidewalks of Goldsboro.
Starting at the sheriff's office, they had initially moved south to cast an eye on the transformer substation, Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports and the police impound yard. From there, they had patrolled the rest of the alley out to the eastern outskirts of town. The grassy fields used for concerts and satellite parking lots for Goldsboro's annual parades had been given an inspection as well before they had returned to Main Street to head north.
The rear entrance of the Tack & Saddle leathergoods store had been inspected as had the Yarn Spinners knitting accessories shop, Derrike Iverson's notorious dive, the Goldsboro Town Museum and the Spartan Wings sports goods store. Once they had gone past the movie theater to reach the northern city limits sign, Barry had pleaded for a five-minute break that Mandy wasn't in the mood to give him - thus, they had carried on moving south on Main Street.
The first stop on that side of the street was the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. The used car lots were untroubled by customers, but a few trucks waited in line at the gas station on the garage's forecourt. At this point, Barry wheezed rather than breathed.
Undaunted, Mandy continued southbound past Keshawn Williams' Second-Hand Treasures, the latest store to open in the small town. They went past several two-storey town houses that had been converted into residential property after the stores on the ground floor had gone out of business.
Holly Lorenzen's Homey Hair & Nails Salon was next. A glance through the large windows proved the mid-fifty-something hairdresser wore her typical outfit consisting of outrageously tight pants and a flowery top that revealed her powdered cleavage. It seemed she used the time between customers to sweep the floor, and she could barely be bothered to acknowledge the law enforcement officers walking past her windows.
Next up was 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop. Mandy upped her tempo to spend as little time as possible there in case McCabe himself, or worse, his shop foreman J.D. Burdette would spot her and offer a few caustic comments nobody had any use for. Here, Barry tried to feign a dizzy-spell to get the sheriff to slow down, but Mandy was in no mood for his theatrics.
The number of vehicles parked at the curb in front of Doctor Byron Gibbs's animal clinic proved it was already a busy day for the expert veterinarian. By now, Barry had gone past the wheezing stage and had entered a full-blown bout of moaning and groaning.
He made it to the corner of Second and the recently named Josiah Street when he finally put his foot down and insisted on taking a break. Red-faced with exertion and fatigue, he had to lean against an enormous boulder that had seen the light of day when the new section of town had been graded. He lit a home-rolled cigarette that only lasted less than a minute - then he lit another with the dying embers of the old one.
Mandy crossed her arms over her chest and shot her deputy a withering glare. "Deputy Simms," she said in a voice so chilled the words nearly fell as snow, "need I remind you that we still have to patrol the entirety of Josiah Street, talk to Mr. Elliott at the hardware store about yesterday's shoplifter, inspect the fire precautions at the Bed and Breakfast and see if anything needs our attention at the Bar and Grill?"
"Gawd… have mercy… I'm dying here…" Barry said in a throat-racking croak.
The plea fell on deaf ears - instead of responding, Mandy checked the time on her telephone. "And we need to be finished in forty minutes as I have a meeting with Mrs. Skinner at noon sharp."
"For- for- forty… minutes… more? Of this? Gawwwwwwd…."
Mandy let out a deep sigh. The telephone was put away so she could slam her hands onto the utility belt gracing her hips. The belt held her service pistol, several spare magazines, a can of pepper spray, a leather pouch that kept her collection of electronic breathalyzers safe, another pouch that held a pair of metal handcuffs and a handful of multi-purpose plastic ties, and finally her portable radio that hadn't said a word throughout the patrol.
"Look, Barry," she said in a softer voice, "it's time for you to get in shape. I won't tell you again. Get a grip on yourself P-D-Q or find something else to do. Do you understand me?"
Barry simply nodded at first. Mandy had already begun to move away when the deputy spoke in a strained voice: "I know I'm not cut out for this job. I didn't even want it to begin with! It just kinda happened because my family told me to pursue a career in law enforcement. I know I'm pretty damn worthless out here on the street next to you comic book superheroes… but do you know what I would be perfect at?"
Intrigued, Mandy returned to her deputy - it was obvious from the dark look on his face that he had finally seen the truth staring back at him in the proverbial mirror. "No? I'd like to find out, so… go on."
"Taking over Bessie Robinson's old job as the radio dispatcher and the person responsible for answering the watch telephone. Okay, she didn't update the incident sheets, but… I'm doing all those things already 'cos I spend most of my days at the watch desk. It's really only when I'm on speed trap duty at Haddersfield Pass or up north somewhere that I leave the office."
Barry's next cigarette had already been reduced to ash and cinders, so he grabbed the next one from his shirt pocket to light it while the old one was still glowing.
Mandy furrowed her brow at the news - the prospects of perhaps losing a deputy didn't exactly seem rosy. "All right, I can see that… but that's a civilian position, Barry. You'd have to resign and re-apply for the job through the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, et cetera. You'd lose your rank and uniform."
"I wouldn't have a problem with any of that, Sheriff. My uniform doesn't define me like it does Bea or yourself," Barry said sincerely. "Actually, wouldn't that help Bea? We all know she's gonna sail through her evaluations and become a real deputy… but she might not stay. If I step aside, she'd automatically move up the roster even without going anywhere. It's a win-win."
"That's true. Good thinking, Deputy," Mandy said and began rubbing her chin. A myriad of thoughts blasted through her mind at the implications of Barry standing down from the squad to become a civilian assistant.
Not only would it give Beatrice Reilly a lot more responsibilities in the field and thus a good reason to stay in Goldsboro, it would create an opening for a new Junior Deputy that would be cheaper for the Town Council compared to having two 'full' deputies, a Senior Deputy and a Sheriff.
On the flip-side of that, the task of recruiting, interviewing and evaluating a slew of hopeful Junior Deputies would be a daunting one. On the flip-side of the flip-side, the process would be beneficial for Rodolfo Gonzalez who would gain plenty of experience that would come in handy later on in his own career.
Mandy put her hand on Barry's shoulder in an ultra-rare sign of regard or even respect. "Tell you what, Barry… why don't you head back to the office to take a breather and get some coffee? It's almost lunch so you could call Mr. Lane as well and ask him to bring over our regular round of sandwiches."
"Ohhhhh-thank you, Sheriff!" Barry croaked as he got to his feet. He wobbled a little at first but soon regained his equilibrium. Once he had straightened up, he was able to put one foot ahead of the other on his way back to the sheriff's office.
Mandy kept a close eye on the Deputy Sheriff in case he keeled over. When nothing untoward happened, she let out a muted chuckle and carried on patrolling Josiah Street - her upcoming meeting with Mary-Lou Skinner of the Town Council had suddenly gained an entirely new topic that needed to be discussed in great detail.
*
*
CHAPTER 2
Ten past noon, Mandy strode up the garden path at the Skinner residence. The neat and tidy town house was located near the southern outskirts of Goldsboro halfway between the transformer substation and the alley adjacent to Moira's Bar & Grill.
Pulled back from Main Street to make room for a lawn that featured several hazel bushes, the house was painted in pale colors to combat the murderous rays of the summer sun. Several shutters had already been drawn despite the moderate ambient temperatures and the bleak tones of the late-February light.
Mandy soon made it to the doorstep that featured a coir mat that said Only Kind People Beyond This Point. As she mashed a finger onto the button for the doorbell, she cast a sideways glance at the flower bed next to the door.
There, Mary-Lou Skinner's Chihuahua Zippy had met a grisly fate during the crazy night Goldsboro had come under attack by an army of cannibal zombies - in fact, the perennially high-strung and foul-minded Zippy had been the catalyst that set the whole attack in motion as it had stirred the ire of the undead by yapping ceaselessly at anything that moved.
Mandy snapped back to the present when the front door was pulled open. "Hello, Mrs. Skinner," she said and took off her Mountie hat.
The rather large frame of the asthmatic Mary-Louise Skinner filled out the entire doorway as always, but she soon moved aside to usher in the far nimbler Sheriff of Goldsboro. Mary-Lou wore comfortable slippers that eased the strain the many pounds put on her feet. Further up, she wore a flowery dress that was far more chic than such a size would have been in the old days. A gold brooch shaped like a daisy graced the upper left corner of the dress above her bosom.
"Hello, Sheriff. Nice of you to drop by," she said, speaking in a slow, deliberate fashion to make room for her frequent wheezing. "Would you like some tea? I've just opened a new pack of exotic flavors. Blueberry, elderflowers, rhubarb and stinging nettle."
"Stinging nettle tea? Ah… no thank you, Mrs. Skinner. I'm fine," Mandy said and entered the hallway beyond the door. The entrance was fairly standard with white baseboards, a pale-gray carpet on the floor and a handful of family photos hanging on the cream-colored walls - a designer lamp hanging down from the ceiling provided the light.
"Suit yourself, Sheriff… I think I'll have some tart rhubarb tea. Please go into my home office. Second door to your right," Mary-Lou said and pointed ahead.
Nodding, Mandy strode over to the office door while Mary-Lou went into the kitchen to draw another kettleful of water for the tea. The office was a low-key affair with furniture that was functional rather than extravagant: a wooden desk with wide fold-up wings at either end provided plenty of space for the piles of paperwork placed on it.
An anglepoise lamp had been clamped onto the edge of the desk from where it cast a bright light onto the blotting pad at the center of the desktop in spite of the mid-day hour. The room was lined with tall bookcases each carrying dozens of color-coded binders - some were labeled and some not. A pair of angular, uncomfortable-looking chairs had been placed in front of the desk, with an additional set of cheaper, stackable plastic chairs waiting for someone to sit in them over in the farthest corner of the office.
The room carried the typical scents of dusty paper and old wood as well as a more chemical component in the shape of an Alpine Forest air-freshener that had been placed on one of the shelves.
Mary-Lou soon shuffled into the office in a walk that could best be described as labored. She carried a tray that was soon put down on the central blotting pad to have room to distribute the various items it held: her electric kettle, a mug, two spoons, a sugar bowl, a napkin and finally a dessert plate that was graced by three home-made cupcakes. The boiling water was soon poured into the mug so the process of extracting the tea could begin.
"Please have a seat, Sheriff," she said as she lowered her large frame into the reinforced, high-backed armchair on wheels. She added a dash of sugar to the mug and stirred it with one of the spoons. "Could I tempt you with a cupcake? They turned out very well, if I do say so myself," she continued, pointing the spoon at the dessert plate.
Mandy offered her host a small smile. "No thank you, Mrs. Skinner."
"All right. I asked you to come over today for several reasons. I'm aware that Deputy Reilly is about to undergo the final set of evaluations. Will she be promoted to the rank of regular Deputy?"
"Oh yes. No question," Mandy said with conviction as she sat down - the angular chair was just as uncomfortable as it looked. She tried shuffling around to find the best spot at first, but soon gave up as the entire seat was hopeless. "Deputy Reilly has one or two shortcomings in certain areas, but she's well ahead on all the major points. She'll be promoted."
Mary-Lou nodded. She pulled the dessert plate holding the cupcakes closer to her before she returned to stirring the mug. "I see. I've yet to inform my fellow Council members, but since most of them live here, they already know Deputy Reilly's reputation for efficiency." A brief chuckle escaped her as she took the first probing sip of the tart rhubarb tea. "Actually, she wrote Councilman Aranowicz a speeding ticket in October, so…"
Mandy let out an "Mmmm," that could mean anything.
"Yes," Mary-Lou continued before she leaned forward to put the mug on a heat-resistent coaster. With her hand free to pursue other interests, she nabbed the first of the cupcakes. "Well. Back to the important matters. In your opinion, will she stay or leave?"
"I can't say for sure, Mrs. Skinner. It depends on the salary and benefits package we can offer her. She'll move up into a higher wage group as I'm sure you're aware."
Now it was Mary-Lou's turn to let out a non-committal "Mmmm," before she took the first bite of the homemade cupcake.
Mandy continued: "I have first-hand knowledge of the fact that Deputy Reilly is actively seeking a permanent residence here in town. She has a long-term tenancy agreement with Mrs. Peabody at the boarding house, but-"
"Mrs. Busybody," Mary-Lou added under her breath.
Mandy let out a brief and somewhat embarrassed chuckle while she scratched her eyebrow - that Wynne referred to Mrs. Peabody by that name was old news, but the fact that such an esteemed member of the Goldsborian community did as well rendered her temporarily speechless. An "Ah… yes," escaped her a few moments later. "In any case, Deputy Reilly has grown tired of staying at the boarding house. If we can't offer her a good deal so she can make plans for her future, she'll look elsewhere. I'm certain of it."
Mary-Lou swapped the cupcake for the mug that almost disappeared in her hands. She leaned back on the swivel-chair and pinned the sheriff to the spot with a direct look. "Just for the sake of having all our bases covered, let's assume she won't stay. Where does that leave us, Sheriff?"
"In a tight squeeze, frankly," Mandy said as she shuffled around on the rock-hard chair to find a modicum of comfort. "First of all, we'd need a temp Deputy to fill the inevitable void. Sheriff Tenney of Brandford Ridge may be able to help us with that, although that's pure speculation on my part. Once the temp is up to speed on our routines, we need to start the recruitment process, and… well… that won't be easy. To be blunt, MacLean County and the rest of the rural counties and districts have nothing that can rival the pull of Barton City or the other larger cities."
"Mmmm," Mary-Lou said once more before she took another bite of the cupcake. She chewed on it in silence for a few moments before she reached for her tea. "Do you really need three deputies, Sheriff? I mean, it's such a small town-"
"Mrs. Skinner, our roster is far too small as it is for the tasks we're expected to carry out," Mandy said in a hard voice. "If I had a magic wand, the first I'd do was to conjure up two or three further deputies. Certainly not get rid of any of those we have now."
"I see. However, you must understand our financial situation-"
An angry furrow developed between Mandy's fair eyebrows at the direction the conversation was heading - she decided to cut off the Councilwoman before she could get too far into the typical political excuses: "And I have just been informed that Deputy Simms is planning to retire from active duty. He's seeking a civilian position within the MacLean County Sheriff's Department as our dispatcher."
"Barry's standing down? That's news to me. Does Mildred know? She won't be pleased," Mary-Lou said, leaning forward on the swivel-chair with such speed that the entire frame creaked and groaned at the sudden shift in weight.
"Deputy Simms is a grown man, Mrs. Skinner. How his aunt feels about his decision is, frankly, irrelevant."
"You wouldn't say that if you knew Mildred Herzberg as I do," Mary-Lou said under her breath. A few moments went by before she picked up the rest of the first cupcake. Falling silent, she took a bite of it while she composed her thoughts.
The Councilwoman nodded to herself a couple of times before she took the mug of tea once more. "That could be a way out of the situation, actually. If Barry is successful in re-applying for the same job he holds now… well, more or less… he would be employed directly by the Sheriff's Department. They would pay his salary, not us. That would free up resources that we could use to entice Deputy Reilly to stay."
"Yes and no, Mrs. Skinner," Mandy said in a weary voice. "We'd still need a new Junior Deputy. Don't forget that Deputy Simms is an active member of my squad now. I'm well aware we can't use him for any kind of physical patrolling that might result in a pursuit or some kind of confrontation, but he's very good at vehicular patrolling. Speed trap duty in particular. The Junior Deputy and Senior Deputy Gonzalez are both far too impatient for that, but Deputy Simms has no problems spending long, dull hours all alone up in Haddersfield Pass or wherever. And don't believe for a second he's sleeping… I have a book of fines this thick-" - holding up her hand, she created a two-inch gap between her index finger and her thumb - "that all carry his signature. In his own way, he's just as effective as Deputy Reilly."
"But why couldn't that conti-"
Mandy narrowed her green eyes down into slits. The moment called for a little fire and brimstone, so she mirrored Mary-Lou by leaning forward on the uncomfortable chair. "For the very reason you just stated, Councilwoman. He'd be a civilian assistant employed directly by the Sheriff's Department, not us. I have no command over civilian assistants. I'm convinced Deputy Simms will go ahead with his plans which means we'll need a new Junior Deputy. Urgently."
"Or a temp. Possibly multiple temps. You mentioned Sheriff Tenney," Mary-Lou said, waving her hand in a vague fashion.
"And waste our precious few resources locked in a constant state of getting new deputies up to speed? Deputies who may get called back to their original counties at the drop of a hat? We can't draw up our duty rosters if we don't know who's available the following week… or even the following day. No, it has to be someone permanent."
Mary-Lou Skinner moved back to lean against the chair's backrest. She picked up her mug and took a long swig. It was obvious by the deafening silence that had broken out between the two women that a stalemate had been reached - or at the very least a fundamental difference in opinion. "All right, Sheriff. I'll inform the esteemed members of the Town Council of the latest developments. It'll be at the top of the agenda at our next meeting."
"Very well," Mandy said and got up to signal the end of the audience. She donned her winter jacket but settled for holding the rim of her Mountie hat. "When can I expect an answer?"
"Oh… the next council meeting is scheduled for Tuesday, March fourteenth-"
"I beg your pardon? That's in three weeks!"
"I'm well aware of that fact, Sheriff. The members of the council are busy people. Our scheduled meetings are planned months in advance. We do hold the occasional unscheduled meeting, of course, but only for major events that require our immediate attention. I'm afraid this doesn't."
The only way for Mandy to stop herself from speaking her mind was to chew on her cheeks, lips and tongue, so that's exactly what she did. "Very well, Councilwoman Skinner. I'll keep you posted with regards to the status of Simms and Reilly. Don't bother getting up. I'll see myself out."
Mandy strode out of the home office and along the entrance before Mary-Lou could as much as nod in her direction. Once the front door had closed behind her, she put on her Mountie hat and let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to drift away on the perpetual, light desert breeze.
Shaking her head, she strode down the garden path to get back to the office - the sour surge from within could only be defeated through plenty of strong coffee and a full tray of A.J. 'Slow' Lane's best sandwiches.
-*-*-*-
The next four hours went by with little activity in or near Goldsboro. A distant, throaty rumble was the first signal that something was happening - then a familiar, matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition broke the monotony by entering the isolated town from an unusual angle. Instead of coming in from the south like it always did, the truck drove onto Main Street up at the northern city limits sign. The abstract patterns of reddish desert dust on its flanks proved it had been on a lengthy road trip.
The needle on the Chevrolet's gas gauge had gone below half-mast, but Wynne couldn't be bothered to stop at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop's pumps. Instead, she continued south on Main Street adhering to the 25 miles-per-hour speed limit. The slow crawl continued until she reached the newest store in town: Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures.
A "Haw!" escaped her as she pulled over and came to a halt at the curb. Once the engine had become silent save for irregular ticking after the long drive, she glanced down at the plastic bag that contained the meager loot she had scraped together on her emergency trip to Barton City up north.
Although she had visited two shopping malls, three different department stores and even the city's finest - and grotesquely expensive - boutique for women's personal care, she had only managed to find half of Mandy's favorite products that had been destroyed by the brown fountain back home in the trailer.
Two items in particular had eluded her: the first was a jar of Gabrielle Greco's Golden Hue Skin Cream that just happened to be Mandy's number-one favorite body-care product. The other was a moisturizer known as the Fountain Of Youth that was just as loved as the first item. Plenty of effort had gone into salvaging the contents of the old jars, but they had suffered too much contamination of the browns to ever be useable again - replacements were needed. Unfortunately, the products were utterly unavailable in any of the stores she had visited.
Wynne stepped out of the Silverado and shut the door behind her. Now back in her full Last Original Cowpoke duds, she took a moment to glance up and down Main Street. A grunt escaped her when she realized no one was there to admire her decorated cowboy boots, the faded blue-jeans, the wool-lined denim jacket, the sheepskin gloves, the red bandanna that poked out of her rear pocket, and finally the battered and sweat-stained cowboy hat. The latter was given a push-around so it sat better on her dark locks before she strolled over to the door to Keshawn's place.
Instead of having the classic ding-dong bells sounding when the door was opened, the entrepreneurial Keshawn Williams had installed a miniature computer that played a sound clip whenever a new customer entered the store. Thus, Wynne heard Keshawn's voice greeting her with a cheery 'Welcome to my Second-Hand Treasures!' the moment she set foot on the linoleum floor.
"Haw! Lawrdie, ain't dat way clevah!" she said, looking up at the small plastic box above the door. She chuckled as the sound clip was repeated when she closed the door.
The name of the store was chosen well as the hundreds upon hundreds of items for sale did indeed resemble a treasure trove or the fabled cornucopia of lore. Although the store itself wasn't too large - fifty feet wide and perhaps twenty feet deep - every last square inch was filled with items large and small.
A narrow aisle snaking its way through the store went past several different sections: large and small electronic doodads, kitchenware, colorful bedspreads and white linen, old books, toys, sports equipment, tools for the DIY-experts and the rank beginners, various pillows and cushions, accessories for babies and pets, and finally clothing for men, women and children. The furniture was kept in a separate showroom out back because it took up too much space.
Wynne eyed this and that on her way up to the counter - it had been placed near the store's back wall so everyone would be tempted by the treasures they had to walk past. Unlike similar stores found in the large cities, the counter was a regular, flat-topped one made of wood instead of being protected by steel bars and other types of crime-deterring measures. Once she got there, she leaned against the counter like a proper Cowpoke would.
Keshawn soon joined her from the back room. The mid-twenty-something African-American offered Wynne a broad smile as he reached out to shake her hand. He was, as always, dressed elegantly in black shoes, tan cargo pants and a black turtleneck sweater where the sleeves were rolled up to the halfway point between his wrist and elbow. "Hello, Wynne. Are you here to help me offload the truck? It won't be long before it gets here. There's a six-pack in it for you."
"Howdy, Keshawn," Wynne said and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow after completing the traditional greeting. "Shoot, I sure am sorry, pardnah… but that ain't gonn' work taday. Nosirree, mah back alreddy be screwed up enuff. An' Lawrdie, tha las'time I done hauled that there furni-chure there, I done got taken out fer days an' days 'cos them back mussels wussen mo' than a big, ol' knot an' all."
"Oh… okay. Well, we don't want that. So… what can I help you with today?"
"Plenty, I hope. Yuh. I be in one helluva fix he'. Som'tin shitty happened that done wrecked most o' mah sweet darlin's body creams an' perfumes an' all them female products. Yuh? An' I need-a replace a whooooole dang-blasted bunch-a stuff or else… aw, y'all be married so I reckon y'all know whut I be tawkin' 'bout, yuh?"
"Yeah…"
"Yuh. Well, anyhows, I jus' came back from that there Barton City 'cos I done reckoned I could buy them things up there, yuh? I got some of it, but not them most im-pahr-tant things, dag-nabbit!"
Keshawn let out a grunt at Wynne's colorful description. "That must have been a major incident. Are you all right?"
"Yuh. I be fine. Lawrdie, please tell me y'all got one o' them there jars o'… lemme see… I done wrote it down 'cos it wus such a tongue-twistah…" - She dug into a jacket pocket to find a scrap of paper that contained the information she needed - "Okeh. Gabrielle Grekko Goah-lden Hew Skin Cream. Haw… y'all be shakin' yer head alreddy… don't be shakin' yer head, son! Y'all don't got it?"
"I'm sorry, Wynne. Remember this isn't a pawn shop. We have some cosmetics and similar items, but the G.Greco brand is way, way up there. We just have regular products. Most are older stuff because, you know… it's second-hand. Maybe people got something for Christmas they didn't like, or perhaps they found it at the back of the shelf while spring cleaning. You know."
"Awww-shoot. Whah didden I think o' that? Hell, I ain't sure I wus thinkin' o' nuttin' at all," Wynne said in a voice that trailed off into exactly that - nothing. She crumpled up the note and stuffed it into her pocket without worthying it a second glance. "Yuh. Okeh. I hear ya. No skin cream."
Keshawn's initial reply was a shrug, but the crafty salesman soon broke out in a smile. "However, we do have other types of care products on our shelves. Perhaps you could browse a little? You may see something you can't live without."
"Yuh… I mi'te as well. Whah not. I don't feel like playin' pool anyhows. Much obliged fer now," Wynne said and shuffled off to the section that held the personal care products.
---
Ten minutes later, Wynne had been over every shelf twice - first left-to-right and then right-to-left to make sure she hadn't missed anything on the first pass. She considered doing a third pass upside-down but decided it would be too weird, even for a Monday afternoon in Goldsboro.
To get back to the counter to say goodbye to Keshawn, she needed to go past the toy section. Halfway through it, she caught a glimpse of something colorful out of the corner of her eye. She had already made a further step ahead when it dawned on her the colorful item had been a 1:24-scale NASCAR diecast.
She spun around at once and made a beeline for the spot where she had seen the diecast. There were no other cars on the shelves apart from the one she had already noticed, and that turned out to be a Roush-Fenway Ford Fusion from the 2016 Cup season. While it was undeniably a high quality diecast made by one of the market leaders, a Blue Oval vehicle didn't exactly set her proverbial wick alight.
The rest of the items close to it were teddy bears, rag dolls and other types of soft toys. She was about to shrug and move on when a large cardboard box pushed halfway under the bottom shelf seemed to call out to her in spite of its labeling that said Canned Pineapples. Crouching down, she peeked into it - and a split second later, her cowboy hat nearly fell off as her nape hairs stood to strict attention.
A highly eloquent "Buhhhh…" soon escaped her.
Her brain finally caught up with her eyes as she took in the sight of close to thirty high-quality, 1:24-scale NASCAR Cup, Grand National, Busch and Nationwide diecasts from the mid-1980s to the late 2010s.
"Holy shit… holy shit! Hooooooooly shittt!" she cried in a voice that grew in intensity and volume for each syllable she uttered. Not content with looking at the cars from a distance, she immediately folded her legs and sat down on the linoleum floor in the middle of Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures.
"Haw… an'… an'… an' haw! Haw! Hawwwww!" she cried as she liberated the diecasts one at a time so she could admire them up close. She needed to blow some dust off a few of them, but it was a chore she could live with given the quality of the items.
Keshawn soon came running along the aisle to check up on his only customer. "What the… are you all right? Did you trip over something, Wynne?"
"Naw! Wouldya lookie he'!" Wynne said as she held up a Miller Lite Penske Dodge Charger from 2012. "Fer cryin' out loud, pardnah! Lookie at this he' nugget o' gold! This be da championship-winnin' cahhhhh-r! An' he' be anothah one… a Folger's Coah-ffee Chevrolet Monte Cahr-lo Aerodeck from 'eighty-nine… an' anothah! A 'ninety-foah Valvoline Fohhh-rd Thundahbird! An'- an'- an'- d'ohhhhh! Whah, if it ain't ol' Midnight! Yessirree, Penske an' Rusty's ol' 'ninety-three Millah Genuine Draft Pontiac Grand Prix… oh, an' Dale Jarrett's 'ninety-nine Yates Quality Care Fohh-rd Taurus, too! That also won da championship! Sure did. Fer cryin' out loud!"
Keshawn let out a brief chuckle at the sight of a fully grown, denim-clad, middle-aged woman sitting cross-legged on the floor digging into a chest of toy cars. "Well, I'm glad you found something worth your while."
"Yessirree! Awwww, the Kevin Harvick RCR Pennzoil Monte Cahhh-rlo S-S! This he' vee-hickel won that there Daytoh-n fih-ve-hundred back in 'oh-seven in a photoh finish fer da ages! Lawrdie, I recall bein' torn ta pieces by that there result 'cos Harvick done beat ol' Mark Martin who wus one o' mah huge idols back then. Ol' Mark nevah did win at Daytoh-n, gosh-darn'it…"
"I'll have to take your word for it," Keshawn said with a grin. "Just so you know. I have another box with almost as many cars in it."
"Yer whut?! Where's it at?!"
"Out back. Sit tight. I'll get it for you," Keshawn said, finally breaking out in a loud laugh at the improbability of it all.
---
Five minutes later, Wynne's wild exuberance had turned to quiet reverence and reflection as she cradled a couple of diecasts: the first was the baseball-liveried #8 DEI Budweiser Chevrolet driven to a near-miraculous victory at the 2001 Daytona summer race by Dale Earnhardt, jr.
The other was a #3 RCR GM Goodwrench Chevrolet Monte Carlo from the 2000 NASCAR Winston Cup season. Everything on the 1:24-scale model was 100% authentic down to the tiniest detail. The diecast's paint scheme was the one from the spring Atlanta race where Dale Earnhardt had won his 75th Cup-series victory in an inch-perfect photo finish, and Wynne could even hear a faint echo of the legendary ESPN commentator team of Bob Jenkins, Benny Parsons and Ned Jarrett not knowing who had won as they called the thrilling finish.
"Lawrdie, I ain't partin' with these two… no frickin' way," she mumbled to herself. "I don't care how much they gonn' cost me. Hell, I'mma willin' ta fork out five-hundred bucks for each offem if I hafta. I ain't partin' with 'em."
The other highlights of the second box were lined up on the floor by her boots: a 2006 Lowe's Home Improvement Hendrick Chevrolet Monte Carlo, Ward Burton's 2002 Daytona 500-winning Caterpillar Dodge R/T, 'Million Dollar' Bill Elliott's legendary 1987 Melling Ford Thunderbird - the one that set the 212 mph qualifying lap record at Talladega - the 1998 Winston No Bull Ford Taurus driven by Jimmy 'Mr. Excitement' Spencer, and finally Rusty Wallace's championship ride from 1989, the Kodiak Raymond Beadle/BlueMax Racing Pontiac Grand Prix.
Keshawn returned to Wynne's spot on the floor after he had sold a few items to another customer. Once again he chuckled at the sight. "If you sit there long enough, I may need to dust you off… or put a price tag on you," he said with a grin.
"Yuh? Okeh, mah buhhh-tt went numb five minnits ago, anyhows, so I reckon it be haaah time ta get on mah feet an' all," Wynne said and shuffled around so she could keep her boots and legs clear of the model cars. "Keshawn, how much fer these?"
"Just those two?" he said, pointing at the two Earnhardt Chevrolets that Wynne continued to cradle.
"Naw. The whole dang bunch of 'em. All sixty-seven cahhhh-rs. An' them two cardboard boxes, too, 'cos I don't got no way ta transport 'em hoah-me othahwise."
Keshawn just stared at Wynne for several long seconds as if he expected her to tell him it was meant as a joke, but the sincerity on her face proved it was nothing of the sort. "All of them? And the boxes? Wow… okay. The boxes are obviously free, but the cars will set you back, oh… let me see… ah… I can't go under three-hundred-and-eighty dollars for the entire batch."
"Deal. Put it dere, pardnah," Wynne said and put out her hand palm-up just like the traders and merchants would back in the day of the large livestock markets.
Keshawn stared at the open palm for a moment until it dawned on him that he was supposed to slap it. "Wait… aren't you even going to haggle?" he said before he completed the traditional sealing of the deal.
"Nope. Y'all accept plastic, right?" Wynne said and reached for her wallet at once.
Keshawn scratched his neck several times before he broke out in a combination of a nod and a shrug. "Yeah… we do."
"Haw, if that ain't a match made in heaven, I ain't sure whut would be… nosirree. Lissen, y'all woudden happen ta have some kind o' glass display thing or som'tin, would ya? 'Cos I ain't really got nowhere ta park these he' beauties back hoah-me an' all. Okeh, some offem are goin' on display at the B an' B, but the rest be goin' hoah-me."
"Well, we have a couple of glass display cabinets out back…"
"Lawrdie, this he' deal jus' keeps gettin' purr-fectah an' purr-fectah. Okeh, friend," Wynne said and wrapped an arm around Keshawn's shoulder, "how 'bout y'all showed me them there cabinets so I can decide whethah or not I wanna buy tha durn things fer mah new cahhh-rs?"
The owner of the store shook his head several times - then he broke out in another loud laugh. "Anything for the customer," he said around a string of hearty chuckles.
-*-*-*-
Wynne ended up buying two glass display cabinets that she and Keshawn disassembled so they could fit across the rear bench in the Silverado's crew cab. Once they had stored the cardboard boxes containing the vehicular gold nuggets as well as the large canvas bag that held the display cabinets in the back, Wynne drove south on Main Street at ten miles per hour so the precious cargo wouldn't rattle around too much.
Hunger had gnawed at her gut ever since skipping lunch in her quest to race to Barton City, so the sight of the neon marquee above the entrance to Moira's Bar & Grill was simply too tempting to ignore. Slowing down even further, she had soon reversed into the alley adjacent to everyone's number-one favorite eatery in all of MacLean County.
She strolled along the sidewalk en route to the glass door, but came to a stop to glance over at the sheriff's office. The strip lights were already on - the afternoon hours had turned out to be gloomy - so she could clearly see Barry sitting at the watch desk while a cloud of cigarette smoke hovered above his head. Beatrice stood at the main desk jotting down a few notes of something, but neither Rodolfo nor Mandy were in sight.
An "Mmmmm… latah," escaped Wynne as she continued onto the entrance to Moira's Bar & Grill. The first thing she noticed when she closed the door behind her was how empty her stomach had actually become as a result of its enforced break from any kind of food.
The delicious scents of beef patties and steaks getting a workout on the cooking panels, sausages sizzling on the two frying pans and French fries swimming in oil in two of the three baskets swirled around her nostrils until they had rendered her utterly incapable of doing anything but stuff her face with the delightful products - exactly on clue, her stomach let out a roar a grizzly bear would have been proud of.
Though there weren't too many customers in Moira's Bar & Grill at that time of the afternoon, it seemed that most of them had ordered hot food. An odd twist to the tale was that everyone had lined up on the tall bar stools at the counter - it left Wynne with a wide selection of tables to choose from.
The strong-willed owner of the Bar & Grill, the fiery Moira MacKay, ran a clean and tidy restaurant which meant that the table napkins and the red-and-white tablecloths were washed twice a week regardless of their state, the floor had to be vacuumed at least twice a day and washed thoroughly once a week, and that the refrigerators and the ice chest were kept squeaky clean at all times.
The salt and pepper shakers, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and jars containing various seasoning sauces were refilled at least once a day to keep the contents fresh. The tumblers and other tableware were free of nicks, cracks or dents, the felt on the pool table was kept free of scratches, the electronic keno and poker machines were regularly maintained by an employee from the company that built them - and the bags of wooden toothpicks were of the highest quality.
Wynne would ordinarily head over to the pool table on the left-hand part of the Bar & Grill's main room as the first item on her agenda, but two people she didn't know had already claimed it for themselves. Another stranger sat at one of the video poker machines - the scowl on his face proved he'd had very little success so far.
It was high time to get something to eat and to wet her whistle. First things first, so she made a beeline for the refrigerators to pick up a couple of cans of H.E. Fenwyck's Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer. One was put into a jacket pocket for later while the other was cracked open at once with the traditional Pssshhht!
Fully equipped, she strolled up to the counter where she could just about squeeze her tall, denim-clad frame in between two burly guys who each ate one of the latest dishes on the menu: a Mexicano double-decker burger featuring plenty of triple-strength hot sauce and fiery peppers - even the fries had been sprinkled in a seasoning mix of ground, dried chilis and white pepper.
Wynne glanced at the burgers but didn't feel like eating one of those for a change as her stomach told her she needed something more substantial but less fiery.
The bar stool she had squeezed onto was the one in the center of the row. It was an opportune spot as it meant she could keep an eye on the cooking panels, the French-fry baskets and not least the fellow working the pots and pans: her friend Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane.
"Hiya, Wynne!" the mid-twenty-something man said. Lanky and grease-stained as always, A.J. offered the owner of the adjacent Bed & Breakfast a thumbs-up before he returned to flipping burgers.
"Howdy, A.J. How 'r y'all doin' on this he' fine Mon'dy?"
"Oh, the usual, thanks. Nothing major," he said over his shoulder. "And you?"
Wynne took off her cowboy hat to scratch her dark locks. Since the entire row of bar stools was filled by burly men eating various dishes, she had no place to put it. The only available spot was hanging it over a knee, but she knew from countless incidents over the years that it would fall onto the floor the second the food would be put on the counter - meaning she wouldn't have time to pick it up. She eventually plonked it back on her head although no self-respecting Cowpoke would wear a hat indoors.
"Haw, A.J., we bettah not be tawkin' 'bout mah morn', nosirree… but mah aftahnoon got bettah. I jus' done bought mahself nearly seventy diecasts up at Keshawn's place."
"Diecasts? Like toy cars?"
"Naw, son… models. Authentic, gen-new-ihhh-ne licensed products. Collector's items. Lawrdie, they sure be awesome, awright. Anyhows. Y'all bettah be reddy ta slap some meat on that there stove there, 'cos I sure be hungry, yessirree. I be havin' a big-ass steak medium-rare. Frah some onions, green peas, carrots an' sweet corn while yer at it, yuh? Aw, an' a whole buncha fries-"
"The new batch of baked potatoes are really great, Wynne."
"They oughttah be 'cos they sure wus expensive enuff, but I be hankerin' fer fries… so fries it gonn' be. Yuh?"
"You betcha. A double-up?"
Wynne pondered the tempting offer for a moment or two before she broke out in a wide grin. "Yuh, whah'dahell not? Yuh. A dubbel-up-buncha fries if ya please, there, A.J. An' dontcha be fergettin' them veggies, yuh?"
"Sure, Wynne."
"Awesome, pal! Lawrdie, I bettah get mahself anothah cuppel-a Dubbel Zerahs."
Grinning, she hopped off the bar stool and put her hat on it to claim it as her property - then she hurried over to the refrigerators to get a few more cans of the fabled golden nectar.
---
She returned to the row of bar stools with two additional Double-Zeros just in time to see 'Slow' Lane slap her ordered chunk of meat onto the cooking panels - then he cut off a good slice of salted lard and put it into a small frying pan so it could create a cozy, greasy nest for the vegetables.
Wynne's grin grew even wider when he dunked not one but two baskets of raw French fries into the tubs of cooking oil. A pair of thumbs-ups were duly exchanged before A.J. moved onto serving another customer.
To kill time while the steak, the vegetables and the fries sizzled, Wynne dug into a pocket to find her telephone. The lock screen's family photo of herself, Mandy, Blackie and Goldie made her smile as always - Brenda Travers had snapped it for her, and she had managed to capture a perfect moment.
No new messages had arrived since the last time she had checked her email up in Barton City, but there was something else she wanted to do: browse the online store of the company producing and selling the diecasts.
A sequence of increasingly upbeat grunts escaped her when she realized that several of the models she had only paid a handful of dollars for second-hand went for $30 or more new. Dale Earnhardt's 2000 Atlanta winner came in two editions, a Signature Edition for a staggering $180 and a standard one for $40 - the latter was identical to the one she had bought for roughly $5.50.
"Holy shittt… I sure struck the mothah-lode there… yessir. Good shit almighty," she mumbled to herself as she put the telephone on the bar counter. She made sure to keep an eye on her steak, the frying pan with the vegetables and the baskets containing the fries so none of it would end up charbroiled, but since most of the customers present had already received their food, A.J. had plenty of time for it and was thus on top of everything.
While she waited for the much-needed meal to be served, she reached over the counter to take a plate, a napkin and a set of cutlery - the steak knives had recently been sharpened so they could cut through even the thickest slab of meat at the literal flicking of a wrist.
The burly guys next to her let out puzzled grunts at her behavior, but she just grinned and said: "Aw, it be awright, fellas. I kinda co-own tha joint. Yuh? All y'all be enjoyin' them Mexicano burgahs?"
Her question prompted a mix of positive, middle-of-the-road and negative grunts and shrugs, but before she could comment on any of it, sudden commotion over at the door made her turn around to take a gander at the cause.
The noisemakers proved to be Kenny Tobin, his best pal Richard 'Ritchie' Lee and their newest pal Torsten 'Tor' Jensen who all laughed at a volume that only male teens could achieve.
The extra-tall, extra-uncoordinated Ritchie wore regular jeans, a white shirt and a nondescript winter jacket while Kenny was decked out in cool brand-name clothing as always. The last to enter, Tor, was also the loudest metaphorically as well as physically: he wore an expressive combo of tiger-striped track pants, a neon-red sweatshirt and a silvery baseball cap that sat crooked on his head to emulate the street-wise nature of his beloved hip-hop artists.
While Tor and Ritchie made a beeline for the counter, Kenny went over to the refrigerators to take a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew. He had already made it several steps through the restaurant when he eyed Wynne sitting at the counter. Scrunching up his face, he turned back to the refrigerators and swapped the beer for a six-pack of Summer Dreamz Diamond Selection that contained the brand's six most popular types of carbonated soft drinks.
Chuckling, Wynne swiveled around and picked up her phone to give the diecast website another brief check. The teenagers soon joined her at the counter where they squeezed in between the burly men much to everyone's mumbled displeasure.
She'd had very little to do with Tor Jensen after she had been his hands-on supervisor during his community service - which he had been given after his slew of prank calls had turned Goldsboro on its head the previous summer - and it seemed the lack of interest was mutual as he barely acknowledged her presence.
Ritchie Lee was another story, however, and Wynne turned to the gangly youngling with a grin. "Howdy, there, Ritchie. Haw, y'all tryin' ta grow a beard or som'tin?" she said, pointing at the patches of reddish fuzz that had sprouted on his cheeks, chin and upper lip.
The attention from a female of the species caused an explosive blush - that was just as red as the fuzz - to spread over Ritchie's face in an instant. He nodded several times before he let out a squeaked "Yeah…"
"Haw. Jus' keep tryin', son. Y'all get there eventually," Wynne said and thumped the young man's shoulder. "How many days ya ain't been shavin' now?"
"Three weeks," Ritchie squeaked.
"Haw? Okeh… then it mi'te take y'all a li'l longah, yuh? But ev'ry race begins with that there first lap. Don't lose faith, son. Da fuzz be comin', I guarantee it."
Ritchie's voice still hadn't recovered, nor had the blush receded, so he settled for nodding again.
Kenny Tobin reached the bar counter with the six-pack of sodas just as A.J. Lane took Wynne's plate and slapped the steak and the lard-fried vegetables onto it. There was no way the double-up portion of fries could fit on the same plate, so he poured both baskets into a large soup bowl before he went about shaking cooking salt onto every last one of the fries. "Aaaaand… yeah. Another masterpiece. Here you go, Wynne."
"Much obliged, buddy! Howdy, Kenny… bah-bah, Kenny," Wynne said as he stuffed her telephone into her pocket, plonked her cowboy hat onto her locks and finally grabbed the eating utensils, the full plate and the even fuller soup bowl.
---
Once the beers had been emptied, the steak and vegetables devoured and the double-up portion of fries reduced to a few cold sticks of potato that were soon dunked in a large glob of barbecue sauce from one of the bottles in the reed basket, Wynne wiped her fingers and mouth on the napkin and leaned back on the chair.
A sigh of perfect contentment escaped her. The pool table was occupied by Kenny Tobin and his pals, but the steak and the vast amount of fries in her gut meant she had no interest in swinging a cue for a while - even if she knew for a fact that she could make a quick buck off the wagers the teenagers would literally put on the table in the hope of beating her in trick shots or over a regular round.
Instead, she reached for her telephone to call the one she missed the most. The number was soon found and selected.
'Hi, hon,' Mandy said at the other end of the connection.
The sparkle in Wynne's eyes and the warm smile that spread over her face offered rock-solid proof of the undeniable, unbreakable love that existed between the Last Original Cowpoke and the bone-tough Sheriff of Goldsboro. "Howdy, darlin'!" she said as she flaked out on the chair by stretching out and crossing her legs at the ankles. "Lawrdie, I sure be missin' y'all. I be ovah at Moira's. I done took a peek at that there sheriff's office when I got he', but y'all wussen there. Where y'all at?"
'I'm up at Mr. Browne's used car lots. I've only just gone out on foot patrol, so… well, I'm afraid it'll be a while before I make it down to Moira's.'
"Aw-shoot. Okeh. Haw, I got som'tin awesome ta show ya when we do hook up! So awesome y'all ain't gonn' bah-lieve yer eyes or nuttin'! Yuh, I done bought mahself a whole buncha Nascahhhh-r diecasts up at Keshawn's. Sure ain't no lie, no Ma'am! I done paid jus' shy o' fo'ah Benjamin Franklins for 'em, but I be tellin' y'all, darlin', they sure wus worth it. Aw, an' I done bought two glass display cabinets as well 'cos we woudden have room for 'em if I didden."
'Okay? Well… how many did you buy, then?'
"Sixty-seven diecasts."
A series of chuckles came through the connection before Mandy said: 'That's quite a lot of toy cars.'
"Aw, they sure ain't toys! They be authentic- naw, it be much easiah if I jus' showed 'em ta ya. Yuh. Haw, tell y'all whut I'mma-gonn' do, darlin'… I reckon I'mma-gonn' pop home an' offload mah new diecasts an' them cabinets, round up them bayu-taful dawggies an' then head back up he' fer a li'l pool an' stuff. Woudden ya reckon y'all need anothah hou'ah or so ta make it he' from where y'all be now?"
'Well, it obviously depends on whatever else happens, but an hour sounds about right… on second thoughts, we better make it an hour and fifteen.'
"Okeh! Lawrdie, we got usselves a date, then! Yessirree… haw, I'mma-gonn' hafta visit that there restroom befo' I go anywhere. Them fo'ah Dubbel-Zerahs I done had fer mah early suppah be makin' their presence felt alreddy."
'All right. Oh, and when we meet face to face, I need to know the details of the drama that took place this morning.'
The grin froze on Wynne's face as the images of not only the brown fountain but the ruined jar of Gabrielle Greco's Golden Hue Skin Cream popped into her mind. "Yuh… I hear ya. Yuh. Will do, darlin'."
'I better move on now, hon.'
"Yuh, okeh. Luv y'all like ca-razy. Mmmua! Catch y'all latah… this is da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off! Bah-bah, darlin'."
Once the telephone was back in her pocket, Wynne practiced her thousand-mile stare for a few moments - her mood had taken a sudden and unexpected dip at the thought of how Mandy would react when faced with the true extent of the near-nuclear disaster. Sighing, she got up to visit the restroom.
*
*
CHAPTER 3
A short fifteen minuter later up at the other end of Goldsboro, Mandy strode around the corner of the dirt road that lined the used car lots at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. Apart from two men - who were clearly a father and a son out looking for junior's first set of wheels - who had engaged in the age-old tradition of kicking the tires of the used trucks, there had been nothing in particular to report.
Main Street was less deserted than usual: not one but two SUVs had stopped at the gas pumps. Further down toward Second Street, a field tractor rumbled northbound pulling a livestock trailer that seemed to produce a great deal of mooh'ing. The fat, black column of diesel smoke spewing upward from the tractor's stack was a little excessive, but the radio squawking to life interrupted Mandy in doing something about the pollution or indeed the polluter.
'Base to Mobile Unit One. Base to Mobile Unit One. Urgent. Sheriff, are you on this frequency? Over,' Barry's disembodied voice said.
Mandy took the radio off her belt at once and pressed the transmit button. "Mobile Unit One receiving, Base. Over."
'Sheriff, we've just received word of a traffic accident five miles south of town. A single-car accident. It seems someone has gone into the ditch on the State Route. Over.'
Mandy blew hot and cold at the news - though remote, there was a risk it could be Wynne. She came to a brief halt before she set off once again in a jog. As she did so, the farmer and his polluting field tractor rumbled past to a soundtrack of much mooh'ing. "Roger that, Base. Do we have further information at this point, over?"
'That's a negatory, Sheriff. Over.'
"All right. Tell the Senior Deputy to respond at once. I'm up at the other end of town… ETA three to four minutes. We'll convene there. Mobile Unit One out."
'The Senior Deputy is putting on his jacket as I speak, Sheriff. Base out.'
Though Mandy's hair was held short as always, the headwind made it stand out behind her as she jogged south on Main Street to get back to the Durangos. A few seconds after she had re-attached the radio to her belt, she spotted Rodolfo hurrying out of the office and jumping into one of their vehicles. The emergency lights of the white-and-gold SUV were activated before it made a rapid U-turn and raced south on Main Street.
---
Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, Mandy jumped behind another of the Durangos and mirrored Rodolfo's actions. As she raced southbound out of town, she glanced into the alley next to Moira's Bar & Grill to see if Wynne had perhaps been delayed in leaving, but her personal parking spot was empty.
The gas pedal was given an extra amount of pressure by her right boot as she tore along the two-lane blacktop to discover the identity of the person involved in the single-car road accident. The miles disappeared under the wheels of the rapid vehicle, and she was soon able to see Rodolfo's flashing lights at the side of the road in the middle distance.
A very familiar black truck had been parked on the other side of the two lanes, causing Mandy to draw a sharp breath. It wasn't possible to discern the truck's involvement in the matter from a distance, so the throttle was given an extra push to get there quicker.
Once she came to a screeching, dust-flying halt, the breath she had been holding for the past thirty seconds was released as a deep sigh of relief. Not only did Wynne jump out of the Silverado in fine fettle and waving her beloved cowboy hat, the vehicle involved in the road accident was a red Ford truck that had all four wheels in the air like a beetle that had been turned belly-up.
"Howdy, darlin'!" Wynne said after she had jogged over to the Dodge Durango. "Lawwwwr-die, I wus drivin' jus' ahead o' that there fella there when he done wrecked! He jus' turned right all offa sudden… straight offa tha road an' inta tha ditch where he done rolled ovah twice! Yes, Ma'am, he sure did!"
Momentarily stepping back, Wynne waved in the general direction of the red Ford to underscore her words. "He wussen thrown outta the truck or nuttin' 'cos he done wore a seat belt. Well, anyhows, I stood on that there brake pedal an' made a flyin' U-turn ta come back he'. He ain't no local or nuttin', bah the way. He done tole me ta pull 'im out, but I know bettah than that an' he jus' done crawled out by hisself. He ain't bleedin' from nowhere or nuttin' an' he ain't moanin' neithah. I reckon he be kinda hazy, tho', if y'all catch mah drift. An' if y'all don't, I mean he be way ovah tha limit."
Mandy had remained in the driver's seat throughout Wynne's lengthy report. A moment later, she jumped out, grabbed hold of Wynne's denim jacket and pulled her down for one of those kisses that made the angels sing and the devils gasp for air.
"Haw! Whaddinda-wohhhhhhh-rld? Not that I be complainin' or nuttin'…" Wynne croaked once her lips had time to be used for speaking.
"I was just worried it might have been you, hon," Mandy said and gave her partner's arms a little squeeze. "All right. With that out of the way, let's get back to work."
Grinning, Wynne rearranged her hat that had been knocked askew by the frantic kissing. "Yuh… mind if I tag along? I reckon that there fella mi'te be a li'l worried with all them de-per-ties an' sheriffs an' whutnots he'."
"I don't mind, but if it turns into proper police business-"
"Aw, then I'mma-gonn' whoa-down an' all. Sure thing, darlin'," Wynne said as she and the sheriff strode past Rodolfo's Durango to get to the wrecked Ford.
Mandy let out a grunt at the sight of the large amount of fluids and other flammable liquids that had leaked from the engine and the gas tank's filler neck. The forward section of the roof had caved in which had caused the windshield and the glass in the right-hand side door to crack - the shards were only staying put due to the safety film between the layers. Both side mirrors were missing, but one turned up almost at once down in the sand.
The interior of the Ford's cab had turned into a horrible mess as all the typical items had been thrown around during the truck's barrel-rolls: spent candy wrappers, ketchup-stained hot dog trays, several empty beer cans, loose change for the towns that still used parking meters, a couple of old road maps and finally a pair of $3 knock-off sunglasses had all been strewn over the headliner in the ceiling - which happened to be the lowest part of the upside-down vehicle.
The driver had been helped away from the vehicle and was presently sitting in the back of Rodolfo's Durango exhaling into a breathalyzer. Mandy didn't even need to ask the Senior Deputy about the results as she could see the LED indicators lighting up like a Christmas tree from several yards away.
"Yuh," Wynne said as she pushed her hat back from her brow. "This he' kinda mess right he' iz whut done happens when ya ain't stickin' ta them deli-shuss Dubbel-Zerahs… sure ain't no lie. Lawrdie."
Mandy added a curt "Exactly. We'll throw the book at him. And so will his insurance company," before she strode back to the rear of the Durango to get a bucket of SpeedyDry and a CO2-extinguisher. Once the former had been distributed over the oil-based puddles so the chemical components could absorb the spillage, she laid down a healthy layer of foam on top of the gasoline to neutralize it before it could ignite.
"Yuh, them in-shoo-rance folks ain't easy ta deal with when tha goin' be good… an' when tha goin' be bad, they sure be downright impossible ta deal with. Yuh."
While Mandy continued to work on containing the liquid-based pollution, Wynne strolled up to the other end of the wrecked Ford. It had dug itself so deeply into the sand she didn't even need to get up on tip-toes to have an unrestricted view of the chassis's underside. "Haw, Mista, didya notice y'all got a hole in yer mufflah the size of mah dang-blasted fist? Yuh… the whole, dang thing iz only holdin' on bah a thread. A rusty thread!"
She turned to look at the inebriated gentleman sitting in the back of the Durango, but it was obvious he had no interest in speaking with her. Shrugging, she forgot all about it and strolled back to Mandy.
The sheriff had finished laying down the foam and had swapped the extinguisher for her radio. "Mobile Unit One to Base. Mobile Unit One to Base. Do you read me, over?"
Crackling static.
Grunting, Mandy fine-tuned the frequency knobs a couple of times before she tried again: "Mobile Unit One to Base. Mobile Unit One to Base. Do you read me, over?"
Crackling static.
"Dammit! There's no way we're out of range here. Worthless pieces of cheap junk… that's what they are. And the components are thirty years out of date, too!" she said as she sent a scathing glare at the offending walkie-talkie. Instead of wasting more time trying again, she put it back on her belt and whipped up her personal telephone. The number for the sheriff's office was soon found.
She and Wynne shared a knowing look for a brief moment before a familiar voice introduced herself in her ear. "Good, something's finally working! Deputy Reilly, this is Sheriff Jalinski. I'm calling you because my radio isn't working- yes. Again. Yes. In any case, the Senior Deputy and I are at the accident site. It's a fairly standard situation. No bodily injuries but plenty of bent metal. That's correct, there's no need for the AirMedic. The driver is far beyond the limit so he'll spend the night in a holding cell. Yes. No, you don't need to do that. I'll get in touch with Mr. Garfield in a moment. Very well, Deputy. Mobile Unit One out."
Wynne was about to add a little quip when Mandy continued: "Now I have to call Tucker Garfield and get him to come down here."
"Haw! Late aftahnoon? Jus' an ho'ah or so befo' suppah-time? Lawwwwwwr-die, y'all need-a hold that there phoah-ne away from yer ear, darlin', or else ol' Tuckah gonn' pop yer eardrum an' all! An' while y'all be doin' that, I be way, way, way ovah at Rodolfo's chewin' da fat!"
Mandy briefly stuck out her tongue. "You're such a chicken fink!"
"That be me, awright. Boc-boc. I sure be a lovah, not a fightah," Wynne said with a wink. "Have fuh-n arguin' with ol' Tuckah!"
Wynne had barely moved over to the Senior Deputy when an angry outburst rolled over the wide-open stretch of the desert they had parked at. It didn't come from Mandy but from her telephone, and - wisely - the sheriff kept the torrent of vitriol spewing from the perennially grouchy Tucker Garfield at bay by holding the telephone an arm's length from her ear just like Wynne had suggested.
"Yuh, whut I done said… Tuckah sure don't like ta be disturbed when it be this close ta suppah time," Wynne mumbled while she scratched her hair.
-*-*-*-
More than twenty minutes went by before Wynne and the deputies could see the tow truck's flashing lights in the middle distance. Because Tucker Garfield was a private contractor, he wasn't allowed to use red or blue lights even on an emergency assignment for the Sheriff's Department, so his Ford F750 truck was equipped with a light bar of nothing but yellow lights installed on the roof of the cab - to compensate for the lack of pizazz when it came to the lights, he had rigged up more than a dozen yellow LEDs all over the vehicle.
The age-long delay in getting the wreck sorted and the blacktop cleared hadn't made the drunk driver any less hazy. At present, he was snoring merrily on the back seat of Rodolfo's Durango. Although he didn't present a slovenly figure as such, the tell-tale smells of beer and strong liquor hung about him and his clothes.
In his mid-forties, the bearded fellow wore filthy work boots, black jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and a hunting vest with a broken zipper. His cap - sporting the logo of the Jarrod City Coyotes Triple-A-series baseball team - had been recovered from the wrecked Ford and was resting on his heaving chest.
Mandy and Rodolfo stood close to the sleeping man while using a flashlight to study the driver's license. "Gregory Jones," she said, reading aloud from the small piece of plastic. "Forty-two. Lives in Jarrod City. Well, he certainly missed his exit in more ways than one. I wonder if he even knew that he was on his way to Cavanaugh Creek?"
"Probably not. He's too intoxicated."
Mandy moved the light over to the work boots. "They're filthy. Chances are he's been working the day shift somewhere, then boozed up before he drove home. Maybe at Derrike Iverson's."
"Maybe," Rodolfo said as he leaned closer to the sleeping man. He sniffed the air several times before he let out a puzzled grunt. "Beyond the obvious stink of alcohol, do you detect a kind of chemical scent on or near him?"
"Not on the first pass, but let me try again," Mandy said and moved in for a second whiff of her own. A few moments went by that were spent taking several deep breaths through her nose to test the proverbial waters. "You're right. There's something there… a definite chemical scent. Okay, let's pat him down again. Maybe we missed his stash of pills on the first attempt," she continued as she began exploring all Gregory Jones's pockets for a second time.
"Nothing," she said a moment later. "It's possible it's over in the truck… in which case we'll need to go through the debris with a fine tooth- dammit! Tucker Garfield is going to flip it back over in a few minutes' time!"
Rodolfo turned to look at the approaching tow truck. "He's almost here. We'll never be able to conclude a search in such a short time. And if we make him wait…"
They shared a long, somber look before Mandy rubbed her forehead. "Yeah. All right, we'll have to do it after it's been dropped off at the impound yard. Dammit!"
---
A scant minute later, Rodolfo returned to the sleeping Gregory Jones to study him once more. "Sheriff, would you mind shining the light at his pants and shirt for a moment?" he said, trying to peek through the increasingly gloomy conditions that surrounded them.
Mandy did as asked and soon let out another grunt. "Feathers. All right, that means there's a fair chance he's working for Mr. Fredericksen."
"Yeah. I'll give their office a call. Maybe they haven't gone home yet," Rodolfo said, soon moving away to take care of the official business.
"Very well," Mandy said as she switched off the flashlight and put it back on her utility belt. She glanced north on the State Route to make a guesstimate of how long it would take Tucker Garfield to reach them. A long sigh escaped her when it became obvious she would only have another two to three minutes of peace before she had to deal with the permanently grouchy Tucker Garfield in person.
Wynne, being a witness to the accident, couldn't leave before she had given an official statement so she had retired to the Silverado where she watched a classic NASCAR race on her telephone. When Mandy strode over to her, she paused the legendary commentator Ken Squier just as he was about to call Buddy Baker across the finish line to win the 1980 Daytona 500 in the famous #28 'Gray Ghost' Oldsmobile.
The dome light was soon turned on and the window rolled down so she could put her elbow on the windowsill. "Howdy all ovah ag'in, darlin'! Man, can y'all bah-lieve how durn long it done takes ol' Tuckah ta come out he'? Somebodda oughtta kick his buhhh-tt fer lettin' us wait this he' long!"
"I wish he would have taken even longer tonight," Mandy said in a tired voice.
"Haw?"
"Never mind." Standing up straight, the Sheriff reached into a shirt pocket to find her indispensable notepad and ball point pen so she could take notes. "Okay… this is official business."
"Yes Ma'am, Sheriff, Ma'am!"
"State your name, please."
"Wynne Donnah-hew… Dubya Whah Enn Enn Eee an' a-whoooole-bunch-a lettahs in that last name there."
"I'll look you up," Mandy said with a wink before her 'Sheriff' mask slipped back in place. "I need to know exactly what you saw. Just the facts, Miss," she continued, holding the pen ready at the page.
"Yes, Ma'am. I wus drivin' south on this he' State Route goin' from Goldsborah an' headin' fer hoah-me when I done noticed a red Fohhh-rd truck drivin' mebbe two hundred yards behind me. He done drove erratic an' swerved all ovah tha joint. Can y'all keep up?"
"Yes," Mandy said as she scribbled along. "Go on, please."
"Okeh. Well, at one point, he even drove in tha wrong lane altogethah fer several hundred yards an' all. Had I been behind 'im, I woudda flashed mah long beams ta mebbe wake him up or som'tin, but I wussen… I wus ahead so I done stepped on da gas ta get away from him instead. Lo an' behold, tha next thing I done saw in tha mirrah wus that he hung a sharp right, went inta that there desuhrt an' made two classic side-over-side barrel-rolls. That be 'bout it, Ma'am."
"All right."
"Well, othah than makin' a U an' racin' back he', o' course. An' callin' all y'all. I done spoke to ol' Barry, but I reckon he didden recognize mah voice or som'tin 'cos he nevah acknowledged it wus me. Weird dat, but anyhows… mebbe he got wax in his ears or som'tin."
The news made Mandy let out a grunt and look up at Wynne's open face. "I don't think he did… he never said a word about it to me over the radio. Mmmm!" Another grunt escaped her as she finished jotting down the information. The notepad was soon closed and put into one of her winter jacket's countless pockets. "The MacLean County Sheriff's Department wishes to thank you for your co-operation, Miss Donohue."
Wynne broke out in a grin and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Aw, y'all sure is welcome an' all, Sheriff Mandy! Does this mean I need-a skedaddle? 'Cos I wus plannin' on stayin' an' mebbe help ol' Tuckah right that there Fohh-rd there."
"No, you can stay if you wish… but Mr. Garfield seemed as sour as vinegar when I spoke to him. Even more so than usual. I don't know how much fun it'll be."
"Aw, I can handle ol' Tuckah awright," Wynne said, waving her hand in dismissal. "No trubbel!"
Exactly on cue, Tucker's yellow tow truck arrived on the scene. Before the large vehicle had come to a full stop, he rolled down the driver's side window and stuck his head out to roar: "You people need to block the Goddamned road! I ain't getting out before my working conditions are safe!"
Mandy and Wynne shared a brief look - and let out identical utterances of "Hmmm?" - before Mandy strode over to her Durango and re-arranged it to block both lanes. Rodolfo soon did the same down the far end of the accident site.
Tucker Garfield let out an impressive huff before he activated the F750's six-wheel-drive so he could move into the desert without getting stuck. The powerful engine soon changed note as it needed to work harder to operate all the wheels. As a result, fat columns of black diesel smoke rose from the two aluminum stacks installed on either side of the cab.
The professional crane operator had soon moved into position and had attached several wires and hooks onto the underside of the wrecked Ford so he could pull it over. Moving back to the cab, he paused to let out a surly: "Will you people stand the hell back! I don't want no Goddamned lawsuits in case the wire snaps!"
Over behind the wheel of the Silverado, Wynne let out a chuckle as she held up her telephone to film the undertaking. "Lawrdie, Tuckah… y'all sure is in a fihhh-ne mood tanight…" she said in a mumble.
With a roar from the tow truck's engine, the wrecked Ford was soon flipped back onto its wheels. The extent of the damage sustained in the roll-over became evident as the windshield fell out, slipped down the buckled hood and landed in the sand ahead of the truck. Several items rained down from where they had pooled when the roof had been the lowest point of the vehicle - not all stayed inside the badly misshapen cab.
As expected, Tucker didn't feel too pleased about the extra work - and, as expected, he let the world know about it: "Aw, that's too frickin' typical! Now I have to sweep the Goddamn road! Why the hell do I even bother? All those idiots out here just keep crashing their Goddamned pieces of crap and then I have to sweep that up as well! Like last week when I found those Goddamned dentures! One of these days, I'm gonna find someone's frickin' severed head… and nobody gives a crap about me or what I've been through!"
Mandy and Rodolfo kept well back from the sublimely annoyed Tucker, but Wynne felt brave and decided to offer her help. Strolling across the road, she donned a pair of sturdy work gloves that she always kept in the Silverado for whenever the strange, weird or plain bizarre caught up with her. She let out a chuckle at the constant stream of grumbles that spewed from Tucker's mouth as he swept up the glass and the rest of the flotsam.
"Howdy, Tuckah!" she said as she took a second broom off a rack installed on the side of the tow truck. "Y'all look like y'all need-a hand sweepin' that there-"
"No, I don't!"
"Aw, I reckon y'all do or else ya woudden moan 'bout it-"
Tucker slammed the head of the broom so hard into the ground it nearly broke off. "Stay the hell out of my affairs, Wynne! I don't have time for your brainless crap now!"
Up close, it was obvious Tucker Garfield had reached another level of Angry even compared to his usual surly state. His hair was unkempt and his trademark two-day stubble had turned into a scruffier-looking four-day one since Wynne had seen him last. His coverall remained much the same as always - filthy from top to toe - but there was something about his demeanor that spelled trouble in capital letters.
"Ain't no need ta get personal, pal!" Wynne said in a growl. "All I be doin' is offerin' mah help, but if y'all prefer ta sweep this he'-"
"I do! Now will you leave me the frick alone?!"
"Y'all need-a take a dang-blasted chill pill, Tuckah! Whaddahell done got inta y'all taday? 'Cos this wussen how y'all behaved tha las'time-"
Instead of speaking, Tucker turned away from Wynne and resumed sweeping up the shards of glass and other fragments off the wrecked Ford. His gestures were so angry and uninhibited that less than half the items he worked on hit the dustpan - which of course meant he had to sweep them up for a second time. The extra work caused plenty of additional cursing and swearing of the juiciest kind.
"Dad-gummit, pal… save mah ears, whah dontcha?" Wynne said as she walked back to the tow truck to attach the second broom to the rack. She let out a huff as she left the spit-flying furious man behind and stomped back to the Silverado.
Halfway there, she made a ninety-degree right-hand turn and walked over to Mandy and Rodolfo instead. "Haw!" she said, pushing her hat back from her brow. "Y'all sure wussen kiddin' 'bout ol' Tuckah's state o' mind, Sheriff Mandy! Lawwwr-die, he musta started eatin' lemons whole or som'tin."
Mandy shrugged, but Rodolfo had a possible explanation for Tucker's thunderous mood: "He and Nancy Nguyen split up the other day," he said in a quiet voice so it wouldn't carry over to the sweeping-up that was still going on across the road.
"Hawwwww-shittt… ya don't say? Whah, that sure would put a crimp in anyone's day an' all," Wynne said, turning to look at Tucker's angry gestures. "Yuh. Aw, that wus too bad. They done looked kinda cute tagethah. Whut, they got in a shoutin' match or som'tin?"
"Well, I haven't heard any specifics, but if we think about-"
Before the conversation could go too far, Mandy broke in with a stern: "That's not for us to discuss. We don't want to be gossiped about, so we don't gossip about the residents of Goldsboro either. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo said.
Wynne nodded several times in rapid succession - whenever Mandy used that tone of voice, only the foolish ignored her. "Haw, sure thing, Sheriff. Lissen, since he didden want mah help or nuttin', I reckon I'mma-gonn' head hoah-me. Y'all need me fer mo' offi-shual bizzness or som'tin?"
"No," Mandy said with a dead-tired smile that never reached her eyes. "You're free to leave."
"Haw, I sure be thankin' y'all, Sheriff. Bah-bah, Rodolfoh… catch y'all latah, yuh?"
Wynne had nearly made it back to the Silverado when Mandy caught up with her. "Hon, the Senior Deputy and I need to process Mr. Jones before I can get home. I'm afraid you'll need to eat by yourself tonight."
"Aw, no trubbel, darlin'. I got som'tin ta do, anyhows, so… yuh… whadda day this has been, haw? Good flip almighty, I sure hope we ain't gonn' see anothah like it in a hurry. But this is Goldsborah, so… yuh. Well, in any case… askin' fer permis-shun ta kiss da Sheriff, please?"
"Permission granted," Mandy said with a tired grin - a nice lip-on-lip contact duly followed.
-*-*-*-
It only took Tucker Garfield another ten minutes to hook the wrecked Ford up to the heavy-duty winch at the back of his tow truck, but the look upon Mandy's face said it had seemed like ten times that long.
Tucker's incessant cursing and swearing continued to roll across the wide-open desert like a mushroom cloud from the bad old days - in the mid-to-late 1950s, the Benson Creek Nuclear Research & Testing Facility had been the home of over two dozen detonations of atomic and hydrogen bombs no more than fifty miles further into the desert.
Gregory Jones had come to, at least to a certain extent, but his hazy mind didn't lend itself to answering many questions. Ultimately, Rodolfo had taken him back to town for a free overnight stay in Holding Cell One, courtesy of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department.
Mandy had no such luck. Leaning against the fender of the Durango she had arrived in, she had her arms crossed over her chest in a perfect display of needing to keep quiet in order to not make everything worse. Her lips had been reduced to narrow lines in her face, her eyes shot fire and her poor ears were the victims of the constant barrage of verbal diarrhea that spewed from the foul-mouthed, short-tempered, ill-mannered fellow across the road.
The horror show was finally over when Tucker climbed up behind the wheel of the tow truck - he slammed the driver's side door so hard the side mirror rattled and nearly fell off. A moment later, he stuck his head back to out shout: "What the hell are you waiting for? A written invitation? Let's get back to town so I can dump this crate before dawn!"
Mandy's cheeks, tongue and lips were put through a severe chewing as she jumped into the Durango and twisted the ignition key. The moment she had power, she rolled up the window in case Tucker decided to carry on his tidal wave of vitriol.
---
After a handful of miles northbound on the State Route, Mandy drove past the city limits sign welcoming her to Goldsboro, Nevada - a.k.a. the town 'Where Magical Things Happen.'
She came to a full stop just beyond the mouth of the alley next to Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Import. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she let out a sigh of relief as she watched Tucker make a right-hand swing into the alley that would lead him to the Sheriff's Department's impound yard.
Once the tow truck driver was no longer her direct responsibility, she continued onto the office where she pulled over to the curb and switched off the engine. A long sigh escaped her as she took the keys and left the vehicle. She had barely barged through the sticking glass door before she was met by Beatrice Reilly who ran the other way with her nightstick at the ready.
"Coming through! There's trouble next door, Sheriff!" Beatrice said before she exited the office in a hurry.
Barry continued to sit at the watch desk though his shift had ended at the top of the hour. He took a hurried, final puff of his latest cigarette before he used it to light the next one as always. As a result of his non-stop smoking, the watch desk resembled an ash factory that had suffered some kind of large-scale industrial accident that required the aid of FEMA and about five other environmental agencies to rectify.
"Now what the hell is going on?!" Mandy barked, startling Barry so much he jerked upright on the chair. The new cigarette was well on its way out of his mouth, but he caught it in time and stuffed it back between his lips before any harm could come to his uniform or the brown linoleum.
"The- the drunk driver woke up and socked Rodolfo in the face-"
"Goddammit! Why didn't you call me?" Mandy said, racing out of the office before Barry could answer.
---
The reason for the lack of an urgent call for assistance became obvious when she barged into the jail house adjacent to the sheriff's office - the emergency was still unfolding.
Gregory Jones was mashed onto the floor in an uncomfortable-looking face-down position. Beatrice kept him pinned down by pressing a knee against his spine. At the same time, she used her nightstick to keep his arms in a vise so Rodolfo could slap the metal handcuffs on him again.
Though Gregory moaned, groaned and whined, any chance for leniency toward him had vanished when his fist had made an impact on Rodolfo's cheekbone. The prisoner's clothes had been yanked to the side and his Jarrod City Coyotes cap had been trampled flat by someone's boot in the ensuing fracas.
Rodolfo looked up when Mandy stormed over to the wrestling match. It was too soon for a bruise or swelling to show, especially against Rodolfo's bronzed complexion, but the pained look in his eyes proved the sucker punch had been a hard, nasty and effective one. "Sheriff… looks like we'll have to add Assault and Battery to Mr. Jones's rap sheet. Not to mention doing it to an officer of the law," he said in a voice that held a slight slur.
"Yes… are you all right?"
"Yeah. The left side of my mouth is numb but I still have all my teeth. I didn't bite my tongue. It happened just after I had uncuffed him for the fingerprints… he hadn't been aggressive until then. He snapped."
Mandy nodded as she watched the effectiveness of Beatrice's hold on the prone man. "It happens. All right. Let's get him processed… and if the man won't come to the prints, the prints will have to come to the man. Deputy Reilly, move him upright while I get the sheet updated."
"Yes, Sheriff," Beatrice said as she slowly released the pressure on the prisoner by moving her knee back from his spine. Grabbing hold of Jones's arms, she yanked him upright and pushed him back over to the central desk.
Not two seconds later, Gregory Jones let out a roar of blind rage and shimmied, shook and bucked like a wild bronco to break free of Beatrice's strong grip. Though she fought back, he eventually gained enough wiggle-room to spin around and headbutt her across the face before kicking out at Mandy and Rodolfo.
The headbutt caused Beatrice to stagger backward, let out a breathless groan and double over in obvious pain. She dropped the nightstick that fell to the floor with a Clonkkk!
Neither of Jones's kicks reached their intended targets, but his actions had caused so much confusion among the sheriff and the deputies there was room for him to make a run for the door. Before he could get his cuffed hands on the door handle, he let out a howl of pain and buckled to his knees.
A calm Mandy took a single step back from the prisoner while she gave the nightstick another impressive twirl. Flipping it around, she smacked it against Gregory's other knee joint to follow the procedures on how to deal with aggressors.
The cuffed hands meant that Gregory's balance was upset, so he ended up down on the floor all over again with a law enforcement officer - in this case, a flushed and furious Sheriff - pressing a knee against his spine.
Once Rodolfo had unlocked and opened the door to Holding Cell One, Mandy yanked Gregory Jones upright and forced him across the floor with such strength he nearly fell down all over again. Once she had shoved him into the cell, the soundproof door was slammed shut and subsequently locked.
Beatrice staggered over to the desk where she bumped down onto the chair and clutched her throbbing face. A rare sob escaped her before she got a hold of herself and sat up straight as if nothing had happened. The facade only lasted for a few seconds - then she let out a trembling sigh that proved it hurt more than she let on. A few drops of blood that trickled out of her nostrils made her curse under her breath and begin a frantic search for a handkerchief so her pristine uniform wouldn't get stained.
"Senior Deputy," Mandy said, "please run over to the bar and grill and get a couple of bags of frozen vegetables and a fresh cucumber."
"Will do- a cucumber?!"
"Yes, slices of cucumber soak up the heat around the eyes. That'll dampen the swelling. Now, please," Mandy continued before she went over to Beatrice to examine her injuries.
---
It only took Rodolfo two minutes to return with a cucumber and two bags of frozen sweet peas and pre-sliced carrots. In the meantime, Mandy had dealt with Beatrice's nosebleed in time-honored fashion by rolling up small strips of cotton wool and stuffing them up the nostrils.
"Good. Thank you," she said as she took the icy items. "I know you'll think this is too weird, but it's better than looking like a spent punching bag tomorrow. Deputy Reilly, hold the… well, sweet peas… against your brow and the bridge of your nose for a short while. Then dab them against the skin at regular intervals. All right?"
"Yes. Thank you, Sheriff," Beatrice said in a voice completely muffled by the cotton wool that plugged her nostrils. The corner of her mouth creased into the tiniest of smiles, but it didn't last long.
Mandy returned the smile before she moved over to the other patient. "Good. Now Senior Deputy, you need to cut off a few medium-sized slices of that cucumber, lean back and put them on your cheek and left eye. I can't promise it'll stop you from getting a shiner, but it won't be as bad as it could be."
Rodolfo stared at Mandy and the vegetable in order before he shrugged and reached into a pouch on his utility belt. The tool's curved blade was meant to be a wire cutter and had thus never seen a cucumber in its life, but it proved to be quite effective in cutting off slices. "Like this?" he said, leaning his head back and attaching the green slices to his skin.
"Exactly. I'll bet Miss de la Vega uses cucumbers all the time to cleanse her skin and cool her eyes," Mandy said with a grin. While her deputies nursed their painful injuries, she moved over to the monitor to keep an eye on Gregory Jones. As expected, the man's aggressive behavior continued inside the holding cell - his fit of rage made him bounce around like a lit firecracker in spite of having his hands cuffed behind his back.
Shaking her head at the mindless - and completely pointless - raging, Mandy reached for her telephone. "He must be sky high on some kind of illegal substance. That's the chemical component we could smell out there."
"Either that or Shrooms. They can make people snap like that," Beatrice said somewhere behind the bag of frozen sweet peas.
"Could be. Or it could be a variation of Meth," Mandy continued as she accessed her phone's register. "Whichever it is, we can't handle that S.O.B. on our own. I'm requesting an urgent transport from HQ. I just hope they won't take the entire evening to get here."
-*-*-*-
At the exact same time back home in Wynne's trailer, The Last Original Cowpoke put a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Pale Lagers on their aging coffee table. The high number of scratches and beer rings scattered over its once-so-neat surface proved it wasn't the first time such an event had taken place, but as Wynne used to say: no beer ring happens by accident - it takes plenty of effort.
She had changed into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a baggy shirt that bore the image of the red, white and blue Hendrickcars.com Chevrolet Camaro that won the 2020 NASCAR Cup crown. All the way downstairs, she wore warm sports-socks and her favorite pair of purple flip-flops.
She paused her actions to clap an eyeball on the Pale Lagers. A few grunts of indecisiveness escaped her before she took the six-pack and went back into the kitchenette - she returned a moment later holding a six-pack of Double Zeros and a single 1910 Special Brew that she cracked open with the familiar Pssshhhht!
The two cardboard boxes containing the 67 diecasts had been put on the floor to keep them safe in case re-assembling the display cabinets would turn into a pantomime comedy act, a world championship-bout wrestling match or possibly even a pie-throwing clown show.
To ensure the fragile sheets of glass used in the cabinets would remain in one piece during the drive home, Keshawn and Wynne had disassembled the cabinets into their component parts. The plan had proven to be sound as no harm had come to the glass, but she began questioning the rest of the notion now that she studied the scores of little things that needed to be put back together, and in proper order, so the cabinets would remain structurally sound.
"Shoot… I dunno whaddahell I wus thinkin' doin' that," she mumbled to herself as she sat down on the couch. "Mebbe somebodda like Keshawn can assemble one o' them there cabbah-nets easy-peasy, but me? Naw. Shoot, I bettah wait until tamorrah. I'mma-gonn' lose them li'l thingamajigs an' then Goldie gonn' eat 'em an' then we gotta rush ta Doc Gibbs's an' stuff… naw. Tamorrah. But I sure can look at mah cahhhh-rs!"
Getting up, she shuffled into the kitchenette to get a duster for the diecasts. On her way back, she took the first box and put it on the couch next to where she sat. One car after the other was soon rescued from its cardboard garage and brought back into the light - even if it was just the cone that shone from the standard lamp next to the couch.
Plenty of woofing and yapping from the central lawn between the trailers proved without a shadow of a doubt where Blackie and Goldie were. The occasional deeper barks were produced by the Rottweiler Freddie who still wasn't sure whether or not he actually liked Humans enough to be around them. Fellow dogs was another matter altogether, and the trio spent many an hour tearing around the central lawn or the edge of the desert playing Catch Your Tail.
"Haw, them ca-razy dawggies," Wynne said before she took a long swig of her 1910 Special Brew. A 1988 #26 King Racing Quaker State Buick beckoned, and she soon held it into the light so she could admire the green-and-white machine from all angles. Once she had put the Buick on the table, she found another car from 1988: the #1 Skoal Classic Oldsmobile that won the spring Talladega race with Phil Parsons behind the wheel. Next up was the 1992 #28 Yates Racing Texaco-Havoline Ford Thunderbird driven to victory in that year's Daytona 500 by the unforgettable Davey Allison.
"Whodahell done sole these he' awesome, awesome cahhhhh-rs, anyhows? Haw, them folks musta needed tha money som'tin fierce. Sayin' bah-bah ta these he' bayu-ties musta done half-killed somebodda," she mumbled as she held up the Texaco car to study it from the only angle the rest of the field saw that day: the rear.
The next car was the 1993 #21 Wood Brothers CITGO Ford Thunderbird - the car in which Morgan Shepherd scored his final career victory at Atlanta.
"Aw, some o' these he' vee-hickels are jus' legendary… even if they be Fohhhh-rds an' all. I reckon I'mma-gonn' give mah dear, ol' friend Ernie a-bunch offem tha next time we done meet. Yuh. He gonn' like that, yessirree," she said to herself as she dug into the cardboard box once more - the next diecast she found carried the rainbow paint scheme that grew into having iconic status in the mid-1990s.
"Whah, if it ain't Jeff Gordon's Southern Fih-ve-hundred winnah from 'ninety-seven! That sure wus a perdy dog-gone good race an' all… okeh, not that there weird, weird first lap there, but tha rest wus awesome. Tha million dollah race!"
Beaming with joy, Wynne put the 1997 #24 Hendrick DuPont Chevrolet Monte Carlo on the coffee table next to the others. "Okeh… okeh, jus' one mo'. Jus' one mo' an' I be happy! Les'see whut we done got he'. Oooooh!"
Wynne's exclamation came at a real blast-from-the-past in the shape of a white-and-orange 1999 #20 Gibbs Racing Home Depot Pontiac Grand Prix - the car that had earned Tony Stewart three victories in his rookie season. "Aw, this be nice too… jus' one mo' an' then I quit!" she said, digging into the box once more.
Her next exclamation was even louder than the previous one when she found herself face to face with a 2001 #55 Petree Racing Square-D Chevrolet Monte Carlo as driven by the late, great Bobby Hamilton. The details around the paintwork was astounding and offered a grand illusion that she was really there, chasing the Square-D car out of one of the 33-degree turns and onto the Superstretch over at Talladega, Alabama.
The 1910 Special Brew was soon gone, but before she cracked open the first of the Double-Zeros, she leaned to her left to look at the boxes containing the disassembled display cabinets. A long sigh escaped her. "Shoot… wouldya lookie at them things there. Haw… I dunno whaddahell I wus thinkin' takin' them apart like that…"
Leaning back to sit straight, she scratched her neck several times. Then she said: "Naw, I reckon I bettah take a swing at 'em aftah all… whodahell knows whut kinda trubbel I get inta tamorrah… yuh, sure ain't no lie," she mumbled as she got up from the couch and knelt next to the disassembled cabinets.
Unpacking the actual building blocks wasn't too bad, but the end result could only be described as confusing, daunting or indeed intimidating. "Okeh… them sheets o' glass be tha lid an' da undahside an' them shelves. Even I can see dat. Yuh. Okeh. I reckon," she mumbled, moving an index finger from one pane to the next as she mentioned it.
"An' then we got them metal rods he'… they be tha fo'ah cornahs. Okeh. No trubbel. They be big parts so they ain't diffah-cult ta put back tagethah. Naw. Plentah o' screws, tho'. Okeh. No trubbel." The familiar Psssshhht! soon followed to gain a little liquid strength to be ready to face the ungodly challenge that lay ahead.
After wiping her lips on the back of a hand, she looked closer at the next, and perhaps worst, part of the proverbial jigsaw puzzle. "But… Lawrdie… then we got ten, twelve, fo'ahteen… Mercy Sakes… seven'een, twentah-two li'l rubbah wotchamacall'ems ta sappahrt them shelves! Haw… that can't be right 'cos that don't add up or nuttin'. Naw, twentah li'l rubbah wotchamacall'ems ta sappahrt them shelves an' two li'l rubbah wotchamacall'ems as bump-stops fer da glass do'ah… aw… shoot."
She sucked on her teeth for a moment or two before she let out a mumbled "Ugh. Not taday. Tamorrah. Yuh," and crawled back up into the couch. Shaking her head at how everything in her life tended to be very, very difficult, she reached for the TV remote. As the television set came alive, the Double-Zero went down her gullet with a gulp-gulp-gulp.
---
It took her exactly four minutes and nineteen seconds to zap through her countless TV channels that were brought to her from the satellite dish up on the roof of the trailer. Her success rate of finding something exciting to watch had flatlined at 0.0 percent throughout, so she swapped the remote for her telephone that offered a far greater chance of success.
She had already watched the 1980 Daytona 500 to its conclusion after returning home from the accident site, but the gigantic vault at the website of her favorite video host gave her an endless choice of old races. "Haw… so… whazzit gonn' be tanight, Wynne? A supah-classic? Som'tin newah? Mebbe a rerun from las'year? Mebbe som'tin from tha glori-uss eighties? Or tha golden nineties?" - All of this had come out while she scrolled up and down on the small display.
"Aw… okeh… yuh… okeh… naw, done watched that alreddy… done watched that… done watched that as well, dag-nabbit," she continued, scratching her neck when all she could find were titles she had already seen - in some cases, more than once.
"D'aw! Tha 'eighty-fo'ah Fiahcrackah Fo'ah-hundred at Daytoh-n! Petty's las'win an' all… yuh, that sure ain't bad. Nosirree, that ain't bad at all. Okeh, what's da runnin' tih-me- okeh, it be a thirty-eight-minutes highlights reel. I reckon I need-a tighten them belts one mo' tih-me… an' hit play!"
The first Double-Zero had already gone bye-bye, so she cracked the next one open, took her smartphone and leaned back on the couch to watch the highlights of the classic event that ended with 'The King' Richard Petty scoring his 200th and final victory under the watchful eye of then-President Ronald Reagan who watched the entire race from a VIP lounge atop the main grandstand.
-*-*-*-
After nightfall, Wynne stood at the edge of the desert a short distance from the rear of her trailer. She had the porch lights on so she could find her way back in case she needed to venture deeper into the sandy, rocky plains, but her eyes had already grown accustomed to the darkness so it wouldn't pose much of a problem for her.
The reason for her excursion into the desert was the fact that Blackie, Goldie and Freddie weren't done playing yet. Yapping, barking and woofing merrily, the three dogs tore around in dizzying circles and every other type of extravagant maneuver they could think of as they chased each other's tail.
Even the toughest dog would run out of steam sooner or later - and Goldie was anything but tough - so when they had finally had enough, the top-fit Blackie and the dead-tired scaredy-dog Goldie said a woofing goodnight to Freddie before they ran directly into Wynne's arms for a little hug-and-rub.
"Hawwwww, mah bayu-taful dawggies!" Wynne said as she dished out plenty of doggy-loving which earned her plenty of happy yapping and woofing in return.
Having two dogs in her face limited Wynne's ability to speak, but the hug-and-rub session soon gave way to talking: "Haw, mah darlin' Mandy ain't even hoah-me yet. Mercy Sakes, can all y'all bah-lieve that processin' that there drunk drivah be takin' so dang-blasted long?"
Woof-woooooof-woof-woof! -- Yap!
"Me neithah, dawggies. Lawrdie, whadda bizarroh day this turned out ta be, haw? A dog-gone explodin' crappah fer breakfast, them awesome, awesome cahhh-rs in da aftahnoon an' then a wreck fer suppah. Yikes. An' I ain't even tawkin' 'bout that there way shitty mess at Daytoh-n las'night…"
Woof-woof-woof-woooooof? -- Yap?
"Yuh, sure ain't no lie. Ain't nevah gonn' figgah out whah mah life be so weird an' all. Aw, who done cares when I got all y'all an' mah sweet darlin' Mandy… yuh… who still ain't aware o' tha full extent o' tha dam-itch from that crappah thing… Lawrdie."
Woof…
"Yuh…"
Goldie's attention was suddenly snatched by the sound of tires rolling over the crunching gravel. The Golden Retriever moved a few steps back while she looked in the direction of the sound - then she let out another happy yap and took off in an easy jog.
Wynne got up and dusted off her hands. "But I reckon Sheriff Mandy be about ta find out. Hawwww-shoot, I sure do hope we ain't gonn' argue or nuttin'. We don't offen argue these days… thank the bearded gah in da skah fer them li'l favahs… but when we do, it takes a dang-blasted jungle knife to mah heart, I be tellin' ya, Blackie."
Woof?
"Yuh. Haw, when I think back ta them early days we wus tagethah… it seemed we coudden stop arguin' sometimes. I reckon that be inevitable when two headstrong wimmenfolk move in tagethah, but still. Lawrdie, them times wussen no fuh-n, nosirree."
Woof…
"Anyhows… we done made it thru' tha shoutin' 'cos we realized that if we didden have each othah, we didden have nobodda. An' bein' alone when ya don't wanna be, shoot, that hurts even wohhhh-rse than arguin'."
The familiar noises of an engine being switched off, a car door opening and then closing proved that Mandy had finally come home from her long day at work.
"If da bull needs ta be grabbed bah da horns, who bettah ta do it than the Last Oh-ree-gee-nal Cowpoah-k, haw? C'mon, dawggie. Les'face da music."
Woof!
---
Mandy had barely taken off her Mountie hat and the thick winter jacket when a deep frown developed across her brow. She sniffed the air a couple of times in the bedroom before she moved into the narrow corridor at the kitchenette. The air quality was about the same there, so she moved over to the door to the tiny bathroom to investigate further.
Through all that, Wynne had been standing by the refrigerator with her hands clenched into fists in her rear pockets. Blackie sat on the floor with her tongue out. She had a bowl of fresh water at her disposal that she dipped into at regular intervals, but it seemed that the mounting tension was more interesting for her. Goldie did what she always did when trouble was brewing - she had curled herself up into a golden ball down in their doggy-basket.
"Hon, what's that weird smell? It's almost like the paint section of Mr. Elliott's hardware store… or some kind of chemical waste disposal plant," Mandy said, wearing a puzzled expression.
Wynne let out a "Yuh, 'bout that…" before she fell quiet.
Mandy chewed on her cheek for a brief moment before she cocked her head - she never took her eyes of Wynne. "When you called me this morning… I don't know why, but I was under the impression that you… well, you know… maybe exaggerated a little. You didn't."
"Naw. I didden," Wynne said in a somber voice that made Goldie let out a whimper down in the basket. "The crappah really done blowed up. Or the septic tank did, anyhows."
The frown deepened across Mandy's brow before she opened the door to the bathroom - a split second later, she slapped a hand over her mouth and nose to prevent the chemical fumes from the cleaning solvents Wynne had used from reaching her lungs. "Dear Gawd, you can cut the stench with a knife in here!" she said in a muffled voice. "New toothpaste… new toothbrushes… new hairbrushes… new soap dispenser… new shampoo… new towels… where's my bathrobe?"
Wynne stepped away from the refrigerator to shuffle over to the bathroom door. Blackie followed her over there, but Goldie went the other way by hurrying into the living area so she would be as far away from the inevitable fallout as possible. "I sure am sorry, darlin'… it didden make it. It coudden be washed an' there wussen no time ta go ta the sto'ah where we done bought it."
"Wynne…"
"Yuh?"
"How bad was this thing. Really?"
Down on the floor, even the brave Blackie spun around and hurried into the living area where she joined Goldie in the safest place they could find - which happened to be under the couch.
Wynne cast a somber glance after the fleeing German Shepherd, wishing she had that option. "Tha septic tank backfiah'd. It done spewed up from da toilet bowl like a volcano. Or the Ol' Faithful geysah ovah yondah in that there na-shunnal park I can nevah 'membah the name of. It wus nukular."
"And it destroyed everything in its path."
"Not ev'rythin'… but perdy much."
Mandy's face fell as she turned around to take in the current state of the bathroom - it was obvious from her expression that she could well imagine the utter destruction during the actual event. "Where's my skin cream? And the moisturizer?"
"Goah-ne. I sure am sorry, darlin', but-"
Mandy went over to one of the upper cabinets to look inside. Her frown deepened even further as she took stock of the few items that were left. She closed the cabinet in a chilling silence that lasted for several seconds. "Whose job was it to check the pressure gauge in the septic tank so we could call Miss Seaborn in time?"
Wynne chewed on her cheeks. "Mine."
"Did you?"
"No."
A leaden pause interrupted the conversation while Mandy took another peek at the bathroom. Without speaking a word, she went into the bedroom to swap her uniform for her comfortable clothes. Still silent, she returned to the bathroom to wash her hands and splash some cold water in her face.
By now, Wynne's heart played such a thumping beat in her chest that it seemed to want to emulate the soundtrack of an AC/DC concert. Her fists had been clenched once more and had returned to the rear pockets of her jeans.
She cursed herself inwardly for not being able to come up with anything that could lighten the situation that grew more oppressive for each passing moment. Nearly a full minute of stony silence had passed before the neurons in her brain had collected enough letters and words to form any kind of sentence:
"Darlin', I truly be sorry fer screwin' up. I shoudda checked that dang pressure gauge. I didden. I screwed up big time. Ta make amends, I got most o' them there things that done got ruined… jus' not all of 'em. That there Golden Hew cream there… shoot, ain't nobodda got that, an' I wus in fo'ah or fih-ve dif'rent sto'ahs up in Barton City."
"It can only be bought at the company's own webshop."
"Aw… aw, shoot. I didden know. Okeh, I'mma-gonn' do that inna minnit. But-"
"This wasn't what I hoped would happen after the thirteen hour shift I've just been through," Mandy said before she wiped her hands and face on the brand new bath towel. The silence that followed was used to click off the lights, shut the bathroom door and make a beeline for the refrigerator.
"Naw… naw, I reckon it wussen…"
Once Mandy had cracked open a Summer Dreamz Cola Classic, she leaned against the kitchen counter and shot Wynne a dark look. "Why do these things keep happening to us? Can you tell me that? I'm so sick and tired of all these Goddamned weird things that keep happening to us!"
"I ain't got no answah fer ya… mebbe we be trubbel-magnets or som'tin."
Mandy took a long swig of the soft drink before she sent Wynne an even darker look. "It never happened to me before the night we met for the first time. That's when it started… and it's been a Goddamned constant in my life ever since! Dammit, I wish all this crap would just go to hell and stay there." Her angry words were soon transformed into a series of grumbles as she took a long swig of the Cola Classic.
Wynne bared her teeth in a worried grimace. In her chest, her heart increased its ferocious beat even further at the potential implications. She didn't have to look up to see the neon-red, flashing arrow that pointed directly at her as the main cause of all the negatives that had struck them over the years. Worse, it was 100% true.
She had been incident-prone since she was a little girl - not in the classic sense of actively creating bad situations, but by constantly being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone else found themselves in bad situations. Even beyond her run of regular, old-fashioned rotten luck, she simply had an uncanny ability to draw in strange encounters, supernatural phenomena and otherworldly events like moths to a flame, or even vultures to a fresh carcass.
It had perhaps started with her treehouse accident at the tender age of 7. Back then, she had spent several days floating between life and death in a void that all the experts claimed was simply a big, black nothing. She knew better. The things she had seen and heard while unconscious would remain with her forever. The first real-world incidents of a weird, or even downright bizarre, nature had occurred when she had seen the ghost of a former patient while in rehab, and they had been a permanent fixture in her life ever since.
None of the dark thoughts that reared their ugly mugs presented any kind of workable solution to the acute problem the Jalinski-Donohue household was in - even so, they refused to go away quietly. Unsure of the reaction she would receive, Wynne stepped ahead and put out her arms in an invitation for a hug.
Mandy paused. Several agonizing seconds went by before she put down the soft drink and wrapped her arms around her partner's taller body. The negativity slowly drained away as they spent the next two minutes hugging in complete silence.
"Darlin'," Wynne eventually said in a whisper, "I sure am sorry I done screwed up. An' I sure am even mo' sorry that all yer good stuff got ruined 'cos I done screwed up. I ain't nevah, evah gonn' ignore that there pressure gauge ag'in, I can guaran-dang-blasted-tee that. It jus' ain't gonn' happen… but darlin', there gonn' be othah stuff I'mma-gonn' screw up 'cos that jus' be who I am, yuh? I ain't doin' nuttin' offit on purpose or nuttin', it jus' keeps on happenin' fer no good reason."
"Nobody is perfect," Mandy said in a similar whisper. "I just wish all this bad stuff would happen less. All I want is a quiet life. With you. Here. And the dogs, of course. But something always, always, always comes up to rock our boat. I hate all that crap."
"Yuh. Me too," Wynne whispered before she placed a small kiss on Mandy's shaggy locks as a token. The initial peck was nowhere near enough, so a proper lip-on-lip kiss duly followed.
It wasn't until Mandy's stomach growled that they separated. She let out a dead-tired chuckle as she patted her empty belly. "That drunk driver became so aggressive and obstinate when he was put in the holding cell that we literally had to sit on him to straighten him out… he punched Rodolfo in the face and headbutted poor Beatrice-"
"Mercy Sakes! What a dirty, rotten sohhhm-bitch! Whah, I hope y'all paid that dumb sack o' shit back with plentah o' int'rest!"
"It's not that simple, Wynne," Mandy said and broke out in a shrug. "That's something Artie Rains would have done in the bad, old days, but we need to follow the law to the letter… even when nobody else gives a damn."
Wynne shook her head as she shuffled over to the kitchen counter so she could lean against it. "Lawrdie… an' that took all this he' tih-me?"
"Yes. Mr. Jones bounced around like a freak on bad acid. We couldn't handle him so we had to call for a paddy wagon from Barton City. It took them half an eternity to get to Goldsboro. We had to monitor him constantly… if we didn't, he'd freak out even worse and maybe inflict harm upon himself."
"Wait… so y'all nevah got around ta eat or nuttin'?"
"Nothing beyond a few sandwiches… and that was hours and hours ago."
Wynne shook her head again - it was clear by the look on her face that she was trying to come up with a solution that could take care of both problems at once: 1) remove the last of the unwanted tension, and 2) get some food into the Sheriff so she wouldn't disappear among the bedsheets once they hit the sack.
An idea suddenly struck her that ignited the proverbial light bulb above her head. "Whah, I jus' got theee best ideah, darlin'! Yes-Ma'am, y'all jus' head inta that there livin' area o' ou'ahs an' greet them dawggies. While y'all be bizzy doin' that, I'mma-gonn' make us a li'l late-night feast in da shape o' mashed pa-tah-tahs, fraaaah'ed onions an' some o' them there thick saus-itches we done bought the othah day. Ketchup an' mustard an' hawt sawce an'… yeee-haw, it gonn' be fihhh-ne dinin', awright! An' mebbe a beer or two… whadda-y'all say ta that, darlin'?"
Mandy grinned, shook her head and let out another dead-tired chuckle. "I'll say… yes, please." She got up on tip-toes to place yet another kiss on Wynne's lips before she shuffled into the living area to dish out some doggy-loving.
Wynne's grin was even broader as she let out a deep sigh of relief, made the sign of the cross, kissed her fingers and held up a three-fingered salute as an offering to all the important folks looking down upon her from above - then she started preparing their late-late supper.