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CHAPTER 6

While all that had been going on in the sheriff's office at the southern end of Goldsboro's Main Street, the northern end had experienced plenty of flying sparks and whining metal tools as the sliding doors of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop's four-bay garage had been rolled up to reveal all the typical activity at such a place.

The floor around the two grease pits and the two pneumatic lifts was an ultra-smooth concrete that had suffered numerous black stains over the years. In a somewhat optimistic move on the original designer's part, the walls were covered in white tiles - or rather, they had been white when the garage had opened for business. Now, they all carried a brownish-gray, greasy sheen from decades' worth of exposure to exhaust particles, brake dust, rubber granulate and toxic fumes of all types.

Several supposedly transparent skylights had been built into the flat-topped roof to provide natural light to the working area below, but none of them had survived the decades in good condition: they had all turned opaque which meant the natural light had no way of reaching the mechanics after all. Permanent strip lights as well as portable work lights had been brought in to take care of the illumination.

Rows of sturdy work benches and large, metal toolboxes on wheels lined the short left-hand wall as well as the entire back portion of the garage. Professional machinery for fabrication - like cutting, stamping and rolling metal - had been placed in a cluster along the right-hand wall next to a high-pressure cleaning cabinet that could strip even the worst oily residue or road gunk off any iron component within a few minutes.

Advertising banners for all the body shop's commercial partners had been attached to the upper part of the walls next to a large US flag, a smaller Nevada state flag, and finally a picture frame that contained the gold-rimmed victory banner from the year when the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop's team of mechanics had bested fifty other garages to win the state-wide Hylton ProTools Precision & Perfection Tournament.

The ubiquitous pretty-girl calendar graced the wall above the main work bench that also saw a row of four trays carrying plenty of spare nuts, bolts and plastic clamps as well as numerous other little doodads, wotsits and thingamajigs. An eight-tall stack of instruction manuals to various vehicles took up an entire corner of the work bench - the stack needed to be supported by a gallon-sized can of motor oil or else it would long since have tipped over onto the concrete floor.

A Dodge sedan had been moved seven feet off the ground on the first of the two pneumatic lifts. Its engine was running so a large sock-like hose had been clamped onto the tail pipe to catch the exhaust fumes. One of the body shop's mechanics worked underneath the Dodge holding a strong flashlight and a special analysis tool that measured the CO2 levels and surface temperatures along the entire exhaust system. Though the car's onboard computer insisted there was a pressure leak somewhere, it couldn't pinpoint the exact location - in short, old-fashioned manpower was still required to find the leak and fix it.

In spite of the whining ventilation fan that took care of the fumes, all the traditional smells of such a place were present: the typically greasy odors of fresh and waste oil, the repugnant stench of catalytic converters and burning hot exhausts, and the strong presence of new and old rubber.

Next to the Dodge sedan, two people worked hard on a huge, dark-red 1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible. The land yacht - that had once been owned by former pro-wrestler Joe-Bob 'The Manbeast Of Yucky Flats' Millard - had seemed fine at first glance, but it had revealed a multitude of little niggles, medium-sized problems and major disasters once Wynne and the body shop's senior mechanic, the ex-pat Swede Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson, had started working on it. It had taken them far longer to get the enormous vehicle back on all fours than either had anticipated, but at least the flashing lights at the end of the tunnel spelled H-O-P-E and not D-A-N-G-E-R.

The six-foot-two, 260 lbs., early-fifty-something Bengt had often been called intimidating or even terrifying to those who didn't know him, but he was in fact a cuddly teddy bear behind his hefty frame, shaved head and foot-long full beard. He could lose his temper at times, but only when asked questions like 'Is it true there are more polar bears than people in Sweden?' or 'I've heard of your old home city of Gothenburg. It's the capital of Norway, right?' - The correct answers to those questions can only be 'You need to go to a Zoo to see a polar bear,' and 'Hell no!'

At present, he wore safety boots and a pair of bib dungarees over a short-sleeved, red T-shirt that was put under severe strain by his belly and meaty upper arms. A wad of twist peeked out of his rear pocket - now and then, he used it to mop his brow so sweat wouldn't drip into his eyes when he worked.

Wynne had donned her usual work clothes in the shape of sturdy safety boots, heavy-duty coveralls, thick gloves, bubble-goggles and a set of hearing protectors that featured an integrated radio. She had moved down into the grease pit to work on tightening the bolts on the bracket for the Cadillac's left-right leaf springs. While there, she listened to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack that broadcast out of Lansingburg.

At present, the radio station played Barbara Warren's I Loved You Too Much, a sad song about lovers drifting apart. It seemed that sad songs were the thing to play on the popular spot on the dial as Tired Of Walking Away by The Tender Roses soon picked up where I Loved You Too Much had left off.

When all four bolts had been tightened on the left rear, Wynne moved over to the right to give the other set the same treatment. All done, she took off one of her thick gloves to scratch her damp hair.

The bumpers had been re-chromed, all the bushings had been replaced with fresh rubber, all the bolts in the steering components were new, the brakes had been upgraded, the exhaust was new from the manifold to the tailpipes, the 3-speed transmission had been stripped, cleaned and fully lubricated, the 500-cubic-inch GM big-block V8 had been given a ground-up restoration that had it purring like a full-bodied, laid-back mountain lion. The gas tank had been replaced, brand new panels had been welded into the floor in place of the old, rusty ones, the wheels had been given period-correct chrome hubcaps, and the tires were Coker Classic narrow-stripe whitewalls to give it a 1976 time-warp quality.

Topside, the leather seats had been re-wrapped by a professional upholsterer, every carpet had been cleaned and vacuumed several times, the air-conditioning unit had been flushed and refilled, most of the instruments on and under the dashboard had been replaced, the rear-view mirror and the left-hand side mirror had been re-chromed, the enormous rag top had been mended, and the hydraulic actuators that operated the convertible top had all been fixed or replaced so they would work when called on. The iconic Cadillac emblems had just come back from re-chroming and were lined up on a work bench off to the side for later installation.

Tired Of Walking Away by The Tender Roses segued into Chas Radcliffe's Blood On The Floor as Wynne climbed the metal staircase to get back upstairs. Fat-Butt was busy at one of the other work benches putting the finishing touches on the left-front light cluster. A six-pack of Summer Dreamz Cherry Colas, three of which were already empty, was ready next to where he stood.

The abundance of sad songs made Wynne reach up to turn off the radio. The sudden silence that spread within her hearing protector made her take it off and hang it over her shoulder. A wide yawn cracked her face wide open as she shuffled over to the work bench to grab one of the overly sweet soft drinks that Fat-Butt favored.

Taking off her work gloves, she leaned against the bench, cracked open the can with a Pssshhhttt! and took a long swig. She crinkled her nose at the somewhat artificial taste, but it was either that, stale coffee or plain tap water as Otto Kulick the Third - the owner of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop - had issued a blanket ban against all types of beer, even those that didn't contain any alcohol like Wynne's beloved Double Zeros.

Wynne rolled her shoulders several times. Holding up her arms to tighten two dozen bolts on the leaf springs and elsewhere had given her a severe crimp in her neck that refused to go away. To compound her misery, her lower back gave her grief as well - a result of yet another awkward job when she had needed to twist herself into a pretzel to work under the dashboard re-attaching a cable that had come loose.

Her nose crinkled a great deal more when she took the next swig of the Cherry Cola. "Ugh… howdahell y'all can drink that there sugah watah jus' goes way ovah mah head. It be Gawd-awful, pardnah!" Done with it, she put the can on the work bench and pushed it as far away as possible.

"I think it's really great. We didn't have it back home when I left… to me, this is the taste of America," Fat-Butt said in his trademark inch-thick, sing-song Swedish accent. He pointed at the can. "You don't want the rest?"

"Naw!  Y'all got mah blessin' ta knock yerself out, buddy!"

Grinning, Fat-Butt grabbed the half-empty can and made short work of the rest of the excessively sweet soft drink.

At the same time, the mid-forty-something Cletus Brown - whose skin color was a medium-toned shade of his last name - stepped into the four-bay garage. The slick used-car salesman wore gray shoes, a cobalt-blue three-piece suit, a white shirt and a pale-blue necktie held in place by a gold tie clip. Narrow, golden-framed reading glasses that made him look even slicker graced his nose.

He soon eyed Wynne and Fat-Butt who had remained at the work bench. Smiling, he strolled over to them. "How convenient that I'd find you here, Wynne. Hello," he said as he put out his hand for the traditional greeting.

"Howdy, Cletus," Wynne said, giving her friend's well-manicured hand a strong shaking. "Izzat a fact?  Y'all want som'tin specific, or…?"

"Remember the car I called you about?"

"Yuh… da mystery machine."

"It won't be for much longer," Cletus said and broke out in a beaming grin. "I've just heard from the flatbed driver. He's five miles north of town and closing fast. Won't be long before you can see it."

"Haw!  Aintcha gonn' tell me whaddahell it be?"

Cletus's grin only grew wider as he said: "Nope!"

"Man, y'all is such a darn tease, ya know that?  Lawwwwr-die, this bettah be good!" Wynne said, suddenly reaching out in an attempt to poke Cletus in the gut - the slick salesman was used to evading such gestures and quickly stepped out of range.

"It's good, Wynne. Trust me," he said, straightening his tie.

"Aw, I be trustin' y'all, friend. I jus' ain't sure I be trustin' that there cahhh-r there… not aftah all them hopeless wondahs y'all done showed me ovah da years an' all."

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Cletus said, holding up his hands when Wynne opened her mouth to reply. "No, no, don't apologize for insulting my profession. I'll have the last laugh when you see it. And that's all I'll say for now."

Chuckling, Wynne tried to swat at Cletus's mid-section again but found herself evaded once more.

---

A short ten minutes later, the sound of nearby airhorns heralded the arrival of the flatbed truck that carried the mysterious and much-lauded vehicle. Wynne finished tightening a tiny screw in the light cluster before she wiped her brow on her sleeve. "Haw, les'go see whut kinda wreck ol' Cletus be trah'in ta sell me this time. Yuh?"

"Okay. It can't be any worse than that old Sunbird Cletus got as a trade-in the other week," Fat-Butt said with a grin.

"I sure as stink-on-shoot hope it ain't gonn' be!  That wussen a Sunbird but a Sunburp!  Lawwwwr-die, dat wus jus' Gawd-awful… that durn thing done hadden no flo'ah left at all. Nuttin' but rust, rust an' mo' rust. I ain't nevah gonn' figgah out how them seats wus even attached…"

Wynne pushed herself off the work bench and shuffled out to the inner courtyard with Fat-Butt keeping pace behind her. Tucker Garfield's yellow Ford F750 tow truck had taken up most of the space when she had arrived so she had needed to park her Silverado flush against the back wall of the utility shed connected to the gas pumps. Although it meant she'd had to walk further to get to the garage, it had been a stroke of good fortune for a change as it left plenty of room for the flatbed truck that soon turned into the inner courtyard.

Its driver jumped down from the tall cab and promptly climbed up onto the flatbed itself. The truck's diesel engine kept idling as its power was needed to operate the winch that would lower the entire bed onto the ground; the noisy process was soon underway.

Cletus joined them before long, hurrying along the inner courtyard to get to the garage from his regular spot out in the sales office - the consummate professional knew how to multitask as he had his telephone stuck to his ear finalizing a deal.

Wynne scratched her head at the sight of the olive-green tarp that covered the vehicle on the flatbed. Although car-shaped, it completely obscured all features and made it impossible for her to discern anything whatsoever. "Haw, Cletus… I 'membah y'all tellin' me them brakes wus goh-ne so y'all hadda ship it he', but wouldya mind tellin' me whah that there cahhh-r there literally be undahcovah?  I coudda sworn y'all done tole me it wus an okeh vee-hickel…"

"Oh, it is, but the window in the passenger-side door is stuck fully open," Cletus said before he returned to his telephone conversation to close the deal he had been working on until then. When he was ready for Wynne and Fat-Butt, he slid the telephone into his pocket and turned on his world-famous 200-watt smile that all used car salesmen learned on their first day on the job. "It's probably just a simple thing like a snapped sprocket. You know how those tiny plastic things can easily break. Or it may be a minor electrical issue."

"Yuh-haw?" Wynne said and put her gloved hands on her hips. "Lawrdie, I sure know whut y'all call a minah is-shoe. I be havin' nightmares 'bout them there so-called minah is-shoes!"

The noisy process of lowering the flatbed's rear end onto the ground was finally completed. Not to be outdone by the teeth-watering whine of the main drive, the winch that controlled the sturdy chains that held the car in place made even more of a racket as it lowered the covered vehicle off the ramp and onto the inner courtyard.

Once the chains had been removed, Wynne strode forward. "Fat-Buhh-tt, grab that there cornah ovah yondah… I gotta see this he' fabled vee-hickel." Working in unison, Wynne and Fat-Butt had soon pulled the olive-green tarp off the car.

From one split second to the next, Wynne froze to the spot. She could do nothing but stand there like a marble statue while sporting a wide-eyed stare at the car that had come into view - a croaked "Golllllllly…" was the only sound she could utter.

The mystery machine turned out to be a 1989 Pontiac Firebird TransAm. The visible parts of the car seemed to be in an okay condition although the left-front fender did have two spots of rust near the wheel arch, and the right-rear quarter panel featured a deep dent that saw the paint flaking.

Its fire engine-red coat of paint had turned flat and dull over the years, and it had several years' worth of road dust all over it, but it appeared as if a professional wash-and-buff-job could salvage it. The glass in the side-mirror on the driver's side door had cracked into a hundred pieces, but the door window itself, the windshield and the large, hugely expensive rear window, known as the Glassback, were all intact and in surprisingly good shape given their age.

The tires were tinted in an unhealthy mix of browns and grays rather than black which meant they needed to be replaced as soon as possible. The TransAm had standard steel wheels rather than the expected aluminum or chrome rims usually mounted on the cars with the top-of-the-line trim levels.

All the panel gaps around the doors, the rear hatch and the hood were adequate, but the left-front headlight assembly poked up half an inch compared to the one on the right. Although it indicated that something was wrong with the actuators controlling the flip-up lights, it had been a common, but relatively minor, problem on the entire third generation of Firebirds and TransAms that had been built from 1981 to 1992. The chin spoiler below the nose section saw a fair amount of curb-inflicted scratches and even a small crack off-center.

Cletus and Fat-Butt both started chuckling at the dreamy look upon Wynne's face. The former opened the driver's side door and pulled the lever for the hood. "Come on over and take a look, Wynne," Cletus said, waving his stunned friend closer to the car.

The aftermarket, gas-filled struts couldn't quite keep the large piece of metal from sagging back down, so Fat-Butt took it upon himself to do the job while they inspected it.

Grinning, Cletus began a sales pitch in his customary buttery voice: "That's a low-milage, three-fifty small block. Factory-installed tuned port fuel injection as I'm sure you know. Newish spark plugs, newish distributor and plug wires, oldish GM-approved AC Delco battery, brand new engine oil, new oil filter, newish transmission oil, newish power steering fluid, newish brake fluid, newish aluminum radiator with a tranny cooler bolted onto it. GM-approved pipes, hoses and clamps. The A-C unit isn't working and I think you should just pull it out. The steering gear needs lubrication and new bushings. All four shocks are old and worn. And, like I've told you already, the brake pads are so worn down they're really not there at all. The rotors are fine, but probably a little rusty after standing still for a couple of weeks."

Wynne could only nod. Little by little, she returned to the real world after spending the past several minutes cruising along the State Route in her fire engine-red dreamboat with Mandy at her side, the dogs on the half-sized back seat and a picnic set in the trunk under the Glassback window. She walked the long way around the vehicle to take it in from all angles.

She had almost returned to normal when she reached the engine bay. Her game face was firmly in place as she inspected the hardware. "Haw… yuh, the frame horns are straight. Ain't had no knocks or nuttin' up he'. Tha crush structure be nice an' straight as well. Tha motah don't sweat none. Engine mounts ain't torn or abused. No rust in them shock towers. That be good, yessir. A li'l bit o' corro-shun at them battery poles. Ain't nuttin' unusual. Undahside o' that there hood don't got no oil splattahs or nuttin'. Okeh, that there aftahmarket insula-shun felt gone bah-bah, but that ain't nuttin' unusual, neithah."

Pulling out the engine dipstick, she found the color and viscosity of the oil to her liking. There were enough fluids in the reservoirs for the power steering and the power brakes. The radiator could perhaps use some coolant, but it would have to suffice for the time being as she didn't intend to run hot laps up at Thunder Park.

"Yuh… tell ya whut, ol' Cletus… I sure be int'rested an' all, that ain't no lie. I need-a know how it runs first, tho', brakes or no brakes. Sure ain't gonn' buy nuttin' sight-unseen, if y'all catch mah drift."

Still grinning, Cletus handed Wynne the key fob. "Be my guest. Just don't forget there's almost zero retardation when you hit the brake pedal."

"Aw, I'mma-gonn' pop that there Tremec R-fo'ah tranny inta low an' just play a li'l out on Main Street. No trubbel," Wynne said as she opened the long door and peeked inside. "Haw, tha dome light ain't workin'."

"Probably just a minor-"

"Minah is-shoe, yuh-haw. Aw, it don't mattah none anyhows 'cos that there headlinah be kinda saggin' as well. When that be off fer re-gluin', tha dome light gonn' get a new bulb. Othah than that, it kinda looks okeh in he'."

Satisfied with what she had seen so far, she put her boot in the footwell and slid behind the sporty steering wheel. The wheel itself, the instrument panel behind it and all the flip-switches on the center console screamed the 1980s in all their plasticky glory, but that didn't bother her. The cloth seats and carpets smelled old and dusty, but that didn't bother her either as her latest 1979 Chevrolet K10 had smelled exactly the same.

Cletus leaned in to point at a vacant spot on the lower dashboard. "The GM Anti Theft System has been removed, Wynne. You may want to reinstall it as it'll give you a much better bargaining position with the insurance people."

"Okeh. Yuh, I done heard that there PASS-key system done acted up from time ta time. Noted. So it jus' be a twist'n'run cahh-r?"

"That's right."

"Okeh. Lemme trah."

She almost pumped the gas pedal a couple of times to flood the carburetor before she remembered the 350cui engine had direct injection - the fuel injector points obviously didn't need to be cajoled like that, and could in fact be damaged by it. Then she twisted the ignition key.

The V8 coughed, chugged, spluttered and chugged a little more before it gave up the struggle with the flat battery that hadn't been used for weeks. "Aw, shoot… that durn battery… now if that ain't typical Wynne Donnah-hew, I sure don't wanna know whut is!" Wynne said, thumping her hand onto the rim of the steering wheel.

Cletus whistled a few unconnected notes as he pretended not to notice that the car wouldn't start - Fat-Butt simply walked into the garage to get a BoosterPac jump-start set instead. Once the appropriate cables had been hooked up, he gave Wynne a thumbs-up.

Everything came to life on the second attempt of twisting the key. The engine soon settled down and sent plenty of purring harmonies through the X-pipe setup and the single RoarMaster muffler out back. Once it had idled for a while, Wynne dabbed the throttle and grinned at the way it responded.

Climbing back out, she tested the dipstick on the automatic transmission. The oil was mostly pink with the odd dark speck that indicated they might as well change it to be certain of its quality. "Okeh, les'lowah this he' hood back on down," she said before she and Fat-Butt worked together to get it secured. "Yuh, that there headlight there sure needs fixin', eh?  It be pokin' out. Aw, ain't no biggie."

"Do you like it?" Cletus said, needing to stand next to Wynne to be heard over even the regular exhaust.

"Haw-yuh!  I sure do, ol' buddy. Say, them there pre-mufflah straight pipes up front y'all done men-shunned… how're they activated?  Mechanically or electrically?"

"From what I've been told, it's a mechanical system. There's meant to be a lever close to the manifold that needs to be pulled… or perhaps turned. I'm not sure."

Wynne and Fat-Butt shared the briefest of looks before she popped open the hood once more. The lever was soon found and manipulated - and from one moment to the next, the already nifty three-fifty turned into a ferocious killer beast on the prowl. "Awwwwwww-yuh!  Now we tawkin'!  That be da Nascahhhhh-r sound right there, yessirree!"

Wynne needed to shout to be heard over the earthquake-like symphony in V8 that blasted through the cut-out straight pipes that bypassed the entirety of the regular exhaust including the catalytic converter and the muffler.

After sliding behind the wheel, she put on the seat belt, selected reverse and trickled backward to get to the entrance of the inner courtyard. Once there, she applied the brakes and promptly let out a "Whooooooa… ol' Cletus sure wussen shittin' me when he done said them brakes wus gohhh-ne. Man, I need-a be careful he'…"

Selecting Low on the Tremec 700-R4's T-handle shifter, she trickled away from the lots and onto the forecourt by the gas pumps. The needle on the gas gauge had almost reached the peg at 'E,' but her entire trip would be less than 100 yards so she would have enough.

She let it trickle away from the pumps and onto Main Street. Checking the mirrors and looking ahead, she soon realized she was all alone. The TransAm needed plenty of persuasion to come to a halt, but she did so by standing on the brake pedal and putting it into neutral.

A regular burnout was out of the question with no brakes to hold the car in position, but a short burst of speed was certainly on the cards. A thoroughly cheesy grin spread over her face as she selected Low again and added more and more pressure to the throttle. When it was trickling along nicely, she planted her boot on the pedal to let the unrestricted V8 roar.

The far-too-old tires broke traction at once and sent out reams of gray smoke as the horsepower met the road through the hard, old rubber. The thunderous roar from the open exhausts was matched by a delighted howl from W. Donohue as the straight pipes made such a racket that it caused windows to rattle all the way up and down Main Street.

It wouldn't benefit anyone to blast past the sheriff's office at Warp 9, so she eased off the gas and stood on the brakes halfway down the street toward the intersection at Second and Main.

The cheesy grin froze on Wynne's face when she saw none other than Sammi 'The Sewer Gal' Seaborn lumbering into the intersection in her brand-new - not to mention huge - Toyota Tundra with its sludge tank out back. Although the TransAm's speed continued to go down, it was almost inevitable that she was going to get her second brown shower of the week.

"Awwwwwww-hell no!  That sure as stink-on-shoot ain't gonn' happen!" she cried, spinning the steering wheel to the right. The car responded by turning onto Second Street on two wheels - and since those wheels and the tires attached to them weren't the newest, they created plenty of smoke and pitiful screeching.

The Pontiac finally ran out of steam another seventy yards along Second Street. Wynne used the last of its momentum to make a U-turn and park in front of Wyatt Elliott's hardware store. She quickly turned off the engine to strangle the thunderous symphony that played from the straight pipes before the deputies or - the racing Gods forbid, the sheriff - would become aware of the wild noises.

"Okeh, that sure wussen mah finest moment, nosirree… shoot, that coudda been nasty, that. Okeh. Lesson learned," she mumbled as she stared at the intersection and Septic Sammi's truck that had come to a rocking halt in the middle of the street.

Wynne continued to watch as Sammi mirrored the U-turn and drove back toward the stranded TransAm. The truck had barely reached Wynne's spot before Sammi rolled down the window to roar: "Just what the flyin' frick do you think you're doin', pal?!  What the hell?  Wynne?"

"Yuh, it be me, awright," Wynne said after rolling down the driver's side window to match the state of the one on the passenger side. "Lissen, I sure am sorry 'bout that. Ol' Cletus jus' got this he' TransAm an' I be thinkin' o' buyin' it… but them brakes be gohhh-ne."

"Yeah, okay. Apology accepted," Sammi said, running her fingers through her buzzcut. "Just don't do it again. Ever!"

"Sure ain't gonn', Sammi. Yuh… tawk ta ya latah."

"Yeah," Sammi said before she made another U-turn to carry on with her original business.

Nodding, Wynne reached into a pocket for her telephone - Cletus' number was soon found and selected. "Howdy, pardnah. This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew, but I reckon y'all knew that alreddy. Tell ya whut… ya sure wussen kiddin' 'bout them brakes!  Good shittt almighty, friend!"

'No, I told you-'

"Y'all did, but I reckon I didden lissen hard enuff. Lawrdie, I almost done headbutted Sammi Seaborn's sludge tankah an' that sure woudden ha' been fuhhhh-n, nosirree."

'The Sheriff will roast my chestnuts over an open fire if you've hurt yourself, Wynne…'

"Naw, I be purr-fectly fihh-ne an' all, an' there ain't no scratches on this he' TransAm that wussen he' befo'. But I almost done wrecked, sure ain't no lie. It wussen far off or nuttin'. Anothah five miles per hou'ah an' it woudda been crunch-time. Anyhows. Othah than that, this he' vee-hickel be awesome, lemme tell ya!"

'Well, I'm glad to hear it. Can you get back on your own?'

"Naw, I sure can't, pardnah. Wouldya mind askin' ol' Fat-Buhh-tt ta crank up that there truck o' his an' come down ta Second Street fer a tow back?  Haw, an' it needs-a be a tow bar an' ain't no rope 'cos… ya know, no brakes or nuttin'. Ain't no need ta run inta Fat-Buhh-tt's buhh-tt, if y'all know whut I mean."

'All right. Hold on… Bengt, Wynne needs a tow-'

"A tow bar, friend!"

Cletus let out an 'Uh-huh,' before he continued to speak to Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson up at the other end of Main: 'A tow bar, not a rope. She's stopped at Second Street. Okay?  Wynne, are you still in my ear?'

"Sure iz, buddy!"

'Bengt's already climbing into his truck. It won't be long.'

"Okeh, much obliged, Cletus."

'Are you going to wait there?'

"Yuh, I be waitin' right he', dontcha worry none 'bout that!  An' once I get back, we gonn' start nego-shi-atin' 'cos this he' thing got mah nah-me written all ovah it. Yessirree!"

'You don't say!'

"Whah, I sure do. Didden y'all jus' hear me say it?  Okeh, bah-bah, Cletus. Be tawkin' real soon."

Grinning, Wynne put the telephone back into her coverall's liner pocket. When Fat-Butt got there less than two minutes later, she climbed out to help her friend attach the tow bar to his truck's trailer coupling.

-*-*-*-

That same evening, back home in the trailer park - 7:45pm.

The rest of Mandy's Thursday had been as dull and uneventful as the first part, so she had declared it a lost day, clocked out early and had gone home for supper instead of eating over at Moira's. At present, she and Wynne shared the couch while pairs of empty plates and beverage cans graced the old, scratched coffee table following a quality serving of spicy, chunky tomato soup, Mexican-style meatballs and wholegrain buns that were perfect for soaking up the soup.

Blackie and Goldie were resting in their doggy-basket over by the TV - the dogs were snuggled up tight while sharing a bowl of water, some dry feed and a couple of sticks of jerky. Their day had been spent in joyous company with the Rottweiler Freddie. The large dog wasn't as nimble as the Dynamic Duo, but his stamina far outweighed Goldie's and even matched Blackie's so he had been able to play Catch Your Tail with them all day.

Even the world's toughest Last Original Cowpoke couldn't withstand the force of nature known as Mandy Jalinski's Cocked Eyebrow & Pointed Look. Wynne had been well underway retelling her misadventures in the sports car in her typical, inimitable fashion when she had realized that Mandy's fair eyebrow was going up while the rest of her face seemed to harden.

"Uh… an' som'tin. Yuh," Wynne said, squirming under Mandy's chilling glare. She fidgeted a little, blinked a couple of times and fidgeted a little more - then she reached for her telephone. "Lemme show y'all them pic-chures ag'in!"

"I saw them the first time."

Wynne had already found her telephone and had accessed the countless photos and video clips she had taken when she and Fat-Butt had returned to the garage. She was already in the process of turning it over when she realized Mandy's reply had been less than positive. "Yuh, I reckon tha paint be a li'l dull… but it ain't… nuttin'… a quick buff 'n polish- okeh. Y'all done seen 'em. Okeh."

The gap in the conversation left plenty of time for a Pssshhhht! and a few gulps of an H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero. Wynne scratched her cheek - though her skin was silky-smooth, the gesture seemed to make twice the racket it usually did as a result of the stony silence that had fallen over the couch. "I ain't done signed nuttin' yet 'cos Fat-Buhh-tt wanted ta call 'round ta get quotes on some o' them there parts that need fixin', but… yuh. An'… an'… lissen, y'all sure don't look ovahly excited, darlin'… ya reckon I done made one o' them there bad mistooks-"

"Yes!" Mandy said, poking Wynne in the chest.

"Haw…"

"Not buying the car… even if I think it will be a waste of your money just like the last project. No, I'm talking about you playing Russian roulette with your life trying to prove God-knows-what by blasting down Main Street in a thirty-four-year-old piece of junk that doesn't have any brakes!  Goddammit, Wynne!"

Wynne squirmed a little more before she broke out in a nod. "Yuh. Wussen my smahr-test moment, wus it?"

"No, it sure as hell wasn't!" Mandy let out an impressive huff before she fell silent - it lasted all of three seconds. "It was a thoughtless moment. If you'd crashed into Miss Seaborn's truck and had injured yourself, or her, driving an unregistered, uninsured car, you would have been in deep, deep trouble!  Number one, the medical bills. Number two, it would have been a felony, Wynne!"

"Ugh… really?"

"Yes!"

"Lawrdie, I didden think o' that… I jus' wanted ta hear that there Vee-eight…"

Mandy's look hardened even more. "So you went foot-to-the-floor in a car with no brakes."

"Uh… naw, it wussen 'xactly like that. I ain't sure I even broke da speed limit or nuttin'. I wussen goin' that fast, honest… it jus' sorta, kinda, went off them rails at tha wrong dang moment an' all."

"Don't. Do. That. Again. Okay?  Please?"  A pregnant pause developed between them before Mandy let out a long sigh and snuggled up tight next to the taller body next to her. She eased off the high-pressure situation to continue in a far gentler tone: "Please don't do anything like that again, hon. All right?  I love you too much."

"Yuh… luv y'all too, darlin'," Wynne said in a quiet voice - the situation called for a kiss, so she placed a simple, but loving, peck on Mandy's golden locks.

A small smile graced Mandy's features, but she soon gained a distant look in her eyes. "Just the other night, I got a bad knot in my stomach when we were informed of the DUI who rolled his truck in the desert… I worried you might have been involved."

Wynne let out a comforting "Mmmm…" as she pulled the better half of her soul into a sideways hug.

Mandy kept quiet for a long while until she let out a slow sigh and spoke in hushed tones: "You know I've had to nurse dying people at accidents. I've held their hand to ease their pains or provide relief from their mortal fears. Sometimes, their injuries were too severe and they died mid-sentence… to see their faces relaxing in death from one second to the next is an awful experience. I've dragged fatalities from crashed cars… it happened just last fall down at Haddersfield Pass, remember?"

"Yuh…"

Mandy grabbed Wynne's hands and held on tight. "Please, honey, just think it through. All right?  The next time you feel a need to try something like that, just think it through. It might not be a good idea after all. I never, ever want to come to an accident site and find you… you know. Not there anymore. God, let's talk about something else. This is too damn depressing."

Wynne placed another peck on Mandy's locks before she pulled her into a strong hug. "Yuh. I sure am sorry fer actin' like a teenagah. A brainless teenagah. I reckon I really wus dumbah than an upside-down sack o' shit jus' then. An' I promise I ain't gonn' be that dumb ag'in fer a good, long while."

"Thank you."

"Aw, yer welcome an' all. Les'lighten tha mood, haw?"  The third and final peck was duly delivered onto the golden locks before Wynne shuffled to the side to have room to get up from the couch. "Darlin', whah dontcha sit right he' while I'mma-gonn' clean up ou'ah suppah mess an' find them there li'l things that done arrived in da mail this he' morn'. Haw?"

Mandy looked up and shot her partner a tired, emotional smile that was a rare guest on the usually so unflappable Sheriff's face. A brief moment later, she let out a simple "Okay," that covered the situation perfectly.

---

"Tah-dah!" Wynne said five minutes later as she put a tray of goodies onto the old, worn coffee table. "Haw, wouldya lookie he'. Ain't they awesome?  Yuh, he' we got item numbah one, a gen-oooh-ih-ne jar o' Gabrielle Grekko Goahh-lden Hew Skin Cream an' all… aw, an' that ain't enuff 'cos he' we got da moi-stah-rizah. Yuh?  I gotta admit, this he' li'l jar be oh-so-perdy. An' then we got da big, ol' fluffy bathrobe, yes Ma'am!  Haw, an' da color is da same, dang-blasted shade as yer eyes!  Sure is, darlin'!  Ain't dat som'tin?"

For the first time since supper, Mandy broke out in a wide grin as she took the care products out of their small boxes. She quickly unscrewed the cap of the moisturizer to take a sniff - her smile broadened at the delightful fragrance. "Finally something positive," she said before she swapped the jar for the plastic bag containing the bathrobe.

The small tag listing the size proved to be correct, so she tore open the bag to take a closer look at the fluffy garment. "It looks great… did you check the invoice to see if we got that ten percent discount they promised at the check-out page?"

"Naw, I sure didden. Lemme take a gandah at that there piece o' papah," Wynne said as she shuffled over to the sideboard - the binder keeping all their recent bills and other official letters was soon brought into the open.

Wynne had only just archived the invoice the same afternoon so it was obviously the first document she found. In a mysterious and somewhat disconcerting fashion, the letters seemed to have become a great deal smaller and even a little blurry around the edges in the dim light. "Durn, I'mma-gonn' need readin' glasses befo' long," she said in a low mumble. "Aw… aw… aww… can't see jack in this he' light. Dang-it, Wynne Donnah-hew… y'all be gettin' ol'."

She shuffled over to the nearest lamp to try again - her finger was soon put into use as a pointer as she went over the various lines. "Okeh, les'see… ah… nuttin' yet… nuttin' yet… okeh, he' it be. Yuh, they sure didden pull a fast 'un on us there. We got that there discount, awright."

"That's nice. Oh, will you get back here so we can share the moment?"

Wynne let out an enthusiastic "Yes, Ma'am!" as she dumped the binder on the sideboard and raced back to the couch - the next twenty minutes were spent teasing, hugging, kissing and simply living life in the best possible fashion.

---

"Haw, so ol' Barry really be goin' ahead with it?  Lawrdie," Wynne said over the rim of a coffee mug some time later. Working on autopilot, she reached down to a dessert plate that held a mouth-watering variety of chocolates, several types of cookies and a batch of the small, marzipan pastries she had been introduced to up at the Tobin residence during the large FBI exercise earlier in the month.

"Yes. I wrote him a letter of recommendation that he'll need further along the line. He has to get in touch with a long line of people about the swap. Even some of the brass," Mandy said, holding her own mug of coffee.

Wynne reached onto the plate to find a cookie - her hand paused at one spiced with cinammon but eventually continued onward to a butter cookie that had been sprinkled with pearl sugar. "But lemme get this straight an' all… he ain't ack-chew-ly goin' nowheah, is he?  I mean, he still gonn' be sittin' there foulin' up da joint with them stinkarooneys o' his, ain't he?"

"That's the plan, yes. The only change is that he'll wear civilian clothes. It may hit a snag or two… this is Goldsboro, after all-"

"Lawrdie, yuh…"

"-but I'll do what I can to make the process go smoothly."

The next moments were filled with sound of Wynne munching the butter cookie and slurping the coffee with plenty of gusto.

Down on the floor, Goldie had fallen asleep and Blackie wasn't far off. She yawned several times before she went back to keeping her teeth in shape by gnawing on a bone - dental hygiene was important as there was no way of telling when she might need to sink her eye-teeth into the rear-end of a bad guy or a monster of some kind.

"I kinda like ol' Barry," Wynne said as she put down the mug. "Yuh. I kinda like his personality an' his sense o' humor. I reckon he ain't o' much use as a de-per-ty, tho'… okeh, apart from that there wondah-stunt he done pulled up at Keshawn's the othah day. Is he?"

"He has his moments… good and bad. He's very good when dealing with our older residents. Less so with younger people," Mandy said with a smile. "But all in all?  No. He's badly out of shape. He has a hard time concentrating on the job at hand. He tends to whine if things don't go his way. He and Deputy Reilly have a very unpredictable working relationship… some days, they can laugh at a shared joke, some days they're at each other's throats for no reason. I can't seem to put a lid on it which is even more annoying-"

"Hold 'em hosses, darlin'," Wynne said, reaching down to claw Mandy's thigh. "Ain't none o' that gonn' change jus' because he be showin' up in street clothes. He still gonn' be Barry, yuh?"

Mandy leaned over to place a quick kiss on Winne's lips that were still sweet from the pearl-sugar cookie she had just eaten. "Oh sure, but I have a feeling he'll lighten up now that most of his responsibilities will go away. His entire future job description will be to answer the watch telephone, update the incident report sheets and stay in touch with myself and the roaming deputies over the radio or the telephones. That's it. No traffic control, no patrolling the streets, no public appearances where he's occasionally heckled by the barflies… nothing. His aunt Mildred could do it!"

"Hell, darlin', even I could do that," Wynne said with a cheeky grin playing on her lips. "Uh, not that I wanna or nuttin'. Lawrdie, no. I be way too bizzy playin' pool, drinkin' beer an' watchin rasslin' an' stock-cahhhh-r racin'. An' speakin' o which… wouldya mind if I done turned on that there teevee there?  Half past the hou'ah, they gonn' be previewin' them races that gonn' be goin' on at Fontana this he' weekend."

Mandy's eyes gained a darker, sparkly quality. "Or you could record it," she said in a whisper. Down below, she let her fingers slide up Wynne's thigh en route to a destination that would reduce even the world's most exciting race preview to background noise.

Instead of replying verbally, Wynne mashed an index finger onto the button labeled 'Record' on the remote.

-*-*-*-

90 beautiful minutes later, Wynne reached up to pull their winter duvet down an inch or so so she had room to breathe. After the first exploratory session on the couch, they had relocated to the bedroom where everything had been amped up to another level. The telephones had been set to buzz or put in a drawer, the dogs had been asked politely to remain in the living room, and the lights had been dimmed to add a little kink to the pleasurable activity.

The warm, golden afterglow continued to flow through her like a lazy brook. All her super-heated, super-sensitive areas eased off from their heightened state of arousal in spite of Mandy still having her arms wrapped around her underneath the duvet. She closed her eyes to give the warmth within free reign to fill her senses.

A sated sigh from below the duvet heralded the arrival of Mandy who inched northward from her latest stop-over at Wynne's mounds. A warm hand slid upward, caressing whatever skin it could find on its way up to Wynne's prominent collarbones. It rested there for a moment before it continued further north to caress the throat and chin. "I love you," she said in a barely audible whisper.

"Luv ya mo'," Wynne replied, barely breathing the words.

"Impossible."

A few moments went by before they both broke out in snickers. Mandy buried her face in the crook of Wynne's neck and simply existed in the moment. Her breathing grew even and shallower, but she caught herself before she fell asleep. "Thank you. That was wonderful," she said as she traced Wynne's jaw and cheek with an index finger.

"Aw, an' thank y'all!  Yuh, it sure wus spe-shul. I jus' be glad I can still do it. Eh?"

Snickering a little more, Mandy placed a wet kiss on the side of Wynne's neck. "Don't tell me you doubted that!"

"Well, yuh," Wynne said as she let her fingers play along Mandy's bare back. "I got mahself a bad crimp in mah neck when I done worked on tha Caddy. Mah kneecap is still kinda sore aftah I done knocked it up at Keshawn's sto'ah an' all. I didden even realize until I trah'd ta crouch. Haw, pain tih-me. An' I mebbe gonn' need them readin' glasses befo' long. Shoot, I be gettin' ol'."

"I call it more experienced," Mandy husked, upgrading the wet kiss to running her tongue across Wynne's neck - the journey left a glistening trail.

Wynne let out an "Unnggh!" at the sensation. Her free hand soon roamed downward along Mandy's athletic back until it reached the rear curvature. Once there, a handful of smooth flesh was seized and fondled.

Mandy snickered at the tender kneading she was exposed to. To finish off her little bout of mischief, she blew a hot breath at the glistening trail on Wynne's neck. They exchanged a few smiles until they came to a silent agreement to ease off their teasing. "Are you really going to buy that sports car?" she whispered a short minute later.

"I reckon I am, yuh. Tha drivetrain is in tip-top shape. Them electric switches an' doodads all work… an' that's rare, lemme tell ya. It needs a li'l panelbeatin' an' there be jus' a touch o' rust in a-cuppel-a spots, but them things be Fat-Buhh-tt's spe-shual-ties. It done needs new wheels, tires an' brakes all 'round, but I mean… they jus' be reg'lar spare parts, yuh?  Aw, an' there be som'tin funky with that there passengah-side windah, but we didden ha' tih-me ta take a gandah at it. Don't take much mo' than a ten-cent piece o' plastic breakin' fer da windah motah ta seize up. An' da paint needs a good buffin', but that be da least offit."

"That's something I could help you with. Fire-engine-red is a cool color for a sports car… and quite fitting, too. It's still a Firebird, right?" Mandy said before she placed a little kiss on Wynne's cheekbone.

"Yuh, it sure is. Tha TransAm nah-me is tha sporty model o' tha Fiahbird. Much obliged, darlin'!  Yuh…"

"Just promise me you'll get the brakes fixed."

"Haw, cross mah heart, hope ta choke on a peanit," Wynne said, hastily carrying out the gesture she had mentioned. "Them brakes gonn' be da first ta go. Hell, they alreddy be gohhh-ne, but… anyhows. Yuh. I plum ferget if them TransAms have drums or discs out back. If it got them drums, we prolly gonn' upgrade it ta six-piston calipahs with drilled an' slotted rotahs all 'round."

"You're speaking Greek."

"Naw, I be perdy dog-gone sure I be speakin' Texan!" Wynne said and let out a long series of snickers.

Mandy shifted away from her living pillow so she could roll over onto her side. A moment later, Wynne did the mirror opposite so they were face to face once more under the covers - the love bolts soon started flying. The short distance between them was used to the fullest through plenty of nibbles and little kisses.

"This year will be busy for us, hon," Mandy said, drawing a pattern around Wynne's lips. "I need to make up my mind regarding running for my second term. What I really want is to help the community here, and… well, I feel that I am. If I decide to run again, we'll have to design all-new campaign material. Posters, flyers. Maybe larger billboards as well. Then we need to get it printed… all those things."

"Mebbe Nancy Noo-yen could help us with some o' that?  I mean, so it wus gonn' look profes-shunnal an' all. An' I bet Ritchie Lee woudden object ta makin' a few bucks poundin' Main Street with a sandwich-sign jus' like he done befo' Keshawn's sto'ah opened."

"It's worth a thought," Mandy said, nodding. "My concern is that it'll cost us a bundle… and I might not even get re-elected."

"Haw!  Izza done deal, darlin'. Whah, I oughtta be a poet…"

"It's not a done deal."

"Shoot, so y'all is tellin' me y'all know o' someone who be dumb enuff ta run ag'instcha?"

Mandy shrugged - it caused the covers to slip down a little so they were quickly pulled back up. "Word is that one of Artie Rains' cronies might run as a proxy."

"A whut?"

"A sock-puppet controlled by Rains."

"Aw… okeh. Whah, them low-down, no-good skunks… whaddahell they wanna do that fer?  Ain't none o' them dang-blasted crittahs got a hope in hell ta beat y'all in that there elec-shun!"

"No. Not if they fight fair. But will they?"

Wynne pulled back an inch or so to stare at Mandy's somber face. "Yuh. I hear ya, darlin'… it prolly gonn' get ugly. Buncha sohhhhhm-bitches. Naw, it be kissin' time, yuh?"

The gals smiled as they closed the distance between and set off enjoying a long line of little kisses - and some not so little. In short, the rest of the night got off to a good start.

*
*
CHAPTER 7

Friday, February 24th - 5:51am.

One of the oldest cliches in the Book of Love is that the morning after a hot night had a tendency to be chilly when the two people involved had the first chance to see each other sober, or in daylight, or both.

That wasn't the case for Wynne and Mandy, of course, but their morning was nevertheless off to an awful start when the weirdest buzzing sound interrupted their sleep. The buzzing went on and on and on until something vibrated itself off the bedside table and fell onto the floor with a loud Ka-lonkkkk!

A croaking "Haw?!  Whaddahell-izzat dang-blasted noise?" soon came from Wynne's side of the bed.

Like Mandy, The Last Original Cowpoke was buried under their duvet, and just like Mandy, she had very little interest in poking an arm, a leg, her head or any other body part outside the warm nest.

"Aw, ain't dat a phoah-ne?  Yuh, dat be a phoah-ne… somebodda's phoah-ne… sure ain't mah phoah-ne… naw, 'cos I turned that dang-blasted thing off! Whaddahell?"

Even the impact with the floor didn't stop the infernal buzzing that some evil soul had set on repeat - in fact, the buzzing telephone began dancing a demented conga as it vibrated itself into zigging and zagging all over the rug and in under the bed. Just about the only thing it didn't do was to shut up.

"Shoot, dat be mah sweet, li'l Mandy's ohh-fis-shual phoah-ne… darlin'?  Darlin', yer phoah-ne sure iz ringin'… darlin'?  Wakey-wakey… shoot… she be sleepin' like a sack o' cement. Aw-shoot, I bettah get that there darn thing…"

Sweeping the duvet aside, Wynne swung her legs over the side of the bed and opened her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she thought she had gone blind as all she saw was a wall of blackness directly in front of her. "Whoa… whaddindahell be goin' on 'round he'?  Whaddahell time izzit, anyhows?" she mumbled as she got to her feet and padded around the bed to find the buzzing culprit.

She eventually eyed the evil thing down on the floor - well on its way to disappearing under their bed - so she bent over to get it. Not only did this send a stab of pain up from her lower back, her abused kneecap protested wildly about the working conditions at such a time of the day. "Owch… ugh, I really, really, really be gettin' old… dad-gummit, I'mma-gonn' have somebodda spoon-feedin' me befo' long," she croaked as she finally wrapped her fingers around the telephone.

A croaking "Haw?!" burst from her when she clapped eyes on the white digits in the top-right corner of the telephone. "It only be five ta six in da dang-blasted morn'?!  Whah, that does it!  Somebodda 'boudda get a bucketful o' shit thrown at 'em!  I jus' need-a press this he' li'l bar an'… okeh."

Once the connection had been established, Wynne slammed the telephone to her ear. "Whoindahell be callin' me at sh-toopid dang-blasted o'clock in da sh-toopid dang-blasted mornin'?!  Fer cryin' out loud, dontcha know somebodda ack-chew-ly be trah'in' ta sleep he'?  Haw?!"

'Oh, the long arm of the law never sleeps. Good morning, Sheriff-'

"Naw, wait-a-minnit-"

'This is Special Agent Brooke Haimes from the Federal Bureau of Investigation-'

"Lady, y'all need-a hold 'em hoss-"

'The transport team is about to arrive in Goldsboro. ETA fifteen minutes or so. We're requesting official assistance from the Sheriff's Department regarding the safe handling of the two prisoners.'

Wynne let out a deep sigh as she rubbed her face with her free hand. "Lookie he', Spe-shul Agent Somebodda… it be six A.M., yuh?  Six!  Whydontcha good folks find a truck stop or som'tin somewhe' an' have breakfast an' then all y'all can swing bah at mebbe eight or so?  'Cos this he' be ree-dee-cue-luss, I be tellin' y'all!"

'You're not the Sheriff…'

"I sure ain't!  I be Wynne Donnah-hew, but I be lookin' at da sleepin' Sheriff right this he' minnit an' all, an' lemme tell y'all som'tin… y'all sure don't wanna experience Sheriff Mandy when she be cranky, but y'all sure is gonn' if y'all keep this he' crock o' shit up fer much longah, catch mah drift?"

The fiery speech had stirred the aforementioned Sheriff Mandy who soon folded down a corner of the duvet. She locked eyes with Wynne for a second or two - which wasn't easy across the dark room - before she reached for the telephone.

"Yuh, whut I done tole y'all," Wynne continued, "he' be tha Sheriff now. I sure ain't wanna hear nuttin' 'bout not warnin' y'all or nuttin'!" - The telephone was soon passed onto Mandy's waiting hand.

Once Mandy had received it, she pulled the duvet back up and disappeared into their warm, cozy nest. Keeping quiet while listening to what the FBI Special Agent had to say, she was soon speaking in a muffled voice that seemed to grow in intensity almost at once.

Wynne let out a chuckle as she hobbled back to her own side of the bed and sat down. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out their quiet morning was shot to pieces, so she donned her underwear and sweatsuit that had been hastily discarded the night before. Once she had stuck her arms into her housecoat and her feet into a pair of comfy slippers, she hobbled over to the sliding door and opened it with great care.

A muffled, but certainly fiery "Goddammit, I asked for a day's advance warning and you give me fifteen fuh… frickin' minutes?!  What the hell?" was suddenly heard from somewhere underneath the duvet.

Wynne broke out in a smirk at the tone of voice Mandy had used. "Yuh, like I done said 'bout that there cranky Sheriff there," she mumbled as she stepped into the kitchenette.

Blackie and Goldie were still fast asleep in their doggy-basket just beyond the sliding door, but the ever-alert Blackie came to when Human legs began moving back and forth right in front of her. She sat up and let out a quiet Woof?

"Howdy, mah darlin' Blackie… naw, this ain't gonn' be no good morn'. Or at least ain't no quiet morn'. Naw. C'mon, lemme fix all y'all some draaaah feed and coo' watah fer breakfast while be I be toastin' a-cuppel-a buns fer usselves."

Wynne had already opened the refrigerator door to get the buns and the milk when the Sheriff of Goldsboro appeared in the doorway to the bedroom sporting a face like thunder.

"I won't have time for breakfast, hon. Just coffee. Hot coffee. Hot, strong coffee," Mandy said, moving directly into the bathroom to relieve herself.

Forgetting all about the buns, Wynne made a beeline for the coffee machine to prepare a potful of rocket fuel. "Awwww, them durn Eff Bee Eye folks… betcha it be that there Lydeckah fella from that there thing the othah week be pullin' them strings jus' ta thumb his dang-blasted nose at us. Haw!"

Woof?

"Yuh, Lydeckah wus that there haaaah-an'-mighty senior agent or some such who done took ovah Goldsborah fer that there ex-uhr-cise. Shoot, y'all 'membah, dontcha?"

Woof.

"Yuh, I kinda reckoned y'all did. Lawrdie, it wus dang-near impossible ta get anythin' done he' then. Aw, it wussen all bad 'cos them marzipan treats that Hayley Tobin done served us sure wus awesome. Too bad dawgs can't eat no marzipan 'cos they wus yumm-mm-y, lemme tell ya."

Woof…

Once Mandy's usual to-go mug had been found in one of the cabinets, Wynne rinsed it and put it on the table so it would be ready. "Mercy Sakes, I hate rushin' in da mornin's… I always gedda no-shun I be fergettin' som'tin," she continued in a mumble. "But whut?  Wussen tha coah-ffee… I got mah undies on as well."

Woof?

"Y'all be sayin' I mebbe put 'em on front-ta-back?  Yuh, woudden be tha first time that done happened. Lemme check…" The housecoat and the sweatshirt were soon swept aside to allow room for a visual inspection of the aforementioned undergarment. "Naw, it wussen that, neithah. Aw, I ain't sure whaddahell I be fergettin'. Nevah mind. Eithah I find out or I don't… an' if I don't, it wussen nuttin' aftah all, wus it?"

Woof… woof.

"Yuh."

Mandy soon stormed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where she jumped straight into her uniform. She quickly buttoned the shirt and tucked the necktie in between the third and fourth buttons as the uniform code dictated. Then she pulled up the pants the rest of the way so she could close the button and the latch on her utility belt.

The coffee machine soon let out its usual blubbering while the delicious aroma piggy-backed on the column of pale-gray steam that rose from it. "Haw, I sure can't bah-lieve we be scramblin' this hard at this sh-toopid tihhh-me o' da day!" Wynne said as she re-arranged a few items on the kitchen table that she would need for her own breakfast later on.

Mandy's reply was a long, slow, pained sigh. "Me neither. What an insane week this has been. I can't wait for it to end."

All that activity meant that Goldie had come to as well. The Golden Retriever soon yawned and let out her typical morning yaps that meant, 'One, I need to find a nice, little spot in the desert for some morning business, and two, I expect to find a huge bowl of Lafayette's Dry Feed when I get back.' - Blackie soon joined her with a few brief woofs that meant more or less the same thing, except that she only asked for a small bowl of breakfast.

Chuckling, Wynne shuffled over to the inner door to let the dogs out. Once the screen door had slapped back into place, she closed the inner door and shuffled back to the coffee machine.

The blubbering came to an end a moment later indicating it was ready. Wynne gave it another thirty seconds for the last of the coffee to trickle through the filter before she took the pot and poured it into the to-go mug. "He' ya go, darlin'. Hawt, strong coffee… an' mebbe a li'l kiss or somtin'?"

"Kiss first, then coffee," Mandy said with a wink. The intimate contact was an unhurried affair that served as a combination of a Thank you for last night and a Good morning. I love you.

Moving back with a smile on her face, Mandy took the to-go mug from the counter. One heartbeat later, the reinforced bottom fell out of the mug and distributed the hot, strong liquid all over the front of her clean uniform.

Time came to a complete standstill.

Another heartbeat after that, time resumed to witness a cataclysmic detonation somewhere in the middle of the Nevadan desert - it rivaled the supernova that had created the famous nebula close to the Belt Of Orion up among the firmament. The amount of energy exuded in the initial flash alone could have kept the eight million neon lights on the famed Strip in Las Vegas running for a week.

Mandy's strong fingers crumpled the empty shell of the to-go mug until it was no more than a scrap of supposedly reinforced cardboard. Her face was beet-root red, her eyes were wide open and shiny, and her lips were drawn back in a feral sneer that would have frightened any critter from Frankenstein's monster to The Incredible Hulk.

A "Haw…" escaped Wynne once her hearing had been regenerated enough to hear herself. She looked at the dark-brown stain that reached from the top button of Mandy's shirt to halfway down her legs. "Lawrdie… dat be bad… dat be real bad… darlin', are ya hurtin'?  C'mon, tawk ta me… wus y'all burned or som'tin?"

"No… I'm… fine…" Mandy said in a voice that remained raw from the impressive, explosive outburst she had just delivered.

"Aw, that sure is a load off…"

They locked eyes for a moment before Mandy turned around and sloshed back into the bedroom to change for the second time in three minutes - she left a dark-brown and glistening wet trail behind on the kitchen floor.

"Shoot, I reckon I bettah find that there mop there… haw, darlin', wait up!  I betcha y'all gonn' need mah help gettin' them wet things offa-ya!  It sure can't get no wohhhhh-rse, haw?" Wynne said as she hurried after Mandy to aid with the undressing.

---

Five minutes later, Mandy emerged from the bedroom with a face like a summer thunderstorm - she had her telephone to her ear and a drowsy Beatrice Reilly at the other end of the connection. "Deputy, I'm sorry for waking you up, but the FBI prisoner transport team will soon be in town. They've asked for our assistance getting Parénte and Almería to their vehicle. You need to represent the Sheriff's Department until I get there. Yes. Yes, that's pretty much what I said when they called me… all right?  I'll be there within a quarter of an hour barring any natural or unnatural disasters. Yes… very well. Goodbye, Deputy Reilly."

The telephone was soon stuffed into one of the shirt's breast pockets. She looked down at herself and promptly broke out in a horrified grimace. Because her regular spare uniform was stored in her locker up in the crew room, all she had to wear was the old brown-and-browner Polyester horror that had looked awful even when it was brand new.

A long sigh escaped her - Wynne just snickered.

"Blackie and I better be on our way before something else happens," Mandy said before she got up on tip-toes to place a little kiss on Wynne's lips. "What are your plans for the day, hon?"

"Aw, breakfast… then a li'l o' this an' a li'l o' that. Racin' or rasslin', ain't decided yet. Prolly both, come ta think offit. Gonn' look at a-cuppel-a videos online 'bout them there TransAms ta mebbe get some ideahs or som'tin. Then I'mma-gonn' head up ta Goldsborah fer lunch at Moira's."

"All right. I'll see you in town, then. Love you."

The earlier kiss had been far too little for Wynne's tastes, so she took Mandy by the arms and laid a proper smooch on her lips. Once they separated, she offered her a wink and a "Luv ya like ca-razy, darlin'!" that would hopefully negate all the negativity they had been exposed to even at such a silly time of the day.

A scant minute later, Wynne leaned out of the window in the living area to wave goodbye to Mandy - the sheriff responded by flashing the emergency lights atop the Dodge Durango as she and 'Deputy' Blackie raced out of the trailer park to head to town.

-*-*-*-

The morning had been a bit too hectic for Wynne's tastes, so after letting Goldie back in to get her fair share of Lafayette's Quality Dry Feed - or possibly a bit more than her fair share as it was her number-one-favorite dry food in the entire world - the bedroom called out to her once more.

---

The world and everything in it seemed friendlier an hour later. The coffee machine was blubbering once more, and the toaster took care of a pair of wholegrain buns that were soon crunchy, well-buttered and covered in a solid spread of blackcurrant and strawberry jam, respectively.

Wynne had changed her clothes upon getting up for the second time, so as she stepped into the living area holding a tray with all the breakfast goodies, she wore a dark-green Skoal Bandit sweatsuit that carried the likeness of 'Handsome' Harry Gant and his #33 Oldsmobile from the 1991 NASCAR Winston Cup season. Downstairs, she had reused the white sports socks since she had only put those on the day before - the purple flip-flops remained as well.

Goldie whimseyed around Wynne's feet as she distributed the mug, the plate with the buns, an additional jar of raspberry jam - just to be on the safe side in case she needed another bun - and a few other little bits and pieces that she knew she would need, like spoons and her favorite brand of coffee creamer.

The golden dog soon jumped up into the couch hoping to get a post-breakfast, pre-lunch snack, but when she noticed the table carried nothing but edibles that only the occasionally odd Humans could enjoy, she jumped back down onto the carpet and continued playing.

"Haw, that cute, li'l dawg!  Naw, I bettah let 'er out ag'in befo' she done wrecks som'tin… like them there glass display cabinets there that done cost me plentah o' blood, sweat an' cussin' ta assemble," Wynne mumbled as she made a forty-five degree turn to head out to the porch door instead. Within three seconds of opening it, Goldie had bolted into the desert where she could run free without knocking into anything that could break.

Chuckling, Wynne shuffled back to the couch and picked up the remote. The race preview she had recorded on Mandy's suggestion had soon been cued up. The coffee was hot and good, the crunchy buns were exactly to her liking and the blackcurrant and strawberry jam was just the right combination of tart and sweet - unfortunately, the thirty-minute preview of the weekend's NASCAR races at Auto Club Speedway near Fontana, California was such a snoozefest that even the diehard enthusiast Wynne grew bored with it before long.

"Haw," she said once she had pressed Stop after forcing herself to watch it all. "I sure am glad I didden insist on watchin' it las'night an' all… Lawrdie. Woudda been a mood-killah fer sure. Aw, them RCR Camarahs bettah have a less destructive weekend than at Daytoh-n, that be all I'm wishin' fer… naw, a-cuppel-a top fih-ves sure woudden be bad, neithah. Yuh, that sure woudden be bad."

As she spoke, she leaned over to her left so she could admire the display cabinets that held a great deal of her new diecasts. The shelves were occupied by plenty of Pontiacs, Chevrolets, Buicks and Oldsmobiles with one, solitary Ford or Mercury on each shelf to maintain a proper balance between the manufacturers.

Michael Waltrip's 1996 Wood Brothers Citgo Thunderbird - that won the big-money race The Winston that year - was the sole Blue Oval representative on the top shelf while Bill Elliott's 1988 championship-winning Melling Coors Thunderbird had that honor on the middle shelf. The bottom shelf saw Davey Allison's 1992 Daytona 500-winning #28 Yates Texaco-Havoline Thunderbird as one of the highlights.

"Mercy Sakes, how could somebodda like me ha' been so dang-blasted lucky?" Wynne said in a mumble as she studied the diecasts. "An' how could anybodda ha' sole them cahhhh-rs in tha first place?  Lawrdie, that sure beats me. Haw."

The familiar noises produced by gravel crunching under tires caught Wynne's attention. Getting up from the couch, she shuffled over to the window that offered her a view of the central lawn to see who it might be. A few moments later, the dark-bronze Ford SUV belonging to the Travers' rolled into view.

"Whah, if it ain't ol' Brendah an' Vaughn… naw, I gotta say howdy."

Spinning around, Wynne made a beeline for the bedroom where she swapped the flip-flops for a pair of sneakers, donned her regular denim jacket and plonked her beloved cowboy hat onto her dark locks.

"Howdy, Brendah!  Vaughn!" she said, waving high, wide and handsome to her neighbors. Once she got closer, the fatigue she saw written all over Brenda's expressive face was so vivid the spirited late-thirty-something almost didn't look like herself. "Whoa… whaddahell?  Y'all look like y'all jus' done a full race distance ovah yondah at Martinsville with no powah steerin' or nuttin'…"

"Hello, Wynne," Brenda said in a flat, listless voice that was a perfect match to her flat, listless expression. She wore no makeup for a change which only accentuated the grayness and fatigue etched onto her face - her travel clothes were rumpled and her hairdo looked as if it had gone a little too long between getting a shot of conditioner. "We were hit by turbulence… plenty of it. Like constantly. First our flight was delayed two hours out of New York… then we were sent on a long detour south over the entire eastern seaboard to stay clear of a storm front… that still ended up shaking us silly… and then non-stop turbulence almost the entire way to Las Vegas International."

"Owwwwch… Gawd-almighty. Huggin' time!" Wynne said and pulled her neighbor into a soft embrace. "Yuh, that right there be whah I ain't nevah gonn' set no foot in no airplane or nuttin'. No way. An' y'all can take that ta da bank."

ZZZZzzzzz…

"Haw?  Brendah?"

ZZZZzzzzz…

"Brendah, girl… wakey-wakey…"

ZZZZzzz- "Oh… pardon me," Brenda said, smacking her lips before breaking out into a wide yawn.

"Haw, don't bothah me none!" Wynne said with a grin. She kept a firm grip on Brenda's frame until the fit lady proved she had regained the ability to stand on her own.

While that had been going on, Brenda's husband Vaughn had moved the biggest of their travel bags into their trailer. "Good morning, Wynne. You look healthy," he said, adjusting his glasses.

As always, Vaughn Travers looked like a kitten next to his tiger-like wife. Dressed in gray shoes, dark-blue pants and a charcoal-gray windbreaker that had been zipped all the way up, he tried his best to blend in with the background.

His full beard was neatly groomed, his eyebrows were trimmed to perfection, and his dark hair sat like a bowl on his head. The square, dark-gray reading glasses rounded off the image of him looking like an elementary school librarian who had accidentally struck gold when he met his wife. For once, however, his face had gained some character through several dark, fatigue-induced furrows on his forehead.

"Yuh, I done hadda very nice evenin' an' a good night's sleep an' all. A crappy morn', tho', but it sure didden ruin da evenin' that went befo'. Whah, I reckon yer darlin' wihhh-fe he' gonn' be hittin' them sheets perdy dog-gone soon, too, now we men-shun it."

Brenda came back out of their trailer just as Wynne spoke of her - she offered her neighbor a tired grin and a little salute.

Vaughn let out a groan instead. "It was an awful, awful flight."

"So Brendah done tole me. Yuh. I reckon Noo Yawk City be a li'l too far away ta drih-ve even fer me, but… Lawrdie, whaddahell does Noo Yawk City got that I want?  A big, fat nuttin'. Anyhows, how wus da Big Apple?"

"I really can't say, Wynne. We only saw the airport, the back seat of an Uber, the hotel room, the conference hall, the back seat of another Uber and then the airport."

"Haw. No kiddin'?" Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "I ain't gonn' bothah askin' whut that there confah'rence wus, 'cos y'all alreddy done tole me twice an' I ain't got it yet… an' I only gonn' look like a foo' if I done ask all y'all a third dog-gone time 'bout that there same thing an' all. Yuh."

Brenda's face cracked wide open in a yawn as she reached into the rear of their SUV for the final travel bag and her personal toilet bag. "It was a productive conference, though," she said, pressing the little button that made the automated rear hatch lower itself into place. "We networked a lot. Got a couple of new business contacts that we'll pursue later on. They may turn into solid projects."

"Aw, that be good an' all, Brendah. I sure be happy fer all y'all."

Brenda put the carrier strap for the toilet bag over her shoulder before she turned around and shuffled over to Wynne. "What have you been up to these past days?  Your usual mischief?"

"Yuh. Yuh, I been doin' this an' that," Wynne said with a lop-sided grin. She nodded a couple of times to underscore her words. "Aw, I'mma-gonn' tell y'all all 'bout it tanight or tamorrah or whenevah. Y'all go get some sleep now, ya hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" - There was just enough time for Brenda to finish the brief sentence before her face cracked wide open in another jaw-busting yawn.

Once the door had closed behind Brenda and Vaughn, a pleasant calm fell over the small trailer park once more. The only sounds heard were the distant rumbling of a patrol jet out of Bradley Air Force Base and the occasional yaps emanating from Goldie who continued to run free in the desert. It was a little too soon for Freddie to join her, but it probably wouldn't be long before the large Rottweiler would tear across the sandy plains as well.

Wynne's only plans for the day was to drive to Goldsboro at noon to grab some lunch at Moira's. With no old truck to tinker with, she had more spare time than usual. She used some of it to stroll over to the trailer that had been owned by her dear friend Ernie Bradberry once upon a time before he and his wife, the Reverend Bernadine Russell, had moved to Cavanaugh Creek so she could be closer to her family and the church she worked at.

That the trailer was still for sale astounded Wynne, but she realized she had no idea of how the market for existing trailers worked. The carpenter who had spent a week and a half there upgrading or replacing some of the woodwork, like the floorboards in the living area as well as the entire rear porch, had long since left so the trailer was empty once more.

Peeking in through the kitchen window, a chill trickled down her spine at the eeriness of seeing it completely empty. She and Ernie had spent many fun hours in the kitchen making and then sampling his legendary home-developed hot sauces - some of the experiments had been horrific while others had hit the sweet spot on the first attempt.

Wynne strolled along the side of the trailer until she reached the windows at the living area. A sigh escaped her as she thought back to the countless times she and Ernie had watched old stock-car races together while ribbing each other mercilessly about their eternal allegiance to General Motors and the Ford Motor Company, respectively.

Revisiting all those memories from the good old days gave her present mood a bit of a knock, so she turned around and strolled back to her own trailer - at least she and Ernie still saw each other on a semi-regular basis. Ernie had found a new job as a janitor down in Cavanaugh Creek so he was keeping busy, and the Reverend Bernadine continued to work in a senior position at the Church Of The Holy Crusader.

"Yuh," Wynne said in a mumble, "but I still miss ol' Ernie, dag-nabbit… an' I can't even call an' tawk ta him durin' them days or nuttin' now 'cos he be at work. Lawrdie, I need some mo' coah-ffee… an' a classic Nascahhhh-r race. Aw. Som'tin fuhh-n… som'tin from Darlin'ton… haw, I be wearin' mah Skoal Bandit sweats, so… yuh, it gonn' be tha 'ninety-one Southern Fih-ve-hundred that ol' Harry went an' won, yessirree!"

-*-*-*-

At the exact same time up north in Goldsboro, Mandy stomped out of the sheriff's office and strode across the first lane until she reached the yellow stripes at the center. There, she planted her boots on the blacktop and slammed her arms across her chest while sending a glare toward the far end of Main Street.

Her flushed face and fiery eyes proved that not all had gone well since her abrupt awakening - in fact, the only positive that had happened since she had broken all land speed records in her mad rush to get to Goldsboro ahead of the FBI transport team was that she had changed into her spare black-and-dark-gray uniform so she didn't have to look at the brown horror any longer.

Beatrice Reilly had chosen to remain on the sidewalk in front of the office. The mug of hot coffee she warmed her hands on sent up steam signals in the early morning chill. After being forced out of bed at Far-Too-Early O'Clock, she had jumped into her uniform and shuffled down from Mrs. Peabody's boarding house to open the office for the FBI prisoner transport team - that, unfortunately, turned out to be somewhat lax when it came to keeping their appointments. She let out a mumbled "Hurry up and wait…" before she took a swig of the coffee.

The seething Mandy finally had to step aside when both Geoffrey Wilburrs - Senior and Junior - came rumbling past on their field tractor pulling a load of hay on a two-axled trailer. The elder Geoffrey sat behind the huge steering wheel while the younger had taken up residence on a corner of the trailer with his legs on either side of a divider bar so he had something to do hold onto. Comically, both men tipped their John Deere baseball caps at the Sheriff when they drove past - Mandy acknowledged the greeting by putting her fingers to the rim of her Mountie hat.

Three minutes later, Matthew Jensen - one of the newest residents in Goldsboro, and the father of Torsten 'Tor' Jensen - turned right onto Main Street after having gone through the T-intersection at Second Street. The vehicle he drove was a nondescript, white Isuzu pickup truck that carried the corporate logo of Hanson's Meat Processing & Packing Co., the third-largest slaughterhouse and meat packing factory in the State, on its door.

He came to a halt and rolled down the driver's side window once he reached Mandy's spot. "Good morning, Sheriff. Is the State Route blocked?  Hope not 'cos I'm on my way to work… I'm on the second shift today."

"Good morning, Mr. Jensen. No. We're just waiting for someone to show up," Mandy said after forcing herself to screw a smile on her face.

"Oh… all right. Well, good luck, then," Matthew said before he continued south on Main Street.

The next Goldsborian to come past the odd scene was Cletus Browne who brought his silver-metallic Lincoln SUV to a halt at the curb. The salesman - well-dressed as always in a dark-burgundy business suit and a matching necktie - soon reached down between the seats to take his wallet. Once he had his driver's license ready, he opened the glove box to find the car's registration papers.

He cocked his head and let out a puzzled grunt when the sheriff didn't come over to him. A short minute of complete confusion went by before he rolled down the right-hand side window and leaned across the passenger seat - he waved at Beatrice who came over to the Lincoln at once. "I'm sorry for bothering you, Deputy, but what's going on with the Sheriff?  Isn't this a traffic spot check?"

Beatrice chuckled as she leaned in to stick her head through the Lincoln's open window. "Good morning, Mr. Browne. No, it actually isn't. We're waiting for someone who's late. Very late. Very very late."

"Oh… okay. Does that mean I can go on?"

"Yes, sir. Have a nice day," Beatrice said and stepped back so Cletus could continue up to his sales office at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop.

---

Another five minutes went by before Mandy's telephone rang. Unzipping the appropriate pocket of her winter jacket, she retrieved it and promptly let out a growl when the caller-ID said FBI Off. Barton City.  "This is Sheriff Jalinski. And you better have a damn good explanation for this criminal waste of our time!"

'Good morning, Sheriff!' a remarkably upbeat, cheery and altogether Public Relations-schooled voice said at the other end of the connection. 'This is Special Agent Brooke Haimes again. Yes, we're sorry about the delay. Our ETA is eight to ten minutes or so. Are the prisoners ready for the hand-over?'

Mandy's face gained another couple of shades of crimson - conversely, her fingers turned white from gripping the telephone so hard. She needed to clear her throat twice to dissolve the knot of fury that had fully taken over her vocal cords. "The prisoners were ready for the hand-over exactly one hour and thirty-five frickin' minutes ago, Agent Haimes!  And I still want an explanation. 'Sorry' might have worked at some point during the first hour, but it simply won't cut it now. Do I make myself clear?"

'Perfectly clear, Sheriff. I'll update you when we arrive.'

Mandy already had a bucketful of verbal abuse lined up and ready to go, but she settled for an "Mmmm!" uttered in a sublimely annoyed tone before she killed the connection.

Once she had taken several deep breaths, she shoved the telephone back into the insulated pocket. "They're on their way. ETA eight to ten minutes," she said loud enough for Beatrice to hear it.

"Yippie. Can't wait," was Beatrice Reilly's only comment before she took a long swig of the coffee.

---

Thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds later, the dark-blue Dodge minibus belonging to the FBI Federal Prisoner Transport Service finally showed up. After it had made a very wide U-turn on Main Street, it slotted in between two of the white-and-gold Durangos at the curb in front of the sheriff's office.

The minibus was a regular sixteen-seater vehicle on an extended truck chassis rather than an armored transport or any kind of paddy wagon. It had regular windows that weren't equipped with metal bars or any other type of protection, but at least the passenger compartment was separated from the seats up front through a solid metal plate that had a small, impact-proof window built into it so the FBI transport team could keep an eye on the prisoners they hauled.

Special Agent Brooke Haimes stepped out of the cab and went back to the central sliding door to prepare for the hand-over of the prisoners. In her early thirties, she was a buff redhead with a hard, angular face and soft, round eyes - freckles were sprinkled over the upper part of her cheeks. She was soon joined by the driver of the minibus, an agent in his mid-thirties whose looks were so bland he could disappear in any crowd without even trying to.

Both wore the ubiquitous, off-the-shelf dark clothes that all FBI personnel seemed to be required to wear: a dark-blue two-piece suit, a white shirt and a black necktie for the driver, and a charcoal-gray pant suit over a white shirt for Brooke Haimes.

Mandy and Beatrice remained on the sidewalk - Mandy had her arms crossed over her chest while Beatrice had hers on her hips. Both were silent.

Once the rear of the minibus had been prepared for the two prisoners, Brooke hopped back down and strode over to the two women on the sidewalk. "Good morning, Sheriff. Deputy. I'm Special Agent Haimes," she said in the same artifically upbeat, Public Relations-schooled voice that was wholly inappropriate for the situation. Smiling for all she was worth, she extended her hand for the traditional shaking. "We apologize for the delay. All right, where-"

Mandy shook the Special Agent's hand and immediately returned to her defensive position - Beatrice just smirked at the sheriff's rare show of temper. "Good morning. Tell me… did the Hoover Dam burst?" Mandy said in a hard tone of voice.

"Ah, no…?  I'm sure we'd have heard-"

"Something must have happened. The drive from Barton City to here doesn't take two hours even in a dust storm."

Beatrice smirked again but kept quiet - Brooke Haimes cocked an eyebrow.

"Well," the Special Agent said, looking at her wristwatch, "it's only been one hour and forty-eight minutes. And our GPS sent us in the wrong direction altogether. It told us to turn right just south of Collinstown. That was obviously wrong. We drove quite a few miles before we realized our mistake, but we didn't meet anyone we could ask until we drove past a cruiser from the Highway Patrol. He guided us in the proper direction which, unfortunately, was nowhere near where we had ended up."

"I see."

"Well, that's what happened, Sheriff."

Mandy nodded a couple of times before she went in for the proverbial knockout punch: "There's only one crossroad south of Collinstown. It has a giant road sign that says Goldsboro, forty-four miles. Straight ahead."

"We didn't see the sign. We relied on our GPS."

Beatrice smirked even harder as the ambient temperature seemed to drop like a stone all around them.

"Well," Agent Haimes continued, screwing a Public Relations-schooled smile on her face to go with her Public Relations-schooled voice, "if the prisoners are ready, we might as well get it over with. Yes?"

Nodding, Mandy relaxed her stance and uttered a curt "Yes," before she spun around and stomped over to the office. After barging through the sticking door, she let out a brief whistle to let Blackie know it was time to go to work.

---

Fifteen minutes later, all the necessary forms had been filled out, all the required signatures had been doodled, and all the formal pleasantries had been exhausted. The two Special Agents led Juan Alfonso 'Chunn' Parénte and Francisco 'Scorpio' Almería out to the waiting minibus while Mandy, Blackie and Beatrice brought up the rear.

Mandy let out a dark grunt when she spotted a group of interested spectators across Main Street: Kenny Tobin - who liked to consider himself a heartthrob for all girlies between 16 and 22 - had lined up next to the lanky Richard 'Ritchie' Lee and the stockier Torsten 'Tor' Jensen. The three teenagers seemed to think it was all very exciting as they recorded the scene for posterity on their telephones.

The handcuffed prisoners still wore the clothes they had been arrested in: all-black Lettermans, black sweatshirts and expensive track shoes for both of them. Parénte wore black jeans while Almería wore a pair of dark-tan cargo pants. Their facial hair had grown less stylish during their stay in the holding cells, but their short hairdos hadn't changed much.

They co-operated at first, but when Special Agent Haimes wanted to push 'Chunn' Parénte up into the Dodge minibus, he resisted though he was handcuffed behind his back. "Hey!  Wait a feckin' minute, Fed!  I have the right to ask a question!  What the feck happened to my Lumina?"

Mandy put her hand on the hilt of her service sidearm as she stepped forward. "Your car has been impounded by the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, Mr. Parénte. Instruct your legal team to get in touch with the Goldsboro office and it will be dealt with."

"It better not have a feckin' scratch on it, bitch!"

At the exact same moment, Kenny, Ritchie and Tor ran across Main Street to get a better view of the exciting action now that something had finally happened in Goldsboro - they appeared at the rear of the Minibus which was far too close to the prisoner hand-over for anyone's safety.

Mandy and 'Chunn' Parénte spotted them at the same time. Before she could roar at them to get the hell out of there on the double, Chunn and his associate Scorpio took full advantage of the small confusion to stage a breakout.

Brooke Haimes was the first to suffer a kick to the gut courtesy of Chunn's boot, but the other Special Agent was only able to remain upright a few seconds longer before he landed flat on the street after having been tripped up by Scorpio - then the prisoners took off in a wild rush northbound on Main Street. The fact they were both handcuffed behind their backs gave the frenzied escape a strong flavor of absurdity or even surrealism, but it seemed that neither Parénte nor Almería appreciated the finer details of their situation.

"Ohhhhhhh, I don't be-frickin'-lieve it!  For cryin' out loud!" Mandy roared at the top of her lungs before she and Beatrice set off after the escapees. A second later, Blackie let out a thunderous bark and joined the chase at full speed.

Several variations of "Whoa, dude!  This is way cool!" could be heard from Kenny, Ritchie and Tor who kept filming the unexpected outburst of action. Ritchie was a little more apprehensive than his pals and stayed at the rear of the minibus, but Tor and Kenny both ran over to the wall of the sheriff's office to get better camera angles.

Chunn decided to go straight up Main Street while Scorpio took a hard left that led him onto Second Street en route for the wide-open desert. What kind of salvation he expected - or hoped - to find there was anyone's guess as the next town over was North Greenville close to sixty miles away.

"That one's yours!" Mandy roared, pointing to her left while she and Blackie raced after 'Chunn' Parénte who had managed to gain quite a distance on the scrambling deputies.

Beatrice let out a "Yes, Ma'am!" before she hung a hard left to follow Francisco Almería.

Blackie's legs moved in a blur as she blasted north on the sidewalk. All the exercise she and Goldie had gotten playing with the Rottweiler Freddie paid off as the frantic chase barely scratched the surface of her stamina.

Up front, Juan Alfonso Parénte's pace grew slower and more labored for each passing moment. By the time he reached Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners store, his wheezing breath made it sound like lungs were about to burst.

A moment later, he was brought down by a flying German Shepherd who let out so many thunderous barks directly into his face that he had no choice but to surrender. "All right!  All right!  I give up!" he croaked as he flopped around on the sidewalk like a beached tuna. "Get the feck back, you feckin' mutt!"

Mandy caught up with the vanguard a handful of seconds later. She didn't need to reach for her handcuffs for a change since Parénte already wore a pair, so she whipped up her service pistol instead. "Attacking Federal officers and attempting to escape was real clever, Mr. Parénte!  Now you'll have two new charges brought against you. Get on your feet!  Now!"

"I hurt my knees, bitch…"

"Too bad!  Get up!"

Grumbling and groaning, 'Chunn' Parénte clambered to his feet and eventually began hobbling back to the Dodge minibus - Blackie kept her canines bared in her most feral sneer all the way there so nobody would get any smart ideas.

---

The first escapee had already been chained to a special rack at one of the benches by the time Beatrice returned with the other one: Francisco 'Scorpio' Almería.

Kenny Tobin, Ritchie Lee and Tor Jensen continued to film the exciting action until they understood - by way of a grim look and determined glare on Mandy's face - that they may have outstayed their welcome. Once they had ended the filming session, they shuffled across Main Street to get over to Moira's Bar & Grill to help A.J. 'Slow' Lane power up the various stoves.

"Mr. Almería didn't exactly live up to his tough street name, Sheriff," Beatrice said with a grin once her prisoner had been attached to the chains inside the bus. "He stumbled over a rock and ended up face to face with a King Spider. I'm amazed you couldn't hear him squealing. Okay, the King Spider was about eight inches across, but still…"

"We see those at least once a week down at the trailer park," Mandy said with a tired smile. The smile faded when she moved over to Brooke Haimes who leaned against the Dodge's fender with a pained look upon her face. "Agent Haimes, do you need medical attention?"

"No… no, I'll be fine, thank you. Just sore as hell right now. Nothing a couple of Pain-B-Gones won't cure, though," Brooke said in what could only be her regular, unschooled voice. Grimacing, she pressed a hand against the part of her hip and stomach that had received the brunt of Parénte's kick.

Nodding, Mandy stepped back to allow Special Agent Haimes room to climb up onto the passenger seat. "Keep us posted on the progress of the case. All right?"

"Yes, Sheriff. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Agent Haimes," Mandy said, closing the door of the minibus before stepping back once more. Soon, the other Special Agent started the engine and took off with the two prisoners they had come to pick up.

As the Dodge Minibus drove north on Main Street, Barry Simms strolled south. As always at the start of his shifts, his uniform was pristine and his hair was neat and wet-combed. He couldn't do anything about his waxen complexion or his yellowish eyes, but the rest was in fine fettle. He took out the cigarette he was smoking when he reached Mandy, Blackie and Beatrice. "Good morning, Sheriff. Bea. Hiya, Blackie!"

Woof-woof-woof!

"So… did I miss anything?" he continued, sticking the cigarette back between his lips so he could maintain his nicotine abuse.

Mandy glared at him for two-point-two seconds before she spun around on her heel and stomped across Main Street - her mission: to get a mug of the good coffee from A.J. Lane's far better coffee machine, and let the rest float to hell in a nearly woven handbasket.

Blackie let out a puzzled Woof? but soon followed her owner.

All this left Barry in a severely confused state. He shook his head, scratched his neck, furrowed his brow and blinked several times before he turned to a smirking Beatrice. "Now what?  Was it something I said?"

"I'll bring you up to speed in a moment, Barry," Beatrice said, just barely stifling a laugh - when her comment didn't lessen Barry's confusion, she patted him on his back and guided him over to the office.

*
*
CHAPTER 8

Watching the Heinz-sponsored 1991 running of the legendary Southern 500 had been such a riveting affair for Wynne that she had completely lost track of time - it wasn't until her stomach began to send out distress calls that she realized the hands of time had moved around to ten to noon. The race had been won in fine style by none other than the man whose likeness adorned her sweatshirt, 'Handsome' Harry Gant in the #33 Skoal Bandit Oldsmobile, which made the gnawing hunger a little more acceptable.

The officially licensed Handsome Harry sweatsuit soon had to give way to her iconic Last Original Cowpoke outfit: decorated cowboy boots, faded blue-jeans, a wool-lined denim jacket that covered the dark-blue In GM We Trust sweatshirt, and finally her beloved cowboy hat that she pulled down low despite its battered and sweat-stained state. She stuck her red bandanna into her left rear pocket as proper Cowpoke fashion dictated before she donned her sheepskin gloves and grabbed her car keys.

Diego Benitez had left with Freddie for a scheduled examination of the large hound at an animal clinic down south in Cavanaugh Creek - and Brenda and Vaughn obviously weren't up yet - so nobody was around to admire her duds. It didn't matter as she knew exactly how cool, sexy and just plain awesome everything looked.

Goldie ran behind her owner letting out the occasional yap until they reached the black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition. Another yap followed before she jumped up into the crew cab and made herself comfortable down in the footwell. She looked up a single time before she decided that Safe would always beat Adventure - thus, she rolled herself into a ball of golden fur.

Whistling a jaunty tune, Wynne strolled around the front of the truck and got behind the wheel. "Haw… whaddaya say we done lissen ta them good, ol' folks down south at Lansin'burg, Goldie?  Yessirree, a li'l Down-Hoah-me Ol' Country Shack sure ain't nevah hurt nobodda. Aw, an' speakin' o which… I promise I ain't gonn' turn up that there volume too much so yer ears ain't gonn' ache or nuttin'. Okeh?"

Goldie let out a Yap! that meant 'Thank you… but I'd rather you didn't warble along to the music…'

"Okeh!  Les'see what be playin' at the mo'," Wynne said as she hooked her telephone to the truck's infotainment system and accessed the radio app. The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack was one of only three stations she had entered - or rather, that Brenda Travers had helped her enter - so it was easily found and selected. Moments later, Teresa & The Barnstormers' Yippie For Me! started playing.

"Awright, that be a good an' bouncy 'un, yessir," Wynne said as she started the truck, put on her Gargoyles-brand of sunglasses and reversed away from her trailer. "Haw, mah gut sure be em'ty taday… I hope ain't nuttin' weird or bizarroh or nuttin' gonn' happen befo' I can sink mah teeth inta one o' them there dubbel-deckah burgahs-"

The words had barely left Wynne's mouth before the music was muted in favor of an incoming call - the caller-ID said Cletus B.

"Hawwwww-shittt!  Whut I done say?  Haw?!  Whut I done say, dag-nabbit?" she cried, coming to a halt on the dirt road that led out to the State Route.

Down in the footwell, Goldie let out a long whimper and shook her golden head at the horrendous luck they always seemed to have - it made her fur swish all over the place.

"Dang-blasted, an' on tha day I didden bring mah hands-free," Wynne continued as she took the telephone from the docking station and tapped the Accept Call bar on the display.

In the back, Goldie whimpered again and buried her head in her paws to be prepared for any eventuality that may come their way.

"Y'all got tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he'… an' lemme tell y'all som'tin, Cletus… this bettah be good 'cos I be so dang-blasted hungry I could chew on this he' upholstery I be sittin' on!"

'It may be, Wynne,' the expert used car salesman said in his customary dulcet tones. 'I've got a telephone to both ears here. While I'm speaking to you, I'm also talking to someone from Florida who's interested in buying the Eldorado.'

"Haw… no shit?"

'No. The other party is a consignment dealer of classic cars located in one of the sparkliest suburbs of Miami. He's willing to offer twenty-two thousand dollars for it, sight unseen… well, apart from the pictures we took and put on our website.'

Wynne let her hand glide across the rim of the steering wheel several times. "Twentah-two grand, haw?  Whah, that sure is a nihh-ce sum an' all. Only I reckon me an' ol' Fat-Buhh-tt done invested mo' than that in Joe-Bob's ol' Caddy. Yuh, I reckon we musta. An' we be splittin' them profits, too, so I reckon we gonn' hafta hold on fer a li'l longah. Awright?"

'Okay, Wynne. I'll let the other party know. Don't go anywhere.'

"Haw, that be a promise I sure can't keep, nosirree," Wynne said and let out a brief chuckle. While the connection with Cletus remained established, she took her foot off the brake and continued along the dirt road. Reaching the two-lane blacktop, she turned right and drove toward Goldsboro at a sensible speed so she could continue to talk to Cletus even without the hands-free device.

Nothing happened at first, so she increased the speed to the local speed limit in order to get to town and the fabled burgers. Five miles further north, the telephone came alive again with a:

'Wynne, are you still there?'

"That be a big ten-fo'ah, good buddy!" Wynne said, picking up the telephone from the passenger seat.

'The consignment dealer thinks he can get the interested party to pay twenty-five thousand, but not a cent more. Wynne, let's not overplay our hand here. The original, concrete offer of twenty-two thousand is better than a lofty promise of twenty-five.'

"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie. Howevah, I reckon I'mma-gonn' hold 'em an' not fold 'em yet. If this he' dealah ain't da one, there gonn' be othahs. I be perdy sure o' that."

'Well… all right. It's your car so you have the final say. Had it been my car, I would have accepted the current offer.'

"Noted, pardnah. Y'all wanna tawk 'bout som'tin else right now?  I alreddy got li'l ol' Goldsborah lined up in mah sights an' all."

'No, that was all this time, Wynne. I'll get back to you if there's a development in the case.'

"Yuh, okeh. Bah-bah, Cletus," Wynne said and closed the connection. The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack took over once the actual telephone part became inactive, but they had only listened to half of The Nights Without You by Ramón Durro & His Tejas Amigos by the time the black truck drove past the southern city limits sign.

Despite slowing down to the 25 miles per hour limit through town, Wynne soon arrived at Moira's Bar & Grill and the parking space reserved for her in the alley adjacent to the bar - it even said so on a metal sign that had been bolted to the wall.

Goldie let out a few puzzled yaps at the odd fact that her owner didn't get out even after coming to a full stop. When nothing happened, she let out another Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap! that meant 'I hope you're not coming down with something. Who's going to feed me if you can't?'

"Haw… yuh, I be thinkin', girl. Thinkin' real hahhh-rd 'bout that there offah Cletus done tole me of. Twentah-two grand fer Joe-Bob's ol' Caddy. Haw. That sure be a-bunch-a greenbacks, yuh?  That kinda greenery could come in handy fer that there TransAm an' all."

Yap…

"Yuh. But I wussen playin' hahhh-rd ta get neithah when I done tole Cletus that me an' Fat-Buhh-tt done put mo' money in it. Okeh, mebbe it wussen quite that much, but… haw, it be mo' than fifteen grand, that be fer dang sure. An' we be gettin' perdy close ta havin' it done. Durn, I wus really lookin' forward ta usin' it as a parade vee-hickel. Shoot, whazza Cowpoah-k ta do?"

Yap?

"I reckon y'all be right, Goldie. A Cowpoah-k bettah get som'tin ta eat an' mebbe shoot some pool as well. Yuh. Awright, les'go," Wynne said and finally opened the driver's side door.

-*-*-*-

Wynne was allowed enough time to enjoy a couple of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros and a double-decker cheese, bacon and jalapeño-burger in a relative state of peace and quiet - 'relative' because of the usual influx of day laborers and self-employed craftsmen who flocked to the best eatery in the entire county - before the outside world caught up with her again.

She had only just made it over to the pool table when her telephone rang. Instead of reaching for one of the rental cues, she dug into her jacket pocket to retrieve the noise-maker - the caller-ID said Fat-Butt.  "Howdy, there, big fella!  How's it hangin', pardnah?"

'Oh, everything's hanging very good, thank you,' Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson said in his typical Swedish sing-song accent. 'Listen, I've been speaking to some people about the TransAm parts, and by calling in a few favors, I think we can arrive at maybe six-and-a-half grand if we go all the way with the various things that need to be done. Four grand if we stick to the absolute basics like the brakes, the rust work and the little things like the headlight poking up and the busted right-hand-side door window.'

Wynne nodded several times while she listened to the expert mechanic. It seemed the conversation might be a longer one, so she pulled out a chair, sat down and crossed her legs at the knee. "Okeh… in da ballpark o' fo'ah ta six-point-fih-ve. Okeh. I can live with that. Say, pardnah, did ol' Cletus tell y'all 'bout that there int'rested party he done heard from with regards ta Joe-Bob's ol' Caddy?"

'No?'

"Well, it be like this, yuh?  Cletus done tawked ta somebodda ovah yondah in Floh-ridda. One o' them there consignment dealahs or some such. He… well, ack-chew-ly tha fella he done worked fer… but anyhows, they wus willin' ta fork out twentah-two grand fer tha Caddy. I done said no ini-shually 'cos I may be sniffin' out mo' money fer it, but whadda-y'all reckon?"

'Oh, that's a braintwister. Huh. You know… I would probably have gone for that offer, Wynne.'

"Ya would, haw?  Okeh… Cletus said much the same."  Falling silent, Wynne put down her leg so she could lean forward on the chair. She stared at nothing in particular for a few seconds before she continued: "Shoot… I sure hope I didden make no dang-blasted mistook or som'tin…"

'Where are you right now?'

"At Moira's. Whah?"

'Well, it's really nothing. I was just wondering if you could perhaps drive up here and take a look at the Caddy and the TransAm?  They may tell you what to do… if you know what I mean.'

As the words filtered through to her, Wynne leaned back on the chair and began rubbing her face with her free hand as if it would create a few new neural connections. "Say, that sure ain't no bad ideah, there, pardnah. I do got a perdy good vee-hiculah sense. Yessirree, I'mm-gonn' do that right away."

'Did you finish eating already?'

"Yuh!  It sure didden take long!  Whenevah ol' Slow Lane be flippin' them beef patties, he always done makes 'em too small!  That be whah I prefer ta make mah burgahs mahself, but it jus' wussen possible taday 'cos there be a gigantoh bunch-a folks he'. Tell y'all whut, friend, I'mma-gonn' head up ta that there Bang 'n Beatin right 'bout now, so… yuh. See ya real soon, yuh?  Bah-bah."

'Bye, Wynne.'

Down below, Goldie poked her head out of the doggy-cave underneath the pool table. She glanced at Wynne for a moment as the tall Human took another beer from the refrigerators and stuck it into a jacket pocket.

"Goldie, girl… I need-a go see that there TransAm, yuh?  It ain't safe fer y'all up there with all them sparks an' whutnots, so ya need-a stay he', okeh?  Mebbe Blackie gonn' swing bah or som'tin a li'l latah on. Yuh?"

Yap!  Yap… yap?

"Haw, y'all sure is a clevah dawggie!" Wynne said and pulled Goldie in for a decent hug-and-rub. "Okeh, it prolly ain't gonn' be long befo' I get back, tho', but nobodda knows nuttin' 'bout nuttin' until it done happened, yuh?  Or didden happen, but that be a whole 'nothah discus-shun. Bah-bah, mah bayu-tah-ful dawg. I be goah-ne!"

-*-*-*-

In one of those rare instances of something positive happening to Wynne Donohue, the 1989 Pontiac Firebird TransAm and the 1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible had both been wheeled into one of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop's long-term storage sheds. By having them parked side by side, it meant she could save her sore knee from the strain of wandering back and forth between two locations while she made up her mind on what to do.

The storage shed was a wooden structure that had been converted from an old barn when Otto Kulick, jr. had opened the gas station and the body shop decades earlier. It was far more spartan than the main garage hall and really only consisted of a concrete floor, a couple of naked bulbs hanging down from the rafters, and a handful of old and outdated toolboxes lining the walls. A metal desk and a swivel-chair of an old-fashioned design had occupied the corner of the shed since the mid-1970s.

In a quirky twist of fate, the 1976 Cadillac was joined by a 1976 Playmate Of The Month calendar that was still pinned to the wall above the metal desk. It seemed that Miss July had been such a hit with the mechanics of the time that the page had never moved beyond the photo of the leggy and somewhat top-heavy blonde beauty.

Bengt Swenson had already swept the olive-green tarp off the Pontiac by the time Wynne had arrived, but that was all that had been done to it since she had seen it last. Sitting next to the near-pristine Convertible, the sports coupe presented a sorry sight with its dull paint job, the oddly gaping flip-up headlights, the cracked chin spoiler and the ancient tires.

Wynne wheeled over the old swivel-chair so she could sit facing the two cars. Propping her head up on her arms, she studied them so intently that Bengt soon left for his regular job out in the main garage so she wouldn't be disturbed.

Her eyes went from one car to the other nearly fifty times before she let out a long, slow sigh. "Shoot… one looks a mess, the othah looks a dream. One's got a freshly built three-fifty that be all wound up an' reddy ta go, the othah got a lazy-ass fih-ve-dubbel-oh that ain't reddy fer nuttin' but takin' it nice an' slow. One's a racer, one's a cruisah. One's got okeh fuel mile-itch, the othah needs a dog-gone tankah truck followin' close behind. One's only a two-seatah with a small rear space fer them dawggies, the othah can seat six no trubbel. One's only got lug-itch room fer mebbe two ovahnight bags, the othah… Lawrdie, y'all can use that there Caddy's trunk as a summer how-se!"

Getting up, she rubbed her face several times as she shuffled down between the cars to look at the interiors. The Cadillac's upholstery was pristine and brand new, the Pontiac's was in an adequate state but needed plenty of elbow grease cleaning and vacuuming the carpets and seats. The dashboards, instrument clusters and various switches on both vehicles were all in good condition, so that point was split between them.

The Pontiac was a full-roofed coupe and not the usual T-top which meant the removable sections wouldn't leak in case they ever went anywhere it might rain. The Cadillac's rag-top was brand new, but even the best top had potential for trouble of the leaky or misty kind.

"Hawt-dang," Wynne said, rubbing her face before she took another look at the cars that competed for her favor. "I know fer a dog-gone fact that there TransAm's gonn' cost me a pile o' greenery… but tha Caddy may as well 'cos we ain't done with it. There be a ton o' fairly cheap TransAm an' Camarah parts available even taday, but so much-a them there Caddy parts be hella expensive an' all. An' dif'cult ta get ou'ah hands on, too!  Haw…"

Shuffling down to the rear of the cars, she went into a crouch and tried to imagine the endless road stretching out ahead of each of them - it wasn't easy since they were built for completely different purposes, but she was able to get a clear picture after a while.

The more she looked at the gigantic, laid-back Cadillac and the smaller and far nimbler TransAm, the more she gravitated toward the sports coupe. "Yuh… mebbe…" she said as she got up and moved to the TransAm's driver's-side door.

Compared to the Cadillac's seats that were so soft they were cushier than the average hotel-lounge couch arrangement, the TransAm's seats were sporty and firm, but still comfortable even on longer trips. One of the niggling worries she'd had was that finding a good and safe driving position could pose a problem, but even the stock bucket seat accommodated her frame very well - it only took a few minuscule adjustments like sliding the seat back a notch and making the back rest stand up a bit more for everything to be perfect.

The battery had been removed while in storage so the car couldn't start, but just getting behind the sporty steering wheel and putting her hand on the T-handle shifter connected to the four-speed Tremec 700-R4 transmission pushed her closer to a decision.

"Yuh… I reckon I done made up mah mind," she said as she gripped the wheel. Falling silent, she pretended she was already driving on an endless, mystical State Route that ran all the way out to the horizon and beyond. Mandy would be next to her, of course, wearing breezy summer clothing and looking a dream. The dogs would occupy the half-sized back seat with Blackie sitting in the middle so she could keep an eye on the road ahead, and Goldie sitting with her back turned so she couldn't see anything at all.

"Yuh… yuh. Yuh, it gonn' be tha TransAm. Yessirree. It be tihhh-me fer a new adventure. Yuh. Hope it ain't gonn' jump up an' bite me on da buhhhh-tt," she said as she glanced down at the center console and the many buttons and switches found there.

Sliding back out of the low-slung sports car, she took several pictures of it on her telephone before she left the storage shed to speak to Cletus - there was paperwork to sign.

---

When she entered the sales office at the nice end of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop's lot, Cletus Browne sat behind his desk speaking into a telephone as usual - he looked up when the door opened, but he was too busy updating something on his laptop to wave or acknowledge her presence beyond a nod and a brief smile.

Although the office was smaller than might have been expected, it was still large enough to have room for a collection of photos on the wall that all showed satisfied customers shaking hands with Cletus and his predecessors. There weren't any potted plants or the like, but two chairs and a two-seater couch had been crammed into the far end of the office for when some buttery schmoozing was required to persuade potential customers into buying the Car They Couldn't Live Without. The window above the couch was covered by a set of blinds. Three metal filing cabinets containing brochures and various legal paperwork took up space on the adjacent wall.

Cletus's own desk was clean, neat and uncluttered with none of the stereotypical things in sight: instead of an oil-smeared order book, an overfilled ashtray, empty soda cans and a thrown-together collection of pencils and ball point pens in a cracked mug, the only item present was an Apple laptop that stood open on the blotting pad. An anglepoise lamp took up space in the far-right corner next to a family photo.

Even the air quality was classy as the air-conditioned environment made sure the smells so often prevalent at garages - oil, gasoline, rubber and sweaty mechanics - were nowhere to be found.

Cletus finally offered Wynne a big grin and an even bigger thumbs-up that made her move into the center of the smallish office. The telephone conversation kept going, so he pointed at the couch arrangement at the back.

Nodding, Wynne took off her cowboy hat and sat down on one of the two chairs - it didn't take long before Cletus hung up and broke out in a 200-watt smile.

"I've seen that kind of expression before. It tells me you've made a decision," he said before he made a final update on his laptop. Once it had saved the spreadsheet he had worked on, he closed the lid to make it hibernate.

"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie, buddy. A-cuppel offem, ack-chew-ly. One, I wanna buy that there TransAm-"

"Excellent-"

"Yuh, an' two, I reckon I be goin' fer that there twentah-two grand aftah all fer that there Caddy there… haw, if y'all can get that there dealah or brokah or whutevah he wus on da horn ag'in."

Cletus's grin grew even wider than it had been before, and that was no mean feat. He leaned back on his high-backed office chair and tapped a well- manicured finger on the telephone. "Forget the twenty-two thousand, Wynne…"

"Awww, gosh-darn'it…"

"No-no, don't despair yet. I just got off the phone with someone who lives not too far down the road, figuratively speaking. A classic car broker in Vegas who not only matched the twenty-two but added another six to the sum."

Wynne furrowed her brow at the news. "Haw… twentah-two grand an' six dollahs?  I mean… okeh, that be a-cuppel-a beers, but…"

"No, twenty-eight thousand dollars, Wynne!  Twenty-eight grand!"

"D'awwwwww!"

"That's a one-time-only offer, by the way. And I can't stress that enough," Cletus said, reaching for the telephone. "I promised I'd call back at once… so… what'll it be, Wynne?"

"Aw, hell-yeah!  Twentah-eight grand!  That be a big, fat ten-fo'ah, good buddy… yessirree!  Hit them dials an' call that there brokah there!"

Grinning, Cletus swiped and tapped for a brief moment before the list of recent calls showed up. "I knew you'd say that," he said with a grin as he pressed the Establish Connection bar on the display.

---

Five minutes later, the digital paperwork for the Cadillac had been signed transferring ownership of the land yacht from Ms. Wynne Donohue to the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop proprietor Mr. Otto Kulick III, c/o Mr. Cletus Browne. Two minutes on from that, the ownership had changed hands once more from the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop proprietor Mr. Otto Kulick III, c/o Mr. Cletus Browne, to Classic Dream Machines, Las Vegas, Nevada, proprietor Ms. Darlene Crossfield.

A further two minutes on from finalizing the deal, the sum of twenty-eight thousand dollars arrived in the body shop's bank account to make everything binding.

"Done. One of the broker's own flatbeds will be by tomorrow to pick it up," Cletus said, closing the lid on the laptop.

Wynne could only shake her head at the technological marvels and the near-miraculous way the deal had been carried out. "Haw… back in them old days, yuh?  Back in them days when y'all wanted ta buy a vee-hickel, y'all needed ta be there in person an' kick them tires an' trah ta haggle that there sales person an' then count them greenbacks an' ev'rythin'… now… click-click-click, sold. Or bought. Haw, it sure be a-may-zin'."

"Well, some of the old ways are still in use," Cletus said with a smile. "All right. Twenty-eight thousand dollars less my standard consignment fee of three thousand equals twenty-five thousand. Split equally between you own good self and Bengt, that'll be twelve thousand five-hundred each."

Wynne moved from shaking her head to nodding while Cletus spoke. "Okeh. Sounds 'bout right an' all. We didden split ou'ah expendi-chures straight down tha middle, but me an' ol' Fat-Buhh-tt gonn' get dat sorted out usselves. Okeh. An' now fer that there TransAm there. Y'all tole me ya wanted seven-five for it, wussen dat a fact?"

"Yes, and I can't go any lower, Wynne," Cletus said, leaning back on his chair. "I bought it for seven straight plus expenses for getting it here. Seven-five, and that's only because you're a friend. For anyone else, it'd be eight-five or nine."

Nodding, Wynne got up from the chair and moved up to the desk. "Y'all got yerself a deal, pardnah. Seven-five. Y'all can take that from mah share o' that there loot there. Okeh?  I ain't gonn' spit in mah hand, so we jus' gonn' hafta do it the drah way," she said, extending her hand for the traditional greeting. "Okeh, where do I sign an' all?"

---

Once the second set of paperwork had been completed the old-fashioned way by adding a pair of signatures to the dotted lines, Cletus got up from the high-backed chair and offered his latest happy customer a strong handshake. "Congratulations on your new TransAm, Miss Donohue!"

"Whah, much obliged, Mista Browne!" Wynne said and broke out in a grin.

"This calls for celebration. Would you like some champagne?" Cletus continued, moving the chair to the side to get to a small refrigerator over by the filing cabinets. Reaching into it, he took a quarter-sized, brand-name bottle of the bubblies that he held up so Wynne could see it.

"Haw?!  Sham-pain?  Naw… naw, naw, naw an' anothah naw, pardnah!" Wynne said, taking a quick step back in horror. She plonked her cowboy hat onto her dark locks and pulled it down low and sexy. "I be celebratin' awright, but it gonn' be with a-bunch-a H.E. Fenwyck's fihh-nest, lemme tell y'all!"

Cletus laughed out loud as he put the small bottle back onto its shelf and closed the refrigerator door. "I had a hunch you'd say that."

"Yuh-huh?  Weeeellll, I reckon I be kinda predictable an' all. Okeh, much obliged fer all ya done fer me taday. I ain't gonn' ferget it, friend. Naw, I sure ain't," Wynne said and tipped her hat. "I'mma-gonn' break da news ta Fat-Buhh-tt an' then I be down at Moira's fer da rest o' tha day, yuh?  Playin' pool, chuggin' beers an' chewin' da fat with mah saddle pals. Bah-bah fer now!"

---

Entering the Bar & Grill, Wynne was pleased to find that the mad rush at lunch had fizzled out and that only the locals remained. She grinned as she observed several of the townsfolk eating late lunches or enjoying early afternoon coffee and pastries:

Wyatt Elliott, the owner of the hardware store on Second Street, was busy reading a financial newspaper while stabbing a plastic fork into a salad and - of all things - sipping a glass of rosé wine. When he felt Wynne's eyes on him, he greeted her by holding up his flute in a toast.

The sketch artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen shared not only a table but what appeared to be a very large cream puff with Tabitha Hayward, the curator of the town museum. The large pastry was sprinkled with chipped hazelnuts and chocolate shavings making it quite a feast, even for two. The ladies soon dug cake forks into the pastry to get to the quality custard inside it. Nancy's portfolio containing her sketches and other works in progress had been put as far away from the shavings, the whipped cream and the custard as humanly possible while still being in the vicinity - in short, it had been put on the chair next to her, protected by her winter jacket that had been rolled into a bundle.

The retired couple Esther and Eamonn O'Sullivan also shared a dish, but they had sprung for a late hot lunch in the shape of a tenderloin steak featuring sweet corn, baked potatoes and brown gravy on a base of a red claret wine. To protect his vest and plaid shirt from the brownish-red droplets that would inevitably drip off his chin, Eamonn wore a checkered, baby-blue bib that even his wife couldn't help but laugh at.

Cathy Pearson, the owner of the Tack & Saddle leathergoods store, had skipped a hot lunch to have plenty of room for her Friday favorites, namely hot coffee, a small stack of pancakes, a jar of Maple Leaf Syrup and a 2 fl.oz bottle of Grand Marnier Liqueur that she added to the coffee at regular intervals.

The tall bar stool at the video keno was just as empty as ever, but Roscoe Finch - one of the junior members of the Goldsboro Pool Association - sat at the video poker machine trying to get it to produce a Full House, a Four Of A Kind or perhaps even a Royal Flush. So far, the most success he'd had was a Two Pairs that only paid $1 for his 50c wager so it hadn't been a very good session.

A.J. 'Slow' Lane used the lull in the proceedings to wipe down the bar counter and scrape the cooking panels clean with a metal spatula. Only one of the day laborers remained at the bar counter, and he nursed an apricot-flavored GoFasterLonger! energy drink while slurping a chunky vegetable soup.

"Howdy, y'all!  Wynne Donnah-hew be he' ta liven up da party, dontchaknow!" Wynne cried, waving her hat high in the air. "Tell all y'all good folks what!  I jus' done bought mahself a new, old sporty cahhhh-r taday!  Yessirree, a fiah-engine-red, 'eighty-nihhh-ne Pontiac TransAm!  Now if that ain't cause fer celebra-shun, I ain't sure whut-"

'So the drinks are on you?' someone said from down the back of the Bar & Grill.

"Naw!  Naw, they sure ain't, son, but if y'all nab a sazz'parilla, I'mma-gonn' pay fer it!  Whadda'ya say ta that deal, haw?" - the silence proved exactly what the fellow at the back thought of Wynne's suggestion.

Snickering out loud, she accepted the waves, cheering and good-natured ribbing that came back at her from a good portion of the guests as she moved through the eatery.

A Woof-woof-woof! and a long series of happy yaps heralded the arrival of Blackie and Goldie who had stormed out of the doggy-cave underneath the pool table the moment they had heard their owner's voice. The dogs zipped around the denim-clad legs until they were pulled into a strong doggy-hug-and-rub.

"Haw, Blackie!  If y'all be he', then mebbe mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandy be as well?"

Woof!  Woof!

"Haw?  Whazzat?"

Wooooof-woof-woof-woof!

"Okeh, she be usin' that there restroom there. Yuh, that be som'tin ain't none offus can ignore, sure ain't no lie. I jus' hope that there crappah ain't gonn' exploah-de like ou'ahs did this past Mon'dy, haw?  Aw,  it prolly be safe an' all."

Yap!

"Howdy, Goldie!  Lawwwr-die, do I got news fer all y'all!  C'mon, les' find a table ta sit at…"

Wynne and the dogs shuffled over to one of the tables that had been put closest to the refrigerators and the doggy-cave underneath the pool table. Like all the others, it featured a checkered tablecloth, a printed menu, a small stack of clean napkins and a reed basket - the latter contained wrapped toothpicks, salt and pepper shakers and bottles of ketchup, mustard and two blends of hot sauce.

Sitting down, Wynne took off her hat and put it on the knob on the next chair's backrest. She briefly checked out the menu card before putting it back on the tabletop as she already knew all the dishes by heart.

Blackie soon settled down, but Goldie was determined to show her love for the person who kept her well-fed, so she put her front paws up on the denim-clad knees to make herself available for another round of hugs - one was duly delivered.

Wynne's smile couldn't be broader as she played a little with Goldie. A moment later, her lips became intimately acquainted with those that graced the face of Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. The kiss wasn't too chaste or too wild, but just right for the situation.

As they separated, Wynne's smile had in fact grown even broader. "Howdy, darlin'. Whah, it sure be good ta see y'all in that there propah uniform ag'in. Lawrdie, that there brown Polyestah horrah y'all hadda wear aftah that there coah-ffee disastah… yikes. Anyhows, I got plentah ta tell ya!  Sure has!"

Mandy dove down to steal another kiss when nobody was watching except perhaps Aphrodite, the Ancient Greek Goddess of Love. She moved around the pair of excited dogs to pull out the chair opposite Wynne. "Only positive things, I hope… the day hasn't exactly been a mountain of laughs so far," she said, taking off her Mountie hat to scratch her hair.

"Aw-yuh. I reckon they be kinda positive. One, I done sole Joe-Bob's ol' Caddy ta some classic-car brokah or somebodda ovah yondah in Vegas an' all. Aw, by way o' Cletus Browne, obvis'ly-"

"Oh!  Really?"

"Whah, I sure did!  Well, me an' Cletus. Yuh."

Mandy let out a brief grunt at the news - she studied Wynne's wide open and easily read face for a moment before she said: "I was under the impression that you wanted to use that car as a parade vehicle."

"Yuh, that wus mah ini-shual plan an' all but I done changed mah mind. There wus too many things that needed ta be fixed on it… once me an' Fat-Buhh-tt had done all that fixin', tha car wus much too valuable fer a mere parade vee-hickel."

"Makes sense. You wouldn't want a kid to drop an ice cream cone on the upholstery or something," Mandy said and let out a tired laugh.

"Naw, sure woudden!  Okeh, but it done gets better an' all!  Yuh-yuh, 'cos that classic car gal ovah yondah in Vegas wus willin' ta pay twentah-eight grand fer it!  Ain't dat som'tin, darlin'?"

Grunting in surprise, Mandy sat up straight and pinned Wynne to the spot. "How much?  I could have sworn you said twenty-eight thousand?  Dollars?"

"Haw, I sure did, darlin'!  Dollahs, yuh!  Sure ain't no lie. But I wussen gonn' get all o' that, anyhows, 'cos don't ferget that me an' Fat-Buhh-tt done made an agreement ta split them profits 'cos we done split the expenses. Yuh?"

Nodding, Mandy nodded and let out a "Oh, that's right," as she reached across the table to give Wynne's hands a squeeze.

"Yuh. Aftah Cletus done nabbed his fee, I reckon there gonn' be sorta-kinda sixteen, mebbe seven'een grand innit fer me an' 'bout eight or so fer ol' Fat-Buhh-tt. I'mma-gonn' hafta look at that there papahwork we done writ up, but it sure ain't no bad deal. Haw!"

Mandy squeezed Wynne's hands even harder at the good news. "Wow, I didn't see that coming at all. Congratulations, hon!"

"Much obliged, darlin'… yuh… an' then big news numbah two… I done spent seven-five o' them there profits on that there TransAm. It done spoke ta me… yuh, it sure did. It spoke ta me, an' it done said, Wynne Donnah-hew, we gonn' have one helluva good tihhh-me tagethah come summah. I hope y'all ain't too disappointed or nuttin', 'cos I know y'all had some reserva-shuns, but-"

Mandy cocked her head for a few moments before she broke out in a small shrug and a larger smile. "I'm not disappointed at all, hon. There's only one thing I need to say… and this is the Sheriff of Goldsboro speaking."

"Yuh, I sure know what y'all gonn' say now…"

"Get those brakes repaired," Mandy continued in a no-nonsense voice that held all the authority her position required. "It needs to be the first thing you and Mr. Swenson do. I'm going to check them personally. Do we have an understanding?"

Down below, Goldie let out a confused whimper that revealed she didn't really understand how the conversation could have taken such a drastic turn so quickly - though Blackie did her best to explain the particulars, the scaredy-dog Golden Retriever thought it most prudent to make a run for the doggy-cave and the stick of jerky waiting for her there.

Wynne had begun to nod even before Mandy finished the sentence. "Yes, Ma'am!  We sure do, Sheriff Mandy. Yuh. I ain't even puttin' that there AC Delco battery back in until them brakes be upgraded. Come Mon'dy, Fat-Buhh-tt an' me gonn' ordah all them parts we need, an' then we gonn' start disassemblin' them ol' pads, calipahs an' rotahs. They only be fit fer da scrap heap. Or ack-chew-ly, them calipahs an' rotahs be goin' ta da metal recyclin' plant these days."

"Good. Thank you. I'm back to being your darlin' now," Mandy said, closing the brief lecture with a wink that was responded to with a wide grin.

"Lawrdie, that sure is good ta know, yes Ma'am!" Wynne said before she fell quiet for a few moments - they were spent taking in the undeniable beauty, presence and charisma of the woman sitting opposite her. Breaking out in an even wider grin, she leaned forward to be closer to her partner. "Say, Sheriff Mandy… have y'all eaten yet?  I could whip up som'tin in a flash…"

"Yes, Mr. Lane was just over with our regular sandwiches and some coffee. I'm good for now."

"That be nice an' all. Okeh. Yuh. Mercy Sakes, it sure been a ca-razy week, haw?  I mean, whut ain't done happened yet?  Tha wreckin' ruinin' tha racin' on Sun'dy, an explodin' crappah an' them awesome diecasts on Mon'dy… Toos'dy wus kinda okeh, wussen it?  Can't 'membah… alreddy long gohh-ne. Wednes'dy, haw, we done had that crimmi-nal bizzness up at Keshawn's. Thurs'dy wus a bore fer da most part… until las'night, obvi'sly. Lawwwr-die, las'night…"

Mandy reached out again to give Wynne's hand another squeeze. With the connection firmly established, she let her thumbs caress the back of Wynne's hands. "That was a very special evening. And night, too. Very special. I could have done without the morning after, though… but not for the usual reasons," she said, breaking out into a laugh at the mention of the rude awakening and the incident with the to-go mug that was sure to enter their private folklore.

Wynne and Mandy both leaned in to meet for a nice kiss at the exact center of the table. The next several seconds were spent simply locking eyes and reminiscing about the glorious late evening they shared under their winter duvet.

"Yuh… an' now I done sole the ol' Caddy an' bought mahself a TransAm. A fiah-engine-red TransAm!  It gonn' stay up at da Body Shop while me an' Fat-Buhh-tt be workin' on it. It gonn' be great… naw, it gonn' be awesome-"

Just to prove that Goldsboro could always find a way to throw a spanner in the works, the radio on Mandy's belt crackled to life with a: 'Base to Mobile Unit One. Base to Mobile Unit One. Sheriff, are you on this frequency?  Over.'

A long groan escaped Wynne as she leaned forward to bury her head in her arms. She shook her head over and over causing her dark locks to swish back and forth across the tabletop.

Mandy chuckled at Wynne's antics as she took the radio off her utility belt. "I'm here, Deputy Simms. Over."

'Mr. Rossmann has just called in to report another prowler. He insisted that it was the real deal this time and not his neighbor's gardener. I'm afraid you're the only one available. Deputy Reilly is on patrol up at the other end of town, and the Senior Deputy is cleaning up the mess the prisoners made in the holding cells. Over.'

"Very well, Deputy. I'll deal with Mr. Rossmann in person this time. Mobile Unit One out." Once the radio was back on her belt, she got up and moved over to Wynne's side of the table where she ran her fingers through the dark hair - the fingers soon slid down to caress the Last Original Cowpoke's neck. "I need to be the Sheriff again, hon."

A large smile graced Wynne's features as she leaned into the loving touch. "Aw-haw?" she said, sitting upright once more. "Go get 'em. Whoevah 'them' be, anyhows, 'cos, ya know… ol' Mista Rossmann sure don't always see things clearly an' all."

"I know. And I will. Are you going to spend the rest of the afternoon here?"

"A-yup," Wynne said as she shuffled around on the chair. "I'mma-gonn' play a li'l pool an' teach Geoffrey Juniah an' Roscoe Finch a thing a two. Prolly gonn' chew da fat with ou'ah friends an' acquaintances an' deffa-nete-ly drink a beer now an' then. Me an' them dawggies ain't goin' hoah-me until aftah suppah, so if y'all need-a see a-cuppel-a friendly faces an' all, y'all know where ta look. Yuh?"

Mandy dove down for a quick kiss - then she donned her Mountie hat to show the Sheriff had re-appeared. A wink softened the earnest exterior. "If I said pretty-please, would you make me your special meatloaf tonight?  Say at six-thirty or so?"

"Haw!  Y'all bettah bah-lieve I would!" - Wynne smacked her hands together to underscore her words. "Yes Ma'am, tha spe-shul meatloaf with them there baked peas an' carrots an' sliced sweet pa-tah-tahs… an' plentah o' buttah saw-ce an' da whole nine yards!  Lawrdie, that sure be a deal, darlin'!"

"Good. Can't wait," Mandy said before she offered Wynne a wink as goodbye.

"Haw, me neithah!  Stay safe out yondah, yuh?"

Blackie - hearing her owner's voice - stuck her head out of the opening to the doggy-cave underneath the pool table. It didn't take the clever German Shepherd more than a second to understand it was time for police work. After letting out a Woof-woof-woof! over her shoulder that meant 'See you later!' she ran over to the front door where she waited for the Sheriff to catch up.

The door didn't even have time to fully close after Mandy and Blackie had walked out before Wynne's team-mates in the Goldsboro Pool Association showed up. The returning Roscoe Finch, who had needed to take a walk to cool off after losing $40 on the video poker machine, went over to the refrigerators at once to stock up on the liquid entertainment while Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. unzipped the bag that held his high-quality pool cue.

"Howdy, boys," Wynne said and got up from the chair. She hadn't brought her own expert cue so she made a beeline for the rental racks. Once she had found a good one that wasn't warped or otherwise unfit for the grand game, the refrigerators and the H.E. Fenwyck beers in it sought her companionship - the familiar Pssshhht! soon followed.

"I be in one helluva good mood so I sure hope all y'all be prepared ta lose a-bunch-a games. Yuh. I done bought mahself a new cahhh-r taday!  An 'eighty-nine Pontiac TransAm!  Yessirree, with a propah three-fifty undah the hood an' a Tremec fo'ah-speed auto-tranny. Yuh, sure did. Haw, an' lemme tell all y'all som'tin even mo' awesome…"

While Wynne relayed the lengthy tale for a second time in her inimitable style, Goldie made herself comfortable on the warm blanket in the doggy-cave under the pool table. She gnawed a little on a stick of chicken jerky, took a slurping sip from her water bowl and let out a happy Yap! before she snuggled down into a ball of golden fur.

The Golden Retriever recognized the particular tone in her owner's voice. It was a surefire sign they were going to spend quite a while at the Bar & Grill, and that plenty of water and jerky would follow - and maybe even a bowl of Lafayette's Quality Dry Feed if she was lucky… in short, there were good times ahead for all involved.

*
*
THE END.

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