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CHAPTER 4

The following day: Wednesday, August 28th.

The big day had come - the day where the election campaigns of the incumbent sheriff and the hopeful challenger were kicked off by Mary-Lou Skinner and the rest of the Goldsboro Town Council.

A foot-tall dais was still under construction at one of the few neutral spots in town, namely in front of the hardware store on Second Street. Workers wearing coveralls were readying the walking boards while technicians and sound engineers down from Barton City installed several microphones so the amassed residents could hear the speeches made by Skinner and the two contenders.

The most important speeches would come later in the day after the two campaign trucks had driven slowly through town so their mission statements and various other lofty goals and vague promises could be delivered to the residents of Goldsboro. Once the first part of the day's campaigning was over, Mandy and Bobby Johnston would each hold a short speech before they would square off in a Q&A based on questions submitted by the voters.

It was an archaic way of doing it in the age of social media, video blogs and instant access to news and data, but the Goldsboro Town Council demanded that the campaigns should adhere to the old practice simply because it had proven itself time and time again over the course of the past century. What the Town Council failed to take into account was that everything else in the world had changed drastically over those decades.

Wynne's knee had improved even more which meant she had swapped the cumbersome hospital-issue crutch for a regular hardwood cane she had borrowed from Diego Benitez. At present, she checked the oil and various other things under the hood of the open-chassis truck they had rented from a company in Las Vegas that had specialized in producing novelty vehicles like parade floats, camera trucks for movies and clown cars for circuses. That it was a GMC was a stroke of luck because the man Wynne had spoken to couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't be a Ford or a Toyota.

The entire rear end of the white GMC was simply an open frame similar to how most ambulances looked before they were sent to a coachbuilder. The Las Vegas company had installed a pair of enormous loudspeakers that pointed in opposite directions so the message could reach - or disturb - as many people as possible. The strong magnets at the rear of the speakers were encased in lead so they wouldn't interfere with the truck's electronics. Each speaker was connected to an industrial-strength amplifier that in turn required so many batteries to run that the truck needed a reinforced rear-axle or else it would burst the tires or snap the shock absorbers at the first sign of a bump in the road.

Wynne closed the hood and wiped her fingers on a rag. The heatwave had finally decided to move on from MacLean County to torment other innocent people elsewhere. The dip in the ambient temperatures and the marked improvement of her knee meant that she could wear most of her full Last Original Cowpoke outfit: decorated cowboy boots, an older pair of blue-jeans that were one size too large so the pantleg wouldn't press against the knee, and a wide-sleeved, loudly-green football jersey promoting Dale Jarrett's 1993 Daytona 500 win in the Interstate Batteries Chevrolet Lumina for the JGR team. She also wore the denim vest she had made herself by cutting off the sleeves of an old, threadbare jacket. Up top, her beloved cowboy hat graced her dark locks as always.

Since the campaign truck was only meant to drive at walking pace, it had a special automatic transmission that consisted of a single forward gear plus a regular reverse. To keep the fluids from cooking, a heavy-duty oil cooler had been installed in the engine bay. Its fierce whine was enough to drive Wynne up the wall, but the huge speakers would drown out everything else once they got going.

Wynne was going to be the designated driver all day, so she climbed behind the steering wheel to get the seat to her liking and to familiarize herself with the knobs, switches and various other doodads. It was similar enough, though not identical, to her Chevrolet Silverado that it didn't take her long to find out where everything was located. The biggest difference proved to be the gear selector that was installed on the steering column rather than in the center console.

"Hello, Captain Wynne!  Are we ready to embark on this grand adventure?" a female voice said somewhere close.

Sitting up straight, Wynne let out a highly eloquent: "Haw?  Whazzat?" before she recognized Brenda Travers. "Whah, howdy, there Brendah. Yuh, we be 'bout reddy an' all. Lawwwwr-die, I reckon I nevah done saw mah sweet, li'l Mandy this wound up befo'. She got a lot on her plate this he' mornin', that sure ain't no lie. An' I ain't tawkin' 'bout no oatmeal or nuttin'."

Brenda wore brown shoes with two-inch heels, a pair of tight, white Capris and a tan tunic that featured a stylish leather belt around her waist. The belt was held together by a golden buckle. Her corkscrew curls had been given a solid squirt of volume to stay puffy.

"I didn't think you were," she said with a wink as she leaned forward to put her elbows on the windowsill. "So… how does this thing work, anyway?"

"Aw, it be really simple. It be like them ol' Citizen's Band ray-dee-ohhs, yuh?  Y'all got an on-off switch he' an' a volume knob there an' a mic he' an'… aw, it be a whole lot easiah if I jus' showed y'all. Okeh?"

"Sure. I'm ready to be awed, Captain!" Brenda said before she dove into the cab to steal a tiny kissie on Wynne's cheek.

"Haw… yuh. Okeh… anyhows, I hit da on-off switch he'… an' turn that there volume knob- aw, it be scratchin' a li'l, haw?  Bettah now than latah. How loud, ya reckon?  Shoot, I ain't got no clue mahself. It goes ta ten, but les'trah five. It be such a nice, round numbah. An' then… press tha button on da mic. Like this, yuh?  Howdy-"

A thunderous, distorted H-O-W-D-Y blasted out of the speakers in the back. The sudden burst of noise was violent enough to make the whole truck rock left-to-right and send everyone in the vicinity running for the hills.

"Jaysus!  Make it stop!  Turn it off!" Brenda cried, slapping her hands onto her ears. When that wasn't enough, she spun around and tore away from the GMC.

Inside the cab, a panting, grimacing Wynne scrambled to turn the volume knob down to Two and then switch off the unit. She blinked several times before she shook her head to get the buzzing hornets inside her skull to find someone else's brain cavity to play tag in. When that approach didn't work, she stuffed her pinkies into her auditory canals to gave everything in there a good rubbing.

"Okeh," she said in a croak as she stared at the control unit for the speakers, "I reckon we ain't gonn' be usin' Five. Nosirree. It be Two or Three. Haw. Good shittt almighty, that wus loud, that… shoot, where mah cane go?  Cane… cane… cane?  No cane. Dag-nabbit… aw, there it be. It fell undah tha seat. Can't blame it or nuttn'."

A moment later, Wynne's telephone rang. Digging into a pocket to find it, she let out a grunt when the caller-ID said Mandy. The call was soon accepted. "Uh… howdy, darlin'-"

'I don't know what you did, but please don't do it again!  Two felt tiles dropped down from the ceiling and Mr. Simms choked on a cigarette. Deputy Reilly is giving him the Heimlich as we speak!'

"Awwwww-shittt," Wynne croaked, smacking a palm against her face. "I sure am sorry, darlin'. I jus' wanted ta trah them there speakahs an' all… I reckon I had the volume up a li'l too haaaaaah."

'I can confirm that!'

"Haw… yuh… aw…"

'We'll talk later,' Mandy said and closed the connection.

Wynne just stared at the silent telephone for a while before she scratched her cheek. "Yuh. I reckon this gonn' require a dozen red roses or som'tin… an' prolly som'tin fer ol' Barry as well… a free mooh-vie ticket or som'tin," she said in a mumble.

Brenda had returned in the meantime. She continued to hold her hands to her ears just in case the evil speakers had a trick up their proverbial sleeves, but the sight of the red LED fading to black on the dashboard meant she lowered her arms and let out a long "Phew…"

It wasn't long before they were joined by Diego Benitez, their neighbor from the trailer park. The heavy-set fellow of Mexican descent had donned his Sunday finest in the shape of black shoes, black jeans, a white shirt, a leather vest and a bolo tie. His bushy mustache had been trimmed, and his hair had been wet-combed and parted in the middle to give him a more sophisticated look than usual. "What in Sam Hill were you guys doing just now?  I could hear it clear down to Moira's!" he said and broke out in a laugh.

Brenda moved aside to point at Wynne in a comical fashion.

"Yuh, I reckon I done messed up," Wynne said as she inched around to put her boots and the tip of the hardwood cane on the ground. Clenching her jaw, she managed to get out of the GMC without too many dramas. Once the door was closed, she leaned her rear-end against it and used the cane for keeping her balance. "Howdy, Diegoh. Mah-mah, y'all sure be lookin' fihhhh-ne taday."

"Thanks, you too. Hell, we all are," Diego said, taking in Brenda's appearance. "Is the cane working?"

"A-yup. It be workin' real good, friend. Thanks a bunch fer lettin' me use it."

Diego nodded as he took in the sight of the group of residents who were already chatting and gossiping below the dais although there were several hours to go until the actual speeches and the subsequent Q&A session. "No problem, Wynne. Blackie and Goldie are in my truck like we arranged. I couldn't persuade Freddie to come, but looking at this group of folks… that was the right decision. He still isn't ready to be around all those humans."

"Haw, ain't no blamin' him fer that. Not aftah tha nasty shit he hadda live through befo' we found'im. Okay, so when we drive off, yuh, it be me an' Sheriff Mandy in this he' speakah-truck… then Brendah an' Vaughn in-"

Brenda shook her head and quickly put a hand on Wynne's arm. "Vaughn couldn't make it. He spent all night in a live video conference feed with the Hong Kong branch of Ishigawa Pharmaceuticals."

"Uh… okeh. So… okeh, I got dis," Wynne said, rearranging her hat to give her hard-working neural receptors and messengers a little more room to operate. "Me an' Mandy in this he' speakah-truck. Then Brendah in that there Fohhh-rd SUV there, then Diegoh-"

"Actually, Wynne," Diego said before he came to a stop to let out a laugh at the look of pure frustration that exploded onto Wynne's face. "There's no point in having a three-vehicle convoy going at five miles per hour. I'll just drive with Brenda. The dogs can be in the back with their heads out of the windows to add a little Awwww-factor."

Wynne nodded twice before she broke out in a shrug. "Okeh. Fihhh-ne by me. No trubbel. Okeh. I jus' be gettin' a li'l con-few-sed he' but it ain't too bad yet. So it be me an' Bren- naw, me an' Mandy in this he' speakah-truck he'… yuh?  Then Diegoh an' Brendah an' them wondahful dawggies in da Fohhh-rd SUV… yuh?  Okeh. Deal-"

"Actually," Brenda said, holding up an index finger. "Would either of you happen to have a blanket or something that I could put on the seat?  I know it's a first-world problem, but I'd like to avoid too many dog hairs on the upholstery right now. We're going to use it as a down payment for a new SUV next week, and dog hairs are really difficult to get out… so…"

Wynne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, yuh, I got one o' them there dawggie blankets, but it be back hoah-me… an' I don't reckon there gonn' be enuff time ta go back an' get it."

"Oh… okay… darn," Brenda said with a half-shrug.

"Wynne," Diego said, "maybe there's a fire blanket in the sheriff's office?"

"Haw, I ain't got a clue… an' I reckon we prolly shoudden disturb Sheriff Mandy too much 'cos she be kinda wound up alreddy, Diegoh."

The insurmountable problem was suddenly resolved when Mandy, Rodolfo Gonzalez and Beatrice Reilly all exited the sheriff's office and made their way over to various spots on Second Street. Rodolfo and Beatrice had each been given a specific corner to stand at while conducting the crowd, and Mandy strode directly toward the speaker-truck and the group of people waiting there.

"That's my cue!" Brenda said and performed an excited, little jump. "With all the deputies over here, I can probably sweet-talk Barry into giving me some kind of blanket. I'll be right back!"

"Haw!  Jus' make sure he still be breathin' when ya leave him, Brendah!" Wynne said at her neighbor's retreating form.

Diego chuckled. "She could sweet-talk me into quite a lot, actually."

"Ya reckon?  Ol' Brendah be a married woman, Diegoh."

"Oh, sure, sure. But I'm not."

"Dawg," Wynne said, matching her friend's chuckles. Before further quips could be exchanged, Mandy had made her way over to the truck. "Howdy, darlin'. Lissen, I sure am sorry fer that there screw-up there-"

"Are we ready to do this?" Mandy said in a no-nonsense tone of voice that she usually reserved for the really stressful situations.

Wynne and Diego shared a brief look that made the latter slip away before he would find himself in the crosshairs. "Aw, we be reddy, darlin'. Vaughn coudden make it 'cos of some stuff I didden really get. Is ol' Barry awright-"

"Do you think we would leave him if he wasn't?"

Before Wynne could answer, Mandy briefly closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Silence spread between them for a few seconds before Mandy reached out to put her hands on Wynne's sides. "I'm sorry, hon," she said in a far more human tone. "That was way too bitchy of me. I know better than that."

"Stressed-out is whut y'all is. No wondah with all this stinkin' three-ring circus goin' on," Wynne said, returning the favor by putting her own hands on Mandy's hips.

Mandy shrugged. "Perhaps, but I still ought to know better. What actually caused that monster sound?"

"Aw, that wus me bein' me. I had tha volume up too haaah. It goes ta ten, an' that wus fihh-ve. We can't go no haaah'er than two or else we gonn' blow out them windahs all the way up an' down Main Street."

Activity over by the dais proved to be Mary-Lou Skinner who was helped across the uneven walking boards en route to the microphones. Everyone present turned to look at the senior member of the Goldsboro Town Council, so Mandy took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss. "We better hear what the Councilwoman has to say. Do you need a hand?"

"Nope!  Diegoh's cane is jus' whut tha doctah done ordah'd," Wynne said with a broad grin. "But y'all bettah go ahead 'cos I still be a li'l slow. Yuh?"

"All right. I'll see you over there."

-*-*-*-

Twenty minutes later, Wynne drove the GMC speaker-truck north on Main Street at a whopping four miles per hour. They had started their first lap of Goldsboro down by the southern city limits sign although nobody lived there, and Mandy had nearly flipped her lid all over again when they saw that the sign had been vandalized for the hundredth time.

The GMC was only a single-cab truck with two separate seats so the space was limited. Matters weren't helped by the cooler box that Wynne had placed on the floor between the seats where the center console would normally be in regular, non-novelty trucks. The hardwood cane took up space as well, but Mandy held onto it so it wouldn't rattle around and strike any important bits.

The cooler contained sandwiches, salads, sweets and sodas. Although Wynne had taken the last of her pain medication at the breakfast table, she had shown remarkable restraint in not bringing a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck's Double-Zeros. Instead, she had fueled up on Go-Faster-Longer Apricot energy drinks that were sure to keep her going for hours.

Behind the GMC, Brenda occupied the wheel of her Ford SUV. Diego sat on the passenger seat while Blackie and Goldie got the most out of their participation in the re-election campaign by looking like a pair of doggy darlings in the back seat. Brenda had in fact charmed a blushing Barry into giving her a fire blanket so the upholstery would be spared from being covered in dog hairs.

The little convoy continued moving north at a snail's pace. The transformer substation at the southern tip of Goldsboro soon went by on their left. Once they had cleared that, the first houses came into view.

Mandy rolled her shoulders, cleared her throat and cracked her knuckles before she took the piece of paper containing the speech she had written for their campaign trail. "All right. I'm ready. Turn it on."

"Turnin' it on, yes Ma'am," Wynne said, pressing the on-off button on the control panel. Out back, the amplifiers and the speakers began humming to indicate they were ready. "Volume at settin' numbah one ta begin with. Ain't nobodda he', anyhows. We might as well test the darn thing."

"Good thinking, hon," Mandy said before she cleared her throat once more and depressed the button on the side of the old-school CB mic. "Ladies and Gentlemen of-"  The button was soon released. "That's too low, hon. Try turning it up to three."

"Okeh… three iz mah lucky numbah. Three it is," Wynne said, twisting the volume knob two clicks to the right. "Okeh. Trah ag'in."

"Ladies and-"

Out back, a distorted, overly loud L-A-D-I-E-S A-N-D burst out of the speakers.

"Hooooooly shittt!" Wynne cried, immediately turning the volume down to Two. "Dag-nabbit, we's gonn' get in trubbel with da Air Force if we go any haaah'er than this he' settin'!"

Mandy rolled her eyes several times before she depressed the small button once more. "Ladies and Gentlemen of Goldsboro. I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. You know me. You know my team of deputies. You know that integrity, transparency and honesty aren't merely buzzwords but the cornerstones of law enforcement. You know the level of success we've had in keeping our town clean and safe for everyone. You know how quickly and efficiently we react when someone steps across the line. You know you can trust us to uphold the law. Can you say the same for our opponents?  Vote for Sheriff Mandy Jalinski in the upcoming elections. Thank you."

Once Mandy had released the button, she leaned her head back and let out a long sigh. "And we need do this all afternoon… what a damned waste of our time and resources!"

"Yuh, mebbe, but I reckon that wus darn fihhhh-ne, darlin'- aw, lookie there… the ol' Grant-Mastah be flaggin' us down," Wynne said, pointing at the easily recognizable figure of Grant Lafferty who waved at them in front of his Beer & Liquor Imports store.

"Pull over, hon. It might be important."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

The speaker-truck soon came to a halt by the curb. Instead of simply rolling down the window, Mandy opened the door and stepped out to greet the man whose cash register had seen quite a few of Wynne's dollar bills over the years. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lafferty. How nice to see you. You are going to vote for me, aren't you?" she said, screwing a typical politician's smile on her face while she extended her hand for the traditional greeting.

The mature Grant shook hands with Mandy before he waved at Wynne. As always, he had to wear felt slippers on his tender feet to give his painful bunions the soft environment they demanded. Further up, he wore brown, high-waisted corduroy pants and a light gray shirt with short sleeves. His square reading glasses sat a little low on his nose, but he soon moved them up so they weren't at risk of falling off. He had recently bought a new toupee that was held in a darker and more youthful-looking shade of brown than it had been earlier. It looked somewhat strange to those not in the know, but he was pleased with it.

"But of course, Sheriff," he said with a smile. "I stopped you because I wanted to ask if you had any flyers I could hand out to my customers?"

"Oh, we certainly do, Mr. Lafferty!  We've designed two different flyers, actually, so you can choose the one you like the best. Mr. Benitez has them. Come, let me show you," Mandy said as she put a hand on Grant's arm to guide him back to Brenda's SUV.

Behind the steering wheel of the speaker-truck, Wynne let out a string of chuckles. "Lawrdie… mah sweet, li'l Mandy be layin' it on so thick taday I'mma-gonn' hafta use them wipahs jus' ta keep them windahs clean!"

She jumped in the seat when the oil cooler for the transmission chose that moment to break out in a fierce whine to show that it did its job. Glancing at the gear selector, she put it in Neutral, but even that didn't stop the teeth-watering whine. "Ugh, whah da hell didden them folks jus' make it with a dog-gone manual tranny?  Anythin' but that whihhhh-ne!"

A minute later, Mandy returned to the GMC, climbed into the cab and made herself comfortable on the narrow seat. "Mr. Lafferty took twenty-four flyers. Twelve of each. That's not bad at… what in the world is that awful whine?  Don't tell me it's breaking down before we've made it halfway through the first lap of town!"

"Naw," Wynne said and pulled the gear selector into Drive, "that there whine there be the oil coolah fer tha tranny. Dang noisy thing. Must be real crap quality inside an' all. Are we reddy ta move on, darlin'?"

"Yes. Next stop, Mrs. Tyler's Yarn Spinners. Then it's onto Mrs. Pearson's Tack and Saddle leathergoods shop, Mr. Lowe at the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor, Mrs. Hayward at the Town Museum, the Spartan Wings sports goods store, Doctor Gibbs' clinic, Mr. Williams's second-hand store, Mr. Rosenthal at the movie theater, Mr. Browne's used-car dealership, Mr. Kulick's body shop… well, to see Mr. Swenson because I doubt Mr. Kulick is in town. In short, we've got a ton of places still to go."

"Good shittt almighty… aw, an' I reckon we ain't gonn' stop an' tawk ta Sam McCabe or Holly or ol' Derrike, right?"

"That would just be a ridiculous waste of time, hon."

"A-yup. Okeh. Les'go. Hold onta ya Mountie hat, there, darlin' 'cos I'mma-gonn' put tha pedal ta tha metal!  Mebbe this time we gonn' break tha land speed rekkerd fer snails goin' uphill in moh-lasses!  Yeeeeee-hawww!"

---

Forty-five minutes later, Mandy downed most of a can of mineral water in a series of deep, greedy gulps. She had just finished reading her campaign speech for the seventh time when Keshawn Williams had flagged them down at his Second-Hand Treasures thrift store, and the next ten minutes had been a blur of selfies, handshakes, holding puppies and tickling babies.

"Hon," Mandy said as she leaned against the windowsill on the driver's side. "I need to cool down or else I'll end up on my backside. The movie theater has A-C so I'll go over there now. The next scheduled stop after this one is up at Mr. Browne. Would you mind parking across the street?  I know you'll be in the sun, but it'll save us some time after I've spoken to Mr. Rosenthal."

"Haw, no trubbel, darlin'!  No trubbel. I got mahself a full coolah o' sodas an' ice cubes an' ev'rythin'. I be a pic-chure o' coo', dontchaknow."

Mandy let out a tired chuckle before she leaned in to place a kiss on Wynne's cheek.

---

Later on, on the other side of Main Street, Wynne played a little Rubbin' Fenders on her telephone. Brenda and Diego had driven ahead to Cletus Browne's used-car lots to find some shade and to give Blackie and Goldie a chance to stretch their legs. Wynne didn't mind the solitude, especially since she was leading a dirt-track race with only five laps to go.

A booming 'Lookie there cowboys!  Are mah eyes deceivin' me, or ain't it good ol' Dumb-ahue ovah yondah?' suddenly rang across the street in the worst, most faked and most exaggerated Hollywood-Texan imaginable.

The burst of noise came so unexpectedly that Wynne dropped her telephone down into the footwell. Before she could find it and pause the game, the Wrecked Out / Game Over music started playing. A mumbled "Artie Rains, ya dirty, rotten sonova…" escaped her before she craned her neck to see where their opponents were hiding.

Her question was answered a moment later when Rains's similar speaker-truck drove south on Main Street fifty yards or so ahead of her parking spot in front of the movie theater. Just to compound her misery of losing a race she had led for 40 laps, Artie Rains brought the truck to a halt on the opposite side of the street at Keshawn Williams's store.

As if by magic, the people who had been milling about when Mandy had been there disappeared like the morning dew at the sight of Rains and Bobby Johnston who sat in the passenger seat looking smug.

Wynne bit on her tongue. Then she chewed on her cheek. Then she rubbed her nose. Then she switched on the speakers, set the volume to Two and reached for the CB mic though she knew she shouldn't. "Haw, I gotta hand it to ya, Artie. All y'all fihhhh-ne folks sure know how ta clear that there street, yuh?  I coulda sworn there wus 'bout twentah folks ovah yondah befo' y'all done showed up."

"Are you sure you can count that high, Dono-fool?" Rains said over the speakers in his regular Nevadan dialect. "Even if you use all your fingers and toes, you're still gonna come up short 'cos you only got half a brain."

"It be bettah ta have half a brain than havin' a dubbel set o' ass-cheeks that be hangin' 'round them ankles, Rains. Well, y'all oughttah know, come back."

A pregnant silence spread across the two lanes between the speaker-trucks. Rains and Johnston soon started speaking to each other, but Wynne couldn't pick up what they said. The All-American Hero said something to Rains that made the former sheriff shake his head. The Hero tried again, but Rains shook his fleshy head even harder. Bobby Johnston eventually cut to the chase and reached for the mic, but Rains put a meaty paw on it to prevent the action.

Furrowing her brow at the odd back-and-forth across the street, Wynne kept her own CB mic ready in case it was needed, but it didn't appear as if Rains was willing to continue the classic trash-talking session, at least not to begin with.

Nearly a full minute went by before Rains's voice once more rolled across Main Street. "There's somethin' I've always wondered about you and Manly. When you screw, who gets to wear the strap-on?  Or maybe you take turns?  Choke on that, ya dumb broad!"

Before Wynne could get the cane and clamber out of the GMC to give Rains a square, thorny and very, very loud piece of her mind, he set off in a roar and reams of tire smoke that proved their speaker-truck didn't have a limited transmission.

Finally getting out, Wynne slammed the door shut and leaned against it. The look on her face spelled out quite clearly that she was within two heartbeats of finding something heavy that she could throw after the escaping truck. When she didn't have anything at hand that would do the trick, she did the next best thing by clenching her fists and letting out a long sequence of roared words that all seemed to rhyme with "-uck," "-ucker" or "-uckin'."

---

Three minutes later, Mandy exited the movie theater's lobby with an unreadable expression on her face. She opened the door and sat down next to the cooler box and the steaming-hot Wynne. "I heard some of it, but not all," she said after a short while.

"I be glad y'all wussen he'. Ya woudda taken a potshot at Rains. I almost did, an' I didden even have no guhhh-n. How did it go with ol' Abe?"

Wynne and Mandy shared a long look before Mandy took the piece of paper she used to keep track of where they had been and where they still needed to go. "Mr. Browne is next," she said as her only answer to Wynne's question.

-*-*-*-

Twenty past four in the afternoon, Wynne made the left-hand turn off Josiah Street and drove the dog-slow speaker-truck along Second Street until they reached the rear side of the dais. Her ears were finally spared the incessant whine of the transmission oil cooler when she turned the ignition off and pulled out the key.

Since almost all had been said and done, she popped open the lid of the cooler box between the seats in the hope of finding just one more can. A long sigh escaped her when all she got out of it was wet fingers from dipping them into the melted ice at the bottom - the rest was nothing but empty cans and spent sandwich wrappers. "Darlin', I'mma-gonn' go 'round tha cornah an' get some mo' sodas at Moira's. Y'all want anythin' in particular?"

"No, thank you," Mandy said in a voice hoarse from reading her campaign speech nineteen times not to mention all the personal appearances she had made along the way. "I need to see what's been going on at the office. Then I need to get updates on the crowd control from Senior Deputy Gonzalez and Deputy Reilly. Then I need to see Mrs. Skinner to get the latest timetable for the rest of the day's activities. Then we'll have the final speeches. Then we'll have the Q-and-A session… and by then, I'll be ready for a pine casket."

Wynne broke out in a shiver at the unpleasant associations that flashed across her mind's eye. Quickly reaching over to grab Mandy's hands, she gave them a strong squeeze. "Darlin'… y'all nevah know who or whut be lissenin', yuh?  Things we done say got a nasty tendency ta ack-chew-ly happen, an' it don't mattah none if we be he' in town or back hoah-me or anywhe'ah fer that mattah. Okeh?"

"I know. Sorry. Let's meet at the dais in ten… no, better make that fifteen minutes," Mandy said, returning the strong squeeze. "All right?"

"Aw, okeh. I need-a tawk ta Diegoh an' Brendah anyhows. An' give them dawggies a li'l lovin', too."

Mandy nodded and reached for the lever on the door. Before she pulled it, she turned back to Wynne: "There's something you must promise me. Please don't get into any kind of fight or even a shouting match with Johnston and Rains. Or J.D. Burdette for that matter. Please. Promise me right here and now."

"I promise, darlin'. I ain't gonn' do nuttin'. I be coo' as ice," Wynne said, leaning over to place a kiss on Mandy's lips. "Ack-chew-ly, I got an ideah… yuh… woudden it be helpful if me an' Brendah done walked 'round filmin' stuff on ou'ah cameras?  Them a-holes ain't nevah gonn' say nuttin' nasty if there be a risk of it hittin' that there Intahnet. I reckon Rains done learned that lesson tha las'time, yuh?  An' Johnston sure ain't gonn' say nuttin' in public that gonn' jeppar-dize his cam-payne, neithah."

"That sounds like a very good idea, hon. But still… stay sharp. Don't underestimate them. They often pull a trick on us when we least expect it."

"Yuh!  Yuh, I sure do hear ya, darlin'. This he' Cowpah-k gonn' stay sharp, awright. Yee-haww. I got them jingle-jangle-spurs on an' ev'rythin'."

"Good. I'll see you in a little while," Mandy said before she returned the earlier kissing-favor and left the speaker-truck to get on with the program.

-*-*-*-

Ten to five, Mary-Lou Skinner flipped a coin in the air to determine which of the two speakers would be first at the microphone. As was the norm in Goldsboro, the coin rolled off the dais during the first attempt. The second flip had more success although the coin was well on its way toward the edge before it ran out of steam. "Tails it is," Mary-Lou said before she turned to Bobby Johnston. "The stage is yours, Mr. Johnston."

Down among the first row of spectators, Wynne broke out in a grumble. Next to her, Brenda and Diego grumbled even louder. Blackie and Goldie just looked at each other and performed identical doggy-shrugs.

Mandy moved over to a chair that had been set up not too far from the microphone stand. From there, she had a good view of the surprisingly large number of residents who had shown up for the speeches and the Q&A. The elderly or the otherwise impaired - like Wynne - had been given lawn chairs to rest their weary limbs in and on, but the rest had to stand. A good portion of them used fans, and most wore sunhats and pale clothing although the heat wasn't as unbearable as it had been earlier in the week.

She cast an experienced eye at the rows to find potential troublemakers. It didn't take her long to zoom in on a group of burly men near the back. None were residents of Goldsboro as such, but she recognized two of them from the Old Boys' Haven trailer park a few miles north of town. It was notorious for being a viper's nest of trouble, and it was also Artie Rains's new home base after he had lost his house following the departure of his long-suffering wife.

Moving on through the ranks of spectators, she eventually found Wynne and their various friends and allies who had all clumped together on one side of the large group of people. Wynne continued to look the grumpiest she'd had for years after the verbal showdown with Rains and Johnston up at the movie theater. Next to her, Diego and in particular Brenda also carried grim expressions from being told about the incident.

Bobby Johnston stepping up to the microphone made Mandy return to the matters at hand. To show the proper respect for her rival candidate - though he had done nothing to deserve it - she clapped along with the spectators when applause broke out.

As expected, Johnston presented an image of a squeaky-clean, trustworthy, wholesome, lily-white, clean-cut, All-American Hero. He wore the same ensemble as the day before when Wynne and Mandy had met him at Holly's hair salon: cowboy boots, dark-blue jeans and a Western shirt. He didn't wear a necktie of any kind. In fact, he had undone the top shirt button to show that he was One Of The Boys. His short hair and clean-shaven cheeks and chin backed up the image he wanted to convey.

He soon took the cordless microphone off the stand so he could move around on the dais and thus maintain eye-contact with his supporters and those who had yet to make up their minds. "Ladies and Gentlemen. I would like to thank each and every one of you for your unwavering support, but then we'd be here the rest of the day. Instead, let me express my gratitude by offering you all a heartfelt thank you."

A large round of applause spread among all of Johnston's supporters but only a few of those there for Mandy. Nevertheless, the Hero milked the moment for all it was worth by strutting around like a cowboy peacock.

Wynne had to pinch the bridge of her nose hard to stop herself from snorting or booing at the fellow up on the dais. It worked, but only just. Her temper told her to react in some form sooner rather than later, so she slammed her arms across her chest and shook her head several times.

Brenda, who had been filming the whole sorry mess, pressed Pause before she leaned down toward Wynne. "Is he a slick jerk or what?  The way he behaves, you'd think he was running for President!"

"Lawrdie, I wish he wus!  Then we woudden hafta lissen ta the sombitch now…"

Up on the dais, Bobby Johnston continued: "I know I'm from out of town, but I guarantee that if I get elected Sheriff of Goldsboro, I'll move here at once. I'll find a home here in town so you can get in touch with me around the clock. I've been told the sheriff's office is actually closed at night… well, that's going to change if I get elected. Feeling safe, Ladies and Gentlemen, is perhaps the biggest factor in getting a town to thrive. I guarantee you'll feel safe if I get elected Sheriff."

Another round of applause broke out while Wynne shook her head some more.

"The opposite of feeling safe is to be worried, concerned, fearful of the criminals creeping around at night when the sheriff's office is closed. Let's not forget how cunning and cynical criminals are. They'll know when to prowl the streets looking for victims to assault or homes to break into. They'll know to strike at night when they're unopposed by the Deputy Sheriffs or Sheriff Jalinski who, as far as I'm aware, doesn't even live here in Goldsboro. Ladies and Gentlemen, if I get elected Sheriff, I guarantee that my deputies will patrol the streets day and night. And it won't be one here, one there. No, they'll go in teams of two, three or more so they can counter any threat from criminals who abuse our inherent American sense of hospitality by coming to Goldsboro intent on robbing, stealing, committing acts of violence or vandalism, or… God forbid… raping. Ladies and Gentlemen, you can-"

The applause was even louder than before and rendered the All-American Hero unable to go on for several long moments. A wide smile - that revealed his perfect set of pearly whites - spread over his wholesome face. "Thank you, thank you!  Ladies and Gentlemen, you can do your part of keeping Goldsboro's streets safe by voting for me, Bobby Johnston, on election day. I guarantee you won't regret it. The charming town of Goldsboro needs a fresh start. I'm the man who can deliver it. Thank you."

The loudest applause yet broke out as Johnston put the cordless microphone back on the stand. He briefly shook hands with Mandy before he waited for her to vacate the chair so he could sit down.

The symbolism wasn't lost on Mandy whose grim expression proved she was sick and tired of the whole thing. Stepping over to the microphone stand, she made sure to lock eyes with Wynne for some much-needed moral support. She was already in the process of reaching for the short speech she had prepared when she changed her mind and simply took the cordless mic. "First of all, I would like to thank the residents of Goldsboro for their strong showing of support today and indeed over the past several years. Then I would like to congratulate my rival candidate Mr. Johnston on his eloquent presentation. He must have spent all night rehearsing it… I'm sure he wrote at least some of it."

Laughter rippled through roughly half the crowd while the other half moved around uncomfortably. Artie Rains - who had commandeered a chair though he had no physical impairments save for his considerable beer gut - sent a glare in Mandy's direction. When she didn't see it, he turned to glare at Wynne instead.

Mandy let her eyes roam across the spectators as she went on: "When I look at the great number of people gathered here today, I recognize many who were here for the last election. I also see several new faces. Perhaps the veteran Goldsborians could explain to those who have moved here within the past few years that tolerance and professional integrity shouldn't be taken for granted. That we shouldn't lose track of the fact that while a swift response is important in emergencies, it's perhaps more important that we can trust those who come to help."

Like the earlier laughter, the applause that rolled through the spectators was located on one side of the group. At the front, Wynne and the dogs led the way by clapping, woofing and yapping.

As the applause died down, Mandy turned to shoot Bobby Johnston a look. For the briefest of moments, the wholesome expression he had carried during the campaigning was replaced by something darker and more sinister. The transformation had only lasted for a heartbeat or two, but it had been there.

Mandy soon returned to addressing the spectators: "You know you can trust Yours Truly and the deputies currently in active duty. Senior Deputy Gonzalez and Deputy Reilly are dedicated, hard-working members of law enforcement who'll work tirelessly helping those who need it the most. Who'll chase and take down the criminals endangering the residents of our town. Who'll act as mentors for young people heading down a wrong path. I believe most of us here value those things greatly. Therefore, Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask you to vote for stability. I ask you to vote for trust. I ask you to vote for me, Mandy Jalinski, in the upcoming election. I thank you."

A stronger round of applause had already started when Artie Rains got to his feet and adjusted his drooping pants. The action seemed to work as a signal for their supporters on the back row. Hooting and hollering to disrupt the proceedings as much as possible, the burly men unfurled several banners that read 'Vote For The Patriotic Coalition!' 'Vote For Family Values' and the evergreen classic 'Let's Make Goldsboro Great Again!'  Not satisfied with that kind of disruption, they began stomping on the ground and chanting various radical battle songs and slogans.

Mandy's face turned beetroot-red at the men's disrespectful behavior. She was limited in what she could do up on the dais, but she waved Rodolfo and Beatrice over to quell the protests before they would escalate into something far worse. Much to her relief, several residents - including Diego Benitez - opposed the Coalition supporters and began pushing them back so the families who had shown up for the presentations wouldn't get in harm's way.

Up front, Blackie jumped into an aggressive stance and let out the type of thunderous barks she was known for. As a stark contrast, Goldie didn't know what to do with herself, so she spun around in a dizzying circle three times before she ran in under the dais and found a metal support to hide behind. When she realized the evil and scary world could still see her, she curled herself up into a golden ball and pretended to be Goldie, The Amazing Invisible Dog.

Brenda continued to film everything that went on including the dramatic scenes going on at the rear of the spectators. She found it tough to keep the camera still with all the brouhaha, shouting and barking taking place all around her at first, but a firm two-handed grip on the telephone provided steady images.

"Artie dang-blasted Rains, ya miserable sohhhhhhhm-bitch!  Get ovah he' so I can ram mah boot up yer fat ass!" Wynne roared as she used the hardwood cane to clamber to her feet.

Rains just grinned and offered Wynne a one-fingered salute that would be considered rather rude in most places. Laughing out loud, he lumbered away from the chaos to talk to Bobby Johnston who had yet to move from the dais.

"Haw, Brendah… Brendah?" Wynne said, putting a hand on the camera-gal's shoulder. When Brenda's attention had been earned, she leaned in to be heard over the ruckus. "If y'all got a minnit, I reckon ya oughttah get some foot-itch o' nasty-ass Artie Rains an' Mista Hero there. Some close-ups an' stuff."

Nodding, Brenda turned around and held the camera-telephone so it recorded the conversation between a grinning Artie Rains and a disgustingly smug Bobby Johnston. She was too far away to pick up any words, but their faces alone told an R-rated tale of everything going to plan.

"Don't ferget that sombitch Rains be tawkin' ta," Wynne continued. "Get some o' Johnston, yuh?  Jus' look at them a-holes. I be willin' ta bet mah hat they wus both in on it. Mebbe this be som'tin we could send ta Judge Etherin'ton or Channel Seventah-eight or somebodda."

Brenda nodded again as she made sure to keep the two men in focus.

While all that went on, Mandy jumped off the dais and stormed over to Mary-Lou Skinner who had been placed off to the right of the dais with the other members of the Goldsboro Town Council. Mary-Lou wheezed harder than she had for months, and her face had turned ashen as a direct result of the upsetting developments. "Councilwoman Skinner, this could have been prevented!  We warned you against doing it the old-fashioned way because it's not the old-fashioned world anymore!  Well, guess what?  We were right!" Mandy said in a voice hoarse from the day's activities and the fiery rage that burned within her.

Bonnie Saunders, Mary-Lou's right-hand-woman on the Town Council, stepped forward to hold the irate Mandy back. "Sheriff, please!  Can't you see Mrs. Skinner is unwell?" she said, struggling to keep the far stronger woman back.

"She isn't the only one!  If we can get away with a few bloodied noses today, we should count ourselves lucky!  All that stands between you people and Goddamned full-blown anarchy are my deputies. The two of 'em!  We need at least two more if Rains and his fanatics decide to step up their rioting."

Mary-Lou shook her head, wheezing so hard that even the short sentence was broken into several parts: "No room… on next's year's… budget… for-"

"Frankly, I don't give a flying brick shithouse-"

"Sheriff Jalinski!" Bonnie Saunders cried in a shocked tone.

"-about your budget," Mandy continued. "Those J-Six Brigade fanatics are testing us, don't you understand that?  I strongly suggest that you find the money for two further deputies ASAP. I've said my piece. Now it's up to you. Goodbye!"

Spinning around on her heel, Mandy strode along Second Street to join the fight at the rear of the spectator area where Rodolfo, Beatrice and several of the residents continued pushing back the rowdy Coalition supporters.

Along the way, she briefly locked eyes with Wynne who leaned on her cane next to a filming Brenda. A non-verbal plea to be very, very careful was transmitted between them. Mandy nodded before she went into the melee with a furiously barking Blackie hot on her heels.

*
*
CHAPTER 5

The following day: a quarter past eight in the morning of Thursday, August 29th.

The stiff breeze that ravaged a fully deserted Main Street brought plenty of the dreaded red desert dust with it. Fierce, unrelenting gusts of wind made the windows rattle and the walls groan. Fragments of wood and shrubbery joined forces with the desert dust to form dunes along most of the storefronts. Given the reddish tone of the morning air, more was to come.

Up on the flat roofs of the buildings all along Main Street, TV antennas and satellite dishes were treated to a free sandblasting that wouldn't do the sensitive electronics any good. Cables slapped against the walls and drainpipes creaked and groaned as if they were ready to give up the unequal struggle with Mother Nature.

Though everyone had worked hard to clean up the mess left behind by the spectators the day before, the swirling winds caught little scraps of paper and other pieces of debris and sent it on wild rides through the air. A surreal touch was the baby pacifier that had landed in front of Derrike Iverson's bar, an establishment notorious for attracting a very different kind of sucklings.

A few minutes later, one of the white-and-gold Dodge Durangos of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department broke through a cloud of red dust and came to a halt at the curb in front of the sheriff's office. Every part of the official vehicle was coated in red desert dust which gave it an odd look. In spite of the efforts put forth by the wipers, the windshield only offered a pair of tiny slits for the people inside to see through.

Climbing out of the Durango, a hatless - and oddly shapeless - Mandy braved the dust storm to stride over to the glass door. The sand invading the hinges and the locking mechanism forced her to push even harder on the sticking glass door than she normally would. As the door swung open with a pitiful squeak, a reddish-black shadow raced from the Durango and into the office.

Moments later, Beatrice Reilly followed the black shadow inside, though her soreness required moving at a greatly reduced pace.

Mandy slammed the door shut but remained at the windows overlooking the street to see if Barry Simms was near. When she heard Beatrice say "Blackie!  No!" in an almost panicky voice, she turned around to see what the latest drama was all about.

Blackie, whose main color was no longer black, moved into the center of the office and shook her entire body as hard as she could. The red dust she had collected in her fur exploded in all directions until it finally settled down in piles all over the cracked linoleum.

"Oh, well… I suppose we have a dustpan," Beatrice said with a shrug. Then she reached up to brush her own locks that produced another few piles of red dust.

Mandy chuckled as she moved into the same spot that had already turned into a quarry. After creating a pile or two of her own, she walked over to the sheriff's desk and took off her uniform jacket. Her expensive Mountie hat didn't seem worse for wear though it had spent the past ten minutes stuck under her belt, and it was soon hanging on its regular nail next to the jacket.

She hissed when she moved her left arm. During the previous day's violent confrontation with the rioters, she had overstretched her neck muscles on that side, so even the smallest movement made aches and pains spread out at the speed of light.

Sighing, she moved over to the coffee machine. It was far too early in the day to call Moira's and ask A.J. 'Slow' Lane to work his magic on a potful or two, so they would have to settle for the regular brew. After she had added the proper amount of ground coffee beans to a fresh filter, she took the glass pot and went into the restroom at the back of the office to rinse and fill it with cool water.

She let out a sigh when there was still no sign of Barry Simms as she returned to the office with the glass pot. Blackie's bowl was next, and the German Shepherd even got a special treat in the shape of a high-nutrition ox gnawing bone as a reward for her tireless work the day before.

A happy and content Woof!  Woof-woof-woof! burst from the black dog as the grand banquet was put on the blanket by the door. The woofing grew even more happy and ecstatic when Mandy added a handful of chicken-flavored treats.

The watch desk couldn't be left unattended for too long, so Mandy moved over there after turning on the coffee machine. A dark, annoyed grunt escaped her when she saw the state of the blotting pad, the incident report sheet and not least the ashtray.

With all hell breaking loose at the end of the previous day, it seemed that Barry had forgotten to empty the ashtray and sweep his leftovers off the report sheet and the desktop when he had signed off. Spent candy wrappers and lollipop sticks, pencil and eraser shavings from his crossword puzzles, batteries for his fan and enough cookie crumbs to make three or four brand new ones littered the watch desk and both drawers. The only useful thing in the bottom drawer was a pulp detective novel in the Sally Swackhamer, P.I. series that everyone at the Goldsboro office enjoyed reading.

A quick glance at the time made her break out in another grunt. After digging into a pocket for her telephone, she soon found Barry's number in the registry.

'Mmmm?'

"Mr. Simms, this is Sheriff Jalinski. It's eight-thirty. Last night, we came to an agreement that your shift would start at eight-fifteen today. Why aren't you here?"

'Mmmm…'

"Mr. Simms?"

'Mmmm… sleeping.'

"I would have loved to sleep in this morning. An agreement, however, is an agreement. If you wish to keep your special privileges, may I suggest you get your backside over here in an almighty hurry?"

'Mmmm- what?'

"You heard me. Get over here!  Goodbye, Mr. Simms."  After closing the connection, Mandy got up from the hard chair at the watch desk - a quick brush-down of her uniform was required - before she strode over to the crew room to see where Deputy Reilly had disappeared to.

In there, Beatrice had her right foot up on the seat of one of the chairs. She had taken off her boots, one of her socks and even her uniform pants to look at the state of the purple bruise that made her walk in a limp.

Mandy came to a halt in the doorway as her eyes fell on bare, muscular legs and a pair of black sports underwear. "I'm sorry, Deputy. I should have knocked," she said as she closed the door behind her.

Beatrice smiled. "Oh, that's all right. Had it been Barry, I could have used it for practicing my CPR techniques. Look at this… have you ever seen anything this purple… and blue… and red?" she said as she put her sock back on. She pulled her lips back in a grimace as the fabric came into contact with the three-by-three-inch bruise. "Crap, that smarts… and it wasn't even intentional. The big lug who stepped on me was just trying to get away from Blackie's snapping jaws. Can't blame him, but… I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I know exactly what you mean," Mandy said, massaging the muscles in her neck. "At least we got them all. The holding cells are-"

A sudden, loud squeeeeakkkkk from the office was followed by a thump, a muted Woof?!, a thunderous bark and a wild, high-pitched squeal.

"Oh, for the love of… now what?" Mandy said before she stormed out of the crew room. Although it didn't take her two seconds to read and decipher the scene, it took her a little longer to come to terms with the fact that yet another of those weird deals that Goldsboro was infamous for had just occurred.

Barry Simms had finally shown up for work, but what he hoped to accomplish standing atop the watch desk remained to be seen. Down below, Blackie shook her head in annoyance as she took in the sad sight of her drained water bowl. The contents having been distributed evenly all over her blanket and the cracked linoleum floor beyond it. Two of the chicken-flavored treats had drowned in the Great Flood, and the ox gnawing bone had rolled in under the desk and thus out of her reach.

The clothes Barry wore defied all description: instead of long pants as per the regulations, he wore fluorescent-yellow Bermuda shorts that revealed that his legs were the thickness and color of pipe cleaners. Up top, he wore a red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt over a washed-out T-shirt that Father Time had turned an odd shade of gray rather than the white it had been when it was new.

"Only in Goldsboro," Mandy mumbled as she scratched her eyebrow.

"Sheriff!  Thank God you're here!" Barry cried, throwing his arms in the air. "I think Blackie may have contracted rabies or something… look!  She's really mad!"

Rolling her eyes, Mandy strode over to Blackie and pulled her into a little doggy-hug to see if she was all right. "She's not rabid, Mr. Simms. You want to tell me what happened?  Please. I'm dying to know."

"But… but is it safe to come down?  I've only had one smoke today and-"

"Yes, it's safe to come down and begin work," Mandy said, rolling her eyes all over again. Humorously, Blackie seemed to do the same as she shuffled back to her ruined grand banquet and the soggy blanket.

Barry hopped down onto the floor and pulled out the hard chair. "Ew… look at the desk… I must have forgotten to clean it last night," he said as he lit one of his stinky-sticks made of waste tobacco that he bought wholesale directly from the factories.

"You don't say?  Just tell me what happened here, now. All right?  Can you do that?" Mandy said as she got down on her hands and knees to rescue the ox gnawing bone and the rest of the chicken-flavored treats.

"Well," Barry said, releasing one of the infamous light gray Clouds Of Stinky Doom that rose toward the poor ceiling tiles, "the weather was so bad today that I wanted to hurry inside. I guess I gave the door a stronger push than I normally would… it flew open and bumped into Blackie's bowl and her food and I guess her as well… and then she started barking at me like she had the rabies. And then I jumped up on the desk to get away from her because I remembered Aunt Mildred telling me that she had been bitten by a rabid dog in her youth and had to spend two weeks in the hospital."

Mandy rubbed her brow several times as Barry delivered his endless report. "Yeah. Okay. I shouldn't have asked. Will you please just sit there and not get involved in anything crazy while I mop up and refill the bowl?"

"Oh, sure thing, Sheriff," Barry said, knocking off the day's first ash into the already overfilled ashtray.

Holding the empty bowl, Mandy had already made it halfway over to the door to the restroom when she came to a halt and turned around. "Oh, and Mr. Simms?"

"Yes, Sheriff?"

"The first break we get, I want you to go home and change into some proper clothes. Thank you."

"Oh… uh… okay. No problem, Sheriff," Barry said, looking at what he considered a fairly classy combo.

-*-*-*-

Forty minutes later, a paddy wagon sent from the Headquarters of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department up north in Barton City picked up the four burly J6 Brigade supporters who had caused untold trouble the previous day. Once they were gone, it was time to muck out in the holding cells that the men hadn't treated with respect.

Mandy joined her deputies in cleaning up the horrendous mess that included vomit on the floor, urine in the wash basin and a toilet clogged up by several rolls of toilet paper.

Heavy-duty cleaning solutions needed to be applied to get the two holding cells back to an acceptable standard, but the hard-working people got there in the end.

Their mop, several floor rags, packs of heavy-duty soap flakes and a bottle of chlorine had barely been put back in the broom cupboard before Mandy turned to Rodolfo and Beatrice. The former looked like death warmed over as he had spent the entire night in the jail house monitoring the men in the holding cell.

The Sheriff put her hands on her hips as she took in the sight of the dark circles under Rodolfo's bloodshot eyes. Far paler than he usually was due to fatigue and the aches and pains from the shoving matches he had been involved in the day before, the Mexican-American looked about ready to drop. The best indicator of his tiredness was the fact that his hair was wild and tousled which only happened once in a blue moon at the most.

"Deputies, I'm very proud of you," Mandy said, looking each of them in the eye. "I'm proud of your sterling work yesterday in the face of all that hate and aggression those men flung at us. I'm proud of your commitment to keeping the streets safe for everyone. And I'm very proud of your sense of duty that has seen you come to work despite your injuries. Thank you. Let me shake your hands," she continued as she extended her hand for the traditional greeting.

Rodolfo and Beatrice broke out in beaming smiles at the praise. As soon as the handshaking had been completed, Rodolfo needed his back to cover a mile-wide yawn.

Chuckling, Mandy put a hand on Rodolfo's shoulder. "Senior Deputy, I am hereby ordering you to book our quarters in Miss Donohue's Bed and Breakfast for the rest of the day so you can get some sleep. I'll call Deputy Woodward and ask him to come over. Failing that, I'll try Sheriff Tenney in Brandford Ridge."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Rodolfo said in a flat, listless voice. "I'm not sure I would have been much use in a foot chase today, anyway!"

"No. I think even Barry could have outrun you," Mandy said with a rare wink.

---

After locking the reinforced door to the jail house - and saying Nighty-Night to Rodolfo who sleepwalked across the gusty Main Street - Mandy and Beatrice hurried back to the sheriff's office so they wouldn't be exposed to the dust storm for too long.

"Sheriff," Beatrice said as they entered the office and slammed the sticking door shut behind them, "it seems we have some downtime. I better head out on patrol. We were only able to complete two patrols yesterday before all the mess started. If we'd had a few more eyes on the streets, perhaps we could have caught those bas- protesters."

"Maybe. Is your foot up to the task?"

"Oh, certainly, Ma'am." Sniffing the air, Beatrice turned to shoot Barry - and the Cloud Of Stinky Doom that rose from his latest cigarette - a dark glare that he didn't even notice because he was too busy struggling with a sudoku puzzle labeled as For Absolute Beginners.

"Good. Carry on."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said and strode down toward the restroom to get rid of the mugs of coffee she'd had over the course of the morning.

---

Five minutes later, the sticking glass door was given one, two, three hard thumps before it swung open to reveal a dust-covered Wynne whose dark locks were flung about by the swirling winds. "Howdy, y'all!" she said as she slammed the door shut once more. Though her knee had improved even more, she continued to use the hardwood cane that Diego had lent her.

Down below, Blackie had already wrapped her teeth around her water bowl to keep it safe from the latest intruder when she recognized her owner through the layer of red dust. Plenty of loud woofing ensued as she jumped up and put her front paws on the reddish pantlegs as if she wanted to help get rid of the dust.

"Blackie!  Howdy, girl!  Awww, yer sure be lookin' good. An' I see y'all got some o' them there chicky-treats too, haw?  Y'all like those, dontcha?  An' wouldya lookie at that there awesome gnawin' bone!" Wynne said, rubbing the black fur.

Standing up straight, Wynne took off her cowboy hat and slapped it against her denim vest. As expected, she created a dust storm of her own. "Whaddindahell be goin' on with that there ca-razy weathah taday?  Snakes Alive, it be blowin' a dang-blasted gale out there!  Y'all oughttah see mah truck… it ain't black no mo', it be red!"

"We know," Mandy said, pointing at the Dodge Durangos that had all turned red.

"Haw!  Yuh, okeh… anyhows… howdy, darlin'. How's that there neck o' yours?" Wynne said before she leaned in to steal a kiss from right under the sheriff's nose.

Wincing, Mandy reached up to rub her muscles. "Oh, it's still there. Every part of it," she said on her way around the sheriff's desk to get on with the day's paperwork.

"Aw-haw?  Howdy, Barry… son… whaddahell y'all wearin'?" Wynne said as she unbuttoned her vest to reveal a bright orange, long-sleeved T-shirt sporting the likeness of Sterling Marlin and the #4 Morgan-McClure Kodak Film Chevrolet Lumina winning the 1994 Daytona 500.

"Clothes!" Barry said in a surly note.

"Haw!  No shit?  When wus y'all evah in Hawaii?"

Barry eyed Wynne's own colorful clothes before he let out a snort and concentrated on the sudoku. "I bought it in Vegas earlier this year."

"Aw, when y'all wus there with ya Auntie Mildred, haw?"

"Yes."

Wynne nodded a couple of times before she realized she wouldn't get more out of Barry. Shrugging, she moved back to the sheriff's desk and planted a buttock on the corner. "Darlin', Brendah done tole me she sent an unedited ver-shun o' that there foot-itch she done filmed yestuhr'dy ta some political website or som'tin. I didden get half o' whut she done said… y'all know Brendah. When she starts speakin' that there technobabble, us reg'lar folks ain't got no chance o' keepin'-"

"A political website?" Mandy said, leaning back on the swivelchair. She tapped the butt of the ball point pen on the desktop a couple of times before she went back to work.

" 'S whut she done said, yuh. I don't got no details so there ain't no point in askin' which site or party or affilia-shun or nuttin'."

"Mmmm…"

"Yuh. She also men-shunned she done made an edited ver-shun that she had sent ta Channel Fiddy-nine an' mebbe Channel Seventah-eight as well… I coudden figgah it out an' I didden wanna ask fer a third time."

The ball point pen was given several more taps before Mandy used it to doodle her signature on the last page of one of the case files involving the men they had arrested the day before. "I don't know how I feel about that. I wish she'd come to me about it before she… well… just sent it to a political site that we know nothing about. Mrs. Travers obviously isn't a radical in any way, shape or form, but you know how easy information gets from A to B these days."

"Yuh, don't I evah…"

Mandy sighed as she put the ball point pen back into the small tray on the desk. Moving her hand absentmindedly, she rearranged the writing utensils, the tape dispenser, the stapler, the sticky-notes and the mason jar where she kept various little doodads like paper clips and elastic bands. "Well," she said, grabbing her mug and getting up from the chair, "it's too late to do anything about that. We need to pick our battles. Would you like some coffee, hon?"

"Naw, 'cos I be headin' ovah ta Moira's in a minnit. Much obliged, anyhows," Wynne said as she got off the corner and donned her beloved cowboy hat.

Before Mandy could get over to the coffee machine, her telephone rang. The poor timing alone made her let out a long groan, and the groan only deepened when the caller-ID said CnclWm Skinner.

Accepting the call, she put the telephone to her ear. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Good mor-"

'We have no time for pleasantries, Sheriff,' Mary-Lou Skinner's voice said at the other end of the connection. She wheezed less than usual which meant she had only just taken a dose of her asthma medicine. 'I've called for an emergency Town Council meeting in ten minutes' time. Not everyone can make it, but we'll have to make do. It'll take place in Mr. Elliott's office at the hardware store. The most important item on the agenda is obviously yesterday's outrageous mess so you're required to be present.'

"Very well, Councilwoman. I'll be there," Mandy said, putting down the empty mug next to the coffee machine. The conversation ended before she could say goodbye, so she let out a grunt instead as she shoved the telephone into her pocket.

"Whazzat, darlin'?"

"Councilwoman Skinner has called for an emergency council meeting over at the hardware store," Mandy said, striding back to the sheriff's desk to get her Mountie hat and her uniform jacket. "Mr. Simms, hail Deputy Reilly on the radio. Get her back here. Also, call the sheriff's office in Jarrod City and inquire about Deputy Woodward's availability."

Barry nearly choked on his latest cigarette at the complex order, but he managed to whip it out of his mouth before another crisis could arise. "Me?!  I mean… yes, Ma'am."

Wynne stifled a snicker at the shocked look upon Barry's face. Instead of pursuing it further, she managed to steal another kiss from the sheriff. "I be ovah at Moira's, yuh?  Bah-bah, darlin'. Stay coo'. An' that goes dubbel fer y'all, Blackie!"

The German Shepherd responded with a loud, somewhat skeptical Woof-woof-woof! that meant 'That depends on that weird Human over there… the next time he knocks my gnawing bone out of my mouth, I'm going to gnaw on him instead!'

-*-*-*-

A few minutes later, Mandy strode along Main Street with one hand covering her eyes and the other clamping down on her expensive Mountie hat. Just like Wynne had mentioned, the breeze had turned into a full-on storm that insisted on sandblasting everything in its path. It only took thirty seconds before she had a mouthful of grit.

The first casualty of the gusting winds proved to be Keshawn Williams. The owner of Goldsboro's popular second-hand store was forced to carry his light-weight racing bicycle on his shoulder as the front wheel had buckled. He wore safety goggles, a bicycle helmet and thick padding on his knees and elbows so those areas were unharmed, but his Lycra shorts sported a long tear across his right thigh and onto his buttock.

"Are you all right, Mr. Williams?" Mandy said, needing to move in close to be heard over the winds.

"Yes, thank you. I was blown clean off the road… over the handlebars and butt-first into the sand. I don't know what the hell I was thinking riding in this weather. My wife's going to yell at me the entire day…"

"Well, best of luck with it," Mandy said with a grin that she soon regretted as it only allowed access for even more sand and dust to get stuck between her teeth.

---

Turning the corner onto Second Street provided a much-needed respite as the buildings there offered shelter from the high winds. The next thirty paces were spent blowing her nose and spitting out grit by the bucketful.

She made short work of the customer-access gate that led to the inner courtyard at Wyatt Elliott's hardware store. A few brief hellos were exchanged with residents from around town and the surrounding area before she strode up the staircase to get to the offices on the upper floor.

Wyatt had recently upgraded his executive suite - a.k.a. his bachelor pad - so it presented an even greater degree of luxury and decadence than before. New for the summer season were a multi-function indoor jacuzzi, an entire corner dedicated to authentic memorabilia of the legendary Vegas performers of the 1960s and 1970s, a genuine, ancient-Greek amphora that had been recovered from a shipwreck in the Mediterranean, and even a telescope spyglass supposedly owned by Josiah Goldsboro, the man who founded the town after his prairie schooner had inexplicably broken down in the middle of what would later be Main Street.

The remainder of the upper floor consisted of small or medium-sized offices and storage rooms, none of which could rival the splendor of the executive suite.

Mandy soon entered the main hallway. Taking off her Mountie hat, she greeted Wyatt's secretary with a nod and a brief smile.

The personal assistant typed on a keyboard at a workstation computer, but she rose from her swivelchair to hand out a sheet of paper: "Here you go, Sheriff. Today's agenda."

"Thank you, Miss," Mandy said before moving closer to the door to the main office. Leaning against the wall, she studied the three items making up the list.

A grunt escaped her when she noticed that only the first held any relevance for her. Beyond discussing the violent rioting, the other two topics the Town Council would debate were…

2) Work out a list of suitable contractors and subsequently invite bids for investigating and repairing the suspected sewage leak in the alley between Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports and the vehicle impound yard maintained and used by the Sheriff's Department.

3) A thorough analysis of the report written by the Town Beautification Consultants hired to offer suggestions on how to increase Goldsboro's visibility over our neighboring towns when it comes to attracting tourists.

"What the hell is this?" Mandy said in a mumble. She turned the sheet of paper over several times to see if anything had been printed on the back, but it was blank. "Miss, are you sure there isn't a page missing?  Is this really it?"

The personal assistant looked up in a hurry. "I'm sure, Sheriff. Does it say oh-six-six dash three-four-three-seven in the top-right corner?"

Mandy's eyes zoomed in on '066-3437' that was indeed printed in the top-right corner of the document. "Yes, it does."

"Then that's it. That's the entire agenda."

Mandy rubbed her forehead several times before she folded up the sheet of paper and stuck it into her rear pocket. "Very well. Thank you very much."

Moments later, the door to the executive suite opened. Mary-Lou Skinner stuck her head out to search for their special guest. "Thank you for coming, Sheriff. Let's get started."

Similar to the telephone conversation, the Councilwoman seemed unusually curt which made an annoyed mask fall over Mandy's face. Unzipping her uniform jacket, she entered the executive suite.

The rectangular room measured sixty by thirty feet. The southern end of the room was dominated by Wyatt Elliott's personal mahogany desk that was almost grotesque in its proportions considering its home was the office of a hardware store.

The corner dedicated to the classic Vegas performers was off to the right in the spot where the Italian lounge had been earlier. A light gray wall-to-wall carpet graced the floor save for the Vegas shrine that stood atop a genuine Persian rug. The potted plants and the framed artwork on the walls hadn't changed since the last time Mandy was there, and neither impressed her all that much.

The center section saw a horseshoe-shaped table that could seat twelve. Only six members of the Goldsboro Town Council were present for the emergency meeting, but since they formed a majority, their decisions would be legally binding. All six were seated in a long line on the opposite side of the table making the event feel like an examination rather than a regular council meeting.

Mary-Lou Skinner opened a document folder and paged through a stack of papers. The other members of the Town Council just sat there like silent wax mannequins. None of them - save for Bonnie Saunders, the council's deputy chairwoman - had any desire to keep eye contact with Mandy for more than a few seconds at a time.

Grumbling under her breath at the bizarre goings-on that always seemed to find her, Mandy took off her Mountie hat and put it on the large table. Her uniform jacket was soon hung over the backrest of the chair she had chosen. The piece of paper containing the agenda had soon been retrieved and unfolded, and after sitting down, she reached into one of her jacket's pockets to find a ball point pen. Ready to go, she looked at Councilwoman Skinner for the opening volley and not least an explanation as to the rush.

Mary-Lou continued to read inwardly, but she soon closed the document folder and leaned back on her high-backed chair that creaked under her weight. Several seconds went by. "Sheriff Jalinski," she said in a tone that made it quite clear that it wasn't going to be a celebratory occasion. "I need to voice my strong displeasure with your behavior yesterday. Yelling at me, and using such language to boot, was unheard of, unprofessional, disrespectful and frankly grossly unfair. You of all people should understand that we cannot simply discard the traditions that have served us so well since our town was founded. I requested your presence at this meeting to offer you a chance to apologize to me and the esteemed members of the Goldsboro Town Council."

Mandy stared at Mary-Lou for several seconds before she let her eyes wander over to the other members of the Town Council: Bonnie Saunders, Konstantin Aranowicz, Colleen Bolton, Campbell Taylor and Brandon Moffatt. Every last one of them looked down the split second Mandy's hazel orbs bored into their own.

A vein began to throb so hard on the side of Mandy's neck that it was visible through the collar of her shirt. When she finally spoke, she did so in an icy monotone: "You want me to apologize for stating the truth?  I do not regret a single word of what I said. Not one. Not even the profanity. It needed to come out in the open. And the traditions?  There's following traditions and then there's being completely oblivious to what's going on everywhere around us."

"Sheriff Jalin-"

"Please let me speak, Councilwoman," Mandy said, getting up from the chair. Leaning forward, she put her clenched fists on the tabletop to appear even more intimidating to the regular members of the Town Council. "Like I said yesterday, the world isn't what it was when those procedures were first written down back in eighteen-eighty-five or whenever. I'm sure that hidden agendas and ulterior motives have been part and parcel of the act since the very beginning, but nobody back then could have predicted the lengths the modern-day candidates will go to to gain victory."

"You keep saying that, but I disagree, Sheriff!" Mary-Lou said, thumping a fist onto the table.

"I think it's fairly obvious. Let's look at the last three elections. The first came when Sheriff Pershing finally called it a day after clinging to his chair for far too long. It's no secret that Rains whispered in his ear that it was time to go. In the election, Rains battled one of his closest allies, Deputy Sheriff Dan Murphy, who was merely going through the motions so the Town Council could say the traditions were upheld."

Across the table, Bonnie Saunders spoke up: "Really, Sheriff, this is prepos-"

Mandy shot the deputy chairwoman such a dark glare that she piped down in a hurry. "I'm not finished, Mrs. Saunders. All right. Let's move onto the next one… no wait, it was never held, was it?  No, because when Rains' first term ended, most of his cronies had left the Sheriff's Department so there was a real risk of a genuine rival candidate emerging. Well, I'm sure I don't need to remind the esteemed Town Council that a rival candidate was in fact ready to stand. Yours truly. I would have run against Rains had someone not whispered in my ear that it was better for everyone to maintain a status quo. That Goldsboro wasn't ready for a female sheriff. Isn't that so, Councilwoman Skinner?"

Mary-Lou shot Mandy a dark glare that shared the intensity of the one that had just flown in the other direction.

"It meant that Rains ran unopposed. When the residents asked why, a sob story was cooked up about an unfortunate accident to his rival. Rains's victory was celebrated and called a landslide. You don't say!  There was only one name on the ballot paper!"

Once more, Mandy stared at each of the councilmembers in turn. "And then the incident happened." - She made air quotes around incident - "When the video clip of Rains exposing his racist, discriminatory self hit the headlines, the esteemed Town Council could no longer contain it. So Rains was stripped of his rank and thrown out. Recent precedence showed that the Senior Deputy would assume the position, but practicalities were ignored in favor of blindly sticking to the traditions. Rains and his faction were already scheming to regain power within days of his dismissal, but they weren't yet strong enough. A rival candidate literally had to be imported from another town to even hold an election. Todd Andrews proved to be an honest opponent that I was able to defeat fair and square in a contested election. Rains and his cronies were kept away from the sheriff's office. Fine."

"Sheriff Jalinski, where are you actually going with all this?" Mary-Lou said sternly.

"And now," Mandy continued, ignoring the look of outrage on Skinner's face, "at the end of my first term, traditions must once again be upheld though there isn't any natural, or even logical, rival candidate. So one is… well, I was about to say manufactured, but that wouldn't be fair since I know nothing of Bobby Johnston. Let's say he appeared as if pulled out of a hat. And who does he have in his corner?  Who seems to be his mentor of sorts?  Why, none other than Arthur Rains, of course."

"Well, that seems obvious to me," Mary-Lou said. "Mr. Rains has an incredible wealth of knowledge and hands-on experience from his years in public service."

"Artie Rains never served the public. Ever. And we all know what a thumping great success he was as Sheriff of Goldsboro," Mandy said in a tone that almost dripped with acid.

Mary-Lou fell silent for several, long seconds. She finally took a deep, wheezing breath: "Frankly… I think you're scared of running against Mr. Johnston, who, I might add, has announced in an open letter to the Town Council that if he's elected, he'll make sure that such an ugly scene as the one yesterday will never be repeated."

A dark, bitter chuckle escaped Mandy as she sat down once more. She reached up to scratch an eyebrow while she composed her thoughts. "Number one, I'm not scared of running against Johnston. That's just nonsense. Number two, I can certainly believe that he would make such a statement as the four men we arrested yesterday all belonged to the J-Six Brigade. Arthur Rains is the leader of the Nevada branch of that organization. So if their leader comes back to power, by way of his sock puppet Bobby Johnston, they obviously won't have any reason to protest, much less riot. So Johnston's promise of keeping the streets safe from such rioters is an empty one."

"Now who's talking nonsense?  The Town Council has no reason to suspect Mr. Johnston of anything. It smacks of paranoia, Sheriff. All right…" Mary-Lou shuffled through several of the papers in the document folder until she found the right one. "We won't get any further on that topic this time. Let's move onto the next item on the agenda, the troublesome sewer in the alley between Mr. Lafferty's store and the impound yard. Mr. Aranowicz, please let the Council know what the committee for infrastructure has come up with."

While Mary-Lou Skinner spoke on, Mandy's face grew darker and darker until it resembled the sky in the last few moments before a violent thunderstorm. Her ball point pen was put through furious tapping on the agenda before she sat up straight to at least pretend she cared about the sewage leak and the report written by the Town Beautification Consultants.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

Where one half of the Jalinski-Donohue household had a miserable time, the other half was involved in something far more rewarding. Wynne - with her game face firmly in place - chalked her cue before she leaned in across the pool table to get the best angle for the game-winning shot. A master of the psychological game, she seemed to hesitate and express doubt in her abilities.

Then, just as her opponent believed he had gained the upper hand, she thrust the cue forward with the greatest of ease. The sound of the tip striking the ball was a perfect one, and the ball responded by flying across the green felt on a direct path to the pocket.

As Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. groaned, Wynne let out a "Wouldya lookie there!  Gotcha, Juniah!"

The late-twenty-something Geoffrey Junior, a farmer like his father Geoffrey Wilburr, Sr., wore his full set of work clothes: sturdy boots, high-waisted blue-jeans, a checkered flannel shirt and a red bandanna around his neck.

The Wilburrs' plans had been to return to their property after delivering a load of hay to Fredericksen's poultry farm north of Goldsboro, but the dust storm had clogged up their John Deere tractor's radiator to such a degree that it needed urgent attention up at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. While his father worked on the tractor with Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson, Junior had ended up at Moira's Bar & Grill where he had foolishly thought he could beat Wynne.

His conqueror chuckled as she took her cane and hobbled around the pool table to slap her opponent's shoulder. "That makes it five-zip. Yuh?  Or izzit?" Sticking her professional cue under one arm and the cane under the other, she used her fingers to count off her recent successes. "Yuh, I done beat'cha five games in a row. Yuh. Okeh, lemme see tha cash, son!"

"How about I just bought you a six-pack of Double-Zeros instead, Wynne?"

"Yuh, now y'all be tawkin' mah lang-witch!  An' get this, I be off that there awful pain medica-shun so I can chug down as many as I want o' them there Dubbel-Zeras!  Ain't dat som'tin?"

Geoffrey Junior soon returned with a plastic-wrapped six-pack of Wynne's favorite beer, i.e. the non-alcoholic H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero. "Awright!  I sure been waitin' fer this fer a looooong while," she cried as she tore off the cover, grabbed the first can and cracked it open with the familiar Psssshhhht! "Say, Juniah… did I evah tell y'all how I first discovah'd them there Dubbel-Zeras?"

"Only a dozen times or so," Geoffrey Junior said as he stuck his hands into his jeans pockets.

Wynne had already opened her mouth to relay the tale of how her dear friend Ernie Bradberry had introduced her to the beers after convincing her they didn't taste like dishwater like she had predicted, but with no attentive audience nearby, she used it to chug down the beer instead.

Commotion by the main entrance proved to be Goldsboro's best - not to mention only - tow truck driver Tucker Garfield. After bursting inside, he spun around at once to slam the door shut right in the face of the dust-storm-beast that had pelted him with grains of sand all the way across the sidewalk. "Sonova- Goddamn, miserable… I hate this time of the Goddamn year!"

His canary-yellow coverall had turned red from being pelted with the desert dust, but he soon had it back to its original color by thumping, brushing and beating himself all over. His lemon-sour disposition seemed even worse than usual as he let his angry eyes take in the identities and number of the guests in the restaurant. A three-day stubble covered his cheeks, but that was nothing new. What was new, however, was the one-inch, flat-topped crew cut that made the rest of his head appear much larger and rounder than normal.

"Howdy, Tuckah!" Wynne said, saluting the perennial sourpuss by holding the can of beer high in the air.

A brief, snipped "Hi, Wynne," escaped Tucker before he stomped up toward the counter and the row of bar stools. An unlit cigar was soon chewed on with great vigor. When he couldn't see A.J. Lane anywhere, he smacked his fist onto the counter to get the short-order cook's attention. "A.J.!  Where the hell are you?  I want a fried frankie and some spud salad!  And make it snappy 'cos I'm in no Goddamned mood to wait!"

A.J. 'Slow' Lane soon hurried around the corner carrying a fresh glob of spiced lard on greaseproof paper, a glass jar of frankfurters and a tub of his homemade, highly popular potato salad.

"Those frankies better be American and not some foreign product!" Tucker growled around his cigar.

A.J. nodded as he held up the glass jar to show the label to the tow truck driver. "They are, Tucker… they're from Wisconsin. Look."

"Hm!  Now what the hell's wrong with local products?  Why the hell do we have to import sausages from way-the-hell across the country when we got plenty of oinkers out here we can butcher?"

Instead of entering into an argument that would have no winners, A.J. popped the lid off the glass jar, picked out one of the thick, long sausages and put it on a carving board before he turned to preparing the frying pan and the glob of spiced lard.

Over by the pool table, Wynne let out a chuckle as she framed the colorful balls to be ready for another game. "Ol' Tuckah sure be in a fihhhh-ne mood taday… Mercy Sakes…"

---

A few minutes later, two of the Bar & Grill's regular lunch-time customers came in talking among themselves about something unusual that took place out on the street. Her interest piqued, Wynne put her professional cue into its carrier bag before she moved over to the glass door to see for herself. Craning her neck in all directions didn't yield anything beyond glimpses of dust, more dust, even more dust and pieces of debris that were flung around by the gusts.

The lunchtime customers had already gone up to the counter to place their orders, so asking them what they had meant was not an option. Shrugging, Wynne decided that The Last Original Cowpoke wasn't afraid of a little wind and some dust. She buttoned her vest, clamped down on her cowboy hat, gripped her cane, opened the door and stepped into the proverbial unknown hoping to see something exciting for a change instead of Goldsboro's usual serving of the weird, the wacky or the bizarre.

The gusts had in fact grown weaker since the last time she had been outside, so it wasn't too bad all things considered. Looking south on Main Street didn't offer any clues as to what the lunchtime customers had been talking about, but a look north made her let out a surprised grunt.

300 yards further up the street, a medium-sized Freightliner M2 box truck lumbered south toward the intersection of Main and Second Street. The red dust made the entire front of the truck, including its grille, resemble an adobe wall. It didn't help that two of the three windshield wipers had gone on strike leaving nothing but a 10-by-10-inch clean area for the driver to look through.

The geyser-like steam fountain that spewed out of it from somewhere deep inside suggested the radiator had already given up the ghost, and that the engine wasn't long in joining it on the vehicular Boot Hill.

"Shoot, that ain't good. Naw, that sure ain't good fer them folks in that there truck there. Haw… dang storm."

With a hand firmly in place atop her beloved cowboy hat, Wynne had already set off to intercept the struggling box truck when an additional set of cogs up in her brain had finally gained enough rotation to send a request to the memory-department. There, the librarian was asked to search for a snippet of information that could have come in a conversation of some kind. Enough details were revealed to suggest it had possibly been a telephone conversation.

It all had something to do with the box truck that continued to chug along with steam pouring out of all openings, but Wynne had yet to make the connection when fate intervened and she was given the answer without further taxing any of her mental compartments.

The Freightliner box truck broke down right in the middle of turning onto Second Street. Not only did the geyser-like spewing literally run out of steam, a horrible stench of cooked metal spread from behind the thick layer of red dust that covered the grille.

When the truck driver pressed the starter button over and over again to refire the engine, all that happened was that he made the battery nearly run flat.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, son!  Hold 'em hosses!" Wynne yelled to be heard through the closed window. To underscore her words, she waved her arms and the cane in the air to let the driver know he was literally trying to coax a dead thing back into life. Another "Whoa!" escaped her when a gust of wind that hit her at the exact wrong time nearly made her hat take off toward California.

Her yelling made the driver - a young, bearded man in his late-twenties - roll down the driver's side window and stick out his head. "I couldn't hear ya… wotcha say?" he said, putting a hand behind his ear.

"Y'all ain't goin' nowhe'ah!  It be cooked, sure ain't no lie. There be mo' watah on da street than in da radiatah."

"Shit!"

"Yuh. Shit jus' 'bout covahs it, son. An' I know shit… Lawrdie, do I evah."

"Could you please tell me how far we are from Josiah Street?"

Wynne took a step back to gauge the distance. Returning to the truck, she clambered up on one of the aluminum rungs below the door so she didn't have to shout so much. "Aw, I reckon y'all got 'bout a hundred yards ta go. Where on Josiah are y'all goin' fer yer drop-off?"

"Number fourteen."

"Haw, fo'ahteen?  Fo'ahteen be a favahrite numbah o' mine, yessir. Well, son, y'all ain't gonn' make it. This he' Freightlinah be dead. At least fer tha time bein'."

"Shit."

"A-yup."

The stench of hot metal was so strong that Wynne needed to pinch her nostrils as she moved over to the sidewalk on the far side of the intersection. This brought her to the passenger-side door that was soon opened to reveal none other than…

"Whaddahell?  If it ain't Gwen Gilmo'ah!  An' Audrey!  Whah, howdy, gals- Lawwwwwr-die, this he' be a movin' truck!  It be all y'all's movin' truck!  Mercy Sakes, y'all coudden ha' picked a shittier day to move he'!  We be havin' one helluva dust storm taday!"

"We noticed," Gwendoline 'Gwen' Gilmore said in a deadpan. Sitting nearest to the door, the bespectacled gal - who was in her mid-fifties - wore sturdy work clothes fit for traveling and/or offloading a moving truck's worth of furniture and cardboard packing cases. Her graying hair seemed even shorter than it had when she and her wife Audrey had been in Goldsboro in April for the big dog show out at Thunder Park Raceway.

Sitting in the center of the Freightliner's bench seat, Audrey leaned forward to wave at Wynne. In her late-fifties, she was a few years older than her wife, but the fact that her honey-blond, shoulder-length hair had remained several shades more colorful than Gwen's meant she seemed more youthful somehow. She wore a denim jacket and cargo pants that featured reinforced patches on the knees.

"Man, I can't believe this," Gwen continued, "we've driven more than three hundred miles from Wilkerson, Utah with no problems only to break down in sight of our new house!  I mean, really?"

"Yuh… welcome ta Goldsborah," Wynne said with a shrug.

Gwen let out a guffaw. "Huh!  Thanks!  I wonder if it's too late to get our deposit back?"

"Woudden know. Say… didden y'all have a Cockah Spaniel tha las'time we done met?  Li'l… somebodda?"

"Little Evie," Audrey said with a smile.

"Li'l Evvie, 's right!"

"She's in a travel box in the sleeper cab. We've had to keep her sedated because she doesn't like driving. We have an appointment with the veterinarian Doctor Gibbs first thing tomorrow so he can examine her."

"Haw, Doc Gibbs sure be a fine vet, awright. He done helped Blackie an' Goldie an' Diegoh's Freddie a-buncha times. Yuh. Okeh, Gwen, I'mma-gonn' tawk ta y'all latah, but right now y'all bettah roll up this he' windah 'cos this he' storm ain't goin' away no time soon or nuttin'. Yuh?"

Walking around the front of the truck, Wynne had to pinch her nostrils all over again as the hot metal continued to reek. "Son," she said as she climbed up onto the lower rung below the door. "I got tha numbah fer mebbe theeee best mechanic fella in all of MacLean County on mah phoah-ne. I'mma-gonn' give 'im a call an' ask if he can mebbe swing bah with some watah or a radiatah-pluggin' paste or som'tin. Okeh?"

"Okay," the driver said before he rolled the window back up so he wouldn't get too much dust inside.

"Okeh," Wynne echoed as she stepped down onto the street and found her telephone. Bengt Swenson's number had soon been found and selected. "Howdy, Fat-Buhh-tt!  This he' be tha only an' only Wynne Donnah-hew speakin'. Lissen, friend, I got some work fer y'all down he' at the intersec-shun where a truck done cooked its radia- whazzat?"

'I said I'm sorry, Wynne, I just don't have the time right now. I'm working on Geoffrey Senior's John Deere.'

"Y'all ain't got no time?  Awwww-shittt. How long ya reckon that gonn'-"

'Two hours at least-'

"Lawwwwwr-die, y'all didden jus' say two hou'ahs?!  Dat be even shittier, friend. Aintcha got somebodda who can pop down he' with some-"

'No, I'm pretty much the only one here today. The storm, you know…'

"Y'all ain't got nobodda?  Yuh, that sure wussen whut I done wanted ta hear or nuttin'. Naw, it sure wussen. Okeh, I'mma-gonn' swing bah ta get some o' that there pluggin'-paste. I know y'all got some 'cos I only done saw it the othah day when we wus workin' on mah TransAm-"

'When do you think that'll be, Wynne?  I really need a food break 'cos I haven't had anything to eat all day…'

"Haw?  Whazzat?  Lawrdie, I ain't got no clue when it gonn' be, friend, 'cos I need-a tawk ta ol' Tuckah Garfield first ta get 'im ta tow this he' Freightlinah ovah yondah ta Josiah Street an' all."

'Good luck…'

"Yuh, I know. Much obliged. Lissen, I reckon it gonn' be best if I done called ya ag'in once I be reddy. Okeh?"

'Sure. But I can't wait all afternoon. If I don't get anything to eat real soon, I'm going to stir-fry one of the rubber hoses…'

"Haw, I reckon y'all gonn' need plentah o' salt ta go with that, friend! Anyhows. Bah-bah, Fat-Buhh-tt."

After scratching her neck, Wynne worked the registry to find Tucker Garfield's business number. A long groan escaped her when she remembered that he wasn't in his office but just down the street in Moira's Bar & Grill eating a frankfurter and A.J.'s excellent potato salad. "Aw, that gonn' be one o' them there painnnn-ful conversa-shuns, yessir," she mumbled as she found Tucker's private number instead.

'Wynne, what the hell are you thinking?  You know I frickin' hate being disturbed while I'm eating!  And you know damn well that I'm eating right now!'

"Yuh, 'cept that I plum fergot, but nevah mind that now, Tuckah. Once ya done eatin' that there frankfurtah an' pah-tah-tah salad there, I got a li'l towin' job fer y'all. It be right 'round the cornah from Moira's… literally 'cos it be at the-"

'Forget it. I'm not interested.'

Just as Tucker's voice entered Wynne's ear, a gust of wind whipped her hair about and threatened to steal her hat all over again. Since she needed one hand on the telephone, she had to make a quick decision. Should she save her hat or hold down her dark locks?  She chose to save her beloved hat with the immediate result that she was whacked across the face by her own hair. "Owch… shoot, y'all ain't int'rested in makin' money?  Y'all gotta be shittin' me, Tuckah!  We done got usselves a big-ass Freightlinah movin' truck stuck right in tha middle of dang-blasted Main Street he' an' y'all ain't int'rested?"

'That's right, 'cos I'm eating. And after I've finished my frankie and the spud salad, I'm gonna go home, grab a beer, put my feet up and watch an old Clint Eastwood movie on DVD. The funny one with the orang-utan… can't remember what the hell it's called. Well, it doesn't really matter shit, anyway.'

"Okeh, but there be plentah o' time fer y'all ta do that aftahwurds, Tuckah. Lissen, y'all ain't gonn' need them chains or tha crane or nuttin'… all ya need-a do is ta hook a tow bar ta tha front o' this he' stranded truck an' then pull it ovah ta Josiah. Yuh?  It be two-hundred yards at the most!"

'For Chrissakes, Wynne!  How many times do I have to tell you to forget it?'

"Then lemme borrow that there dang-blasted wreckah truck o' yers fer half a stinkin' hou'ah!"

'I'll let you rent it for three C-notes.'

"Aw, ya didden… yuh, ya did. Whah, Tuckah Garfield, ya greedy-"

'Three-hundred and fifty.'

"Will ya calm down, fer cryin' out loud… this ain't no awk-shun, man!  Aw, that does it. Now y'all gone an' done it, pal!  I'mma-gonn' come back ta Moira's an' kick yer bee-hind all ovah that there restaurant if y'all don't eithah come get this he' truck outtah the way or lend me them keys so I can do it!  Ovah an' out!"

After slamming an index finger onto the Close Connection icon, Wynne let out a long series of grumbles while she stuck her telephone into her rear pocket and once more climbed onto the lower rung below the driver's side door. "Son, dontcha despair or nuttin'. Okeh?  I'mma-gonn' get som'tin done now. Y'all got mah wohhhhh-rd, an' dat be som'tin y'all can take ta da bank!  Okeh?  Audrey, y'all got yer ears on?"

"I'm here, Wynne!" Audrey soon said, almost leaning across the driver so she could look down onto the street.

"I be gettin' a wreckah truck one way or the othah. We gonn' get this he' big-ass thing ovah ta all y'all's new how-se in no time, dontcha worry nuttin'."

"Great!  Do you think it'd be possible to find someone who could help us carry our things inside?  We can only pay them a little for their bother, but… we honestly need a hand. A big one."

"Haw, I reckon it might be possible. Lemme go see, okeh?  Anyhows, wreckah truck first, then find somebodda ta haul them crates o' yers," Wynne said, grinning while she tipped her beloved cowboy hat.

---

Returning to Moira's Bar & Grill, Wynne needed to brush or scoop half a quarry's worth of desert dust out of her hair, off every surface and out of every pocket before she could go on. Free of dust once more, she and her cane hobbled straight past the pool table and a puzzled Geoffrey Wilburr, jr., who had been waiting for her to come back so they could play on.

Two seconds later, Wynne made a U-turn right in the middle of the restaurant to go over to the six-pack of Double-Zeros Geoffrey Junior had bought for her earlier. One was grabbed, cracked open with the familiar Pssshhht! and gulped down in no time flat before she continued on her merry way up to the row of bar stools in front of the counter.

Because of the inclement weather, only half or so of the lunch-time regulars among the manual laborers and independent contractors had shown up to get something to eat, so Tucker Garfield sat alone with his food and his drink - not that anyone was inclined to speak to the mostly disgruntled gentleman.

"Tuckah Garfield, ya miserable so-an'-so!  Whaddahell y'all playin' hard ta get fer?" Wynne said the moment she arrived at the counter. Taking off her cowboy hat, she slapped it against her thigh to get the last of the red dust off it. "Dontcha hear good?  I done tole ya there be a big-ass movin' truck stranded in da middle o'-"

"And I told you I am eating, Wynne," Tucker growled between two bites of the greasy frankfurter. Just to be a little more demonstrative, he dunked it in some of A.J. Lane's sour-cream based potato salad before he started chewing on it in a long, drawn-out and deliberately slow fashion.

Wynne shook her head. "Tuckah, I don't undahstand whah y'all be doin' this. I bet y'all got yer reasons an' all, but I sure ain't seein' 'em."

Several seconds went by in silence before Tucker let out a snort. "It's none of your business."

"Yuh?  Okeh, fihhh-ne bah me 'cos I don't give a hairy shit, neithah. But I be tellin' y'all one thing, pal, an' that is I ain't gonn' stop pesterin' y'all while some very friendly folks be stranded right in da middle o' tha dog-gone street. So eithah y'all get off yer lazy ass an' drive that there wreckah truck ovah yondah, or I'mma-gonn' do it. Ain't no othah way 'round it. Ya hear whut I be sayin'?"

Grumbling hard, Tucker challenged Wynne to a wrestling-like staredown that everyone could have told him was doomed to go down in flames. After ten seconds of being scorched by his opponent's icy-blue lightning bolts, he gave up and dug into a pocket for the keys to the tow truck. He put them on the counter but immediately slammed a palm over them. "They're yours for twenty bucks. Cough it up or pull the truck with your bare hands."

Now it was Wynne's turn to grumble hard. Since it was obvious the situation wouldn't be resolved until she put the requested amount on the counter, she dug into her vest to find her wallet and the appropriate dollar bills.

---

Back out on the street after having downed another H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero on the fly to prepare for the dusty, windy conditions, Wynne made a beeline for Tucker's large, yellow Ford F750 tow truck.

Although she had brought the hardwood cane with her, getting everything co-ordinated while she carried out the work would be a pain in the backside rather than the knee, so she put the cane across the double-wide seat on the passenger side. Unfortunately, she regretted it almost at once when her injured knee made its presence felt by sending a brief stab of pain up her leg as she climbed into the cab.

A look down in the footwell made her let out a mumbled "Aw, sombitch… sure didden think o' that," at the look of the clutch pedal. Clenching her jaw, she tried depressing the pedal to test its resistance. It wasn't too bad all things considered, but her knee wasn't too pleased with the added pressure. To coax it into calming down, she massaged the affected area before setting the ignition key for pre-start.

Once the glowplugs were ready, she turned the key which made the large-displacement diesel engine come alive with a constant clattering and a steady trickle of black smoke emanating from the two aluminum stacks.

The large vehicle wasn't new to her as she had often used it during her stretch working at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop before Tucker had bought it for his own company, but it had been a while so she needed a moment to re-familiarize herself with all the knobs, dials and switches, not to mention the Ford emblem embossed into the steering wheel's center section.

Tucker wasn't allowed to use red or blue emergency lights on his 4-strong fleet of tow trucks and service vehicles as he didn't work exclusively for the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, but he compensated for that shortcoming by having installed scores of orange or bright-yellow LEDs all over his vehicles.

The heavy-duty F750 had a wide, multi-purpose lightbar on top of the cab, and Wynne simply couldn't help herself. Everything inside her insisted that she turned on the rotating beacon lights and all the LEDs to make as grand a spectacle as possible. Once the tow truck was lit up like a Christmas tree, she yanked the large steering wheel around to make a U-turn across Main Street. A moment on from that, she pulled the cord for the airhorns and let out a resounding "Yeeeee-hawwwww!  Let them truckahs roll, ten-fo'ah!"

---

All the old routines quickly came back to Wynne as she attached the heavy-duty tow bar to the eye on the front of the Freightliner moving truck. The bar was certified for no less than 40.000 lbs., so the 33.000 lbs. vehicle would pose no problem for it. Once everything was tight and locked down, she climbed over the tow bar and stepped up on the lower rung below the door. "Okeh, I be reddy. How iz all y'all doin' in there?  Still holdin' on?"

"I'm holding onto my wife!" Gwen said with a warm chuckle.

Audrey just grinned and nodded and grinned some more.

"Haw, that sure be good to he'ah, yes Ma'am," Wynne said, tipping her hat before she turned to the driver. "Okeh, son, put it in neutral, yuh?  Dontcha do nuttin' but steer. I'mma-gonn' honk them airhorns when y'all need-a make tha turn onta Josiah… aw, an' don't ferget y'all ain't got no powah steerin', yuh?  When we come ta numbah fo'ahteen, I'mma-gonn' stop fer both offus 'cos y'all only got enuff air fer them brakes ta disengage. Are we on da same page he', buddy?"

When the driver just nodded, Wynne climbed back down onto Second Street and hobbled back to the tow truck. She had kept the big diesel running while she had worked with the tow bar, so all she needed to do was to put the transmission into Super-Low and let out the clutch. Her knee chose the moment to let her know it was still there, but she clenched her jaw and ignored it.

The engine note changed and became far deeper and growlier as the increased weight made its presence felt. The two-truck convoy soon set off at walking pace so the strain on the tow bar, the hook and the eye on the Freightliner's frame would be evenly distributed. Wynne kept one eye on the street ahead and one eye in the rear-view mirror to keep track of her load and hopefully stay well clear of any trouble.

When she reached the turn onto Josiah Street, she pulled the cord for the airhorns twice to alert the driver of the box truck that he should begin the turn. It was a laborious process, but Wynne's experience handling the large tow truck made it a surprisingly trouble-free ride.

She applied the brake retarder to slow the vehicles to an eventual halt outside the correct house. The moving truck had barely come to a full stop before Gwen hopped out and ran up the garden path of their new home. She fumbled a little with the house keys but soon disappeared inside.

"Haw?  I done thunk it was smooth an' all," Wynne said, scratching her neck. Shrugging, she grabbed her cane and clambered down from the Ford F750.

Behind the tow truck, Audrey climbed out of the Freightliner and stretched her back the moment her feet were on the ground. Bending over, she touched her boots with her fingertips a couple of times before she stretched again.

"Haw!  Y'all sure is agile, yes Ma'am!" Wynne said as she hobbled along using the hardwood cane for support. "Say… whazzup with Gwen?  She got car sick or som'tin?"

"No," Audrey said with a grin, "but we had quite a few sodas on the trip. Gwen had an urgent date with the big, round white thing in the bathroom."

"Aw!  Yuh, okeh, I done trah'd that las'week when I hadda drink a bucket o' watah each time I done took that there Gawdawful pain medica-shun. Anyhows, it sure be nihhh-ce ta see all y'all ag'in, Audrey. Put it there, pardnah!" Wynne said, extending her hand.

Instead of a simple handshake, a smiling Audrey pulled the Cowpoke into a big How Nice To See You Again hug. "Hello, Wynne. Yes, it's really nice. How's your wife?"

"Haw, she be stressed out like y'all woudden bah-lieve. We be in da middle offa dang-blasted re-elec-shun cam-payne fer da Sheriff's office… an' ohhhh-brothah, folks are pressurin' mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandy from all sides, lemme tell y'all."

"Ouch… I'm sorry to hear that," Audrey said as she gave Wynne's hands a brief squeeze. "In any case, it's so great to finally be here… I can't wait to get settled in!"

"Haw, I bet!" Wynne said, pushing her hat back from her brow. "Lawrdie, I 'membah when I first done moved he' all them years ago. It done took a whole week fer mah head ta catch up with tha rest o' me. Anyhows, I didden ha' time ta look fer any helpahs befo', so I'mma-gonn' have a look-see aftah I done drove that there big-ass wreckah truck back ta Moira's. I promise y'all can begin offloadin' tha real hevvy stuff befo' long. Okeh?"

"All right, Wynne. Thank you very much for your help so far," Audrey said, surprising the Cowpoke by pulling her into another hug. "While you do that, we'll start with the small items. The furniture and the heaviest of the boxes are stored up front… the driver said it needed to be put in like that to keep the weight distribution even."

Wynne nodded several times. "Yuh, sounds 'bout right. Okeh, I'mma-gonn' pull that there tow bar off now, an' then I be truckin'!"

---

Returning to Moira's for a second time, Wynne put the Ford's keys on the counter next to Tucker who looked even surlier than he had before. "Aw, now whaddahell's wrong witcha, Tuckah?  Dag-nabbit, I swear y'all is gettin' mo' an' mo'-"

Tucker Garfield let out a growled "You wouldn't understand. So mind your own Goddamned business, Wynne!" before he grabbed the keys and left the Bar & Grill without as much as a goodbye to anyone.

Wynne tracked him with wide, puzzled eyes for the first few seconds, but soon came to the conclusion that she didn't give a damn about what he did or didn't do. The gruff man's peculiar behavior was partially explained when she caught a glimpse of Nancy Tranh Nguyen trying to remain incognito behind a newspaper. When the two women locked eyes a moment later, Wynne chuckled and shook her head.

The poor weather meant that Moira's Bar & Grill had only had half the normal amount of customers on any given day. Even A.J. 'Slow' Lane had plenty of time to read a comic book behind the counter.

"Haw, okeh… ain't many folks he' ta even ask," Wynne mumbled to herself, "so whodahell's gonn' help them gals offloadin' that there truck o' theirs?  Dag-nabbit…"

The thought had barely left Wynne's mind when Richard 'Ritchie' Lee, Torsten 'Tor' Jensen and Kenny 'K.T.' Tobin entered the restaurant. The three teens joked around for a few moments before Kenny moved over to the refrigerators to get something cold to drink. He had already reached for a six-pack of beer when he spotted Wynne sitting by the counter. Looking sheepish, he swapped the beer for a Summer Dreamz Super Selection Six instead.

Wynne tried to get all her neural pathways into step so she could 1) work out how many hands she'd need to offload the truck, 2) divide that figure by two so she could work out how many people she needed to ask, 3) find something valuable to use as incentive, and 4) work on a Plan B just in case she ran out of people, time or both.

"Holy shittt… I ain't good at them things," she mumbled as she rubbed her brow. "Okeh… I reckon we gonn' need… shoot… how many?  Fou'ah?  Fih-ve?  Six?  Ain't got six. Hell, I ain't even got fih-ve. I do got fou'ah, tho'. Ritchie, Tor, K.T. an' Geoffrey Juniah… aw… aw-shittt, wheredahell Juniah go?  Aw, dang-blasted, jus' when this he' gig wus goin' so well!"

"Am I supposed to reply to any of that, Wynne?" A.J. Lane said from behind the counter.

Wynne turned around to stare at 'Slow' Lane as if she had completely forgotten he was even there. As always, the twenty-something short-order cook wore a grease-stained apron over his regular clothes. Underneath the apron, he wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt that undoubtedly looked strange to the uninitiated given the fact that he worked at hot stoves all day long, but it was the only way he could protect his arms from the inevitable scorching droplets of sizzling grease that flew about when the pots and pans were really going. "Haw?  Whazzat, son?  Y'all tawkin' ta me?"

"Yes."

"Well, wotcha say?"

"I kinda asked if you were talking to me?"

"Haw?!  I sure be gettin' a li'l con-few-sed he'… naw, scratch a li'l. I be gettin' con-few-sed he'!" Wynne said, spreading her arms out wide. "Aw, ta cut a long story in half, I be tawkin' ta mahself jus' tryin' ta figgah out howdahell an' whodahell and whaddindahell. That ain't right… I know whaddindahell, but them othah two sure be stumblin' blocks right this minnit, lemme tell y'all. Yuh."

A.J. Lane nodded several times before he crabbed sideways to get away from the delirious Wynne in case it was contagious.

Wynne scratched her neck at A.J.'s odd behavior, but soon shrugged and forgot all about it. Moving away from the bar counter, she made a determined, though hobbling, beeline for the three teenagers so she could get there before they would shoot off in all directions like they so often did. "Boys, I need a wohhhhhhh-rd witcha!  Any o' y'all happen ta see where Juniah done went?"

"Who?" Kenny Tobin said with a puzzled look. As always, the heartthrob with the stylish hair wore the nicest clothes of the three friends: cowboy boots, dark jeans and a white shirt that he wore loose like a jacket. The latter clothing item covered a neutral, black T-shirt.

"Ya know… Geoffrey Juniah. He wus standin' right there when I done left befo'!"

"Oh, the old guy… dunno. Did you guys see where he went?" Kenny said to his friends.

The gangly and somewhat boorish Ritchie Lee, who only wore hand-me-downs or second-hand clothes because of his frequent growth spurts, shook his head. His usual condition of blushing like crazy when speaking to an individual of the female kind - even Wynne - kicked in to taint his cheeks tomato-red.

"Naw, I done said Geoffrey Juniah, not Seniah," Wynne said, plonking her hat onto her dark locks. "Aw, mebbe all y'all kids considah a guy in his late-twenties an ol' guy or som'tin… ya do, haw?  Shoot, I don't even wanna know whut cat'gory y'all put me in. Anyhows…"

The third member of the trio of teen friends, Tor Jensen, pulled one of the cans of soda out of the Summer Dreamz Super Selection Six and cracked it open. Tor's hairdo was the wildest of the three. Where Kenny spent ages in front of the mirror with a tube of gel and a special comb, and Ritchie had his in a crew cut that was easy to maintain, Tor's locks went this way, that way and every other way.

As ever, the tech nerd and occasional town rebel wore loud clothes that would make him stand out in any crowd: basketball boots with neon-green laces, a pair of Bermuda shorts that carried several images of cheetahs, a purple T-shirt and finally an ill-fitting, bright-red vest. "You're way older than Carole or even my old man!" Tor said as he took the first swig of a Sporty Blue. "But you're cool, Wynne. That's a major difference."

"Haw… much obliged… say, I done wondah'd if all y'all could be persuaded ta help offload a movin' truck ovah yondah on Josiah Street?  There be an… uh… a free lunch o' yer choice if ya join up."

Though Ritchie continued to blush, he began to nod at once at Wynne's suggestion. "I'll pitch in for a box of Chicky Kingz drumsticks!"

"Aw… okeh… naw, I done meant he' at Moira's an' all…"

Ritchie blushed even harder at his small gaffe, but Tor broke in before the poor teen's skin caught fire: "Everything on Moira's menu is made for old people. Really ass-boring stuff."

Wynne scratched her neck a couple of times while she tried to overcome the niggling disappointment considering she'd had a hand in re-designing the menu after she had opened the Bed & Breakfast next door. She broke out in a shrug. "Yuh… okeh… whutevah… les'see whut we can do 'bout them Chicky Kingz. Yuh?"

"I'm sorry, Wynne," Kenny said, "but I can only help for fifteen minutes or something… maybe twenty. I promised Mom that I'd be home at one. It's my day to be the guide at the Bug Bonanza."

"Aw, gosh-darn'it… is that there bug mew-seum-thingy really that pop'lar?  I mean, if anybodda wanna see them King Spidahs an' scorpions an' all them othah crittahs, all they hafta do is ta wandah a li'l in the desurht an' all…"

"We had sixteen paying customers yesterday, actually… so… yeah, it's kinda popular," Kenny Tobin said, nodding.

"Okeh… haw. Ya learn som'tin new ev'ryday 'round he'. Okeh. Two be bettah than nobodda… okeh… haw!  I got a no-shun!  Yessir!  Tell all y'all whut… if ya mosey on ovah ta Josiah Street, ya sure can't miss that there big-ass movin' truck, yuh?  There be a-cuppel-a gals an' prolly a drivah haulin' boxes an' whutnot. Jus' tell 'em that Wynne Donnah-hew sent ya. They gonn' show y'all whut ta move an' where it done needs-a go. Yuh?  An' while y'all do that, I'mma-gonn' call mah good buddy Diegoh an' ask fer a li'l assistance. All righty?"

Tor, Ritchie and Kenny all looked at each other before they replied by nodding, shrugging and eventually shuffling out of Moira's. A moment later, Tor returned to put a dollar on the table next to where Wynne stood. "For the soda," he said before he left again.

Chuckling, Wynne put the coin in her pocket. Her telephone was soon in her hand and primed to go. It only took a few seconds to find Diego's number in the registry.

'It's Diego. Wynne?'

"Howdy, Diegoh!  Lissen, I been wonderin'… wotcha doin' taday?  Could I purr-haps tempt y'all ta come ovah ta Josiah Street an' help offload a movin' truck?  Tha prize be a big, ol' free suppah at Moira's fer y'all. Yuh, we got usselves a-cuppel-a new residents an' all-"

'I can't. I'm not home, Wynne.'

"Awwwwww-shittt!"

'I'm out in the desert testing-'

"In da middle offa dang-blasted dust storm?!  I mean, whaddahell, pardnah!"

'Oh yeah, I'm out here, all right. I'm dug in halfway between Rattler Gulch and Maynard Canyon testin' my new survival gear. I bought it from Surplus Central over in San Cristobal-'

"Haw!"

'Yeah, it's the complete Army Ranger Desert Survival Package. MREs, an edged tent, netting, the whole nine yards. All neatly wrapped in a forty pound backpack.'

Laughing out loud, Wynne shook her head several times at the enthusiastic tone in her neighbor's voice. "Y'all be ca-razy, Diegoh!  Plum loco!"

'I'm havin' an awesome time, that's a fact. Anyway, I can't help you. Have you tried Vaughn?'

"Naw, ain't no use 'cos Vaughn got them spaghetti arms."

'Ha!  That's true…'

"Yuh. Brendah sure don't, but she be real bizzy taday workin' on some project or 'nothah. She done hadda stay hoah-me, so… yuh. Mebbe I oughttah trah ol' Rodolfoh instead. Okeh, friend… stay safe, yuh?  An' if y'all happen ta run inta that there big-ass cave dwellah crittah who done took a dump on ol' Ernie's porch all them years ago, tell it that Ernie still be kinda sore 'bout it."

Diego let out a whole series of warm chuckles at the other end of the connection. 'I will. Talk to you later, Wynne.'

"Yuh… bah-bah, Diegoh. This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off."

After closing the connection, Wynne scratched her neck several times before she found Rodolfo's number. Three failed attempts later, she buried her face in her hands and shook her head so hard her locks whipped about.

"I reckon I'mma-gonn' hafta do it mahself, then… shit, I hope mah ol' knee don't get too upset or nuttin'. Aw-hell, a promise be a promise. Yuh. I bettah stock up on them Dubbel-Zeras first, tho'… gonn' need plentah o' fuel fer this he' race an' all…"

Sighing, Wynne shuffled over to the refrigerators to take a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck's finest non-alcoholic beer to prepare for the hard work that was to follow.

*
*
CHAPTER 7

To say the emergency meeting of the Goldsboro Town Council had dragged on while the politicians had debated the finer points and details would be an understatement.

The problem with the suspected sewage leak in the alley between the impound yard and Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports had been settled in a unanimous decision to compile a list of local and regional sewer contractors and call them to get quotes so it could it fixed as soon as possible, perhaps even before the end of September.

Mandy had almost torn her hair out at the laborious process to reach that simple and bloomin' logical conclusion. What she and any of her deputies could have accomplished in three minutes flat - including the telephone call - had taken the Town Council more than forty minutes to reach, and they still needed to work out which contractor to use.

Moving onto the topic on the report by the Town Beautification consulting team, Mary-Lou Skinner, Bonnie Saunders and several of the council's members had engaged in a spirited debate on which of the many suggestions to implement, which to discard at once and which to keep in mind for later. Some members needed clarification on certain details while others were so pleased with the notorious white benches already in place on Main Street that they would prefer to keep those and use the allocated funding for other worthwhile projects that could potentially include new public garbage cans, flagpoles or perhaps even an app designed in association with the Goldsboro Town Museum that could act as a promotional tool that would attract tourists to all of MacLean County.

By now, Mandy's edges glowed white-hot at what she considered a criminal waste of her precious time. She knew she needed to keep her jaw firmly clenched or else she would cause a explosive scene that would rival anything that had ever taken place down at the Benson Creek Nuclear Research & Testing Facility.

The moment of salvation finally came when Mary-Lou thumped her gavel onto the wooden block and declared the meeting adjourned. Without speaking a word to Skinner, Saunders or anyone else, Mandy got up from the chair, grabbed her jacket and her Mountie hat and stormed out of Wyatt Elliott's executive office.

Striding down the staircase and through the inner courtyard, she had soon made it out onto Second Street. A content grunt escaped her as she realized the weather had improved greatly while she had been tied up in the political torture chamber. Although the conditions were still breezy, the strong gusts had gone elsewhere which meant the worst of the dust storm had eased off.

She had already begun striding toward the sheriff's office across Main Street when her peripheral vision picked up a puzzling amount of activity on Josiah Street. Stopping, she took in the scene of a large box truck that was in the process of being emptied by a swarm of people. Wynne's severely dusty Silverado was parked a short distance behind the truck, but the Last Original Cowpoke was nowhere to be seen.

Mandy rested her hands on her utility belt while she pondered whether to visit the scene or head back to the office after all. The thought of getting some hot coffee and caffeine into her system eventually won out, so she continued along Second Street to get the machine going.

-*-*-*-

Over at 14 Josiah Street, the offloading process went with only the smallest amount of hiccups, glitches, oopsies and trip-ups. Considering that Goldsboro was the world capital of calamities of all kind, some trouble had to be expected. So far, the worst oopsie had been the gangly and somewhat uncoordinated Ritchie Lee stumbling over the curb and landing on the large plastic bags he had been carrying.

Fortunately, Wynne had whispered in Audrey's ear that Ritchie probably shouldn't be taxed with carrying anything valuable, so the bags had only contained bedlinen that had in fact given him a soft landing down on the driveway.

The driver of the Freightliner stood inside the rear compartment handing out cardboard boxes and bags that slowly grew in size and weight as he made it further toward the front. The heaviest items, mostly furniture but also boxes containing books, had been put up against the front wall to ensure the weight had been distributed evenly.

Tor Jensen, Ritchie and Gwen Gilmore continuously moved back and forth between the house and the truck hauling the items the driver had readied for them. Kenny Tobin had called home to ask if he could stay longer after all, but his father Bertram had been adamant in a rather vocal fashion that their original agreement was upheld. Wynne had even tried to plead her young associate's case, but there had been nothing either of them could say or do that would change the elder Tobin's mind.

Wynne had assumed carrying duties for a couple of passes when the offloading team had suddenly become two hands short, but she couldn't use her cane while doing so which had made her knee tell her to knock off the heroics so soon in the healing process or face the lengthy consequences. At present, she leaned against the side of her Silverado while co-ordinating the efforts and conducting the foot traffic. A cooler box had been lined up by her feet for whenever she needed to wet her whistle.

Goldie sat on the driver's side seat with her head leaning out of the window. The Golden Retriever had been bored out of her golden fur over at Moira's since her owner had hardly been around to provide the required feed and water, so she had literally jumped at the chance to watch the strange Humans walk in an ant-line carrying heavy-looking boxes.

Her paws were up on the sill, striking a royal pose while all the Humans toiled away at her feet. A bowl of cool water had been put down in the footwell for when she grew thirsty, and she even had a stick of beef jerky within easy reach to keep her energy levels up. Now and then, she rewarded the hard-working Humans with a Yap! or two just to show that she cared.

"Phew!" Gwen Gilmore said as she came over to stand next to Wynne. Reaching into a pocket, she found a handkerchief that she used to wipe her neck. "This is tough. At least it's not that hot now… I saw on the news that you guys had an insane heatwave last week?"

"Yuh, we sure did. Lawrdie, that wus awful, lemme tell ya. Trippel-digits. An' I coudden even wet mah whissel or nuttin' 'cos I hadda take that there pain medica-shun. Speakin' o' which…" - The lid of the cooler box was soon popped open - "Ya wan'some?  Them silvah cans be mine, but da rest be fair game fer ev'rybodda."

"No, thank you. We had so many sodas driving down here that I'm good for a couple of days at least!"

Pssshhht!

"Yuh-haw?" Wynne said before she leaned her head back to sample the golden nectar of a H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero.

A Thump! Fumble! Owch! was suddenly heard from inside the house. A moment later, Audrey could be heard saying: 'Are you all right, Ritchie?'

"He's kinda accident prone, isn't he?" Gwen said with a chuckle.

"Yuh, I reckon. I wus jus' as big a fumblebuhh-tt when I wus his age… well, mebbe a-cuppel-a years youngah. O' course, my condi-shun came from mah accident an' all, but anyhows… mebbe we oughttah go an' see whut ol' Ritchie Lee done fell ovah this time," Wynne said before she pushed herself off the side of her truck.

--

Ritchie was still sitting on the empty living room floor rubbing his shins by the time Wynne and Gwen Gilmore joined him. His facial skin caught fire at once from finding himself surrounded by not one, not two, but three human beings of the female kind. The rolled-up carpet he had carried had ended up next to him - incidentally, not too far from where it was supposed to go. "I tripped over the threshold," he mumbled, pointing at a half-inch-tall strip of wood that ran at the foot of the door. "Then I dropped the carpet and kinda landed on it."

"Son," Wynne said with a sly grin, "I reckon y'all bettah give up that there stunt guy career y'all got goin'. Or mebbe wear some mo' paddin', I dunno."

Nodding, Ritchie got up and dusted off his hands. Since the carpet was already close to its proper spot, he began fiddling with the cable ties holding it in place.

"No, wait… wait, wait, wait, Ritchie," Audrey said, jumping forward at once. "It's too soon to roll out the carpet. We still need to move all the bookcases and the couch arrangement and several other pieces of furniture in here. Which means that everyone is going to walk all over it a hundred times with boots or whatever… I really don't want to start vacuuming already. All right?"

"Uh… all right. Sorry," Ritchie said, standing up straight.

Grinning, Wynne stepped forward to wrap an arm around the gangly teen's shoulder. "Son, whah dontcha go out ta that there coolah box an' grab yaself one o' them there root beers?  Wussen it y'all who done loved 'em?"

"Uh… no, my favorite drink is ginger ale…"

"Aw!  Aw-shoot, I didden took none o' those. But anyhows, there be plentah o' sodas. Jus' grab yaself a Coke or som'tin."

"Thank you, Ma'am-"

"Mah name is Wynne Donnah-hew, son!  I sure ain't callin' ya Mista Lee, yuh?  So ya sure ain't callin' me Ma'am, neithah, yuh?"

"Okay… thank you, Wynne…"

"Haw, y'all be welcome an' all. Jus' watch that there threshold, yuh?" Wynne said, pointing at the tiny strip of wood that had been Ritchie's latest undoing.

-*-*-*-

Fifteen minutes later, a great deal of the residents of Josiah Street had noticed the exciting goings-on that took place right outside their kitchen windows. A large group of them had gathered on the sidewalk to greet their new neighbors, chew the fat with their old neighbors, and keep a running commentary on the quality of the furniture carried inside. Curiously, only one or two of them actually volunteered to help with the offloading.

Three of the greeters were the O'Sullivans and Nancy Tranh Nguyen who both lived on the opposite side of Josiah. The late-twenty-something Vietnamese-American artist carried a large sketch pad where she created quick, funny drawings and caricatures of everything and everybody using felt-tip pens of varying thickness.

The retired couple Eamonn and Esther O'Sullivan simply had to see what all the hubbub was about - after all, they wouldn't risk missing out on some potentially juicy gossip - so they arrived with great fanfare in the shape of several thermos' of freshly made coffee and large cookie jars filled to the brim with homemade butter cookies.

Soon, everyone slurped coffee and crunched loudly on the tasty treats. Wynne held onto two of the latter and a cup of the former while she looked at Nancy performing her magic on the sketch pad. They and several others had moved into the Gilmores' partly-furnished kitchen where they stood wherever there was room for them.

Tor, Ritchie and the driver of the moving truck soon began carrying the larger pieces of furniture into the living room. Gwen kept watch while Audrey whimsied about trying to clear the way for Ritchie in particular so the table, the armchairs, the sideboard and the cupboards wouldn't end up in a pile of component parts.

In the kitchen, Wynne finally sampled Esther's coffee that had been far too hot to drink until then. When she took a long swig of the dark-brown liquid, her eyes bugged out on stalks as the extraordinarily strong coffee burned its way down her gullet. "Hoooooly shittt… this ain't coah-ffee," she said in a croak as she studied the liquid, "this he' be rocket fuel!  Good flip almighty, y'all can use this ta kick-start yer carburetahs if y'all evah run outta ether!"

Eyeing her fellow coffee-drinkers in the kitchen, it seemed that most people had arrived at the same conclusion at pretty much the same time. Since the Gilmores' refrigerator had only just been hooked up, there wasn't yet any cold milk or cream to neutralize the brown acid, but it wasn't long before someone found an opened jar of creamer in a cardboard box. Once the creamer had made the rounds, a lot of relieved sighs could be heard from the people there.

"Haw, this he' situa-shun sure does remind me of a mooh-vie me an' mah darlin' Mandy done saw jus' the othah week," Wynne said before she sipped the cured coffee. "Yuh. Don't recall the title or nuttin', but it was 'bout these three wacky guys who wus on a sea croooh-ze o' some kind or som'tin… an'… shoot, whut wus them guy'ses names?  I plum ferget. It wus them funny guys from that othah mooh-vie there, ya know?  Tha one with tha… with tha… but anyhows-"

'The Three Stooges!' someone suggested.

"Naw, wussen them Stooges. Them othah guys."

'Abbott and Costello?'

"Naw, 'cos they only be two guys. Them guys he' wus three guys, yuh?"

'Laurel and Hardy?'

"Naw!  They only be two guys, too!  Whodahell be tellin' this he' story, anyhows?  These three guys wus on a sea croooh-ze when their cabin wus suddenly taken ovah bah a gigantoh buncha folks from all ovah!  An' there wus folks ev'rywhere an' them three guys coudden even be in their own cabin or nuttin'!  Yuh. It wus hella fun. Anybodda know whut mooh-vie I be tawkin' 'bout?"

When everyone's reaction was either a shrug, a puzzled grunt or a blank stare, Wynne promptly forgot all about it and settled for drinking the coffee.

---

Three bookcases and a sideboard later, the large group of people milling about in Gwen and Audrey's house grew even larger when Keshawn Williams appeared in the doorway holding a potted flower and a small card that had been wrapped in colorful paper. Although he had changed into regular street clothes, the abrasion on his thigh and rear-end - received when a gust of wind had blown his racing bike clean off the State Route during the height of the dust storm earlier in the day - forced him to walk with a limp.

His eyes grew wide as he took in the vast number of people who seemed to do very little but to stand around yakking, drinking coffee and eating crunchy butter cookies. "Hello, neighbors. Has anyone seen the Gilmores?"

Everyone began looking around for either Gwen or Audrey, but neither could be found anywhere. "Okay… odd," Keshawn said, furrowing his brow as he stepped into the kitchen where his eyes soon fell on The Last Original Cowpoke. "Oh!  Hello, Wynne. What in the world's going on here?  This is the Gilmore residence, isn't it?"

"Yuh, it sure is, Keshawn. Fo'ahteen Josiah Street… at least I reckon it is!  Haw!  Howdy, pardnah!" Wynne said, stretching out her hand until she realized the owner of the Second-Hand Treasures had no hands to spare. "Lemme give y'all a wohhhh-rd o' advice straight off tha green flag he'… if y'all got a weak tummy or som'tin, ya really, really, really don't wanna be drinkin' none o' Esthah's coah-ffee. Yuh?  Considah yaself warned!"

"I've already had the, uh, pleasure," Keshawn said with a lopsided grin. "More than once…"

"Aw…"

"But thank you very much for the warning. Would you happen to know where I can find Gwen or Audrey Gilmore?  I have a little something for them… my wife bought a twenty-dollar gift certificate for them as a welcome gift."

"I reckon Audrey be out airin' Li'l Evvie. That be their dawg, yuh?" Wynne said with a smile. "She jus' done woke up aftah bein' sedated… aw… that be Li'l Evvie, yuh?  Not that Audrey wus sedated or nuttin'."

"Okay…"

"Yuh, she be tha cutest li'l Cockah Spaniel y'all evah done saw. But Lawrdie, I ain't got no clue where Gwen is at. Mebbe the bathroom ag'in?  Whah dontcha go take a gandah?" Wynne leaned to her right to point past Keshawn's shoulder. "It be right ovah yondah. Y'all need-a take a left then a right an' than ya got it."

Keshawn had already started to laugh almost as if he expected Wynne's comment to be a humorous one, but when it dawned on him that she was dead-serious, the laughter died down. "I'm… I'm… well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to peek into a complete stranger's bathroom, Wynne!  Is that really how you did it back in Texas?"

"Whah, sure!  Only in that there public outhow-se, tho'. O' course, y'all could see straight through them cracks in tha boards an' tha gaps between 'em, anyhows, so… yuh. We sure did. It wus tha place where all them coo' kids done met fer a cig'rette or som'tin. Nobodda could smell tha smoke 'cos o' tha outhow-se, yuh?"

Keshawn nodded a couple of times before he moved out of the kitchen holding the potted flower and the gift certificate. He could be heard mumbling "Just when I thought the town couldn't get any more surreal…" as he disappeared into the social gathering that took place in the living room.

---

Thirty minutes or so later, the level of surrealism went up another notch or two by the arrival of the hefty Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson who parked his own truck in front of the stranded Freightliner. The large man soon began working on fixing the busted radiator. Using a high-pressure hose with a narrow-target nozzle attached to it, he had the Freightliner's grille cleaned off in no time. Once that was over and done with, he and the driver tilted the engine cover forward so he could continue cleaning everything inside.

The entire group of people who had inhabited the kitchen and the living room had moved out onto the Gilmores' front porch to keep track of the goings-on out there. Once they had lined up three-deep, everyone studied the heavyset Bengt moving with surprising agility as he let the narrow-target nozzle do all the hard work.

In the middle of all that, Mandy, Beatrice Reilly and Blackie strode along the sidewalk on Josiah Street on one of their scheduled foot patrols. The humans of the group shared a long look that said 'Only in Goldsboro' before they carried on toward the odd gathering of people.

Blackie upped her tempo to check out the identities of the Humans. She had hoped there might have been some bad people she could gnaw on, but everyone was friendly toward her. The only one who spun around and ran away was a short Human female who seemed to carry a large, square piece of something in her hands, but even she didn't look or smell suspicious.

Letting out a disappointed Woof… Blackie ran over to the familiar black Silverado instead where she had seen a glimpse of a golden head. A moment later, she stood up on her hind legs to put her paws on the windowsill in order to greet Goldie and bring her up to speed. The dogs soon reconnected in a long sequence of yaps, woofs and barks that explained quite well what they had been doing since they had said goodbye to each other earlier in the day.

While the dogs were busy sharing the moment over by the truck, Beatrice Reilly screwed on her most winning smile as she moved among the onlookers. All of the women and a few of the men were handed flyers promoting her self-defence class the following Wednesday evening. The previous week's initial class had been called off due to a very limited amount of interest among the residents of Goldsboro, but since the matter was close to her heart, she had decided to give it one final chance.

Mandy quickly established that Wynne wasn't out front, so she strode up the garden path while saying Hello to roughly twenty people who stood around doing absolutely nothing save for munching on butter cookies and slurping coffee. She knocked on the doorjamb without receiving a reply of any kind. Grunting, she entered the Gilmores' new home.

The kitchen was empty save for a stack of unopened cardboard boxes, so she continued into a den of sorts that was even emptier. Turning around, she went into the living room where she was greeted by a lot of random furniture but no Wynne or anyone else for that matter.

Grunts, groans, a Sproingggg!, a 'Lawwwwwwwr-die!  Y'all gotta be careful, son!' and finally loud laughing reached her ears from one of the other rooms. Spinning around on her heel, she hurried through a hallway until she had reached the troublespot which turned out to be Gwen and Audrey's bedroom.

She scratched an eyebrow at the sight of Ritchie Lee flat on his back on a double-wide bed that featured a classic wrought-iron frame held in an early-1900s design. Even stranger, he seemed to be using a curtain rail and a complete set of blackout drapes as his bedwear. A stepladder had been placed under a window offering a nice view of the back yard, but it was tilted to the right almost as if the person who had been using it had lost his balance and had fallen off.

In addition to Ritchie, four other people resided in the bedroom: Audrey, who had slapped a hand over her eyes. Gwen, who had slapped a hand over her mouth. Wynne, who shook her head over and over and over again, and finally Tor who couldn't stop laughing at his clumsy friend's antics.

Mandy stepped into the bedroom and slammed her hands onto her utility belt. To catch everyone's attention, she let out a gruff "All right, I'm the law and nobody moves until I've worked out what the hell just happened!" with her tongue stuck so firmly in her cheek that it almost resembled a gumboil.

"Mercy Sakes, lookie who be he'!  Howdy, darlin'!"

Gwen and Audrey swapped their gestures. Now, Audrey covered her mouth while Gwen slammed a hand over her eyes. Tor kept giggling, but he at least tried to keep it all inside.

"Ritchie Lee," Wynne continued, "y'all sure be in trubbel now!  Lemme tell ya 'xactly whut done happened, Sheriff. Ol' Ritchie there done trah'd parrah-shoot jumpin' offa that there laddah ovah yondah, but when he done pulled tha cord, it didden do nuttin'!  So he kinda went inta a tuck-an'-roll onta that there bed there. I don't reckon nuttin' done happened ta tha bed, tho'. Can't say nuttin' 'bout ol' Ritchie 'cos he ain't come up fer air yet. Aw, he still be movin' so I reckon he didden crack his walnuts or nuttin'…"

Mandy couldn't hold the stern mask for too long. Instead, she let out a long sigh and looked toward the heavens for some kind of signal that it was all part of a plan that would be explained in due course. Nothing came to her - not that she had expected anything - but she did get a good glimpse of the bedroom ceiling. "Forget I asked. Come on, let's get him untangled. Hello, Mrs. and Mrs. Gilmore. Nice drapes."

"Hello, Sheriff. Thank you… I chose them," Audrey said with a smile.

Gwen continued to keep her hand across her eyes just in case.

The skin on poor Ritchie's face was on the brink of glowing - or melting - when he found himself at the center of attention of not one, not two, not three but no less than four women, one of which was the Sheriff of Goldsboro. His friend's constant giggles didn't help any, and neither did the fact that he got more and more wadded up in the blackout drapes in spite of everyone's best efforts to get him free.

Gwen finally stepped forward with her hands in the air to stop her fellow un-tanglers from making it worse. "Hold it… hold it, okay?  We need to start with the curtain rail. I got that. Wynne, once I hand it to you, hold it up as high as you can. Sweetie, that's where you come into the picture. Once the rail has been removed, we should be able to unwrap our friend here."

"Okie-dokie!" Wynne said, offering everyone an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"I'm ready," Audrey said while Tor just giggled a little more.

Mandy took a long step back. "I better supervise the operation from over here." Moving over to the window, she had soon righted the tilted stepladder.

Once Wynne pulled up the curtain rail as high as she could reach, Audrey was able to get the double-layered fabric released from Ritchie's legs and upper body without any tearing or indeed tears. It wasn't long before Tor grabbed hold of Ritchie's shoulders to pull him to the opposite side of the bed so he could swing his legs over the edge and ultimately stand up.

It was clear by the look on Ritchie's red-hot face that he didn't trust his voice not to break at the worst moment, so he settled for nodding a thank you to his rescuers before he shuffled out of the bedroom with a giggling Tor in tow.

"Haw, mis-shun accomplished!" Wynne said as she put down the curtain rail. "Lawwwwwwwr-die, there ain't nuttin' us powahgals can't do when we put ou'ah minds to it, yuh?  Y'all know whut time it is?  It be high time fer a Fenwyck!  Fenwyck, tha time is right!  Tha time is right now!  Yessirree!  I he'ah mah coolah box callin' mah name." Once the parting salute had been delivered, The Last Original Cowpoke was gone in a flash.

Gwen and Audrey shared a long, wide-eyed look that lasted until Mandy stepped in to explain: "It's the jingle for Wynne's favorite brewery."

"Oh… okay," Audrey said with a grin that faded when she looked at the curtain rail, the blackout drapes and the empty spot at the window. "But we still didn't get the drapes up… and now the tallest of us has left…"

Chuckling at how everything had turned into a typical Goldsborian mess, Mandy swapped her Mountie hat for the curtain rail. "Well, that's why stepladders were invented. Stand back, everybody. The Sheriff's on the case."

-*-*-*-

A few hours later, the novelty value of having someone new and exciting moving in had worn off for a good portion of the other residents of Josiah Street. Most had gone home to reward themselves with some afternoon treats to recover from the strain of standing around yakking to their neighbors, but a few of the hardiest remained in full swing taking the last, few items out of the moving truck:

Keshawn Williams - who rented a house on Josiah Street after discovering that the apartment on the upper floor of his Second-Hand Treasures thrift-store was in such poor shape it wasn't fit for habitation without a major, i.e. pricey, renovation - had finally managed to find the Gilmores so he could present them with the potted flower and the gift certificate.

Torsten 'Tor' Jensen had needed to go home as well after his stepmother Carole had called to make sure he was safe. Though Wynne had tried explaining that Tor was in fine fettle and that he'd been helping out all day like a true champ, Carole had insisted that he came home for their early supper before his father Matt would leave for work. Wynne couldn't fault her for being concerned and wanting to know where her stepson was considering Tor's accidental overdose back in April.

Nancy Tranh Nguyen continued to stick around as well. She had drawn nearly twenty sketches of all the fun, little things that would inevitably pop up during such a large-scale moving. Her plan was to have them printed on hi-gloss paper and send them as Christmas presents to the people she had depicted.

The disability pensioner Eamonn O'Sullivan had needed to go home for his regular afternoon nap, but the old boy had promised to return before long so his wife Esther wouldn't feel lonely - not that Esther was in any risk of that as she and Audrey sat in the Gilmores' living room, discussing all the intricate details of Norwegian Over-Over-Under knitting, what kind of garden flowers and plants could survive the arid climate, and, last but certainly not least, who in town was fooling around with whom, where they preferred to go, and how long they had been going at it.

In the kitchen, Gwen had appropriated the stepladder from the bedroom so she could reach the upper shelves in the cabinets and cupboards. Wynne stood down below digging into cardboard boxes and handing up all sorts of regular products like canned foods, sugar, salt, flour, pepper and even a few jars of specialty hot sauces.

Right in the middle of all that, Wynne's telephone rang. "Aw… hold 'em hosses, there, Gwen… I jus' gotta… aw, it be mah sweet darlin'."

Accepting the call, she tapped an additional icon that automatically increased the volume which allowed her put to the telephone on the kitchen table while she continued to work. "Howdy, darlin'!  I still be ovah he' helpin' Gwen an' Audrey," Wynne said as she dug into the cardboard box to retrieve the first of several packs of finely-rolled oatmeal. "Y'all comin' thru' loud an' clear on one o' them there haaah volume calls, dontchaknow. Ovah!"

'Could you perhaps take a break, Wynne?  I need to talk to you in private.'

"Aw… aw, sure, darlin'. Uh, jus' a minnit, yuh?  Gwen, I gotta…"

Nodding, Gwen slid two cans of baked beans onto a shelf before she climbed down from the stepladder. "No problem. I'll see if my wife's ears are still attached."

"Haw?!"

"I'm worried that Mrs. O'Sullivan has managed to yak them clean off," Gwen said with a wink.

"Yuh, okeh, ol' Esthah does enjoy a good gumflappin', that sure ain't no lie…"  Waiting until she was alone in the kitchen, Wynne tapped the icon that reduced the volume to the regular levels; then she put the telephone to her ear. "I be he', darlin'. Izzit som'tin bad?"

'No, I just didn't feel like having an audience. I couldn't really get to talk to you before, either, so…'

"Yuh, I hear ya."

'The emergency meeting Councilwoman Skinner called earlier today… God Almighty, that was the worst load of nonsense I've been exposed to for years. I'd need to go back to some of Rains's drunken rants to match it!'

"Haw… dat sure be sayin' a lot, yes Ma'am. Whaddahell coudda been so bad?"

'First of all, Mary-Lou Skinner demanded an apology for my outburst and the-'

"Now that really is a load'a stinky bull-dung!  Pardon mah French!  Whaddahell she be thinkin'?  O' course y'all wus upset!  Lawwwwwr-die, I woulda given that Skinnah woman anothah piece o' mah mind right then an' there…"

'I wanted to, but I kept it inside… mostly.'

Wynne broke out in a grin at Mandy's added comment. "Mostly, haw?"

'Yes. In any case, I didn't apologize for a damn thing. The worst part is that Councilwoman Skinner and probably Bonnie Saunders as well have been blinded by Bobby Johnston's squeaky-clean public persona. They even recognize that Rains is mentoring him, but they refused to make the one-two-three connection from Johnston to Rains to the J-Six Brigade people.'

Shaking her head, Wynne moved over to the refrigerator to see if the six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zeros she had put in there had been chilled enough to drink, but they were still just a little bit too lukewarm. "Aw, them folks gotta be foo's if they ain't seein' it. Snakes Alive, it wus dang obvious yestuhr'dy that Johnston an' nasty-ass Rains wus as smug as bugs inna rug when all that bad shit done happened involvin' them there brigade jerks."

'Well, they don't see it. Johnston has sent them an open letter explaining that if he's elected sheriff, he'll make sure to stop it before it gets started.'

"Haw, that sombitch… that be a freebie 'cos he be thick as thieves with all'offem."

'Exactly. I have a bad feeling about the whole deal… but I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens.'

Grunting, Wynne moved from the kitchen and into the living room where Ritchie Lee helped Gwen roll out a few decorative runners and add a few pillows, throws and homemade cushions on a couch and a satellite armchair. It seemed the more easy-going task suited his style better than the high-stress ones as he fumbled far less and even cracked a smile from time to time.

'Are you still there, Wynne?' Mandy said at the other end of the connection.

"Whah, I sure am, darlin'. I jus' done watched ol' Ritchie distributin' a-buncha pillahs an' stuff."

'Pillars?'

"Naw, pillahs. Ya know, them things we sit on. Pillahs."

'Oh, right… pillows.'

Wynne scratched her neck a couple of times at the odd direction the conversation had taken. Ultimately, she shrugged and moved on. "Yuh, pillahs. Whut I done said. Anyhows."

'This is a good place to stop, hon, because I'm running out of time. Are you going to come over to the office once you're done at the Gilmores?'

"Yuh, I reckon. I'mma-gonn' make a li'l announcement first, tho'. I got a no-shun in mah skull that we need-a reward them folks who done helped he' taday… an' give Audrey an' Gwen a good, ol' warm welcome ta Goldsboro, obvi'sly… so I'mma-gonn' treat ev'rybodda ta a li'l suppah spe-shul at Moira's. Or them there Chicky Kingz if that be closah ta their likin'."

'That sounds like a very nice gesture, hon. I'm sure people will appreciate that. Talk to you later. Bye-bye.'

"Bah-bah, darlin'!  This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off!  But I reckon y'all knew that alreddy, haw?" Chuckling, Wynne put the telephone into her rear pocket before she went out to stand in the middle of the living room.

Only a few of the people there looked at her to begin with, but she caught everyone's attention by whipping off her beloved cowboy hat and putting her hands in the air. "Gals an' pals, lend me yer ears!  We be 'bout done he', yuh?  When Audrey an' Gwen say that ev'rythin' is perdy much how they want it ta be, at least fer taday, lemme invite all y'all ovah ta Moira's Bar an' Grill or them Chicky Kingz fer a li'l suppah… naw, scratch that, fer a big 'ol suppah!  An' it gonn' be free, too, 'cos all y'all done desuhrve one helluva pat on da back fer all this haulin', dontchaknow. How y'all reckon that sounds?"

When only a surprisingly modest amount of cheering rose from the people gathered in the Gilmores's living room, Wynne scratched her neck. "Aw… ya don't reckon that be coo' or nuttin'?"

A pale-faced Audrey Gilmore got up from the couch - that still hadn't been put exactly where she wanted it - and moved over to Wynne. "Thank you very much for the offer, Wynne, but… honestly… could we perhaps take a rain check on it?  Gwen and I have been going non-stop since yesterday afternoon now. We didn't get much sleep last night either because the motel we stopped at was a dump, frankly, so… I'm sorry."

"Haw, dontcha worry none, Audrey," Wynne said with a smile. She reached out to put a hand on Audrey's shoulder. "Lawrdie, I dunno whaddahell I wus thinkin'… o' course y'all be too dang tired ta do anythin' but hittin' them sheets. Yuh, we sure can take a rain check. No trubbel. An' the rest o' all y'all?"

None of the people present seemed too eager to accept Wynne's invitation. Esther said: "Well, I already have a pot roast simmering…" while Nancy said: "And I need to go to bed real early tonight. I'm off to San Cristobal tomorrow for an arts exhibition."

"Uh… okeh. Shoot. Nobodda?"

The teen Ritchie Lee was the only one who stuck his hand in the air, but when he realized he was a lone Yea in a sea of Nays, he broke out in a furious flush and ducked his head in a hurry.

Wynne looked at the various people for a moment before she broke out in a shrug. "Okeh, no skin off mah buhh-tt. Ritchie, y'all wus gonn' say som'tin?"

"How about a Chicky-"  When his voice broke at the worst possible moment, his blush deepened so much he almost turned purple. Trying again, he finally managed to say: "How about a Chicky Kingz Mystery Box?  Mom won't buy them because she thinks they're too expensive… but I know she loves them so if I surprised her with one…" in a squeak.

A smile spread over Wynne's face at the suggestion. "Yuh!  That be a fihhh-ne ideah, son!  Yessirree, a mi'ty fihhh-ne ideah. Okie-dokie, Ritchie, y'all sure gotcha'self a deal there. Anybodda else tempted bah some fried chicken?"

After a few moments of vague murmuring, Nancy Nguyen spoke up again: "I'm a vegetarian…"

"Aw… okeh. Shoot. Okeh. So only Ritchie, then?  Anybodda?  Nobodda?  Haw…" When none of the helpers present reacted to the offer, Wynne broke out in an even wider shrug.

A moment later, the somewhat embarrassing chirping crickets-moment was broken by the doorbell ringing. Gwen let out a lengthy, annoyed groan as she tried to get up from the low couch. "Oh, man… we've already had half of Goldsboro stop by to say hello. Who's this now?  Santa Claus?"

"I dunno," Wynne said, "but dontcha bothah gettin' up. I got tha do'ah, Gwen." Moving into the hallway, she was at the front door in seconds. She had already found a smile to wear just in case Santa Claus really had decided to greet the town's newest residents a few months sooner than anticipated, but the smile melted from her face the instant she swung open the door.

The person standing on the doorstep proved to be as far removed from Santa Claus or any other friendly character as humanly possible, at least in Wynne's eyes: it was Bobby Johnston.

As always, the challenger for the position of Sheriff of Goldsboro was impeccably dressed in black shoes, black pants, a white, short-sleeved shirt and a black necktie held in place by a golden clasp. His pretty-boy face and short hair stood out in stark contrast to his eyes that had grown wide as a result of the surprise encounter.

He held up a colorful leaflet that had no doubt come from the square briefcase that had been placed by his feet. The cover of the folded pieces of paper was held in red, white and blue and carried the simple message of Vote For A Fresh Start, Vote For Bobby Johnston & The Patriotic Coalition.

Wynne and Bobby both fell into a stunned silence. The Last Original Cowpoke broke it first by letting out a growled: "Haw… wouldya lookie there. It be nasty, ol' Artie Rains's sock puppet. Go away, son, y'all ain't welcome he'."

Though the door was closed fast, Bobby was even faster and blocked it with his foot. "I know for a fact you don't live here, Donohue. The Gilmores do. I would very much like to speak to either Gwen or Audrey. Would you mind?"

"Whaddahell for?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Izzat a fact, son?  Lemme tell y'all som'tin-"

Activity behind Wynne proved to be Gwen who had been alerted by Wynne's increasingly angry tones. "All right, what's going on here?  Who are you?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Gilmore," Bobby Johnston said, buttering up his voice while sporting a wide smile best known as The All-American Hero Has Arrived. "My name is Bobby Johnston and I'm running for sheriff. I was wondering if you could spare a moment of your time to listen to my plans for how we can make Goldsboro great again?"

Gwen scrunched up her face as she digested Bobby's message. "Let me get this straight… you're running against Sheriff Jalinski?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Sheriff Jalinski and her team have done very little for Goldsboro since she stole the position from my mentor, Mr. Arthur Rains. It's time to make our fine town great again by having a sheriff who works to better the needs of the many and not just the few. And that would be yours truly."

By now, enough steam poured out of Wynne's ears to make the wallpaper peel off at the edges. To stop herself from speaking her mind - or speaking with her fists and thus getting into trouble with the law - she needed to chew hard on her tongue.

Gwen, noticing the columns of steam rising toward the ceiling, reached for the leaflet to get the scene over and done with. "All right. Thank you. You've said your piece. Goodbye."

Bobby smiled at the unexpected success as he withdrew his foot and stepped away from the door.

The leaflet was given the quickest of once-overs before Gwen threw it into a plastic bag labeled General Trash. "Wynne, you better come in and sit down… maybe grab a beer if you have one."

"Aw-haw," Wynne croaked as she followed Gwen back into the living room. She needed several deep breaths before she made a ninety-degree turn to head into the kitchen. A moment later, she came back holding a Double-Zero that was cracked open and inhaled in a flash. "Lawwwwwwr-die, I wus but half a heartbeat from kickin' that… that… that fella's bee-hind around da moon!"

"I noticed," Gwen said with a puzzled smile as she sat down next to her wife. "You wanna bring us up to speed?  I take it he's a bad guy?"

"Him an' Rains an' ev'rybodda involved in that there cam-payne o' theirs. Y'all got one o' them there en-sycho-pedias, yuh?  If ya trah ta look up turd, y'all gonn' find a pic-chure o' Artie Rains. An' Bobby Johnston be a dubbel-tawkin' sombitch who ain't nuttin' but a front fer Rains who be trah'in' ta get his chubby asscheeks back in da sheriff's chair."

"Oh," Audrey said, concealing a snicker at the unusual amount of profanity that spewed from Wynne's mouth, "that sounds like a conspiracy…"

"It be a stinkin' disastah is whut it is. Or gonn' be if them a-holes get back in powah. Shoot, y'all shoudda seen 'em yestuhr'dy. Mah darlin' Mandy an' her de-per-ties done got knocked about by a-buncha them whackjobs. But tha sheriff an' them de-per-ties got tha las'laff when them crooks done got picked up this morn' an' driven ta Headquartahs up yondah in Barton City."

"Basically," Gwen said, "we're going to vote for Mandy. Not that we weren't, but…"

"Yuh… yuh. Much obliged, Gwen," Wynne said as she leaned her head back to get the last drops of the Double-Zero. "Okeh, I reckon I need anothah beer, an' then me an' Ritchie gonn' mosey on ovah ta them Chicky Kingz. Would that be fihhh-ne bah y'all?"

Smiling, Audrey got up from the couch and soon pulled Wynne into a friendly hug. "It certainly would. Thank you very much for all your help today, Wynne. If you hadn't been around, we would still have been sitting in the broken-down truck…"

"Aw, somebodda woudda helped all y'all. Anyhows… Ritchie, y'all reddy fer some frah'd chicken?"

Ritchie - who didn't trust his voice not to break - settled for nodding as he got up from the chair and shook hands with everybody to say goodbye in a safer and less potentially embarrassing way.

"Haw, wouldya lookie at that… does that kid got mannahs or whut?" Wynne said with a chuckle. Taking off her cowboy hat, she waved it high in the air. "Have a quiet evenin', y'all!  This he' be Tha Las' Ohhhh-ree-gee-nal Cowpoah-k an' Big Boy Ritchie Lee signin' off!  We be gohhhh-ne… bah-bah!"

Continued in Part 3

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