Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 03 (5 page)

"Mrs. Jim Bob gave me a damn earful about how you refused to do anything to prevent the incident from getting way out of hand. This is something that will be discussed at the next town council meeting. You may find yourself out of a job, Arly. Then you can sit around all day thinking up smart remarks. You and Ruby Bee can have yourselves a fine time."

"Don't tell me, don't tell me. Ruby Bee said something that didn't go down real well with you. That woman is crazier than the Nookim broad. Maybe we can figure out how to have the both of them shipped off to the state prison farm, or even better, to a penal colony off the coast of South America. That's what we ought to do, Jim Bob -- unless you'd prefer I just shoot 'em dead in the street?"

"What I'd prefer is none of your damn business." He stalked across the parking lot toward the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe, a.k.a. Kwik-Screw, muttering all kinds of things under his breath. I noted for the first time that he was slightly bowlegged, unless his jeans were a shade too tight. Poor baby.

I went on into the bar, which was dim and noticeably unpopulated except for a woman perched on a stool at the end of the bar. Ruby Bee is an excellent cook and usually has a mob at every meal. The current situation was downright eerie, I decided as I picked a stool and climbed onto it. The unfamiliar woman glanced up incuriously, then returned to a file spread out in front of her.

I'd pretty well decided she was a sales rep when Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen, snorted in my direction, and joined the woman at the end for a whispered conversation. They were both shooting veiled looks at yours truly, who was merely mystified and hungry.

"Is it possible to get a grilled cheese sandwich?" I asked.

"We're closed," Ruby Bee said. "Didn't you read the sign on the door? Closed means not open, as in come by later if you want something."

My mother gives me hives. I would have stalked away in a huff, but my stomach was pleading for me to stick it out and find out what was going on. "But you've got a customer," I pointed out nicely, "and I ran into Jim Bob leaving a few minutes ago. What's going on -- selective service? Do I have the wrong-colored hair or what?"

The woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties and way too well-dressed for this neck of the woods, gave me a cool smile. "I am not a customer. I stopped here to ask directions and am simply eliciting some further information before I continue."

Ruby Bee gestured at the woman to hush and said, "And Jim Bob Buchanon was told that the bar and grill is closed, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He got testy, but I made it clear I wasn't about to serve the likes of him for a month of Sundays and then some. Now this person and I got things to discuss, so why don't you slide off that stool and wander away to pester other folks?"

"Why are you closed?" I persisted.

"Because I put the Closed sign on the door, Miss Have to Know Everything. You most likely remember what curiosity did to the cat, but if you need a refresher course, I may be willing to oblige you."

"I'm not curious. I'm hungry," I said, wondering what on earth was wrong with Ruby Bee. She'd pulled this conspiracy nonsense once before, and it had ended with a murder, a couple of kidnappings -- Ruby Bee being among those snatched -- and a great deal of Maggody's dirty laundry being waved around for the entertainment of the masses. I thought about reminding her as much but decided there wasn't much point in it. Ruby Bee is not known for profitting from experience. "Well?" she said, watching me through narrowed eyes.

I was working on a snappy retort when Estelle came through the kitchen door. "I called over there, but Putter said she wasn't -- " She stopped with a gulp as she spotted me.

"Arly's leaving right this minute," Ruby Bee informed her, although I suspect the information was aimed at other ears.

"Are you hunting Johnna Mae Nookim?" I asked.

Ruby Bee and Estelle started fidgeting like a pair of toad frogs. The woman glanced at them for a moment, then turned to me and said, "Do you have information concerning her whereabouts at this time?"

"Yep," I said.

There was a long silence. Ruby Bee leaned across the bar to whisper to the woman. After a great deal of hissing, she straightened up and said, "This is Carolyn McCoy-Grunders. She's from WAACO."

"Wacko?" I echoed blankly. "Did you mean to say Waco, as in Texas, or wacko, as in crazy?"

Carolyn gave me a frigid look. "WAACO is the acronym for Women Aligned Against Chauvinism in the Office. We're committed to fighting sexual discrimination and injustice through education, self-awareness, and legal support. Ms. Nookim sent in a letter concerning her treatment by the bank, and I feel there is merit to her accusation."

"I'm impressed you came so quickly," I said, still fighting back a grin. "The legal system grinds exceedingly slow in these matters. I will assist Ms. Nookim in the preparation of a formal complaint for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, but it takes as long as four months to get any response from them. They are overworked and understaffed, or so they claim. We of WAACO are dedicated to immediate action. We demand the injustice be rectified, and we're willing to do whatever is necessary until our demands are met."

"I hope you're willing to baby-sit," I said. "I still haven't had a chance to talk to Sherman Oliver about dropping the battery charge. If you get Johnna Mae riled up again, she may end up in the county jail. Someone will have to pick up her husband's prescription and drive the baby to the shoestore."

"Sacrifices must be made for the betterment of society," Carolyn said smoothly. "We cannot allow personal inconvenience to cloud our purpose."

"Right," Ruby Bee said, although she didn't sound real happy. "So where is Johnna Mae, Arly? You didn't lock her up, did you?"

"She left the PD a couple of hours ago to walk back to the mobile home park. She's had time to get to Hasty and back by now. In any case, now that I'm no longer a pariah, how about that sandwich?"

Estelle put her hands on her hips. "I swear, all you ever think about is food. If you don't watch out, you're going to end up like Dahlia O'Neill, and then you'll be sorry."

On that bright note, I slid off the stool and went on my merry way, leaving the three of them to fight chauvinism, battle injustice, and make all the personal sacrifices they could think of. I was more interested in chicken noodle soup.

-- ==+== --

Brandon Bernswallow sat at his desk at the bank, his hands clasped behind his neck as he gazed at the ceiling. It was obvious that the embezzlement scheme had been going on for years, and with great success. In truth, he rather admired the way it was operated -- very quietly, very discreetly. No large sums that might attract a bank examiner's attention or alert the IRS. Just lots of small sums juggled like shiny silver balls.

However, he thought with a smug smile, the juggler was having a problem keeping the balls in the air. Nothing had crashed yet, but the possibility was very real, now that he had uncovered the scheme. What to do, what to do. He could, of course, expose the embezzlement and demand the perpetrator be prosecuted unmercifully. Betraying the trust of the community. Depriving honest citizens of their hard-earned money. All that crap. He spent a few pleasant minutes imagining himself being interviewed on television, his expression a delicate combination of outrage at the heinous crime and pain at the idea that a bank employee could betray the institution. His father might be impressed enough to transfer Brandon back to the main bank, where he would have a tastefully decorated office, a new desk, martinis for lunch, and a secretary with enormous tits.

Then again, his father was an asshole who spouted off at every opportunity about working one's way up through the system, honest labor, earning one's position, etc. Which was why Brandon was stuck in this miserable little town in this vile branch with dim-witted coworkers and a piddling salary that wasn't going to cover the damn car payment much longer. His father was more than capable of leaving him to rot for years.

The secretary's tits shrank until they resembled the deflated bags on Miss Una's chest. Her firm buttocks spread until they were as wide as Johnna Mae Nookim's rear end. Her bright eyes turned to Sherman Oliver's vaguely unfocused gape. The glare of the television lights went black.

He could expose the crime, but he was likely to get no more than a pat on the head and a notation in his file. The loan company would get his car. There was a second option. The perpetrator had been stashing away money for a very long time. Perhaps it could be shared -- with the one person who knew exactly what was going on and was willing to stay quiet as long as he could drive his Mercedes and dress well.

It wouldn't do to be overly demanding. But it would do quite well to be firm about it, to make it clear that the embezzlement would remain a secret only as long as he was willing to keep his mouth shut. Once he'd decided he would prefer weekly payments, Brandon picked up a pen and began to compose a letter. It was definitely not the sort one dictated to a secretary.

5

The Closed sign stayed on the door of Ruby Bee's Bar and Grill for five days straight. In the beginning, a few of the good ol' boys strolled in just like always, and promptly found themselves right back in the parking lot, their ears stinging and their faces hotter than a bushel of red beets. Not one of them tried it twice.

Which isn't to say all was dark and empty within the hallowed confines. Not by a long shot. All sorts of activity seemed to emanate from the pink building, causing the good ol' boys to scratch their heads and wonder what the hell was goin' on and how they were supposed to have a beer and a plate lunch if the bar was closed, God damn it.

Carolyn McCoy-Grunders's car stayed parked by the door for the most part, although at midnight or so it might be seen around back in front of unit #2. Dahlia O'Neill waddled across the road to the Kwik-Screw every now and then, clutching a shopping list that included such odd things as peanut butter and masking tape. Ruby Bee came and went, as did Estelle (when she could get away from the demands of the beauty parlor). On the second day, Elsie McMay was spotted marching through the door, along with Joyce Lambertino, whose husband Larry Joe was the shop teacher at the high school and also a member of the town council. But when he was asked what was going on, he could only shrug and mumble something about how he and Joyce weren't exactly talking to each other these days. Or nights, for that matter.

Johnna Mae Nookim was rumored to be in there too. The two hippie women from the Emporium started coming by in the evenings. Earl Buchanon's wife, a.k.a. Kevin Buchanon's mother, may have been there, but when anybody tried to ask him if she was, Earl was meaner than a snake with a knot in its tall. Millicent McIlhaney and Edwina Spitz were seen at the door, along with Millicent's daughter Darla Jean, who reputedly looked a little pissed about being dragged along. By the third day, all sorts of mothers, daughters, wives, widows, and spinsters were showing up at various hours. It was starting to look as though half the womenfolk of Maggody were spending a goodly amount of time there -- and they were refusing to say one word about what they were doing.

Lottie Estes told Miss Una that, in her opinion, whatever was going on in there was the work of Satan hisself. Miss Una felt it prudent to agree, although she wasn't real sure Lottie wasn't experiencing those hot flashes again, when she went on and on about how every man in the county was scheming to rape her. Miss Una always found that pretty darn difficult to believe.

Mrs. Jim Bob was obliged to stop by the Kwik-Screw several times a day to pick up a few things, but no matter how long she stood by the cash register staring across the road, she sure couldn't figure out what they were up to in there. She went so far as to ask Brother Verber if he thought they might be forming a coven to practice witchcraft and sacrifice goats and dance around buck naked. He was so disturbed by the suggestion that he thudded to his knees like a load of topsoil and offered a prayer right then and there for the salvation of any souls in need of it at the moment or in the future while they were dancing. Mrs. Jim Bob thought he was being a might melodramatic over what she'd meant to be an idle question, but she didn't say anything and left as quick as she could.

The chief of police was aware of parts of the above, since she was being bombarded with questions about the situation. The PD could have used a revolving door those days, and the linoleum would never be the same. And said person had not one tiny theory about it.

Not that it was keeping me awake at night, mind you. In that Ruby Bee's was the sole nightspot in town, there wasn't much to do except sleep. I'd run by Sherman Oliver's the morning after the picket sign incident, and he'd assured me that he wasn't about to file a complaint. We smiled, shook hands, and left it at that. I called Johnna Mae to tell her the news, and Putter said he'd give her the message. The dreadful tragedy was thus averted, at least for the time being.

I will admit I was wondering about this mysterious gathering, however, and growing increasingly concerned about my nutritional requirements. Canned soup is fine in a pinch, but it doesn't hold a candle to pork chops and cobbler. And cool beer on a sizzling afternoon, even if one had to listen to witty dialogue about hawg prices at the sale barn and the inconvenience of having to go all the dadburned way to the co-op in Starley City to get layer grit (don't ask; it has something to do with chickens and that's all I know).

Therefore, out of nothing more than pure and unadulterated selfishness, I went so far as to wave down Kevin Buchanon one afternoon when he peddled by the PD on his bicycle. "How's it going at the bank?" I asked with incredible slyness, ready to manipulate the conversation at will.

"How's what going?"

"Your job, Kevin," I said patiently. "You do still work at the bank, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure, I still work at the bank. It's just great, Arly. How're things going with you?"

"Just great. Have you popped the question to Dahlia yet?"

"What question would that be?" he said, his Adam's apple bobbing like a salmon fighting its way upstream. "Like, how's it going at the bank or something like that? Dahlia doesn't work at the bank, you know. She's a barmaid at Ruby Bee's. She has been for a long time, and I don't recollect she ever worked at the bank."

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that my goal was information. "I know that. What I wanted to know is if you'd asked Dahlia if she wanted to get married."

He gave me the look of a faithful old hound that'd just been kicked across the room. His eyes began to water. In a ragged voice, he said, "I mentioned something to her about it, but do you know what she said?"

"I don't suppose she shrieked with joy."

"She said -- " He broke off to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "She said that marriage was like being chained up in a dungeon. She said she wasn't about to get herself chained up like that because she was a human being and ought to be treated like a man. I asked her why she wanted to be treated like a man, in that she ain't one to begin with and never was, and she just gave me a real mean look and walked off. I like to have cried."

"Oh," I murmured, touched by his emotionalism if not his eloquence. "Does this have something to do with whatever is happening at Ruby Bee's the last few days?"

"What's happening at Ruby Bee's?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me. I thought Dahlia might have given you a hint or let something drop."

He screwed up his face while he tried to think. I could see it was a painful and unfamiliar process, and I ordered myself not to rush him. After what must have been five minutes, his face eased and he gave me a grin. "Now I remember what she said. She said they was mad about something and were going to turn themselves into men, or something like that. I still don't understand why Dahlia keeps harping about being a man. She's the finest figure of a woman what ever walked the earth. Her cheeks are like peaches and her lips are like cherry cough drops. She's so soft and marshmallowy sweet I could just gaze at her all day long." He sniffled at the image, and pretty soon we were back to watery eyes, a drippy nose, and noisy gulps.

You may have gotten the wrong impression from Kevin's ravings. Dahlia weighs three hundred pounds, at the least. Her cheeks may be the color of peaches, but they're the size of watermelons. The cough drops pass through his lips, along with everything else she can find. She has chins too numerous to count and massive breasts that sway back and forth like a pair of tire swings when she walks. Her expression is that of a bewildered bovine, and she's about as witty as her boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, I supposed.

"So what should I do, Arly?" Kevin said piteously.

"Beats me. I would imagine that she'll get over whatever's bugging her at the moment and take you back. I wouldn't take the treat-me-like-a-man thing too literally and offer her a chaw of tobacco or anything. Just try to listen to her and nod when you don't understand her."

"Gee, Arly, do you really think she'll take me back? What about marriage being chains in a dungeon? I thought we could live in a mobile home. I don't reckon there are any dungeons around these parts anyhow. I wasn't going to make her wear chains, unless they was those nice yellow gold ones with a locket or a pearl."

I considered trying to explain the philosophy of feminist thought to Kevin Buchanon while standing in hundred-degree heat on the edge of the highway. We could be there for days, if not weeks. Months. It occurred to me that I was already brain-baked to toy with the idea of explaining anything to Kevin Buchanon, much less a concept or an abstraction.

"Buy her one of those gold chains with a heart-shaped locket," I said. "Maybe that'll win her back. What about your mother, Kevin? Has she said anything about what's happening at Ruby Bee's?"

"Gosh, no. She hasn't said more than three words all week, and none of them was very nice. This morning she was ironing me a shirt when Pa yelled down at her to get his breakfast on the table. She told him to cook his own damn breakfast. Pa liked to have choked himself on his suspenders; he's never cooked in his whole entire life. He told Ma that that's why he got married, so he'd have a wife to cook and keep house. Ma's voice got colder than a well digger's ass and she told him to take his bacon and stuff it where the sun don't shine. I don't think I've ever seen Pa quite so mad," Kevin concluded in an awed tone. "Or Ma, neither."

"Must have been real entertaining," I said. Kevin pedaled away and I went back into the PD to ponder all that. It was obvious that Carolyn McCoy-Grunders, the woman from WAACO, was stirring up the distaff side of the community. They were hiding out in the bar while they plotted whatever it was they were plotting, and I had an icy feeling in my stomach that it was going to be a doozy of a plot.

Not that I had any objections to a little enlightenment in this last bastion of the dark ages. Earl Buchanon certainly deserved to be told to cook his own damn breakfast and to find an anatomically improbable place to stash the bacon. Johnna Mae had been treated unfairly by the bank. The majority of the women in Maggody considered themselves property of their husbands, to be abused, neglected, beaten, or ordered about like slaves. It wouldn't do any harm for them to raise whatever consciousness they possessed.

However, I was worried about Johnna Mae's potential involvement. Sherman Oliver might be more than a little irked if she started in again picketing the bank and shouting rude things about him. I decided to go over to her mobile home and see if I could convince her that a year in the pokey would be seriously inconvenient.

I drove to the Pot O' Gold and parked in front of her mobile home. A dark-haired child in shorts and a misshapen T-shirt was throwing a ball against the metal wall in a desultory rhythm. He stopped momentarily to gaze at me, then returned to his activity. I went to the door and knocked.