Authors: James D. Doss
The Fateful Nudge
Sarah Frank had slowed her pickup to the respectable velocity of thirty-five miles per hour, which was not excessively above the posted speed limit of twenty-five mph, which was about right for an avenue that had abruptly morphed from a straight-as-an-arrow thoroughfare to a twisty-turny two-lane that now wound its serpentine way around dry, juniper-studded hills and dipped through shallow arroyos where thirsty cottonwoods and willows had put down roots.
As she enjoyed the picturesque scenery and delightful scents of springtime greenery, Daisy Perika noticed a familiar geographical feature. Nudging Sarah in the ribs, she was pointing out how “you can see Black Frog Butte clear as day from here and over there to the west you can see a mountain shaped like a—”
What Daisy saw in a westerly direction must remain unreported.
The tour guide’s informative commentary was interrupted by a loud exclamation from the driver, who was startled by both the unseemly elbow nudge and what it had distracted Miss Frank from seeing until she was almost on top of it.
“Yiieeeeek!”
Which is what Sarah shrieked upon rounding a tight Shadowlane curve to encounter that avenue’s intersection with Sixteenth Street, where those county officials so empowered had thoughtfully placed traffic signals, which not a few local senior citizens referred to as stop-and-go lights. The operative command at this instant was Stop, which Mrs. Irene Reed had obeyed in her pink Cadillac, which expensive vehicle was directly in Sarah’s pickup’s path, with the distance between them closing fast. The alarmed driver’s instincts sent an order marked
IMPERATIVE
to her right leg, which immediately responded by jamming the F-150’s brake pedal
to the floor.
A quartet of rubber tires squealed like scalded pigs.
Daisy Perika ducked.
Oh my God we’re all going to be killed!
Blissfully unaware of the pickup that was bearing down upon her, the rich woman in the sissified GM luxury sedan wondered:
What is that awful screechy noise?
With teeth clenched, knuckles white, Sarah summed up the situation in one word:
There’snowayIcanstopintime!
True. ’Twas do-or-die time.
While shifting her foot from brake to accelerator pedal, the plucky youth jerked the steering wheel hard to the left and zoomed around the pink Caddie like it was standing still (which it was), and ran the red light like a wild-eyed outlaw (which she was) being pursued by a carload of armed coppers that was gaining fast (which the carload was). While roaring through the intersection, Sarah’s shiny red F-150 pickup missed being T-boned by an oncoming Mack truck by
this much
!
Like so many of life’s gut-wrenching events, this one was over in a moment. (For Sarah, Daisy, and Sidewinder.)
Officers Eddie Knox and E. C. Slocum arrived just in time to see the Lopez & Sons cement truck screech to a halt in front of the pink Cadillac, which latter vehicle had the right-of-way because the light for Mrs. Reed and the GCPD cops was now green for go. But they could not.
Annoyed at the cement-truck impediment, Mrs. Reed tooted her horn at the cursing truck driver, who had stalled his vehicle in precisely the right spot to block both the intersection and the cops’ view of the fleeing red pickup.
The situation was apparent to the experienced officers. The cement-truck driver had obviously run a red light, thereby almost causing a collision with the lady in the pink luxury automobile. Neither the French-Canadian trucker’s angry shouts (he spoke nineteen words of English, fourteen of them vulgar) nor his insistence (in flawless French) that the &%$# idiot in the red pickup had run the light—served to set things right.
Samuel Reed’s Distracted Wife
Why did Mrs. Irene Reed not send the cops chasing after Sarah Frank’s pickup truck? Because the driver of the pink Cadillac had not seen the red F-150 approach, or flash by on her left. Why not? Because, with the aid of the rearview mirror, which she had turned to a convenient angle, the lady had been touching up her pink lip gloss. (Meticulous attention to color coordination was a skill Irene took pride in.)
An irate Irene Reed was detained by Officers Knox and Slocum just long enough to have her say, which included: “I heard brakes screeching and at first I thought someone was trying to stop behind me but then I realized it was that monstrous truck.” The woman who detested commas pointed an elegantly manicured pink fingernail at the offending vehicle, and kept right on with her monologue.
Recognizing the pretty lady who’d placed the 911 call about a prowler, Officer Eddie Knox nodded politely and interjected a “Yes ma’am” at appropriate intervals. His ears heard but his brain did not register a word of Irene’s nonstop, ninety-mile-an-hour prattle about how she “…simply
must
be going because I have a
thousand
things to do and really
can’t
just sit here all day while you fellows try to figure out what has happened when it is so
glaringly
apparent that this half-wit truck driver ran a red light and might have killed me if I had not seen him coming and refrained from proceeding…” And so on. Until she finally ran out of breath.
As she gasped for air, Eddie Knox uttered his final “Yes ma’am” and tipped his hat. “We’ll be in touch with you later for a formal statement.” The cop returned Mrs. Reed’s driver’s license and sent the upper-crust citizen on her way, which required a circuitous detour around the cement truck and an exchange of glares with the operator of that formidable vehicle.
Having rid himself of the nonstop chatterbox, Officer Knox turned his entire attention to the frustrated driver of the Mack truck, who, having gotten the engine started, was attempting to communicate to Officer Slocum the fact that he did not speak
Anglais,
and this with the enormous distaste of one whose lips are accustomed to mouthing musical phrases of the world’s only civilized language.
The Immigrant’s Revenge
Jean-Henri Dubois had suffered several outrages during the past few hours, such as a girlfriend who had fed him watery scrambled eggs for breakfast. Not to mention her dyspeptic spaniel, which animal (during the wee hours) had vomited in both of Jean-Henri’s expensive fleece-lined boots. When the GCPD cops put a big ticket on him, the French-Canadian truck driver decided that he’d had quite enough and
then some,
thank you very much. Right on the spot, he made up his mind to return to Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, where a girlfriend knew how to prepare a proper omelet and the gendarmerie treated citizens with due respect. But he would not depart for civilization before getting even with these &$*#% Americans! To this end, Jean-Henri backed his umpteen-ton vehicle up to the immaculate GCPD black-and-white and proceeded—calm as you please—to dump the entire load of cement onto it.
After a moment of stunned disbelief, Eddie Knox commenced to jump up and down and curse all foreigners (especially truck-driving foreigners) and threaten to shoot the driver. Thankfully, he did not, but out of utter frustration the furious cop did pop some lead into the big truck’s diesel engine and left rear tire. Neither verbal abuse nor misuse of his official sidearm produced any noticeable effect upon either the sturdy Mack truck or the deadpan driver.
Officer E. C. “Piggy” Slocum simply stood and shook his head in wonder at such goings-on, which would be something to tell his grandchildren about.
If I ever was to get married and have childurn and then they was to grow up and get married too and have grandchildurn for me to tell stories to.
Mr. Slocum was a complex soul.
Having immensely enjoyed the benefits from this wonderfully cathartic experience, Jean-Henri was in a fine mood when he pulled his big rig out of the intersection. So much so that he was inspired to sing a somewhat sinister little ditty from his childhood: “
Les yeux bleus vont aux cieux,
” which in honest, unitalicized speech is rendered “Blue Eyes to Heaven Rise.” After crooning his merry way to the Lopez & Sons Sand, Gravel & Cement headquarters, the cheeky French-Canadian drew his last paycheck and departed, never to be seen again or henceforth in these parts, or anywhere else south of the border. As he mounted his gray motorbike and pulled his goggles down, Jean-Henri Dubois bid Granite Creek
adieu
and
au revoir,
and as he sped out of town let loose with another lusty song: “
À Quebec sur mon petit cheval gris”
(“To Quebec on My Little Grey Horse”). Farther on down the road toward Salida, tiring of children’s songs, he bellowed out the nineteenth-century French-Canadian composition about his legendary namesake—the hardworking folk hero with the big hammer in his hands. Couldn’t no steam drill outdo
him
—Jean-Henri was a sure-enough
steel-driving
man.
What fun!
And Daisy’s and Sarah’s excellent day was just getting started.
Daisy Barely Restrains Herself
To Daisy Perika’s eternal credit, the genial elbow nudger refrained from criticizing the youthful driver for an asinine blunder that came ever so close to creating indescribable carnage at the intersection. Not aloud.
If that eighteen-year-old Papago girl don’t learn to drive right, she’ll never live to see nineteen.
(When chagrined with Sarah, Daisy tended to overlook the fact that the teenager was half Ute.) Barely a block from the intersection, the charitable old woman offered this sage advice to the rattled girl: “You’d better find someplace to get out of sight.”
“What for?” Poor Sarah had forgotten what they were doing in Granite Creek.
“To wait for that woman to pass by.” Daisy sighed.
Kids nowadays need everything explained to them.
What woman?
The driver managed to get her mind in gear.
Oh, right—Mrs. Reed.
Daisy pointed a gnarled finger at a shady side street. “There’s a good place to pull over. She’ll be showing up before you know it, and we’ll want to get behind her again.”
And so they did, and Mrs. Reed did, and they did.
But this time around, Sarah was the very soul of caution. Ever so wary, she stayed well behind her quarry and slowed for every blind curve.
The Clandestine Rendezvous
It was unfortunate that Irene Reed had departed a minute too soon to witness the dramatic spectacle wherein the GCPD cops’ spiffy black-and-white was buried under tons of cement dispensed by the aforesaid “monstrous truck.” This woman, who appreciated both dark humor and slapstick comedy, would have enjoyed the entertainment.
But harbor no regrets, Mrs. R.—Fate has a way of evening up the score.
Indeed, Professor Reed’s missus would soon be involved in another twisted melodrama, one whose plot would be conceived, produced, and staged by a cunningly devious mind. The vain author of the tasteless farce would also serve as the star of the piece.
Unaware that she was destined to be an unwitting player in a one-act, one-minute production—or that she was being tailed by a pair of highly unlikely sleuths (and a hound) in a red pickup truck—the pretty lady in the pink Cadillac turned in at the Sand Hills Country Club gate and gaily waved her way past the stern-faced security guard who knew every member on sight. After parking her sleek automobile in the velvet shade of a stately blue spruce, Irene slammed the door and strode off with the purposeful gait of a woman who knows exactly where she is going, precisely whom she expects to meet when she gets there, and that…
the handsome rascal damn well better show up on time if he knows what’s good for him.
Sarah Makes Her Play
After a glance at the uniformed gatekeeper at the golf-club entrance, Sarah Frank decided to pass. This despite a derisive snort from Aunt Daisy, who let the cautious girl know that “no make-believe
matukach
cop would keep
me
from going where I wanted to. Why, in my grandfather’s day, us Utes owned everything you can see in all directions!” Being a more or less charitable soul, Daisy refrained from adding that when the Utes were Lords of the Shining Mountains and feasting on buffalo and elk, Sarah’s Papago ancestors were eking out a miserable living in the Arizona desert by dining on cactus apples, flint-hard beans, and collared lizards. But she could not help
thinking
it.
Oblivious to the tribal elder’s bragging, Sarah was looking for a good location to spy from and found it. She turned into the parking lot at the Wesleyan Methodist Church, whose immaculately landscaped six acres adjoined the three square miles of Sand Hills Country Club real estate. It was beneficial that the church was situated on a small hillock that overlooked the golf course by about fifty feet. As the house of worship was unoccupied at this hour, Sarah had her choice of 260 places to park her pickup. She selected a spot where the view of the golf course was relatively unobstructed, and behold—barely a hundred yards away, standing on a narrow blacktopped pathway, was the lady who had piloted the pink Cadillac. The paved strip where Sam Reed’s wife stood was similar to those provided for members’ golf carts, but no such traffic was likely to disturb her. First, the ribbon of blacktop was too narrow. Second, it meandered off the edge of the course to dead-end at a small structure that looked to the imaginative Ute-Papago orphan like one of two things: the minuscule residence of a reclusive old man who made a meager living selling pilfered golf balls, or—a tool shed. Sad to say, it was the latter.
“Mrs. Reed looks like she’s waiting for someone,” Sarah said. The better to use her binoculars, she removed her floppy-brimmed hat and sunglasses and tossed both aside. The shades landed where she had intended (on the seat between them) but the hat sailed onto Daisy Perika’s lap. Sarah’s casual discard of that personal item onto the tribal elder’s person irked the feisty old woman quite a lot and then some.
What am I, just someplace to put things she don’t need right now?
Being one of those Christians who was inclined less toward the Sermon on the Mount and more toward Eye for Eye, Tooth for Tooth, the Latter-Day Pharisee decided that she would get even with the thoughtless teenager.
Tonight, after I get undressed and put my nightgown and house slippers on, I’ll walk into Sarah’s bedroom and say, “My closet is too full for this stuff,” and then toss my clothes and shoes onto her bed.
That ought to make the point.
So that’s what I’ll do.
The senior citizen grinned wickedly.
Unless I can think of something better.
Blissfully ignorant of the irritable auntie’s silent subplot, the honest young woman continued to think aloud: “Oh, I wish I could get close enough to find out who she’s here to meet—and hear what they talk about.”
But you don’t want the target to know you’re watching them and there’s just no way I can get close without being spotted.
Addressing Daisy, she pointed. “I’m going down there where I can see a little better. But don’t worry, this’ll just take a few minutes.”
“Take as long as you like.” Her venom seemingly spent, Daisy patted the hound’s head, yawned, and closed her eyes. “I feel a nap coming on.”
After smiling at the sleepy old woman, the girl got out of the pickup and took a brisk walk off the edge of the parking lot, then downhill to vanish in a narrow grove of young aspens that had sprouted along the border between the church and the country-club property. Once in position, the hopeful spy raised the instrument to her eyes. After fine-tuning the binocular optics, Sarah searched until she framed the shaky figure of Irene Reed. Steadying the binoculars against a sapling for a more stable view, the delighted detective whispered to herself, “She’s looking at her wristwatch. Whoever she’s supposed to meet must be late.” The young woman figured it was twenty to one that the tardy person was a man. A boyfriend. Who else would a married woman meet in such a lonely place?
One minute passed.
During which period Sarah Frank thrice recited the seven lines of Miss Dickinson’s “If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking.”
While the Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University student paid lip service to her American literature course, Mrs. Reed uttered a string of unseemly obscenities, and checked her wristwatch three times.
Two minutes.
Sarah had completed the wood-cutter’s song in Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing” but got stuck trying to remember what the ploughboy was up to.
As she continued her vigil, Irene Reed appended unspeakable blasphemies to her obscenities. Her platinum wristwatch was consulted five times.
Sarah had dismissed the ploughboy and said goodbye to Mr. Whitman. Continuing to peer through her Sears & Roebuck binoculars, our scholar had a go at Longfellow’s “The Day is Done.” But it was not. Not by a long shot.
A few tick-tocks into Minute Number Three, when Irene was beginning to seethe with the volcanic anger of an attractive, vain, upper-crust female who has been stood up by a hairy-legged person she considers beneath her station, a young man with a dark complexion and a bright, toothy smile appeared. The fellow with the rake over his shoulder waved at Mrs. Reed. He appeared (to Sarah) to be well over six feet tall (he was six four), thirty inches wide at the shoulders (an amplification by the impressionable teenager), and superbly muscular, in which latter assessment Sarah was not guilty of the slightest hyperbole.
There was more.
The darkly handsome man had long, curly locks that fell to his shoulders. Long, curly,
blond
locks that (this was Sarah’s opinion) ruined the eye-popping effect of this otherwise virile specimen with just the slightest hint of…how to say it?
Femininity.
And there was still more.
As Sarah watched the almost-flawless example of young manhood approach the married woman and gather her into a breathless embrace, something extraneous to the scene caught the exuberant spy’s eye.
Enter (stage left) another player.
Sarah Frank’s brow furrowed behind the binoculars. There was something eerily familiar about the hunched, sunglassed senior citizen under the wide-brimmed straw hat. The elderly person was being tugged along the paved pathway by a dog on a leash. A leash that resembled the orange nylon towrope that Sarah kept in the bed of her pickup.
And those look like my sunglasses and that looks like my hat and that old dog looks a lot like Sidewinder—Oh, no!
Oh, yes.
Behold the shameless scene stealer—the star of this seamy little melodrama.