SNAPSHOTS OF GOLDSBORO
by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This slice of life dramedy is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: October 26th - November 29th, 2024, for the Absolute Write 2024 Novel In November (AWNoNo) Challenge.
This twenty-fifth entry into the long-running series featuring Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski is an experiment of sorts - please keep that in mind when reading. All twenty-four previous stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
Thank you very much for your help, Bard Of New Mexico! :D Hi, Phineas! *Wave*
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: This is a collection of twelve short stories that present glimpses into the lives of the people living in Goldsboro, Nevada, and the small trailer park eight miles south of town. You'll find action, drama, humor, pathos, thrills, a touch of spookiness, and above all, plenty of loving between Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue and Sheriff Mandy Jalinski…
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NOVEMBER: ELECTION NIGHT BLUES
The early hours of the morning of Wednesday, November 7th.
The scene had been set for a night of celebration at Moira MacKay's famed restaurant Moira's Bar & Grill on Main Street in Goldsboro, Nevada. In addition to renting a pair of confetti cannons, the notoriously tight-fisted Moira had decked out her eatery in plenty of red, white and blue to mark the occasion: festoons in all shapes and sizes, long rows of little paper flags, new napkins and tablecloths, colorful Uncle Sam top hats and a good batch of blue posters featuring the favored candidate's political slogans.
A huge television set had been wheeled into the middle of the restaurant so everyone could see it. It remained tuned to the same news station it had been showing all evening although most of the spectators and patrons had lost all interest in following the numbers as they were reported from around the country.
At the height of the evening's anticipatory celebrations, no less than 50 guests had been at the Bar & Grill for a community night that involved eating, drinking, chanting and a general sense of being merry to the point of giddiness.
The number of spectators began to dwindle as soon as the numbers on the screen tilted in a direction that only the gloomiest had predicted. By the time it was all over bar the last few details - Nevada was one of the last states to report in as usual - only the hard core were still there sipping beer and pushing around stale French fries.
Mortified expressions were etched onto the faces of most of them. Nobody spoke as such, but several deep sighs could be heard at regular intervals. Someone whistled Chopin's famous Funeral March. Someone else looked as if they were in dire need of a funeral.
As yet another state result went to the favor of the other candidate, the 53-year-old rural gal Wynne Donohue let out a sigh and emptied her latest can of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer. She sat at one of the tables nearest the large TV, but the way she slouched on the chair proved she wasn't fully there. "Yuh, okeh… wussen 'xactly whut I done hoped fer… dang. I reckon there gonn' be plenta o' shit hittin' da fan right 'bout now in some o' them largah cities an' all. Or mebbe ev'rybodda be stunned inta apathy. Dunno."
Wynne wore her complete Last Original Cowpoke outfit save for one important item: instead of her beloved cowboy hat, she wore a red, white and blue Uncle Sam top hat that seemed wildly inappropriate given the somber mood surrounding its wearer. Apart from the unusual hat, she wore her regular decorated cowboy boots, faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt sporting the colors and likeness of Bobby Allison and the Miller High Life Buick that won the Daytona 500 in 1988. Her wool-lined denim jacket had been put over the backrest of the next chair, but she put it on as a chill of disappointment crept up on her.
After flipping her long, dark hair out of the collar, she glanced at her fellow spectators to gauge everyone's mood.
The talented sketch artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen sat with her hand propped up on her arm. The Vietnamese-American lady had her large sketch pad laid out in front of her to capture the big moment when it came, but although she had made several little cartoons and caricatures of her fellow Goldsborians over the course of the evening, the latest page was blank. To match the page's emptiness, she just sat there practicing her thousand mile stare at nothing in particular.
At another table, the chairwoman of the Goldsboro Town Council, Mary-Lou Skinner, and the early-sixty-something retiree Esther O'Sullivan sat in silence enjoying butter cookies and mugs of warm tea. The caramel-colored liquid had been consumed straight earlier, but the mood-killing turn of events had necessitated two shots of dark rum to be added to each of the mugs. Esther's husband Eamonn was present at the restaurant as well, but the disability pensioner's bladder wasn't as strong as it had been, so he was on his fourth restroom break.
The married couple Gwen and Audrey Gilmore - who had recently moved to Goldsboro from Utah to escape the clutches of a fanatic religious organization - shared a table with their Cocker Spaniel Little Evie. The cute dog continued to yap in merry tones though her owners both wore expressions that spelled out quite clearly they were considering selling everything so they could seek political asylum in Canada or somewhere in Europe.
Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane, the Bar & Grill's short-order cook, was less affected by the somber mood than the patrons around him. When the orders had died down upon the first bad news ticking onto the news station's advanced computer graphics, he had spent his time polishing the counter and sorting the canned goods in the storage rooms. He had returned now and then when someone had wanted to buy something or pay their tab before leaving, but business had generally mirrored his nickname: 'slow.'
Moira MacKay herself had remarked that her hair would turn gray overnight in case the other candidate would win, so everyone kept an eye on her to see if the prophecy would come true. The fiery owner of everyone's favorite eatery stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips and a deep scowl on her face.
Now in her late fifties, Moira had perhaps gained a few pounds here and there, but she had lost none of her temper or her determination to run the best, cleanest and safest establishment in all of Nevada. She was particularly proud of the fact that she kept her business free of the obnoxious, lecherous, aggressive or simply creepy barflies that plagued so many other bars. Her mission statement was that Everyone Should Feel Safe At Moira's, a phrase that was far more than a mere slogan; it was her lifeblood. That she had been able to uphold it throughout the decades she had been in business gave her a greater joy than even the sound of the cash register ka-chinging.
In fact, she had lost count of how many obnoxious folks she had shown the exit over the years. Word had eventually spread to even the densest of knuckleheads that they should stay away from the Bar & Grill. Most complied, and the few who didn't would always wish they had.
Wynne grunted as she returned to her own little bubble. The grunt turned into yet another sigh as she took the next can of Double-Zero out of the six-pack. Before she could crack it open, the sound of the main entrance opening behind her made her turn around to look. A wide grin spread over her face at the sight of her life partner, Mandy Jalinski, stepping inside. The Sheriff's black winter uniform added a commanding presence to her compact, athletic shape. "Howdy, darlin'! I be ovah he'!" Wynne said, waving the Uncle Sam top hat in the air.
Chuckling, Mandy took off her own Mountie hat to reveal her mop of medium-blonde hair that was a good match to her hazel eyes. "I know, hon. That's the table we sat at the entire evening," she said as she strode over to the table in question. Once she got there, she leaned down to place a Hello Again, I've Kinda Missed You kiss on Wynne's lips.
"Aw… yuh, if y'all wanna get all technical 'bout it. I done moved, tho'. I wus ovah at them refri-gy-ratahs fer mo' beers an' I been up ta da countah fer a dubbel-deckah cheeseburgah an' a-buncha French fries. Aw, an' I been ta tha restroom a-cuppel-a times. Whut y'all been doin', darlin'?"
Mandy's chuckles died down as she sat down next to Wynne. Moving her hands under the table, she sought out her partner's long legs that were soon given a little caress. "Blackie and I went on a foot patrol of the town. It's the strangest mood out there… everyone seems to be stunned into silence. I met Miss Hayward at the Town Museum. She was crying."
"Haw… yuh… there been plentah o' tears in he', too…"
"I'll bet. Derrike Iverson's dive has been fairly quiet so far, but you know his patrons. They scored an unexpected victory tonight. They'll celebrate it like only they can. I just hope we can contain it."
"Mebbe they alreddy be so drunk they done fell on their fat asses?" Wynne said before she finally cracked open the can of non-alcoholic beer with a Pssssssshhhhhht!
Mandy shook her head. "Some, perhaps, but not all. Not Rains and Burdette."
"Naw. I reckon y'all be right 'bout them. Rains iz liquor-resistent an' Burdette prolly be too clevah fer losin' control. Durn." A barrage of camera flashes on the TV screen made Wynne look. A PR-advisor for the winning candidate soon stepped up to the cluster of microphones announcing the President-elect was about to hold the victory speech.
'Oh, fer Chrissakes, will someone turn that shit off before I hurl?!' someone cried elsewhere in the Bar & Grill - it had sounded quite a lot like Gwendoline 'Gwen' Gilmore.
Moira moved over to the TV to play around with the remote, but all the major networks and local affiliates were broadcasting the same press conference that was scheduled to start in five minutes' time.
"Mebbe there be some rasslin' on? Trah Channel Seventah-Eight," Wynne said, but a quick browse of all the channels proved there wasn't any wrestling or anything else even remotely interesting going on anywhere. "Aw, shit… no rasslin'. No escape, neithah… haw, mebbe the future Prez gonn' say som'tin sensible fer a change-"
A chorus of boos and jeers soon drowned out the rest of Wynne's remark. Instead of trying again, she chuckled and concentrated on taking a long swig of beer.
Another chorus, this time of moans and groans, rippled through the remaining patrons at the bar and grill when the President-elect stepped up onto the small dais and adjusted a microphone.
'My fellow Americans! You have spoken. Our proud nation has prevailed! The moment I enter the Oval Office, the United States of America will once again be seen as a superpower to be feared by our enemies. The last bastion of freedom! Of true democracy! I will reclaim what the useless current administration has thrown away during their years in the White House, so help me God!'
Somewhere in the restaurant, Gwen Gilmore let out a guttural: "Hu… hu… hu… hu… hurrrrrrrrrrrlllllll!" though only in a proverbial fashion much to the relief of everyone's nostrils.
Wynne and Mandy shared a long look before they broke out in identical shrugs. Wynne had just opened her mouth to add a quip to Gwen's colorful comment when the typical sounds of drunken celebration filtered through the main entrance.
Sighing, Mandy pulled back from her partner and got to her feet. The Mountie hat was soon back on her locks. "I need to go, hon. Duty calls. Reality just caught up with us."
"Yuh, I reckon. Lawrdie, imagine if their favahrite hadden won the elec-shun? They woulda torched tha whole dang place fer sure."
"It might still come to that… it's going to be a long night," Mandy added under her breath. Sighing again, she ran her hands around her utility belt to make sure that her service sidearm and the spare magazines were ready. She also checked the can of pepperspray, the nightstick, the metal handcuffs and the pack of plastic cable ties that would be used in case she had to make multiple arrests at once.
Sudden commotion at the door proved to be Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly barging into Moira's Bar & Grill. She whipped her head around twice before she spotted the familiar figures of Mandy and Wynne at their table. "Sheriff! Some fool is shooting into the air!"
"Goddammit!" Mandy barked, storming over to the door. When she noticed Wynne following hot on her heels, she put a hand on her partner's denim jacket. "No, Wynne… you're not going out there. Everybody, stay inside until we've dealt with the threat! That's a direct order!"
Mumbled replies of "Okay," and "I wouldn't dream of going out there!" were heard from around the restaurant, but the sheriff had long since vacated the premises.
Wynne knew better than to challenge one of her partner's direct orders so she stayed inside. She did, however, pull open the main entrance an inch or two so she could peek out and possibly provide a running commentary of the goings-on out on Main Street.
'Can you see anything?' someone said behind The Last Original Cowpoke.
Wynne shook her head which wasn't easy considering she had her right eye glued to the narrow crack in the door. "Naw, it be too dang-blasted dark out there… hold 'em hosses, pardnah… yuh, I reckon I see somebodda walkin' 'round with a guhhh-n o' some kind… yuh. I ain't sure who that there fella might be, but- aw, it don't mattah none 'cos Quick Draw Bea just done disarmed him! Yessirree!"
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140 yards further north on Main Street, Beatrice Reilly went into a proper two-handed firing stance upon reaching the armed man. "Drop that gun or face the consequences!" she roared, keeping one eye on the man and the other on the gray handgun that appeared to be a vintage Colt or Browning .45 pistol.
The drunken individual - whose disheveled clothes and scruffy, unshaven appearance suggested he hadn't stopped celebrating since 2016 or so - seemed to understand very little of the order he had been given, so Beatrice zig-zagged toward him until she was so close she could kick the weapon out of his hand. The gray pistol had barely landed on Main Street before she had whipped out her metal handcuffs and had the man in custody.
Mandy arrived a moment later with her own sidearm drawn. Although some of the other patrons and barflies from Derrike Iverson's notorious dive had staggered out onto the sidewalk to follow the action, it appeared nobody had a notion of getting involved. "Have you secured him?" she said without taking her eyes off the group of bearded, camouflaged men who all guzzled beer by the pitcher.
"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said as she kept the prisoner in a tight grip. "I'll take him down to Holding Cell One at once. I don't think he hit anything, but discharging a firearm within the town limits is still a finable offence."
Mandy took a brief glance at Beatrice and the drunkard before her eyes returned to the men across the street. "Very well. I'll stay here for the time being."
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Back at Moira's, Wynne felt brave enough to peek outside. Though some of the other guests advised her against it, she opened the door enough to pop her head out into the chilly night-time air. "Naw, ain't nuttin' happenin' out he'. I reckon Sheriff Mandy an' ol' Quick Draw done took care o' bizzness. Whah, it be high time fer a Fenwyck! Yessirree! Fenwyck, tha time is right… tha time is right n-"
Before Wynne could finish the old slogan used by the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Co., her telephone rang deep down her jeans pocket. "Now whoindahell could that be at this he' tihhh-me o' night?" she mumbled as she rummaged around for it. "Aw, it be mah darlin' Mandy. Lemme press that there bar there… howdy, darlin'!"
'Wynne, the matter's been dealt with. Deputy Reilly is on her way to the jail with a detainee. Please run over to the sheriff's office to get Blackie. Okay?'
"Yes, Ma'am, I heard that! Bah-bah, darlin'!" Wynne said before she closed the connection and stuffed the telephone back into her jeans pocket. She did in fact take a moment to have an extra look-see just to be on the safe side, but she was soon out on Main Street heading for the office.
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Five minutes later, Wynne strolled north on the sidewalk after making sure that Blackie had hooked up with Beatrice and the smelly, disheveled drunkard. She had two cans of Double-Zero in her left-hand jacket pocket, one open can in her hand and another two cans in her right-hand jacket pocket. She had wanted to take one of the stronger beers along for the walk, but when she remembered she had to drive home before too long, the can was left on the refrigerator shelf.
Because her dogs needed to be aired at regular intervals, she often strolled along Main Street. Early morning, mid-day or late evening didn't matter to Blackie and Goldie, but it was certainly rare that Wynne found herself in town past the time when the late showing ended at the movie theater up at the northern end of Goldsboro.
The recent Halloween and all the supernatural frights that had taken place on that night had been the latest such occasion. A lot of bad things had happened in a very short amount of time on that terrible night, and it wasn't an experience that she felt like repeating if she could help it.
An icy shiver fell over her as she recalled the tragic deaths of Albert Rossmann and one of the residents of the Old Boys' Haven trailer park north of town, not to mention being chased by an evil spirit that was literally out to scare her to death.
Though she was anything but a scaredy-Cowpoke, Wynne pulled up her collar and increased her pace to get away from the deepest, darkest shadows between the light poles lining Main Street.
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A yawn that she was powerless to stop flashed across her face. The long evening of watching the election coverage and the huge disappointment at the end of it had left her tired and deflated. The row of darkened stores she went past didn't improve her gloomy condition, either. 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop still had its lights on, but chances were that the store manager J.D. Burdette was busy unearthing some of his boss's good whisky and brandy to continue celebrating 'til the break of dawn and beyond.
Wynne finally saw another human being when she reached Mandy's position at Derrike Iverson's bar. The sheriff spoke to some of the patrons without being intimidated by their camouflaged colors, girth or indeed abundance of facial hair. Wynne stayed well back to begin with - not because the men spooked her, but because she knew that her temper and utter lack of patience with those types would mean she'd mouth off at the worst moment and thus set something in motion that would only cause Mandy headaches later on.
The men eventually went back inside the dive which meant that Wynne could step forward. She cracked open the next can of Double-Zero just as she met up with Mandy. Pssshhhht! Glug-glug-glug… "Howdy, darlin'," she said before wiping the inevitable suds mustache off her lips with the back of her hand, "there always be som'tin weird goin' on he' in Goldsborah, haw?"
"Yes," Mandy said, putting her hands on her hips.
"Yuh. Whut a shitty night it ended up bein', haw? Dang, I didden see that one comin'. The elec-shun, I mean."
"I don't think anyone did, hon. Certainly not the press. Their initial predictions were way off all across the board."
"Yuh, I reckon. An' none offem wus right, neithah. Lawrdie, I don't feel like stayin' in town no mo' tanight. When ya shift gonn' end?"
"At three."
Wynne grunted as she looked at her telephone to find the current time. "Shit, that ain't fer anothah hou'ah an' twentah. Naw, darlin', that ain't gonn' work fer me. Yuh? I need-a hit them sheets perdy soon or else I'mma-gonn' get all cranky tamorrah… or taday, or whutevah."
Chuckling, Mandy reached out to swat at Wynne's arm. "We wouldn't want that."
"Naw, we sure woudden. Anyhows, I reckon I'mma-gonn' say bah-bah fer-"
Wynne didn't have time to finish the sentence before the door to Derrike Iverson's bar opened to reveal none other than their number-one adversary of the past decade and a half… Arthur 'Artie' Rains. Instead of speaking, Wynne let out a deep groan and immediately reached up to rub her brow.
"Well, well, well," Artie Rains said in his customary booming voice that held a distinct, alcohol-induced slurring. "If it ain't Manly and Dumb-ahue. Why the hell don't you broads move to Vegas and work as a sideshow double act?"
Grossly overweight as always, Rains's doublechins wobbled as he spoke. His beady eyes could barely look beyond his fleshy cheeks, and the color of his facial skin could best be described as scarlet. He grinned at his own joke, a gesture that revealed his poor, uneven teeth.
His clothes weren't much of an improvement over his looks: he wore brown loafers, gray Polyester pants that drooped dangerously, a checkered shirt that carried at least four shades of spilled beer, and finally an olive drab hunting vest that had never been used for its intended purpose. Up top, his thinning hair was in full view of the world's eyes as he had lost his baseball cap somewhere inside Derrike's dive during the wild celebrations.
To maintain the buzz he had going, he clutched a bottle of Old No.7 in his right paw and a chaser can of H.E. Fenwyck Extra Strong in his left.
Wynne kept quiet as she knew that the simple concept of speaking would inevitably lead to speaking her mind. Mandy kept even quieter for much the same reason, so the stage was set for Rains to take over the entire conversation. "Stunned by my machismo, are ya? Can't blame ya. Hey, come late January, the J6B is gonna march over in D.C. at the big inauguration parade and shit! Ya better believe we are! Yessir, we got a personal invitation the other day in case the right candidate won… well, guess what happened tonight! Hell yeah!"
The exclamation was signed and sealed by a long swig of the bourbon followed by an even longer swig of the Extra Strong. Grinning, Rains staggered around on his heel and went back to the door. He paused for a moment to work up to a perfect parting salute. Then he cocked a leg and let rip an apocalyptic fart that nearly sent a sickly-green cloud of gas down the street.
Wynne's fists needed a few moments after the meeting to unclench. When they did, she also shook her shoulders and let out a deep sigh. "Whah can't that rotten sombitch jus' keel ovah an' die? Dag-nabbit, he be on da brink offa coronary, anyhows. But naw! Shoot. Meetin' him tanight gonn' give me them sou'ah burps tha moment I lie down in ou'ah bed!"
Mandy shook her head. "Let's go back to the office. I need some strong coffee. I have a feeling we're not done here… not by a long shot."
"Lawrdie, darlin'… I sure be sorry an' all, but I ain't got no mo' jooo-ce in mah gas tank. I need-a go hoah-me an' hit tha sack," Wynne said, leaning over to give Mandy a little bump with her shoulder.
"That's all right," Mandy said, repaying the little gesture by reaching out to hold Wynne's hand. "Blackie and I will be home as soon as possible. Get some sleep, okay? Love you."
"Haw, I sure do luv y'all too, darlin'," Wynne said with a tired grin. "Aw, I reckon the world's gonn' be a brightah place tamorrah… tha sun alone oughttah do that, haw? But anyhows… bah-bah, darlin'. Me an' mah Silveradah gonn' find ou'ah way hoah-me in a-cuppel-a minnits' tihhh-me. Lawwwwwwr-die, whut an evenin'… whut a crap evenin'! An' we prolly ain't seen nuttin' yet…"
"Knock on wood…"
"Yuh," Wynne said, nodding somberly. "But dad-gummit, I ain't got no wood ta knock on! Story o' mah lihhh-fe, that…"
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THE END of ELECTION NIGHT BLUES
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DECEMBER: CHICKIE-DEE, CHICKIE-DUMB
Saturday, December 14th, 5:45pm.
The hardy residents of more wintery states routinely ridiculed the spoiled Nevadans for complaining about being in a deep freeze even when the ambient temperatures read a nice and nippy 50 degrees, but for the desert dwellers, anything below 65-70 degrees necessitated gloves, long sleeves and insulated pants.
Crossing Goldsboro's Main Street, Wynne Donohue ducked her head down under the collar of her lined denim jacket to stop the chill from creeping down her neck. She also wore her decorated cowboy boots, winter jeans and sheepskin gloves to combat the inclement weather that wasn't only chilly but windy as well.
For once, Wynne's beloved cowboy hat was missing from her dark locks. With the gusts coming at random, she knew that her rotten luck would see to it that she would end up chasing the darn hat all over the street, so she had stuffed it inside her jacket instead.
Both sides of Main Street were lined with cars, SUVs and the occasional pickup truck. It was not only unusual in itself, but almost completely unheard of at that time of the day. The reason was as simple as it was disruptive: Moira's Bar & Grill had been booked in its entirety by the Barton City Licensed Dentist's Association for their annual pre-Christmas get-together.
It had seemed a fabulous idea at the time, but having over sixty party-hungry dentists show up almost at once demanding their promised free welcome drink and wanting the best table in the restaurant - i.e. the one the closest to the bar counter - had soon led to nothing but chaos, confusion, mounting tension and flaring tempers.
The fiery Moira MacKay had blown up several times, the short-order cook A.J. 'Slow' Lane had been on the verge of breaking down in hysteria as he tried to keep up with the multitude of orders, and Wynne had been propositioned eleven times by balding, potbellied, middle-aged dentists while she sprinted around the Bar & Grill carrying trays laden with countless bottles of liquor, gallon-sized pitchers of beer and the greasiest, most unhealthy food ever to be chewed on by sets of perfect teeth.
Once the worst of the pandemonium had receded, she had taken her hat, jacket and gloves, told all the dentists goodbye in fewer words than that, and had left for greener pastures elsewhere. In this case, that meant the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor a bit further up Main Street.
Wynne let out a sigh of relief when she stepped inside the takeout store. Although some Christmas music played from the hidden speakers, the sound volume was far, far lower than what the dentists had managed to produce. Tasteful, elegant decorative ornaments and tinsel had been placed here and there to mark the Season To Be Jolly, and everything was neat and tidy.
White tiles lined every surface save for where the huge ovens had been built into the walls. Another four rotisseries had been put in the storefront windows so passers-by could get tempted by the sight of the chickens rotating while they were being grilled.
The store clerk who had the evening shift was none other than the gangly, boorish and somewhat uncoordinated Richard 'Ritchie' Lee. The nineteen-year-old was still serving the previous customer, so Wynne walked over to one of the two tall cafe tables to give her young friend space to work.
When it was her turn, she plonked her hat onto her dark locks and moved over to the counter. "Howdy, Ritchie! Lookin' fihhh-ne tanight!"
"Hello, Miss Dono-"
"Wynne! Fer cryin' out loud, son… mah nahhh-me is Wynne, yuh?"
A tidal wave of blushing flooded Ritchie's cheeks like always whenever he spoke to human beings of the female kind. It didn't matter how well he knew the lady in question, or even if there was a great difference in age. He would blush, full stop. Getting tongue-tied on top of everything else, all he could do was to nod to show that he understood. At the same time, the Harry Simeone Chorale sang Do You Hear What I Hear? which only added to the awkward moment.
Ritchie needed to wear the company colors like everyone else working at the Chicky Kingz; pale brown slacks, a white sweatshirt and an off-white apron that sported the logo of the franchise chain. The red paper hat that every employee was forced to wear looked even more ridiculous than usual sitting atop Ritchie's already reddish locks.
"Whah, them chickie-dees y'all got goin' sure smell dee-li-shuss," Wynne said as she walked up to the counter. "Y'all had a bizzy evenin', friend?"
"Kinda," Ritchie eventually said with a half-shrug. "Did you call ahead? Because I can't see any orders on the computer."
"Naw, I jus' went ovah he' on a whim. Them dentists ovah at Moira's, yuh? Snakes Alive, they be som'tin else, lemme tell y'all. Them folks done gave me a headache worse than when I chug a-cuppel-a them there Midnight Velvet Stouts."
Ritchie nodded as he glanced out at the line of cars parked at the curb. "Oh, so that's why the street is packed. Dentists?"
"A-yup. From Barton City. A whooooooooooole buncha dentists. One sombitch done pinched mah buhhh-tt twice! Lawrdie, can ya bah-lieve dat?"
Wynne shouldn't have mentioned 'butt' as the semi-naughty word and the visual association of the female body part it represented caused the blush to once more explode onto Ritchie's face. He fumbled a little with a notepad, a stack of napkins and his telephone that he had put on a shelf on his side of the counter to keep it out of sight of the customers. "Wow, that's really rude," he said after a few seconds.
"Aw-haw," Wynne said with a grin. "Anyhows, I reckon I bettah ordah som'tin befo' tha next fellah comes in he' fer his chickies, yuh? Oh-brothah, I reckon I'mma-gonn' get me one o' them there mystery boxes. Y'all still got 'em, yuh?"
"Oh sure, Wynne, they're our best-selling item," Ritchie said, happy for the opportunity to focus on his work. "Do you want some fries with that? And we have a special offer this week. You can get a sample tub of a new French dressing called rem… remoul… remo-lade something… for only one dollar extra."
While Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters informed the world that Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, Wynne shook her head as she leaned against the counter. "Naw, no extras tanight. But much obliged fer da sugges-chun, son. I got mahself some awesome hawt sawce back hoah-me that mah best bud Ernie done made fer me. When I dunk them drumsticks an' that there whihhh-te meat innit, Lawrdie, I be tellin' y'all… it makes 'em taste heavenly, sure ain't no lie."
Before Ritchie could do much more than get one of the Styrofoam-lined boxes off the rack, the quiet takeout parlor was invaded by a pack of drunken dentists. Three to begin with, the drilling crew soon grew to five, then seven. Neither of them seemed the least interested in keeping an orderly line as they all rushed toward the counter in a big glob of dentistry.
To escape the merciless onslaught, Ritchie took a long step backward in a state of absolute, wide-eyed, gap-mouthed horror. After bumping into the oven doors behind him, he threw his arms in the air in a silent cry for help.
The cry was answered by Goldsboro's only resident super-Cowpoke, Wynne Donohue, who screwed a fake smile on her face and hurried over on the other side of the counter. She quickly shed her denim jacket and found a spare apron that she threw over her head and tied around her waist. She drew the line at wearing the stupid paper thing on her head so her cowboy hat stayed where it was.
"Howdy, all y'all fihhh-ne folks," she said in a cheery voice to spin the melee into something positive. "If y'all would settle down mebbe a li'l, me an' mah great pal Ritchie he' iz gonn' make all them chickie-dees y'all want, yuh? So if y'all come ahead one at a tihhh-me, we gonn' wave da green an' get this he' race started, yuh?"
One point two seconds later, Guy Lombardo's jazzy version of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus was annihilated by all seven dentists shouting orders at Wynne for everything from coleslaw to French fries.
Some wanted beer, some wanted shots of booze - although signs in the windows spelled out quite clearly that the Chicky Kingz parlor didn't have a liquor license - some wanted chicken burgers, fried chicken, chicken nuggets, cajun-style BBQ chicken 'hold the anchovies and the horse radish' and one of the men ordered slow-cooked chicken in a pineapple and bell pepper sauce. One joker even wanted a stir-fried, plucked pheasant, but the fashion in which his colleagues roared with laughter proved it had probably been a joke.
Wynne tried to keep the cheery mood going for the first few minutes, but even The Last Original Cowpoke was hard pressed to do much about the herd of drunken dentists. When the fellow who had made the joke involving the plucked pheasant shoved his way up to the counter to place an order for a Tex Mex chicken dinner with fries and hot sauce, his beery breath was so overpowering that even Wynne had to take a step back.
The drunken man cracked another unfunny joke about something-or-other, but Wynne was past caring. She cast a glance at Ritchie Lee whose wide eyes and uncharacteristic paleness proved he had reached his limit. Stepping forward, she tore off the apron and clenched her fists. Her eyes set to rapid fire, they were shooting daggers at the raucous dentists. Her towering figure did in fact make three of the dentists pipe down, but the remaining four were too boozed up to notice even Wynne's six-foot frame and acres of denim.
"Enuff o' this he' dang-blasted bulldung!" she roared at the top of her lungs, scaring Ritchie even more in the process. "I done had it with all y'all's crap! Pudda plug innit, whydontcha?! If all y'all ain't got it in yaself ta behave like dog-gone adults, then y'all bettah geddahell outtah this he' pahr-lahr! Y'all got ten seconds befo' I call that there Sheriff's Department! An' all y'all can take that ta tha bank!"
A stunned silence spread among the unruly dentists. They even calmed down somewhat, but some joker - probably the same who had cracked the pheasant joke - let out a raspberry at Wynne and her sterling efforts to restore a sense of peace and order to the takeout parlor. When the other six began laughing, the spell was broken and they were soon back yakking at maximum volume.
Wynne initially slammed her hands onto her hips but soon needed to take a quick step back as one of the drunken dentists misjudged the distance between himself and the first of the cafe tables. Instead of resting his elbow on the tabletop, he tilted straight down on top of it which made it, and him, crash onto the floor in a mess of arms and legs.
The unfortunate dentist didn't get much sympathy from his colleagues who all broke out in howls of derisive laughter. Only one of them made any effort to help their fellow driller back on his feet, but his own equilibrium was so poor that he ended up sharing the floor with him instead.
Wynne let out a resounding "Owwwwwwch! Ya sombitch!" when the second of the two fallen fellows accidentally kicked her on the shin. Hobbling backward, she almost joined the men on the floor when the sole of her cowboy boot lost its footing on the smooth white tiles.
A steady stream of grumbles and growls spewed out of her when she could finally lean down to rub the sore spot. "Aw, dat gonn' leave a mark… dang-blasted drunken foo's… diddencha hear whut I done said?! I tole all y'all ta geddahell outta he'! Lawrdie, if only Blackie wus he'… she wus gonn' feast on a-buncha bacon sandwiches, sure ain't no lie."
One of the dentists - a middle-aged, balding, potbellied fellow who fit the stereotype so perfectly it was almost an impossibility - suddenly recognized the tall, denim-clad woman in their midst. Brenda Lee sang about Rocking Around The Christmas Tree when the proverbial light bulb was turned on above the man's head. "Hey, it's you!" he cried in a slurred voice. "Why don't you come over here and sit on my lap, gorgeous? I could tell you liked my attention before!"
Wynne narrowed her eyes down into slits. "Mista, tell ya whut I'mma-gonn' do. I'mma-gonn' give y'all a head start. Yuh? A nice li'l head start an' then I'mma-gonn' open up a king-sized can o' whoop-ass! Yuh? I'd run if I wus y'all, pal. Ritchie!"
The young man jerked upright and nearly saluted the Cowpoke. "Uh… yeah?" he croaked with eyes as wide as saucers.
"Call da sheriff's office onna dubbel. Tell ol' Barry we need them shock troopahs up he'. While y'all do dat, I'mma-gonn' clean up da mess! Okeh?"
"Okay… okay…" Ritchie said, moving back to the counter. Instead of picking up his telephone to call for help, he pressed a red alarm button installed after the harassment the takeout parlor had suffered during the sheriff's election back in September. Not only did the button have a direct line to the sheriff's office and the home of the franchise owner Nelson McConnell, a rotating light mounted on the store's outside wall began flashing red to signal there was trouble inside.
"Mi'ty fihhh-ne, son!" Wynne cried before she grabbed hold of the collar of a random drunken dentist. Turning him around, she dragged him over toward the glass door where she gave him a size nine cowboy boot straight up his tailpipe. "One down, six ta go'ah! Which one o' all y'all drunken foo's be next? Haw?! Why dontcha spare yerselves the embarrassment an' jus' geddahell outtah he' on yer own two feet?"
The six other dentists looked as if they didn't know how to respond to the sudden threat. Two left on their own, but the other four - the joker and the creep who had pinched Wynne's rear among them - stayed. Before long, they returned to their drunken yakking and carrying on which seemed to terrify Ritchie.
Though Burl Ives sang about having A Holly Jolly Christmas over the takeout parlor's speakers, Wynne studied the four men with murderous eyes. It was clear that getting rid of them was going to be a Cowpoke-sized challenge, but even the biggest hurdle could be overcome through a meticulous, well-conceived plan. In short, she grabbed the next guy by his collar and the seat of his pants and just about threw him out of the front door.
As she returned, it dawned on her that the rotating light had already been flashing for several minutes with no response from the local law enforcement detachment. "Haw? Ritchie, ol' pardnah… ya sure ya done pressed tha right button there? 'Cos tha light mebbe flashin' but them de-per-ties sure ain't he'. I know fer a fact they wus saposed ta be so I dunno whaddahell they be doin'…"
To make sure he hadn't made a mistake the first time, Ritchie turned off the alarm button and then turned it on again. "I've- I've triggered it again! That's twice now!"
Wynne was about to suggest the young man call the sheriff's office the old-fashioned way when three of the four men she had thrown out returned singing a bawdy song that wasn't a good match with Yogi Yorgesson's legendary novelty song I Yust Go Nuts At Christmas that played over the speakers at the same time.
The drunken fellows seemed none the worse for wear, and in fact went back to the counter to resume yakking and placing weird, unfunny orders for things like pizzas, vegetarian stew, fish meatballs and pasta salad featuring black-eyed peas with a side dish of figgy pudding.
Enough was enough, so Wynne whipped up her own telephone. Mandy's number was soon found in the registry.
'Hello, hon-'
"Howdy, darlin'! Y'all bettah lissen 'cos I'mma-gonn' do some fas' tawkin'! This izza 10-33, Cowpoke Needs Assistance. Me an ol' Ritchie be havin' a whoooooooole heap-a-trubbel up he' at them Chicky Kingz with a-buncha drunken morons!"
'What? The alarm-'
"Yuh, we done activated the alarm twice but ain't nobodda done showed up! I mean whaddahell? Why did Mistah Trent an' Mistah Nelson even get that there alarm crap installed when nobodda done shows up? Yuh? We need some assistance, Sheriff Mandy! An' bring Blackie! There be plentah fer her ta gnaw on!"
'We're on our way. ETA one minute.'
Nodding, Wynne closed the connection and shoved the telephone back into her jeans pocket. The Glenn Miller Orchestra took care of the musical accompaniment with an uptempo instrumental version of Jingle Bells, but Wynne took center stage by stepping forward and acting like a saloon bouncer from the Old West.
"All y'all drunken foo's bettah pay atten-shun now!" she said, slamming her hands onto her hips. "That there Sheriff o' Goldsborah an' them de-per-ties gonn' show up fastah than y'all can spell yer own names, yuh? An' then they gonn' lunch on yer asses, ya buncha sorry sombitches!"
The words had barely left Wynne's mouth before the screw labeled Chaos & Confusion was given several extra twists. First up was Blackie who stormed inside, jumped into an aggressive stance and delivered an impressive barrage of her trademark thunderous barks. Mandy, Beatrice Reilly and Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez followed at full speed a few seconds later with their nightsticks drawn.
What seemed a split second after that, Nelson McConnell - the owner of the parlor - came to a screeching halt outside before he hurried inside with his hands clutching his head in a wild panic.
Mandy's experienced eyes soon took inventory of the situation. She couldn't help but grin and shake her head when she and Wynne locked eyes, but her game face was back in place before long. "This is the MacLean County Sheriff's Department! Gentlemen, you need to calm down and vacate the premises. Everybody out on the street. Now!"
The background music - Bing Crosby and Peggy Lee's stirring rendition of Little Jack Frost Get Lost - fit the bill as the drunken dentists were pulled into a huddle by Beatrice and Rodolfo with Blackie acting as their backup in case any of the detainees was stupid or drunk enough to try to resist.
Although no actual handcuffs were involved, the disruptive elements were soon shepherded out of the parlor and onto the sidewalk where they were given a stern warning not to behave like that ever again, or else. To make sure the drunken men understood the severity of the situation, Blackie followed them outside to continue her impressive display of controlled aggression.
Inside the takeout parlor, the shouting wasn't quite over yet as Nelson McConnell stormed over to Ritchie Lee and began chewing him out royally. The starkly blushing teenager could only nod, gulp and shake his head while he was on the receiving end of the unfair scolding.
"Naw, wait a minnit… wait a dog-gone minnit, there, Mista Nelson," Wynne said, stepping forward with her hands in the air. "Ol' Ritchie didden do nuttin' wrong. Them there drunken morons fell on 'im like a swarm o' locusts, yuh? There wussen nuttin' he could do. Hell, he even trah'd takin' their ordahs like he wus saposed ta, yuh? But then him an' me done discovah'd they wus only feedin' us B.S. an' wussen he' fer eatin', only yakkin'. I reckon ol' Moira done threw their asses onta tha street from ovah yondah so them sombitches came he'. None o' that wus Ritchie's fault. Cut 'im some slack, will ya?"
Nelson McConnell didn't seem in a mood to cut anyone anything at first, but he eventually stormed out of his store and jumped back into his car without saying another word. He left the takeout parlor a moment later to a soundtrack of squealing tires and a visual treat in the shape of an impressive cloud of street dust. The swirling dust soon caught the attention of the gusting wind that played with it for a while until it found something else to toy with.
"Okeh, wussen 'xactly tha response I wus expectin'… but anyhows," Wynne said, scratching her neck. Jo Stafford seemed to agree over the parlor's speakers singing I Wonder As I Wander.
Mandy finally let out the chuckle she had been holding back as she walked back into the Chicky Kingz store. Her nightstick was no longer needed, so she inserted the long tool into the loop on the utility belt before she strode over to Wynne. "Drunken dentists, eh? I think that's a first. Actually, I'm pretty sure it must be. Even here in Goldsboro, the world capital of weird."
"Yuh, I reckon. Mercy Sakes, darlin', y'all bettah open a new box o' them there breathalyzahs, yuh? 'Cos I be tellin' y'all, there ain't nobodda ovah there who ain't drunk off his bee-hind."
"Thank you for the tip, hon. I'll let the Senior Deputy know. We'll seal off both ends of the street. Nobody will be able to leave without being tested," Mandy said in a stern voice that soon softened. "Now… will you please tell me how on Earth this started?"
"Whah, sure. It be a long story, yuh? Them there dentists done booked all of Moira's fer their annual conven-shun or whutevah. Okeh, fair 'nuff, but we didden take inta account how many they wus. Sixtah-fihhh-ve dentists, darlin'! Lawwwwr-die, an' they sure wussen sobah when they done got he'. Gawd-almighty, I ain't nevah seen adults behavin' that rotten. Evah! Not even at a mud-rasslin' event! Nuttin' but a-buncha rude, ass-pinchin', beer-guzzlin' foo's. Ya woudda blown yer head gasket aftah spendin' ten minnits in their comp'ny-"
"Let me get this straight," Mandy said, putting her hands on Wynne's shoulders, "there are more than fifty drunken dentists over at Moira's? Right now?"
"Aw, prolly way ovah fiddy. Right this minnit… well, unless ol' Moira done killed some, o' course."
Mandy took a deep breath that was released as a cross between a groan and a sigh. "Thank you, Miss Donohue. My team and I will be across the street. Talk to you later."
"Whah, certainly, Sheriff Mandy! Bah-bah fer now," Wynne said with a grin. A second later, she put her hand up next to her mouth to let it act as an amplifier. "An' y'all bettah watch yer ass-cheeks 'cos them dentists sure like ta pinch!"
From one moment to the next, a content silence returned to the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor. Ol' Satchmo himself, Louis Armstrong, set the tone singing about Christmas In New Orleans in his inimitable style.
Ritchie Lee sighed as he began cleaning up the mess created by one of the drunken customers. The cafe table was beyond repair, so all he could do was to haul it into the back room for later. Once he had done that, he went behind the counter like he was supposed to. The expression on his face proved he wasn't too happy with the evening so far.
Wynne scratched her neck. The gnawing sensation in her stomach was more pronounced than ever, and with Moira's Bar & Grill sure to be a study in complete and utter chaos for the next fair while, she might as well place an order right there at Chicky Kingz. "Ritchie, ol' pal," she said as she walked up to the counter. "If y'all ain't too shaken up bah this he' display o' drunken foolishness, I'd still like ta buy a mystery box. Would that be okeh?"
"Sure, Wynne. No problem," Ritchie said as he took a pair of tongs and reached into the special cooler cabinet they used for all the food items that were left over when their customers placed self-designed orders. Drumsticks, large chunks of white meat and several wings were soon put on a baking tray.
After sprinkling plenty of spices and seasoning salt onto the various items, he slid the tray into one of the idle ovens. Once the grilling process was going well, he started preparing one of the Styrofoam boxes that carried the same logo as the aprons and the paper hats.
Grinning, Wynne leaned her elbow against the counter. "Whah, I sure do thank y'all. Aw, couldya mebbe throw in a li'l doggy bag fer Goldie? Nuttin' spe-shul, jus' some chicken bones or some scraps like that. Yuh? Betcha got some."
"Of course," Ritchie said, finally breaking out in a small smile as he reached under the counter to get one of their special bags.
It wasn't long before his old enemy - the blushing - swept over all his facial features, but he was able to overcome most of it through sheer determination and a knowledge of a common interest. "Did you watch the big wrestling special last weekend on Channel 78? The Year In Review show?" he said while he took a bottle of organic cleaning solution and a piece of cloth so the countertop would be squeaky clean for the next order.
"Whah, I sure did, son!"
"I just love The Grim Avenger… he's so cool. And he's got the best theme song."
"Aw, ya betcha! Tha guitar riff is jus' wicked," Wynne said, grinning from ear to ear. "An' that there piledrivah o' his… yessirree, he gonn' be wearin' that there heavyweight belt ag'in befo' long, ain't no ques-chun 'bout it… aw, an' how 'bout ol' Jesse Steele, haw? Ain't it amazin' the ol' boy still got it? Yuh, sure do luv me some rasslin'."
Ritchie grinned along with one of his most loyal customers, and the two wrestling fans were soon lost to the world sharing tales of their favorites while Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby's classic duet We Wish You The Merriest accompanied the scene playing over the parlor's many speakers…
*
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THE END of CHICKIE-DEE, CHICKIE-DUMB
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JANUARY: DRAMA IN THE DESERT
January 9th.
Cold, harsh winds streaming in from the unforgiving desert leaned so hard against the temporary homes in the trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro, Nevada, that the structures creaked and groaned. The dreaded red dust was occasionally brought along on the leading edge of the gusts, but it had yet to develop into a proper sandstorm.
The residents of the first trailer to suffer the wrath of the harsh winds snuggled up tight underneath a thick winter duvet. Beyond the occasional creaking and groaning brought on by the force of the gusts, the trailer was quiet save for slight snoring that came from a doggy basket in the narrow hallway between the sleeping area and the kitchenette.
No sounds of snoring or any other type of activity could be heard from the queen-sized bed as the duvet had been pulled up so far that all that was visible were oddly-shaped lumps.
The blinds had been closed and all the curtains drawn to inform the night-time winds to find someone else to torment. Bedside tables made of sturdy oakwood had been placed on either side of the centrally placed bed; each table was equipped with two drawers and a small lamp on the tabletop that would provide the light when needed. The table on the left-hand side of the bed was graced by a dog-eared pulp paperback Western titled Duel At Sundown while its opposite number was home to a smartphone that was in the process of being recharged.
When the telephone suddenly rang in the middle of the absolute quietness, the ringtone seemed to have the sound volume of the trumpets that brought down the walls at Jericho. A mumbled "Son of a…!" could be heard from underneath the duvet a few moments before a bare arm crept out from the warm cave.
Out in the hallway just beyond the sliding door to the sleeping area, the two dogs occupying the doggy basket each let out sounds of surprise and annoyance at being disturbed in their sleep. The black German Shepherd Blackie sensed there may be some action coming her way, so she let out a cautiously optimistic Woof? in spite of the darkness that surrounded them.
The scaredy-dog nature of the Golden Retriever Goldie wasn't to be denied: not only was she no fan of darkness which itself caused her to whimper, the prospects of getting mixed up in something terrifying made her let out a string of Yaps before she buried her head in her paws.
Back in the bedroom, the lump on the opposite side of the bed began to shift as well. It wasn't long before the dark locks of Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue became visible on the pillow. "Haw… it still be dark o'clock… sombitch. Dat call bettah be som'tin impahrtant," she said in a sleepy croak.
The hand at the far end of the bare arm soon reached the telephone. Upon reaching it, the hand yanked it back under the warm duvet in an almighty hurry. "Dammit, it's Beatrice. Something major must have happened," Sheriff Mandy Jalinski croaked before accepting the call. "This is the sheriff. Go on, Deputy."
'Ma'am, I'm sorry for calling you at this time of night, but there's trouble out at the shelter at Oswald Creek.'
"Mmmm…"
'An hour ago, the designated contact called me to say that several men had shown up with firearms-'
"Dammit!"
'They were loitering at the perimeter fence but made no attempt at breaking through. I'm on site at present. I've tried speaking to the man who seems to be the ringleader, but I have a hard time getting through to him. He demands to see his wife and keeps getting louder. He and his companions have been drinking steadily but are not fall-down drunk. Yet.'
"Sonovabitch…"
'Tensions are mounting as I'm sure you can imagine, Ma'am. To avoid the mess getting out of hand, I respectfully request urgent backup.'
"Very well, Deputy," Mandy said as she threw the duvet aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Don't try any heroics. Contain the situation if you can, but otherwise withdraw to a defensive position inside the barracks. Your primary objective is to protect the persons residing at the shelter. ETA sixteen to eighteen minutes."
'Good. Thank you, Sheriff.'
"Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said and closed the connection. Getting up, she turned on the lamp on the bedside table, shed her oversized sleeping T-shirt and donned her daytime underwear and her winter uniform.
"Whaddindahell be goin' on he', darlin'?" Wynne said in a sleepy croak. She had yet to shift in any direction and wasn't planning on doing so, either. "Now where y'all goin'? Y'all jus' done got hoah-me!"
Mandy let out a grunt as she buttoned her black and gray uniform shirt. A quick glance at her telephone proved it was 3:17am meaning she had only been allowed an hour and twenty minutes' worth of rest since she got home after her shift had ended. Sighing, she reached for her necktie. "Remember the vegan collective out at Oswald Creek?"
"Them vegans ain't riotin' are they? Lawrdie, dat be som'tin ta see… bare feet, hippie frocks an' beads in their hair… an' runnin' amok on Main Street-"
Mandy cracked the tiniest of smiles, but the hour of the day worked against any kind of happy face so it only lasted for a moment. "Well, not quite," she said as she attached the tie clip.
"Aw…"
"No. Deputy Reilly has worked with them to set up a shelter for victims of spousal abuse. She's connected to the Victim Support Network, remember?"
"Yuh… I reckon she done tole me 'bout it…"
"Well," Mandy said as she hopped into her black uniform pants and lined up her boots, "it seems that a boyfriend or a husband got the notion to see his better half. And he brought some friends and their firearms to obtain that goal."
Shaking her head, Wynne pulled her arms above the duvet. A moment later, she regretted it and dove back down into the warm cave. "Haw, them dumb-ass sombitches. Betcha ten bucks they be commode-hangin' drunk too. Booze an' guhhh-ns ain't tha best combah-nah-shun, no Ma'am."
"Deputy Reilly confirmed they're intoxicated."
"Dang'it. Howdahell could it be any dif'rent, haw?"
To underscore the seriousness of the assignment, Mandy reached into the closet to get to her gun cabinet that was bolted onto the far wall. There, she took her utility belt that carried a can of pepperspray, a nightstick, metal handcuffs and the holster for her service firearm.
After grabbing three spare magazines, she took the pistol and gave it an inspection before slipping it into its holster. She stopped to ponder the suitability of the Mossberg pump action shotgun she also had in the cabinet. She eventually decided against bringing it as the sheer presence of such a powerful weapon would inevitably cause an escalation.
Once the uniform jacket had been zipped and the Mountie hat had been placed on her blonde locks, Mandy strode over to Wynne's side of the bed to place a large smooch on her wife's eager lips. "Don't wait up for me. All right? Get some sleep."
"Yuh, right… that gonn' be tha day… or night," Wynne said with a chuckle that didn't quite reach her usual levels of jolliness. "Bah-bah, darlin'. 'Membah ta duck if them sombitches start shootin' in yer direc-shun."
"I will. Love you," Mandy said and added another quick kiss Just Because.
"Luv y'all too, darlin'. An' will ya please stay safe?"
Nodding, Mandy left the small bedroom to head out into the unknown.
---
Once the lamp on the bedside table had been turned off once more, Wynne listened for the familiar sound of the Dodge Durango's engine being started. She snuggled down under the duvet once she had heard it, but her rest turned out to be brief as the next thing that happened was that it was turned off again. A moment later, the screen door was yanked open accompanied by a rasping "Goddammit!" that could only come from the throat of Sheriff Mandy Jalinski.
Another moment on from that, Mandy reappeared in the doorway. "Wynne, the Durango doesn't have enough gas to make it all the way out to Oswald Creek. You filled up the Silverado yesterday, didn't you?"
"I sure did, darlin'! It be gassed up an' all reddy ta go fer a-cuppel-a hundred miles at least… them keys be on da sideboard-"
"I know," Mandy said and spun around on her bootheel. Yet another moment went by before she came back to the door to the sleeping area holding the jingling set. "Got 'em."
"Oswald Creek sure ain't 'round tha cornah… it bein' on da ol' Westuhrn Trail an' all… I reckon they done chose that ta be bah themselves, yuh?"
"Undoubtedly. You don't mind if I use your truck?"
"I don't mind nuttin', darlin'," Wynne said with a smile.
The gals shared a brief, but loving, gaze before Mandy sighed, shook her head and left the cozy sleeping area with an eager Blackie in tow.
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Once the dog had been helped onto the passenger-side seat and Mandy had climbed behind the steering wheel of the matte-black Chevrolet, she needed to adjust the seat nearly twelve inches ahead in order to reach the pedals. The engine started at once and soon sent out growly notes through the exhaust pipes.
There was no need to wake up anyone else, so she took it easy as she went across the central lawn and the dirt road that led to the State Route. The moment the large tires reached the two-lane blacktop, she mashed her boot onto the gas pedal and let the cubic inches up front take care of the rest.
---
Just shy of twenty minutes later, the temporary official vehicle reached the spot where Oswald Creek intersected the old Western Trail. The bed was dry at that time of the year, so crossing it posed no problem for the Silverado save for it being shook a little by the many loose rocks that soon rattled merrily inside the wheel wells.
The trail had been used for prairie schooners and other types of covered wagons during the decades of the Old West, but it had fallen into disuse by the emergence of the automobile. In the mid-1970s, activists had discovered an old, abandoned mining camp in the area and had occupied a handful of the wooden barracks. Then-sitting Sheriff Benjamin Keating had chosen to look the other way, so they had stayed there ever since.
Mandy let out a dark grunt as she spotted three pickup trucks parked at the side of the Western Trail some 200 yards back from the main barracks. All three were of the largest variety with huge off-road tires, bull guards up front, strong search lights installed on aluminum bars behind the cab and, last but not least, gun racks in the rear windows. A rifle had been attached to one of the racks, but the other two appeared empty.
Turning off the headlights so the Silverado wouldn't be seen and thus alert the troublemakers, Mandy continued ahead at low speed. Blackie let out a deep growl of anticipation just to show that she was more than ready to getting her eye teeth sharpened by gnawing on bad people.
The ride was less smooth now that Mandy had to rely on the scarce ambient light provided by the moon, but they still made it over to the collective's perimeter fence in fine form. Once she had turned off the engine, she took her telephone and called Beatrice's number.
'It's Deputy Reilly. Go on, Sheriff,' Beatrice soon said.
"Deputy, I'm right outside," Mandy said in a quiet voice though she knew it would never carry through the truck's closed doors. As she spoke, she let her eyes roam over the area without seeing much. "Everything's dark and quiet at the moment. Where are you? Where did you last make visual contact with the intruders?"
'I'm inside with the supervisor. We're in full security lockdown. The women are in their rooms. There were a few tears, but everyone's being brave. The intruders managed to penetrate the outer fence and enter the inner courtyard-'
"Dammit!"
'Yes, but there have been no attempts at entering the barracks. The last visual contact came seven minutes ago near the front door. We haven't heard from them since… perhaps they've left-'
Mandy shifted in the seat to look behind her. "No, their trucks are still here. All right, Deputy, Blackie and I will perform a perimeter sweep that'll take us over to the main entrance. The cameras and the rest of the surveillance equip-"
'They've shot it all to pieces, Sheriff. We're pretty much blind in here… well, save for peeking out of the windows.'
"All right," Mandy said, steeling her backbone to combat the tension that continued to be on the increase. "The number one priority is to protect the women at the shelter."
'Yes, Ma'am. I have three full magazines plus the one in the firearm. That's forty-eight rounds ready to greet any intruder with a lead curtain.'
Reaching for the Silverado's door, Mandy opened it as quietly as she could so she could remain undiscovered for as long as possible. She lowered her voice even more to compensate for the open door. "Very well. Blackie and I are moving in. Once we engage the men, I'll fire twice in the air. That's your cue. Stand by."
'Understood. Deputy Reilly standing by, Sheriff,' Beatrice said before closing the connection.
Once Mandy had her boots dug into the desert sand, she stepped aside so Blackie had room to jump down next to her. The ambient darkness meant that the black German Shepherd grew almost invisible to the naked eye. With Mandy's uniform being black and dark gray, it seemed that a pair of ghosts had decided to join the action in progress.
The cold, harsh winds were less intrusive compared to down southeast at the trailer park, but Mandy still needed to zip her uniform jacket all the way up. A surprise gust nearly blew her expensive Mountie hat clean off, so she pulled down the chinstrap to prevent further negative surprises. To round off the small preparation phase, she adjusted her gloves to make sure she would have a firm grip on the hilt of her pistol when it mattered.
A distant shot from a hunting rifle or possibly a sixteen-gauge shotgun made her crouch down at once and hold up the pistol in a proper firing position. Drunken laughter soon arrived on the leading edge of the wind to offer a strong suggestion as to the origin of the shot fired.
"C'mon, Blackie. Easy does it," Mandy whispered before she moved ahead. The black dog complied with her owner's command and ran alongside her toward the perimeter fence built around the main barracks.
The abandoned mining camp had consisted of six dilapidated wooden barracks when the activists had occupied them. Several different NGOs and private enterprises had resided in the barracks over the years, with the Vegan Collective being the one with the longest tenure.
Over the course of the subsequent years and decades, private funding and tons of elbow grease had ensured that the barracks had been brought up to the late-1900s when it came to living standards.
They had their own wind turbine to create power, an automatic well to get running water, and an intricate array of septic tanks to deal with the inevitable outcome, but - like many other settlements in the middle of the vast desert areas - the Internet and telephone services could be troublesome as the collective was a good distance away from the nearest repeater tower.
Following the idea to remodel some of the barracks into shelters for victims of spousal abuse, the doors and windows had been reinforced with metal bars to prevent uninvited guests from entering the premises. CCTV cameras and other types of surveillance equipment like motion sensors had been installed on the buildings, and a tall pole carrying a cluster of floodlights had been put up in each of the four corners of the former mining camp.
Mandy grunted when she noticed two of the four poles had turned dark. Orange and golden sparks burst out of them at irregular intervals indicating they had been used for target practice. The other two lightpoles were still operational, but they were on the far side of the compound and thus of little help in the present situation.
Further drunken laughter roughly 30 yards to Mandy's left made her crouch down again and intensify her focus. Blackie came to a halt as well and remained in a state of high alert similar to her owner's.
This time, the sheriff had no problem seeing the culprits as two of them ran around playing with strong flashlights. It seemed the old, childish game of putting the flashlight under one's chin to make a monster face was just as popular as ever. Now and then, the cones of light reflected the dull surfaces of the men's hunting rifles or shotguns.
While Mandy watched the two men running around amusing themselves like only drunken fools could, the third of them came into sight bitching and moaning about something. His supposed pals soon pointed out the unfortunate fact that he had urinated all over his jeans when he had in fact tried to aim at the desert floor. The drunken laughter turned a little strained before another round of beer cans was distributed among the men. Soon, a triple dose of the familiar Pssshhhht! could be heard.
Mandy got up from the crouch and assumed the regulatory two-handed grip on her pistol. Moving ahead with swift and determined steps, she didn't even need to look down to see if Blackie followed her into action as she could hear the German Shepherd's panting. The thirty yards soon became twenty, then ten.
Coming to a halt, Mandy raised the pistol and fired twice into the air away from the men. "MacLean County Sheriff's Department!" she roared at the top of her lungs. "Throw your weapons over here! Hands behind your backs! Down on your knees!"
The men's level of drunkenness meant the commands had a hard time penetrating the wads of cotton wool stuffed inside their heads, but a string of growls and thunderous barks from Blackie convinced two of them to follow orders.
The man who had urinated all over his pants showed his stupidity by aiming his rifle at Mandy and shouting a drunken and near-intelligible "Like hell I will, you son of a bitch! If y'all want my gun, y'all need to pry it from my dead fingers!"
Breathing fast to give the adrenaline inside her something to work with, Mandy took careful aim at the torso of the supposed ringleader. She moved ahead with measured steps to keep her aim dead-center. Rapid footsteps somewhere behind proved to be Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly who held her own pistol in the regulatory grip.
"We have you covered!" Mandy roared. "Don't be a fool! We will shoot to kill if we have to! Drop that rifle and get down on your knees!"
Tension seemed to grow exponentially as Mandy and Beatrice went into a well-rehearsed dual-angle attack pattern that would see either, if not both, get in a killing shot the millisecond the aggressor as much as flinched in a hostile manner.
The solution to the impossible situation came in the shape of one of the man's drunken comrades. Jumping to his feet, one of them staggered over to his pigheaded companion and waved his arms in the air. "Quit it, ya stupid moron! Them wimmenfolk gonn' shoot y'all stone dead! Dontcha understand that? Gimme that rifle, Goddammit!"
When the supposed ringleader finally got a grasp of the mess he found himself in, he even went above and beyond the request by ending up with a faceful of desert dirt after tripping over his own boots and landing in an ungraceful heap of arms and legs.
While Beatrice began handcuffing the men, the ringleader tried to inch around so he could get a glimpse of Mandy. Like so many others of his ilk, he wore desert boots, blue jeans and a hunting vest over a checkered flannel shirt. His baseball cap had rolled off to the side. He had less facial hair than the standard among the rugged rural population, but he did in fact have a mustache of the variety commonly referred to as the Woodland Slug.
"Hey, off'cer, y'all got this all wrong, man," he said in a slurred voice. As he spoke, his breath carried a strong stench of beer and hard liquor. "We're just blowin' off some steam. I wanted to visit my wife but the crazy broad runnin' this place wouldn't let me. I mean, what the hell, man? We're legally wed and it's her damn duty to see me! So, you know, we raised a little hell out here. We didn't do anything, man."
"I see," Mandy said, appropriating one of the flashlights used by the men. She rounded up the three firearms that all turned out to be hunting rifles of various calibers. All three were equipped with carrier straps, so she swung them over her shoulder to make sure they were accounted for. "So the light poles were like that when you got here?" she continued, pointing at the orange and golden sparks that continued to be created somewhere inside the shot-up floodlights.
"Yeah, man, it was the weirdest thing-"
"No, I nailed the one right over there!" the third of the intoxicated men said in a cheery tone. Though a generation younger and rail thin compared to the other two, he compensated for the lack of girth by being the owner of a scraggly full beard and unkempt, greasy hair. Like his companions, he wore jeans, a flannel shirt and a vest. "Yessirree, I nailed that critter right in the ass! It blowed up but good! Yeeee-hawww!"
Mandy was about to open her mouth to add a few words of wisdom when the ringleader beat her to it: "Shut up, butthead! Just shut the hell up!"
The argument was cut short before it could get going when Beatrice and Mandy worked together to get the handcuffed men on their feet. To make sure that none of them would even harbor a notion of escaping, Blackie moved alongside the group with her fierce canines bared the entire distance over to the Dodge Durango that Beatrice had used to get there.
Once the semi-drunk vigilantes were three abreast on the SUV's back seat and the doors were firmly shut and locked, Blackie's growls and barks turned to happier Woofs! to celebrate a job well done.
A few moments later, the happy woofs grew into uncharacteristic whimpers when she realized she would need to travel back to town in one of the K9 cages in the vehicle's rear compartment. Her black head moved between the Sheriff, the Deputy Sheriff and the white and gold Durango a couple of times before she let out what could be described as a doggy sigh.
Resigned to her fate, she jumped up into the rear, turned around and inched backward into one of the two cages so she wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of needing to get out butt-first once they returned to Goldsboro.
"Excellent work, Deputy," Mandy said, shaking hands with her trusted colleague.
Beatrice broke out in a wide, though tired grin at the praise. "Thank you very much, Sheriff. There was a small amount of panic when the men started pounding on the door demanding to get in. It wasn't too bad, but like I said before, there were a few tears. The supervisor made sure everyone was safe and sound. We'll obviously need to debrief everyone separately as well as in a plenum session later today."
"Let me know when that's to take place. I need to be there. All right, drive back to town with the detainees, but let them stew in the Durango until I join you over there. I need to speak with the supervisor about the destroyed surveillance equipment, the broken lights, et cetera."
"Will do, Sheriff," Beatrice said, taking a step back so she could salute her superior.
Once Beatrice had taken off back to Goldsboro, Mandy strode over to the main barracks. On her way there, she reached for her telephone to call the supervisor; that was the only way anyone not directly connected to the shelter would ever be let in.
---
Fifteen minutes later, Mandy climbed aboard the matte-black Chevrolet Silverado. She had barely clicked the seat belt in place before she broke out in a yawn that threatened to dislocate her jaw. Not satisfied with that gesture, she needed to wipe her eyes several times and pinch the bridge of her nose before she could work up enough energy to start the engine.
A notion of sending a text message to Wynne suddenly entered her mind, so she found her telephone again and typed 'Everything A-OK. Love you!'
Barely ten seconds went by after she had pressed Send when the telephone's ringtone came alive. She had to grin when the caller-ID said Home. "Hi, hon! You're not sleeping? It's going to be a long, long day for you…"
'Howdy, darlin'!' Wynne said in a cheerful voice at the other end of the connection. In the background, Goldie could be heard adding her two cents' worth to the conversation. 'Well, naw, I ain't sleepin'! 'Cos the othah half o' that there bed o' ou'ahs is em'ty when it ain't saposed ta be, yuh? That ain't nevah gonn' work.'
"Not even at half past four in the morning?"
'Naw! I'll jus' catch some shuteye on da couch latah on or som'tin. Anyhows, y'all bettah not be tellin' me y'all gonn' take anothah full shift startin' now? Y'all only done slept fer mebbe an hour an' change, yuh?'
Mandy needed to pause for another yawn. Once that was over and done with, she was forced to perform a shimmy-shake to get a few persistent Sleepies out of her system. After settling down again, she returned to the telephone: "No, but I need to assist Deputy Reilly with all the practical and legal business."
'Aw… so all y'all busted them there drunken folks?'
"Yes, we detained three men who'll need to be formally Mirandized, arrested and processed. Once they're in the holding cells, I'll drive home. I hope I'll be with you at half past six or so."
'Okeh! Y'all obvi'sly gonn' need-a buncha sleep then, but when y'all get up all ovah ag'in, I'mma-gonn' make us some o' that there gooooood coffee an' flap- naw! Naw, roast a-cuppel-a them there big waffles an' put strawberry jam on top! Woudden that be som'tin, darlin'?'
In spite of her fatigue, Mandy broke out in a warm laugh at the prospects of such a quality breakfast or brunch, depending on how long she'd sleep. "It definitely would, hon. Can't wait… but I have to. Dammit. Love you. Bye-bye."
'I deffa-nete-ly luv y'all too! This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off! Bah-bah, darlin'!'
Yap! Yap-yap-yapperty-yap-yapppp!
Chuckling at Goldie's surprising spurt of energy at such an ungodly hour of the day, Mandy closed the connection and slid the telephone back into her pants pocket. Yet another yawn spread over her features as she made a wide, slow U-turn to get onto the Western Trail that would eventually lead her to the jail house in Goldsboro by way of its younger sibling, the two-lane blacktop.
*
*
THE END of DRAMA IN THE DESERT
-*-*-*-
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*
*
FEBRUARY: THREE 'N EIGHT!
Sunday, February 18th: Daytona 500 weekend.
The flickering images on the TV were reflected on the walls of the living area of the mobile home situated in the trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro, Nevada. The hands of time read just past lunch. After a promising start to the day, it had all gone downhill.
At present, the screen showed a trio of somber-looking commentators decked out in fine business suits. The three men stood in a TV booth high above a race track that resembled an Olympic swimming pool. Sheets of rain poured down the booth's windows.
'So,' the lead commentator, a distinguished gentleman in his late sixties, said, 'it appears we're looking at a lengthy rain delay. How long it may last is difficult to predict at this moment, but the radar suggests it'll be at least an hour and a half.'
One of the color commentators, a former champion driver in his mid-fifties, piped in: 'Well, lookin' at those clouds hoverin' over turn two and onto the back straight, I'd say it could be closer to two hours…'
Wynne Donohue let out a lengthy groan that formed the perfect response to the announcement of the lengthy rain delay. There she was, all set and ready to go for the Daytona 500. Sprawled all over her couch with a pile of sandwiches, two bags of pretzels, four bags of pork rinds and three six-packs of H.E. Fenwyck's finest beers within easy reach: Six cans each of Double-Zero and 1910 Special Brew, four Dark Lagers, one Midnight Velvet stout and one Extra Strong that she kept in reserve.
The 7.7% EXS was ideal for either drowning her sorrows in case her favorite retired from the race, or for celebrating her favorite in case he actually won the darn thing. There hadn't been too many victories to celebrate recently, so Wynne crossed her fingers and toes that today would be the day.
Her inner engine revved wildly at the prospects of the classic 200-lap event at Daytona that nearly always saw something spectacular happen. Over the course of Speedweeks, she had lapped up the annual big-bucks sprint race known as The Busch Clash, all the single-car qualifying sessions, the two 150-mile 'last chance' qualifying races and roughly 75 interviews with crew chiefs, car owners, sponsors, active drivers and legends from the past.
And then it came to a big, fat nothing.
A sigh escaped her to chase after the numerous groans she had already let out. She had all the patience in the world when it came to people, but none at all when it came to rain delays. Her hand had already reached for the remote when one of the commentators paused halfway through an anecdote almost as if an important note had been handed to him.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' the lead commentator said in a somber voice; the sound alone made Wynne let out another pained groan, 'the latest news from our man at the weather radar suggests we could be looking at a three, possible even a three-and-a-half hour rain delay. We'll keep you posted. However, don't touch that dial! We'll be showing you highlights of a few classic races that I'm sure you'll enjoy-'
Another groan escaped Wynne before she flopped backward onto the couch like a fat marlin that had just been caught by a deep-sea fisherman. The latest groan was far deeper, longer and more pained compared to the first few. As the TV commentators continued their banter to keep the viewers tuned to their station, Wynne looked toward the heavens - or rather, at the ceiling of her trailer - to seek just a little goodwill from high above. None came.
"Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die," she said, smacking a hand across her eyes. The ambient temperature in and near the trailer park was on the chilly side due to the steady breeze that had rolled in from the cold, bleak desert for the past several days. To fight the chill, she wore wool-lined loafers, her favorite pair of winter jeans, two T-shirts and two sweatshirts. The outer layer of the sweats carried the likeness of Geoff Bodine from his winning moment at the 1986 Daytona 500 in the yellow and white Levi Garrett Hendrick Chevrolet Monte Carlo.
Wynne's long, dark hair was getting a little too shaggy, but there was little she could do about that as she still hadn't forgiven Goldsboro's sole hairdresser, Holly Lorenzen, for her part in the ploy during the sheriff's election in September the previous year.
Before she had made up her mind about what to do during the rain delay, Fate decided for her by making her telephone ring. She broke out in a "Whooh-hah!" when the caller-ID read Ernie B.
"Whah, howdy, Ernie! Y'all got da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew he'! I reckon y'all just done heard 'bout that there extra rain deee-lay, haw?"
'Hi, Wynne!' Ernie Bradberry's familiar rural tones said at the other end of the line. 'Yeah, it sucks- mumble, mumble- yes, dear.'
Wynne broke out in a wide grin as she stretched out a long arm. Her fingertips were just able to grab a bag of chili-flavored pork rinds off the table before she flopped back against the backrest. "Haw, didden li'l ol' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne like y'all sayin' sucks, pal?"
'No.'
Snicker, Snicker! "Yuh, okeh, but it sure does suck, lemme tell y'all! Say, pardnah, how 'bout that there Chevrolet lock-out o' tha top fo'ah places on da grid, yuh? Ain't dat som'tin?"
'Well, it's somethin', all right!'
"Yuh, haw?" Wynne said with a cheesy grin. A moment later, she used her teeth to tear open the bag of pork rinds. One or two escaped and fell onto her sweatshirt as she expected them to, but there would be no mercy as she scooped them up and threw them into her mouth in no time flat. A beer was required, so she leaned forward all over again to drag the six-pack of 1910 Special Brew toward her. One was soon cracked open with the familiar Psssshhhhht!
'What are you drinkin'?'
"Beer."
'No kiddin'! I mean what kind, smartaleck?"
"One o' them there Nihhh-ne-teen Ten Spe-shul brews. Yuh. They sure be good."
'Yeah. I have a battery of Midnight Velvets lined up right in front of me.'
"Lawrdie, I got me one o' them there stouts, too! Yuh, I sure do," Wynne said, stretching out to turn the black can around so she could admire the label that was designed to resemble one from the later decades of the 19th century.
When Ernie Bradberry and Wynne both exclaimed an "Haw!" at the exact same time, it proved to be their cue to get back to the TV coverage. "Yuh, som'tin finally done happened, Ernie," Wynne said as she unmuted the TV. "That there FOX Sports be back from them commer-shuals, so we bettah stick a sock innit an' have a lookie at whut kind o' haaaah-lights them good folks gonn' show us as fillah. Yuh?"
'I was about to say the same… though in fewer words.'
"Awwww, verrrrry funny, pal! Y'all bettah not quit yer day job or nuttin'!" Wynne said, throwing her free arm in the air in a display of mock insult. "An' jus' because o' that, I ain't gonn' give y'all tha whoooole good'bah speech. Nope. Instead, I'mma-gonn' say bah-bah, Ernie. Tawk ta ya latah when one o' them there Chevs done an' won tha whole darn thing, yuh?"
'You wish! No, it's gonna be a Ford year. Oh, here's the first classic race now… let's watch it. Bye, Wynne!'
Grinning, Wynne closed the connection and put the telephone on the couch next to her. The gadget was soon swapped for the TV remote that she used to turn up the volume.
She was about to scoop up an entire handful of chili-flavored pork rinds when the intro to the first of the classic highlights began to roll over the screen. "Awwww-right! Fih-nally a li'l good fortune an' all… Lawrdie, this gonn' be one o' them there premoni-shuns, ain't it? Whah, yessir, it sure is! It ain't gonn' fail now!" she cried when the on-screen graphics proved that the first 30-minute filler reel was the best bits of the 2014 running of the same event.
"Yessirree, we got us some pork rinds an' we got us some Spe-shul Brews an' we got us a Juniah victory in da numbah eighty-eight Na-shunnal Guard cahhh-r! Haw, mebbe this he' day ain't gonn' be so shitty aftah all… let 'em roll down at Daytoah-n', yeeeeeee-hawww!"
The familiar Pssssshhht! soon proved that Wynne Donohue was back on full song and enjoying herself.
---
Three hours, thirteen commercial breaks, fourteen beers and just as many visits to the bathroom later, the day's much-delayed race entered the final stages.
The colorful cars raced around the two-and-a-half mile superspeedway at great speed and even greater noise. The commentators were speaking fast and loud to keep up with the frantic action as the event wound down, but it was nothing compared to the behavior of the trailer's resident:
Wynne jumped up and down in the middle of her living room floor while staring wide-eyed at the TV. "Haaaaaaaaaaaw! Five laps ta go'ah! Go'ah, go'ah, go'ah, three an' eight! Go'ah three an' eight! Go'ah three an' eight! C'mon, son, jus' one mo' pass! Jus' one mo' pass an' y'all be leadin' this he'- yessir, yessir, yessir!"
Racing over to the TV to make sure she didn't miss a thing, Wynne chugged down the rest of a 1910 Special Brew in a single gulp. Since she couldn't waste a second returning to the coffee table to put down the empty can, she simply dropped it onto the carpet. Never out of options when it came to beers, she ducked down in a hurry and grabbed the next one from the cooler box she had brought with her.
"Put that there chrome horn on that there Fohhhr-d… c'mon, son, there be room on da insid- hawwwww! He' done nudged that there Fohhh-rd aside! Lawwwwr-die! Go'ah three an' eight! Yessir! Go'ah three an' eight! C'mon, boys, don't lemme down now! Haw-yuh, that there eight cahhh-r be glued ta tha bumpah… yuh! Yuh! Whihhh-te flag! Whihhh-te flag! Go'ah three an' eight! Go'ah three an' eight! One mo' lap ta go'ah sponsah'ed bah Giddy Up An' Go'ah! Go'ah! Go'ah them Chevrolets! Turn two… back straightaway… turn three… turn fo'ah… an'… an'… an'- an'! Checkah'd flag fer da three cahhhh-r at Daytoah-n! Hawwwwwwwwwww-yuh! Hawwwwwwwwwww-yuh! Hawwwwwwwwwww-yuh! Hawwwwwwwww-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…"
With a face as red as an over-ripe tomato from the excitement and exertion, Wynne thrust her arms in the air as her voice deserted her at the worst moment. Some of the contents of the latest can of beer she held in her right hand sloshed over the edge and rained down upon her jeans, her loafers and the carpet, but that didn't matter a dog-gone thing given the momentous occasion.
As the two-decades-old tradition dictated, she held up the three middle fingers of her left hand to signal her eternal allegiance to the RCR #3 car. She kept her fingers aloft throughout the cool-off lap and the obligatory burn-out in the tri-oval before she staggered back to the couch and fell backward onto the seat with a bump, a bounce and a groan. Sniffling hard, she even needed to dab away a few tears of joy that had found their way onto her cheeks.
"Hawwww," she croaked in a frayed voice. "That wus… some o'… that there… good stuff… yessir… Lawrdie, mah voice… done said bah-bah… but who… gives one o' them… there stuffed… turkeys… holy shittt, whut… a finish… an' now I… gotta pee all… ovah ag'in… an' I sure… can't wait… fer them intahviews… or nuttin'… dad-gummit…"
Getting up from the couch, Wynne had to take a long step around her black German Shepherd Blackie who had entered the living area to see what on Earth had possessed her owner this time. A small Woof! that sounded very much like a chuckle could be heard just as Wynne closed the bathroom door behind her.
-*-*-*-
The following morning.
At the breakfast table, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski scratched an eyebrow several times as she took in the odd look on Wynne's face. They sat at the coffee table in the living area of their trailer as usual, but the TV and their telephones were off which only happened once a blue moon at the most. Both wore their comfy, fluffy bathrobes to stay warm in the early-morning freeze: Mandy's was spring green while Wynne's was baby blue to match the color of their eyes.
"Hon, does it actually hurt?" Mandy said as she picked up a slice of crunchy toast. She had time to pour herself a mug of coffee and apply plenty of blackcurrant jam to the bread while she waited for a reply.
Wynne furrowed her brow, swallowed a couple of times and ultimately shook her head.
Down on the floor, Blackie and Goldie rested in their doggy basket after the morning's first wild frolicking in the desert, but they kept a vigil eye on their unusually quiet owner just in case something bad was going on that needed their input.
It was obvious The Last Original Cowpoke was bothered by her latest medical condition as she had chosen to drink warm milk with honey instead of her regular strong coffee. Similarly, she had foregone her beloved slices of toast or buns for a bowl of strawberry yogurt.
While Mandy ate her crunchy toast, Wynne's condition was finally revealed when she tried to speak: "Hhhhhhh… Hhhhhhhhh… Hhhhh!"
Mandy cocked her head to pick up as much of the Hhhhhh'ing as she could, but it was to no avail. The fair eyebrow was given another round of scratching before she broke out in a shrug. "I'm sorry, hon. There's nothing there. I could have told you that would happen."
Wynne nodded and shrugged.
"And do you know why I could have told you?"
Wynne shook her head.
"Because the exact same thing happened last year, the year before that and the year before that, hon. Remember? When it gets down to the final few laps of the Daytona 500, you go ballistic and your voice quits for several days. Especially when some of your favorites are up front."
"Hhhhhhhhhhhh…"
"Yes, my point exactly. Drink your milk and honey while it's still warm."
Wynne nodded and shrugged.
Smiling wistfully, Mandy leaned to her left to place a quick kiss on her wife's lips before they were busy with their respective hot drinks.
-*-*-*-
Three hours later, Mandy and Blackie had long since left for the sheriff's office up north in Goldsboro. Since neither the warm milk with honey nor a handful of lozenges had helped Wynne get her voice back, she had relocated to their trailer's small bathroom to try the next remedy that she hoped would help her back to the land of the speaking: Doctor Fulton's Throat Healer.
An exclamation of "Hhhhhhhhh?" escaped her as she poured some of the pink liquid into a plastic cup. She chewed on her lips several times before she had resigned herself to her fate and allowed the lurid-looking Throat Healer into her mouth. The artificial taste of raspberry bubblegum was a little too much for her, but since the alternative was not speaking for several days, she had little choice. Shrugging at her own reflection in the mirror above the wash basin, she began to gurgle.
Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle…
Goldie, who had been standing in the doorway to the bathroom next to her owner, could only stand listening to the horrific sounds for three doggy heartbeats. Spinning around, the scaredy-dog knocked the screen door aside and tore into the desert to seek shelter with her special friend Freddie.
Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle…
Looking at herself in the mirror, Wynne nearly chuckled at the bizarre expressions she needed to pull while gurgling, but she caught it in time. Although it said on the small bottle that Doctor Fulton's Throat Healer contained no toxins and was thus safe to swallow, she would rather keep the pink liquid out of her digestive system if at all possible.
Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrgle… gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle…
From one moment to the next, Wynne's telephone began ringing deep down in her pocket. The Last Original Cowpoke had time to break out in a "Hhhhhhh-d'awwww!" before she remembered what her mouth was full of. Her eyes bugged out on stalks as the pink liquid suddenly rushed toward both pipes.
Leaning forward in a hurry, she let gravity take over to send the pink Throat Healer splashing all over the wash basin. "Hhhhh… Lawwwwwwr-die… dat sure wus close… an' gross…" she said in a hoarse croak as she watched the gurgle-water literally disappear down the drain.
Wynne grimaced at the mess even as she reached into her pocket to retrieve the ringing telephone. "Gawd-almighty, now I gotta clean- whaddahell! I be speakin' ag'in! Awright! Much obliged Doctah Fulton, yessirree. An' tha callah be mah darlin' Mandy, too! Haw, tha day sure iz lookin' up."
After accepting the call, Wynne turned up the volume and put the telephone on the glass shelf above the wash basin so she could have her hands free to clean up the mess. "Howdy, darlin'! Yuh, y'all done heard right… I be speakin'! Ain't dat som'tin?"
'Hello, hon. Did you try Doctor Ful-'
"Whah, I sure did! Yuh… tha pink stuff done worked," Wynne said as she used a towel to mop up the last of the splashes. "Okeh, I almost done choked on that there darn gurglin' watah when y'all rang, but… haw. Anyhows, I didden choke on nuttin' so that be coo'. Yuh."
'That's nice. Perhaps you should consider not rewatching the race this year?'
"Awwwww, ya reckon?" Wynne said, sporting a cheeky grin as she left the bathroom. "But I wus gonn nuke me a beef burritah an' grab a Go'ah-Fastah-Longah Apricot an' mebbe a six-pack o' them Dubbel-Zerahs an' ev'rythin'! An' watch tha replay, too, obvi'sly."
'Well… all right. I don't get it, though. You already know who wins-'
"But it be tha journey gettin' ta tha checkered that be so excitin', darlin'! All that there drama like them little guys havin' great runs an' tha big guys strugglin' an' tha wrecks an' there wus a-cuppel-a bad pitstops an' some penalties as well, yuh?"
'Okay. But please don't yell too much.'
Wynne had made it to the couch in the meantime. The moment her rear end made contact with the cushions, she pulled over the remotes and made the TV and the recorder come alive. "Dat be a promise. I ain't gonn' yell nuttin', darlin'. Y'all can take it ta da bank. Luv' ya!"
'Love you too, hon. We'll talk later… hopefully.'
"Haw, haw! A-yup! Bah-bah, darlin'," Wynne said before she closed the connection and put the telephone next to her.
She had barely moved her hand away from it before a Ding! proved to be the notification that one of her favorite YouTube channels, The Daily Groove, had uploaded a 20-minute review and analysis video of the Great American Race. "Awesome! Double-E iz always worth lissenin' ta when it comes ta them review videohs. But dat's fer latah."
Grinning, she went through the recorder's menus to find the previous day's recording. "Awwwww-yuh. Food an' beer in a li'l while an' Daytoah-n now… an' I can even fast-forward that there crappy rain deee-lay! It don't get no neatah than this, nosirree."
All the proper buttons had soon been pressed. As the pre-race show - presented by El Diablo Triple-Chili Barbecue Sauces: El Diablo. Unmistakable - started playing, she leaned back on the couch and made herself comfortable. "I deffa-nete-ly wanna trah me a bottle o' those, yessirree… betcha it ain't as tasty as ol' Ernie's, tho'. Anyhows, he' we go-ah. Three an' eight fer da win… aw, it gonn' be so good!"
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THE END of THREE 'N EIGHT!