Peckerwood (2 page)

Cliff was in no mood.

Chowder Thompson was nothing but a new splinter in his asshole and every minute wasted on this rinky-dink, shitkicker operation Cliff felt that sliver push in deeper. Got fidgety.

The backwood badass routine was tired and Chowder’s ex-Buc status meant exactly dick back in Memphis, but Bug was also an ex-Buc and Bug thought he saw fortune flash her snatch when Chowder’s name had popped up. Bug had sold the Memphis outfit on the benefits of a partnership with his ex-biker pal and they seemed overly impressed with Chowder’s independent status – said ‘Go feel him out.’ Now Cliff was stuck chaperoning the date. If they woke up knocked-up it was Bug gonna hold the grip-end of this stick, and Cliff would have to jump.

As far as Cliff was concerned, independent just meant Mickey Mouse stakes, plus having to deal with a buncha new poor white trash with very little cash money to spend and another entrenched good-old-boy cop-force to cut in. Besides, since when did they negotiate with two-bit, ofay trailer park pimps?

Watching the former bike buddies trade stories, Cliff thought hard about his options. One way or the other, he didn’t figure Memphis needed Chowder Thompson or Spruce, Missouri, and if Bug couldn’t see that, then Memphis didn’t need his ass either.

Play his cards right, Cliff might be able to have Chowder knock off Bug.

Then maybe Cliff would draw the assignment to deal with Chowder.

The chance to prove his worth like that would be more than an honor. It would be a pleasure.

CHAPTER TWO

CHOWDER

Chowder looked at this puffy version of his old comrade limping along behind him, and had an unpleasant revelation:
I am fucking old
. Bug was giving him a hard-sell, but thought he had the common touch. Chowder’d heard similar offers before. Work with us. Work for us. Let us lease your assets. From Little Rock, Tulsa, Louisville. He hadn’t been sold.

But here came Memphis trotting out Bug. Used to look like a flinty Chuck Connors, but now he resembled a twice-fried ham-steak in a new leather jacket and crisp do-rag carefully tied over that scarred old pate. Bug, who’d done three years in Joliet for the Bucs, back when people said Chowder himself looked like Lee Majors’ ugly brother, but was now evangelizing some kind of middle-management office job working for criminal K-Mart.

“Shit, we’re getting old, y’know?”

“Speak for yourself, Bug.”

“Someday sooner than before is all I’m saying. How well you walking these days, Chowder? Your knee bend more than thirty degrees? Time to get a cushy job, I think.”

“So why Memphis?”

Bug shrugged. “Just the way it happened.”

“These guys are organized?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Chowder’s cabin was not on the lake itself, but high up in the hills beyond with a view that included a fat slice of the water. It was less than ten miles from Darlin’s, his trailer park brothel, but nearly an hour’s drive along the winding, narrow, unpaved roads that snaked through the hills outside Spruce.

Chowder led his two Memphis guests through the front room and out to the back porch that rested upon fifteen- and twenty-five-foot-long stilts dug into the slope below. With all the lights off, the three of them could see for miles and the sounds of the woodland nightlife was spread over the gaps in the conversation like so much padding. The atmosphere was thick with heat and life. Speaking inside it was like moving under water. Everything slowed to the rhythm of the place.

A glow was visible on the horizon and Cliff, his other Tennessee visitor, the skeptic, pointed languidly toward it. “Branson?”

Chowder leaned forward and spat over the railing. “Yeah. Fuckers taking it in hand over fist.”

“Don’t have to tell me. Least Elvis had the decency to die before he ended up there.” Cliff braced his hands on the railing and looked off into the inky black of the Eastern view. Bug sat in a deck chair and lit a cigarette. Chowder rested his tailbone against the railing and the three of them let the bugs and birds feed and fuck as loudly as they would.

Finally Chowder spoke. “How qualified are you to talk to me?”

Cliff turned and looked at Bug coaxing smoke through the filter.

Bug said. “Hey, you know me, man. I wouldn’t bring anybody along that was gonna waste your time. Cliff’s qualified, trust me.”

Chowder didn’t take his eyes off of Cliff. “Whatever I say to you, I don’t want to have to say it again to somebody else in a month.”

Cliff’s gaze firmed up. Chowder went on, “If I deal with you, that’s it, right?”

Cliff turned away from Chowder and addressed the night. “I speak for Memphis.”

The crunch of tires sounded on the gravel driveway out front. “Good. C’mon, entertainment’s here.”

It started as dancing. The slinky riff of The Cars’ “Let the Good Times Roll” pulsed through the cabin, and the girls stood and began to undulate for them. Bug and Cliff broke out their stash.

It brought some wild times to mind, flying with the Bucs all night down back roads cranked and mellowed at the same time, sometimes days straight, then shacking up somewhere with his old lady or one of the eager hangers-on after his old lady started staying home with the kid. He did miss it sometimes, but as much as he hated to admit it, Bug was right, he was getting old.

Steve Miller muscled his way onto the sound system and the scene turned more social. Cliff, Bug and two of the girls mixed hash and pills. They washed it all down with snifters of cognac as the vintage jukebox in the corner played classic rock that stopped cold at 1982. The cabin was Chowder’s Presidential Suite, the place he entertained VIPs if it was called for. The wood was dark and the track lighting just enough to keep you from bumping into the furniture. There was a mammoth satellite dish in the front yard, a boat on a trailer in the garage below and the kitchen and bar were kept stocked with the good life, but Chowder never used the place himself.

If either guest was made uncomfortable by Chowder’s abstinence or the gruff woman chaperone watching casually from the dark back corner, it didn’t show.

After an hour of unwinding, Bug retired with the blonde to one of the cabin’s bedrooms and Cliff took the redhead into another. The juke continued to suggest a party even after those attuned to its ideas had left the room. Chowder stretched, popped his neck, and went to the fridge in the kitchen. He passed by the fancy stuff and selected a Coors.

“Want one?” he said to the third woman.

“No, I’m good.” She was thickly muscled like a farm girl with hair dyed black and cut into abrupt bangs and corners above her shoulders. She had heavy bosoms and wide hips and her arms and legs were far from dainty, but she wasn’t fat yet. When she stood, her shape was more apparent. She had the athletic build of a wrestler, low and compact, and she bristled with an intensity that made most people uneasy, which is why Chowder always insisted she stay in a corner, out of the way, when she chaperoned.

“You sure?” Chowder gestured toward the shelves of liquor behind the bar. “Gonna be a long night.”

“Dad, I’m fine.” She stood and stretched, cracking her back and neck and arms before reaching for the Glock in her waistband and tossing it to her father. Chowder checked the action and slipped it into his own jeans before downing his drink.

“What’d you bring, Irm?”

She went out the front door and Chowder drained a second beer in the thirty seconds it took her to return with a pump shotgun. Chowder whistled low. “You look bad ass.”

Irma pretended not to hear. “Ready?”

Chowder grabbed another silver bullet and cracked the tab as he headed back across the room. “Let’s give ‘em another half hour.”

Irm looked irritated, but that wasn’t unusual. “The fuck are we gonna do for half an hour?”

Chowder sat down in the overstuffed leather recliner and kicked his feet up. “Bitch about your mom.”

Assistant State’s Attorney Dennis Jordan found himself in a state of sexual excitement listening to the snitch’s story. Police corruption, prostitution, drug-running, murder for hire, it was a career-maker if he’d ever heard one.

He took out his note pad and began to write furiously. After a moment the snitch stopped talking. Jordan looked up from his notes.

The snitch wanted his full attention. “Let’s talk about my deal.”

ASA Jordan looked over the list of names and titles he’d been making: Senator Dennis Jordan, Governor Dennis Jordan, Attorney General Dennis Jordan and circled the last one written down: Sheriff Jimmy Mondale.

“Alright, let’s do. What do you want?”

CHAPTER THREE

MONDALE

The information Chowder had given him was that the house way out off of the county road had a lab in the basement. No shit. The shack was straight out of redneck meth-cook central casting. Jimmy Mondale was one for appearances where drug busts were concerned, so when he’d received the tip, he’d gone through all the proper channels and waited for the wheels of justice to grind along and plant a warrant in their hands.

Deputy Musil pulled his cruiser up next to Jimmy’s and the window came down. “Bob.”

“Jimmy.”

“Got it?”

Musil handed the warrant through the open window. Mondale looked it over carefully, not because he was concerned with its legitimacy, but because he was putting off the raid. He had no particular love for Earl Sutter, but he didn’t want to bust him either. Far as he knew, Earl was just another poor, out of work, working-man who cooked crank for his own use and to turn a quick buck. Out here, he didn’t even have neighbors to be bothered if he blew himself up.

Mondale was just sweeping up Chowder’s work-space.

Deputy Townsend, sitting next to him in the front seat, leaned over for a better view. “Looks good, yeah? Ready?” The young deputy’s enthusiasm for this part of the job was common, but it rankled Mondale. Townsend had gone to school with Earl Sutter, grew up in the same area, had probably dated the same girls, maybe went to the same parties and social events, but here’s how they turned out; Townsend on the side of the angels, and Sutter a shitbird.

Mondale folded it and nodded his head. “Yeah, it’s good. Let’s do it.” He and Townsend got out of the car and Musil parked his own and joined them. He sent the deputies the long way around, through the scrub trees.

When they’d confirmed their positions, he walked up the gravel driveway, past the exposed cinder-block addition, underneath the gutterless overhang, until he stood on the sagging front porch.

He knocked on the door hard and quick and called out. “Earl Sutter, open up. Police.”

And listened.

Inside he heard a faint rustle of movement.
C’mon, don’t make it worse.
He rapped again and shouted, “Open up, Earl, or I’ll have to come on in. Don’t be dumb, son. I’ve got a warrant here.”

From behind the door, he heard the sounds of panic setting in.
Shit
.

The doorframe was rotting and gave way easily with the third kick. The house was dark. Gray daylight dripped through chips in the crumbling aluminum-foil shields plastered into the front windows. The corrosive stink of the place made his eyes water, and he paused to let them adjust to the dark. From the back corner of the house he heard the toilet flushing. He followed the sound.

Mondale heard Musil coming through the back door off the kitchen. Before he reached the back of the house, the bathroom door burst open and the blurry shape of Earl Sutter rushed past him, and through Musil’s diving tackle. Mondale stepped over his deputy, checking on him with a backward glance. Musil looked up from the floor at him, “I’m fine,” he grunted, out of breath, too old at forty-five for this kind of work. “Go on.”

Jimmy had three years on him, but was wiry and agile where Bob Musil had put on a pronounced potbelly that made for a rough landing. He followed Sutter through the house and heard the crash of glass breaking from the bedroom ahead of him. He entered the room just in time to watch the mutt jump out the window he’d just thrown a boom box through. Earl’s foot caught on the jagged sill and went down hard, but rolled and was already running when he started to rise.

There was no way Jimmy was following him through the window. He saw Townsend come in from the side and tackle Sutter just as he was about to hit a burst of speed. The two men went sprawling in opposite directions and Mondale turned on his heels and reversed course to the kitchen and the back door.

Musil was right behind him as they hobbled gingerly through the broken glass and garbage spilling out of the overturned trash can on the ground. Outside, they found Deputy Townsend straddling Sutter’s back, struggling to cuff him. The self-employed redneck was still wiggling, trying to get away, unable to see that it was over, or unable to care, digging his hole deeper as fast as he could.

“Whoa, there, Earl.” Mondale called. The man looked at him, his eyes wide and teeth clenched, “C’mon, son, settle down, not helping yourself any.” Some of the fight leaked out of Sutter and the wrestling became less frantic.

Townsend clamped the cuffs around one of Earl’s wrists and then the other. The young deputy rolled off of his quarry and stood, beaming at the two older policemen. “That was a rush,” he said.

Mondale looked at the man on the ground. His ankle was cut from catching on glass, going through the window, and it was beginning to bleed profusely. Musil was already on it, trying to staunch the flow with a hankie.

Mondale leaned forward, resting his palms on his kneecaps and sucking breaths greedily. He looked at Townsend. “Go get the car. Get him to the hospital.” Townsend nodded and took off at a trot for the cruiser.

Earl Sutter spit. “I don’t need no hospital.”

“You’re my responsibility and you’re getting that leg looked at.”

“I can’t afford no fuckin emergency room.”

“Hold still, you’re making it worse.”

“I ain’t goin to no hospital, fuck you.”

Deputy Musil reached down and slapped the back of Earl’s head. “Hey. Shut up. Save it for your lawyer.”

“I ain’t got a lawyer, fool.”

Mondale knelt down to be at eye level with Earl Sutter. “Listen to me, Earl. This is what you need to do. We’re arresting you for that lab you got downstairs, okay?”

“Man, I don’t know what you’re even talkin about.”

Musil broke in. “Don’t interrupt the sheriff, asshole.”

“Earl, what you’re going to want to do is call a lawyer, or call a family member to get one for you.”

“Man, I –“

“Earl!” Mondale barked. It got his attention. “You’re gonna want to have somebody start working on bail for you too. You have anyone you want me to call, let them know you need bail money?”

Earl started shaking his head, “Nobody I know got that kind of money.”

“Listen, son, you didn’t point any weapons at us and, as far as this little scratch goes, it doesn’t have to have been from resisting arrest. We’re talking probably a few hundred dollars, Earl, who can I call?”

Earl Sutter just shook his head.

Jimmy Mondale had been Sheriff of Hamilton County, Missouri for nearly twenty years, and seen some discouraging things, but nothing torpedoed his boner for life like his ex wife’s new name on the caller ID on a Friday night. What the woman could want from him now that she’d moved away, moved on, and moved her bowels so well, he couldn’t guess.

He looked at the St. Louis area code and steeled himself. He could ignore the ringing phone, but Shirley would talk to him on the answering machine like she knew he was standing there listening, trying to avoid her. She had a way of sensing that sort of thing that only ended up putting him in a defensive posture every time they spoke. He took a deep breath and picked up.

“Hey Shirl.”

“Hey Jim, how are you?” As soon as she spoke, her presence was unwelcome, but unavoidable all around him. He smelled the laundry and spray-cleaner scent of her and could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck like she’d never left. He was going to get drunk after this.

“Same as ever. How’re you and whatshisname?” He flinched as soon as he said it. Made him sound as petty and spiteful as he was and didn’t want to admit.

“We’re fine.” She wasn’t going to rise to his bait. “Have you talked to Eileen lately?”

Shit. What now?
Their youngest daughter, Eileen, had taken on a wild streak in high school that hadn’t curbed. He’d had to pull some professional strings to smooth over the trouble she’d gotten into in Cedar Rapids her freshman year at Truman State. He hated doing that, trading on his badge for favors, but what was he supposed to do? She was his daughter. “No, I haven’t heard from her, why?”

The heavy sigh on her end came through so clear he got a tingle in his trousers and turned sideways to get more comfortable. “We were expecting her yesterday, but she’s a no- show and we thought maybe she’d happened your way.”

That cooled his semi, but didn’t raise alarm. Eileen was an adult and not obligated to alert her parents of her plans. It was rude, but not out of character, for her to blow them off. “You called Liz?” Their other daughter, married to a dull and successful young lawyer and expecting her first child in Kansas City, had little to do with either of them anymore, angry over the dissolution of their marriage, but was still close with her younger sister.

“Yeah, she hasn’t heard anything.”

“I’ll put out the usual feelers, but don’t worry, she’s probably just found a new boyfriend.” He hated the way that sounded as much as he knew Shirley did, but feigning coolness and resignation regarding their children’s life choices was the single edge he had on his ex wife.

“That girl is throwing her life away. How can you be okay with that?”

He smiled a tiny bit at her tone. He’d pushed the right button. “Hey, you know it bothers me, the parade of losers she hooks up with, but she’s an adult and not obliged to clear her sex life with her parents.” God, that sounded awful. He’d probably pushed too hard.

“You’re disgusting sometimes, Jim.” She was cold and calm now. He’d lost his advantage by rubbing her nose in it. “Let us know if you hear anything.”

“Will do,” he said to the empty line.

Where was the Wild Turkey?