CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MONDALE
The house sat off the gravel road up a dirt driveway fifty yards. It was impractical for getaway, but also impossible to approach unheard except on foot. Mondale made his way slowly up the drive, parked his cruiser and got out. He knew Bob Musil and Deputy Townsend had flanked the house by now and were positioned at the back door and side windows, but it still sounded stupid to go in. There were no lights visible, but he knew he’d find at least three armed men inside. The variables were hardly worth considering at this point.
He called out as he knocked on the screen door. “Sheriff’s office. Open up.” The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever in the crisping autumn night.
“Fuck the police,” came the eventual reply, followed by a nervous chuckle.
Mondale shifted his weight and straightened himself, hands resting on his belt and the handle of his service revolver. “C’mon, Tate. I got things to do.” He heard three deadbolts sliding and a chain being removed before Tate’s scruffy, gaunt face displeased his eyes.
Tate moved back, out of the sheriff’s way. The inside of the clapboard shack was stuffy with a dampness that was all too ordinary even for the hour. A small rotating fan pushed the tepid air around like sweeping up a puddle. The wood floors were dark and scuffed with a collection of divots in one corner, the ghosts of dining arrangements from decades past. One ratty couch shoved against the wall and a single kitchen chair were the only furniture to be found.
There were three representatives from Kansas City, each wearing well-tailored suits and the usual collection of prison tattoos, crosses, eagles, swastikas and double lightning bolts, on their necks and the backs of their hands, tear-drops in the outer corners of a couple of their eyes.
Mondale spotted the bulge of shouldered weapons under their jackets and reflexively tensed his right arm. He forced himself to stand up straight, resisting the urge to crouch defensively and hooked both thumbs into the buckle of his belt.
Tate faded to the background, introducing only one of them: “Sheriff Jimmy Mondale, meet Zack Ryan.”
The tall man with the long hair stepped forward, and said in a voice that sounded like gravel, “Tate says you’re the man to see.”
“Depends.”
“We’re willing to keep your current salary plus a half-percent. Throw in busts when you need them. Two or three annually, more in an election year.”
“In exchange for what?”
“The usual arrangement.”
Inwardly, Mondale bristled at that– peckerwoods assuming he and all law were for sale. Outwardly he smiled. “What about Chowder Thompson? He’s a community fixture. Got sway with the bike gangs that want to move in. Got the whole thing consolidated and regulated.” Then to the obvious point. “He’s not going to just step aside.”
Ryan exaggerated a slow exhalation of breath, as if explaining things to a child. “Tate takes over local representation with your cooperation. Everybody gets in line or fuck ’em. This deal comes with brand recognition.”
“Big brand, though. Kansas City feels a long way off to most people here.”
Ryan smiled humorlessly. “I know what you mean.”
“Thompson?”
“Your responsibility.”
Mondale’s smile spread slowly till his upper lip disappeared. He shook his head. “I’m not a greedy man. Current arrangement is just fine. Never had a problem with Thompson either.” He gestured with his chin at Tate. “Why are you so eager to back this cocksucker, anyhow?”
Ryan glared at Tate, and Tate stared hard at the spot on the wall just over Mondale’s right shoulder. “Sheriff, maybe Tate here didn’t explain things too good or maybe you’ve just been the swinging dick in a small pond too long to believe it, but this meet is a courtesy and nothing more.” He took an envelope out of his back pocket and tossed it toward the sheriff.
Mondale let the package fall at his feet.
“That’s our buy-in and the one and only olive branch you’ll see. We’re here with or without your cooperation.”
Mondale let his gaze sink to the envelope on the floor. Gingerly he crouched and retrieved it. His knees and back creaked and popped with the motion. The heft of the envelope was substantial. When he stood back up he employed both hands in the examination of its contents. He counted hundreds for a few more seconds before placing it into his own back pocket. “Well, thanks for this.” When his right hand came back around front it was holding his service-issue revolver.
Tate jumped and sputtered. “Hold on there, sheriff. Come on now.”
“Shut up, Tate.” Mondale looked at the three men from Kansas City. He patted the envelope in his back pocket. “I’ll keep this as a gesture of good will and it’ll get you out of Hamilton County without hassle from police, but Thompson is not my problem, he’s yours.”
Ryan grew three inches standing still. It was a prison yard trick Mondale had seen before. Negotiations were just about over. “Thompson doesn’t figure into our plans. We go through Tate.” He stared hard at Mondale, telling him the way it was. “If you’ve got a problem with that–”
Mondale shot Tate through the top of his nose. The light coming from the single bare bulb on the ceiling of the cabin turned pink and the body dropped straight back without the top of its head. The men’s suits were ruined, misted with gore, but their faces looked comfortable enough.
The stick and stink of blood was immediate, but no one moved to wipe it from their faces and everyone waited for Mondale to speak. After a moment of silence, he did in a measured, even tone.
“I’ve got a big problem with that.”
TERRY
He watched Chowder open the package. He could see the biker counting money while the old lady watched, unsure she was in the right house. “What’s going on,” she asked. “Calvin put that in my bag?”
“Shut up,” Terry said. He got up off the floor and approached to get a better look, but Chowder leveled his gun at him and Terry stopped.
“Sit down,” the biker growled.
Jeanette spoke. “He left something for me? He left me money?”
Ignoring her, Terry said, “So? We’re good?”
Jeanette went on, “That’s my money. Calvin gave me that money.”
Chowder finished counting and looked up, but not at anybody. Thinking.
Terry said, “C’mon, we should get out of here, split it in the car.”
“Calvin loved me,” said Jeanette. “He wanted me to have that money.”
“We gotta get movin,” Terry advised, “and if you think I’m riding in the trunk again–“ He never got the chance to finish the thought.
Chowder shot him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHOWDER
The old lady shit herself. The sound was a short, wet blast and the smell hit him almost immediately. “Oh,” she said.
The redneck dropped onto his back with blood bubbling out of his chest. He looked bewildered. Chowder dropped the old lady’s smoking gun onto the bed beside her and stepped toward her. “Lay down,” he commanded, and she did. He was careful not to step in blood or shit as he reached behind her for a pillow. She lay down beneath him obediently, like she was at the dentist. She looked expectantly into his eyes.
“Calvin’s dead,” she offered.
“I know,” said Chowder as he gently lowered the pillow onto her face.
MONDALE
Tate’s expression looked as perplexed and ill at ease in death as it had in life. So much for resting in peace.
Zack Ryan held up a steadying hand to the goons from K.C. and they waited for Mondale to continue. When he was ready to, he did. “Kansas City is not welcome here and Chowder isn’t going away. You want to talk to him, stick around, but I don’t think he’s gonna give your offer a fair shake. He doesn’t like being circumnavigated and neither do I.” Jimmy put his pistol away and backed toward the door. “Like I said, this envelope buys you a free ticket out of town.” He forced himself to go slowly and keep steady. “But if you ever come back, I’ll shoot you and then say hello.” Once out of the room, he turned around. He didn’t make it down the front steps before the first shot splintered the screen door. Awkwardly, he jumped off the porch.
Mondale twisted his knee when he landed and he rolled clumsily under the front porch, dropping the envelope he’d just collected. White bolts of pain shot through his leg and were answered by surging adrenaline flooding his body. The men from Kansas City ran out the front door bringing enough fire-power with them to make him evaporate. He still had his gun out and used it, firing straight above him, blasting nickel-sized holes in the rotted-out boards of the porch.
The return fire chewed up more kindling, but Mondale escaped puncture. The whole world shook and he heard confused and angry yelling above him. The porch shuddered and collapsed behind him and Zack Ryan dropped into the dust. Cordite and dirt stung Mondale’s eyes. Blood and bile filled his mouth. Half blind, he aimed at the Kansas City man’s face and spent the last of his ammunition in three hot bursts.
His knee screamed at him as he tried to keep moving. So he stopped and lay flat on his back beneath a still standing section of the porch, rubbing his eyes, tears trying to work the dirt and blood out of his vision. The whole world was enveloped in a strong vibration that he surrendered to. He stopped trying to hear anything and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the rotation of the earth speed up and he held on tight, trying not to slip off the edge.
CHOWDER
Hettie was waiting for him when he got home. She reported, “Safe is cleaned out, and we’re ready to roll.”
He patted her rump on his way through the door and continued on to the bathroom. Once inside, he sat down on the toilet. He called to his wife on the other side of the door, “Gas in the truck?”
“Shoot. No. Otherwise ready, Chowder.”
Chowder was relaxed. “We need to stop by Darlin’s anyhow. You can fill it, while I tidy up.” He breathed contentedly and deeply and felt his bowels comply. It was going to be a bright, bright, sunshiny day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MONDALE
Musil’s voice cut through the ringing inside his head. It sounded far off and underwater. “Jimmy? You alright under there?”
Jimmy stared up at the daylight struggling through the perforated lumber. He thought back to camping trips he’d taken with Eileen and Elizabeth when they were just kids, lying on their backs beneath the stars. He’d had to explain the universe and its order every night just to make sure it hadn’t changed.
Jesus loves little girls and forgives daddies. Big animals eat little ones
. Lazy drips of blood found the holes in the porch and took their time pooling around the rims before drooling onto him.
Mondale finally rolled out carefully from beneath the rickety porch and stood, favoring his right knee, brushing sawdust out of his eyes and plucking a sharp, three-inch wood chip out from the back of his neck. It set off a blood flow that would ruin his shirt. “Shit. Somebody got a hankie?” Deputy Townsend produced a neatly folded silky piece that Mondale caught with his already-sticky right hand. “Thanks,” he said as he applied it to his neck.
Bob Musil clapped his shoulder and said something Mondale couldn’t hear, then went inside presumably to check out the basement. When he came out a few moments later, Jimmy’s ears had popped and he could hear his deputy. “Bingo. All the fixings, just no product.”
“S’alright, there’ll be plenty of trace amounts on the equipment,” said Mondale, stepping back into the cabin. Townsend followed and found him in the kitchen washing the blood off of his hands.
“That little turd on the floor sure looks surprised,” the deputy observed.
Jimmy turned and regarded the still body of Tate Dill. “Shouldn’t be. He was working toward this end his whole life.”
Townsend thought that was hilarious. “I remember him from school. Thought he was slick shit.” Jimmy’s hands appeared clean and he looked around in vain for a towel, finally deciding upon his soiled shirt. Townsend, hopped up on Mountain Dew and violence, was pacing the tiny kitchen.
“Go on outside. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry, sheriff. It’s just,
Whew!
What a rush, you know?” Mondale nodded his head. “You think we oughtta arrange something like this for Chowder Thompson too? I mean he ain’t likely to –”
Jimmy hit him under the chin with his forearm and pushed until the young deputy was on his toes against the wall straining not to choke. His eyes were wide and white.
Jimmy whispered. “Let that be the last time you suggest a move against Chowder Thompson so recklessly. That man is evil you ain’t even dreamed up yet, and his eyes and ears reach all the way up into your mama’s snatch to hear your thoughts before you’re born. So, for your own good and mine...”
He dropped the frightened deputy as Musil came strolling into the kitchen. “We’re all set, Jimmy.”
Mondale straightened and clapped his deputies heartily on the back and shoulders. “Good. Let’s light it up.” They walked toward the door, Jimmy pulling Townsend along, the young man rubbing his sore neck. He turned toward Musil. “Bob, you see the way young Townsend here kept his shit?” Musil nodded. “I think he’s got a future in gun fighting.” He placed his fist encouragingly against Townsend’s jaw and pushed. “Watch out, Doc Holiday.”
Townsend’s face turned red with pleasure, the parts that weren’t already that color with pain and fear. His eyes held confusion.
They’d found enough accelerants among the raw materials in the basement to make sure the whole wooden structure was consumed. They dragged the bodies down to the basement and dug out the bullets not lodged too deep into bone. The house was old and dubious enough to have collected all manner of leaden projectiles in its history, so they didn’t bother with the few misses scattered along the porch walls and roof.
When the explosion lit the fire, it went up bright and fast and the whole house was consumed inside two hours.
TERRY
What the fuck?
He’d been shot. That was what the fuck. Fuck. He coughed and tasted blood. He turned over and tried to stand up. No dice. So he crawled. He crawled over diapers and clothing and anything else that was in his way toward the front door. His strength, built on hate, propelled him toward freedom and independence.
He entered the hallway and tried to stand again. Almost. Not quite. He kept crawling. He focused on the front door, through which daylight beckoned. He’d get out and steal Jeanette’s car. He’d drive home and get his son. Wendell would jump at the opportunity to drive and they’d hit the road, maybe stop for the night at a place in Oklahoma he and Cal had been to before. He’d teach his son how to shoot, how to intimidate a convenience store clerk and they’d laugh about it. He’d get a new dog too. Let Wendell name her and when he was healed up they’d go to a brothel in Stillwater he remembered. He’d call Beth sometime later so she could stop having a shitfit. Don’t worry, the boy’s with me and he’s doing fine. He’s doing good actually. Takes after his old man
.
The daylight in the door darkened and a figure cautiously stepped inside. Oh well
.
Maybe he was headed to jail anyway. He could do a stretch. A short one. He may have been insincere before when he’d offered up Chowder Thompson, but that was before the cocksucker had shot him. He’d help build a case against that asshole in a heartbeat.
Terry’s eyes couldn’t focus on the figure now approaching him, but he could hear the man speak. “Where’s the old lady?” he heard. If Terry could’ve shrugged, he would’ve, but he stopped crawling and lay on his back. The man moved past him and into the rest of the house. From the bedroom, Terry heard the man’s exclamation, “Shit. Aw, fuck.” And then he went through the rest of the house.
Terry closed his eyes and thought maybe he’d just take a nap. No sense in struggling any now. He’d wake up in the hospital or in an ambulance, already hooked up to a morphine drip. He could handle that. The man’s voice was loud and angry. “Colton!” Terry opened his eyes and made out another shape standing over him. A smaller shape. A child. The edges were fuzzy, but Terry made out the Karate Turtles on the dirty cotton t-shirt looming above him. “Colton, don’t touch him!”
Colton looked up to his father. “Call the am-blance?”
Colton’s father stepped over and looked at Terry and though Terry couldn’t say for sure, he thought the indistinct shape of the man and his voice were familiar. “Get out of here, Colton. Go home.”
Colton turned to go and asked again, as he left, “Am-blance?”
“Fuck no,” his father said. He looked down and Terry could’ve sworn he smiled. Terry felt the man’s foot push down on his chest like an anvil. Terry saw a red spray and felt the blood spurt out of the sucking hole in his chest in a fresh new geyser. As he slipped away he heard the man say, “Not yet. He’s still alive.”
CHOWDER
He drove through the hills with Hettie beside him, a bag full of money with his Glock on top between them. They pulled into the trailer park and all the way to the back of the lot. Chowder left the keys in the ignition and got out of the truck. “You fill the tank while I tie up some loose ends,” he told his wife, and he went up to Darlin’s office door. As Hettie pulled out of the lot he unlocked the door and went inside. It was empty and Chowder muttered to himself. If that was the way Irm was gonna run things that was her problem. He was out.
He moved quickly, dismantling the credit card machine and clearing out files, such as there were. He went through the refrigerator as an afterthought, grabbing something for the road. He took the phone out of his pocket and made a final call to the sheriff.
Mondale answered. “What is it?”
“You get yourself witnessed?”
“Sorta. We clear on your end?”
Chowder grinned. “I took a monster bowel movement this morning, Jimbo.” There was nothing on the other end of the line. “Yeah, we’re good.”
“Just keep your head low, for a bit, we oughtta be good.”
“Don’t let the Attorney get into your panties, alright?”
“Sure. You done?”
“Over and out,” Chowder said, thinking to himself, you have no idea.
He hung up and sat down on the steps to wait for Hettie to return. He looked at the phone in his hand and considered calling his daughter to say goodbye.