TREASURE KILLS (Legends of Tsalagee Book 1) (13 page)

By the time they got up the porch steps, through the door, down the hall to the kitchen, and sitting at the breakfast table, they found their fries and burgers cold. Anyway, Artie did, Galynn had gotten a fresh salad with a sliced slab of broiled chicken on top. Artie took a couple of bites of one burger and tossed it aside.

“I need a beer,” he said. He lurched toward the fridge, grabbed a can inside it, and hopped the two steps back to the table. He sat down with a sigh and popped open the can.

Galynn forked around in her salad taking an occasional bite as she looked about the place. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and strewn around the countertops. Empty beer, pork ’n beans, and Chef Boyardee cans also occupied parts of the counter. She’d seen more of the same in the living room when they’d passed through. All rooms were accented with various articles of discarded clothing and a thick layer of dust..

“This place is a dump,” she observed. Then added, “You live like a pig.”

“Thanks,” Artie said.

“You’re welcome,” Galynn answered. Then added, “Your dad would’ve been real proud of how well you’ve kept the place.”

Artie opened up the prescription sack from Applegate’s and fished out the bottle of Vicodin. He popped two into his mouth and chased them down with the last of his beer. He set the can down on the table and belched. “I’m going to bed,” he said and hobbled off toward his bedroom.

Galynn continued eating her salad as she watched him crash along the hallway, toward the bedroom. She looked around the kitchen again, then sighed and shook her head.

* * *

Artie awoke at 2:15 in the morning with his arm and leg throbbing, and his newly shaved and patched head itching terribly around the stitches. When he tried to scratch the area, sharp pain overtook the general hurting coming from other parts. He thought he was in the military hospital in Germany; eventually, his senses came around and he remembered he was back home.

The room wasn’t totally dark. The small lamp beside his bed glowed on low intensity. Under it on the nightstand stood a glass of water and two bottles of medicine. One bottle sat on a piece of paper upon which Galynn had written a note. It read:

You need to take your antibiotic. I’ll be back about noon tomorrow to check on you. I’ll bring lunch.—G

Artie grabbed the bottle of Vicodin, took out two tablets, and swallowed them down with the water. He fell back down in the bed and waited for the buzz.

He awoke with bright sunlight in his eyes coming from the edges of the window blind. The room was warm, the sheets under him were damp with sweat, and he really had to pee. But the dream had awakened him. He had been standing in the turret of the humvee waving to his buddy Ouderkirk, who waved back. Then he disappeared in a ball of fire. He dreamed that dream a lot. Sometimes he cried out his buddy’s name or just screamed. He wasn’t sure if he had done either this time.

His leg and arm hurt, but only dully. His head woozed, still feeling groggy from the last dose of Vicodin. He swung out of bed into a sitting position, and grabbed his crutch leaning against the chair beside the nightstand. Still sitting, he held his crutch at the ready, waiting for the remainder of the cobwebs to clear before standing. Not much came to mind about the day before, except Galynn checking him out of the hospital, and his ride home with her. They hadn’t talked much, because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know where to start. Silence seemed to be the best way to go about it all, or at least the easiest, so that’s what he did.

The small digital alarm clock on the nightstand read 10:18. He rose onto the crutch. Once up, his head, arm, and leg became a Kingston Trio of pain, strumming rhythmically to his heartbeat. The strands of the song “Tom Dooley” started looping through his mind, as he shambled toward the bathroom.

In the bathroom, he noticed things looked different. The bathroom counter was clean, the mirror had no streaks, the sink sparkled. When he looked down into the toilet again, he saw that it no longer had the green ring around the water’s edge. He pushed back the shower curtain, and saw the tub gleaming bright.

He washed his face, looked at himself in the mirror, and decided he needed a beer. The kitchen astonished him: bare countertops, clean sink, not an empty can or piece of trash exposed anywhere, the floor spotless and shining. The tabletop not only sparkled clean, but a full napkin holder sat atop it flanked by salt and pepper shakers and a sugar bowl. A water-filled jar sat amongst the group with three fresh cut roses sticking out of it.

Artie plopped down in one of the chairs at the table. He looked at the roses, and around the whole room. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The thought, “The place even smells good” came to him as the verse
Hang down your head Tom Doo-ley
rang out in the background behind that thought.

Artie still sat at the kitchen table at noon when Galynn came in the back door. She had a sack full of groceries in one arm, and a big bottle of laundry detergent in the other. Artie had two empty beer cans sitting on the table in front of him, working on a third. Galynn sat the bottle of detergent on top of the washing machine and came into the kitchen. She looked at Artie and his beer cans. Without saying anything, she moved to the counter by the sink, deposited the grocery sack, and started unloading it.

“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked.

Artie held up his beer can and said, “Yep.”

Galynn paused and looked at him. “I don’t think that counts. What about your antibiotics, have you taken any of them?”

“Nope,” Artie answered.

Galynn stopped unloading her sack, and headed for the bedroom. In a few seconds she came back with the bottle of medicine. She read the label, then opened the bottle, dumped two pills into her hand, and offered them to Artie. He took them from her, and washed them down with his beer. Galynn returned to her grocery sack.

“Did you get any beer?” Artie asked. “I’m out of beer.”

“Dang it,” she said with mock exasperation. “I knew I forgot something.”

Artie decided to ignore the scorn. “Place looks nice,” he said. “Smells better, too. I guess you did all this?” He leaned forward and sniffed the roses.

“Yes, and you’re welcome. The roses came from your dad’s rose bush. He loved those roses. You should take better care of them.”

Artie nodded.

“After lunch I’m going to try to get some of the stench out of your clothes. Do the washer and dryer still work?”

Artie shrugged.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

Galynn had brought a roasted chicken, a container of steamed green beans, and some rolls she’d gotten at the Walmart deli. She also got a sack of ready-made salad ingredients and served all that up for lunch. As she was putting it together, the aroma of the roasted chicken assaulted Artie, and he discovered his hunger. He sat sipping his iced tea after voraciously devouring his lunch. They had eaten in silence. Artie watched Galynn leisurely eat hers.

“Why you being so nice to me?” he asked her.

Galynn sawed off a piece of the chicken, and put the forked meat into her mouth. She looked at Artie as she chewed. Galynn swallowed, and took a drink of her tea before she answered.

“I don’t know. God knows you don’t deserve it. I guess it’s because you’re so pathetic.”

Artie nodded and smiled weakly. “Pathetic, huh?”

Galynn continued with her meal and nodded back. “Mmm hmm,” she said.

Artie looked out the kitchen window, and after a few seconds softly sang, “Hadn’t uh been fer Grayson, I’d been in Tennessee.”

“What?” Galynn asked.

“Aw nothing,” he said. “Just an old song been rattling around in my head all morning. Can’t seem to get rid of it.”

Chapter 13

Arlene’s Gets New Customers

Jo Lynn had seen plenty of rough characters come into Arlene’s over the years, but she could easily place these two somewhere in the top five. One was huge with a cue ball brown head. A scar ran diagonally across his face. The other was short and scrawny with a whiskered face and a single braid of hair draped over his left shoulder. Neither removed their aviator shades as they sat at the counter. The big one’s twining, sinister tattoos filled her with uneasiness. They also sat on Hayward Yost’s and Soc Ninekiller’s counter stools, despite the little tented “Reserved” signs sitting on the counter in front of them.

“How you boys doin’?” she asked them. The big one looked at her with a scowl and nodded. The little one gave her a predatory grin, and she could feel him undressing her with his eyes. She quit smiling back at him and returned a cold stare.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Cheeseburger and fries,” the big one said in a deep bass.

“Yeah, me too, hotstuff,” said the little one.

“And to drink?”

“Coke,” said the big one. “Dr. Pepper,” said the little creep.

“Say, I hate to ask you this,” Jo Lynn said. She tried to smile at them again. “But I wonder if you’d mind moving down a couple of stools. These two you’re sitting on are kind of reserved for a couple of old-timers who come in every afternoon about this time. They’re old World War II veterans—hometown boys—the last we have here in Tsalagee, so I’ve kind of reserved these two places for them.”

The big one looked at her stonily, and the little one giggled nastily.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jo Lynn continued. But it didn’t look like her plea would have any effect on them. “Tell you what, I’ll give you your drinks free,” she said.

The big one, without saying a word, got up and moved five stools down. His little toady followed him.

In mid-afternoon, Arlene’s usually had few customers. She, her cook Poncho, and Carl Broadnik, who sat in a corner booth with his pie and coffee, were the only ones there when the two had come in.

Jo Lynn didn’t think Mr. Broadnik would be much of a deterrent if these two strangers decided to rob her. In all the time she’d been at Arlene’s they’d never been robbed. The only attempt had come late one night from a strung-out transient who burst in the door, held a gun on Jo Lynn and screamed almost hysterically “Give me da money! Give me da money!” Fortunately, Punch had been in the kitchen at the time. He had gone out the back door, run around to the front, and bopped the guy on the head before he knew what hit him. It turned out the idiot had a plastic gun.

In the old days the crowds in Arlene’s would be big enough to discourage any would be robbers. The café used to be the happening place in town, but after the casino opened, and all the fast food places sprung up, the tourist and gambling crowd didn’t find Arlene’s chic or fast enough. Arlene’s still had its traditional crowd, those loyal residents who had come to the café for years, even generations. But those faithful mainly came for breakfast and lunch. Weekdays, the lunch crowd was usually in and out by 1:30; except for Mr. Broadnik, who lingered.

Something about these two strangers just gave Jo Lynn the creeps. After she served the two men their burgers and drinks, Jo Lynn slipped into the room where the Kiwanis and Lions Clubs’ met, and popped open her cell phone. She dialed the police station.

“Sah-gey pleece thiz Pete,” the dispatcher answered.

“Pete, this is Jo Lynn,” she said in a whisper.

“Who?” Pete asked loudly.

Jo Lynn turned her whisper volume up a notch. “It’s Jo Lynn... Roundstep... at Arlene’s.”

“Oh, hey, Jo Lynn. How you doing? You got a cold or something?”

“No, listen. I’ve got a couple of suspicious looking characters over here and there ain’t no one here but me and Poncho. I don’t know if these guys are going to do anything, but I’d feel better if you’d send Charlie or somebody by here to hang out a while until these guys leave.”

“Ten-four that, Jo Lynn. I’ll get a squad over there right away.”

“Thanks and hurry,” she said, and snapped her phone shut. When she turned around to leave the room, the little creep stood two feet away from her grinning lecherously. She screeched and jumped backwards.

The guy held up a ketchup bottle and said, “Got any more ketchup? This one’s empty.” Then he popped open the cap with his thumb, licked the residue off the squirt hole, and grinned again.

Poncho stood in the doorway holding a meat cleaver, “Jew hokay, Yo Leen?” he asked.

Jo Lynn hurried around the creep and pushed by Poncho. “Yes, everything’s fine. This man just needs some more ketchup. I’ll get him some.” She hurried behind the counter and pulled a fresh bottle of ketchup out of the lower cabinet. She slapped it down on the counter between the little creep’s and the big man’s plates. The big brute looked up at her with his same cold, emotionless expression. The little creep returned to his seat, still giggling. “Thanks, puddin’ pie,” he said to her. Then he squeezed a half a cup of ketchup onto his plate.

Jo Lynn moved to her right toward the L in the counter where the cash register sat. She stopped where the tubs of clean flatware sat under the lunch counter and started pulling out the utensils and rolling them in paper napkins. She wanted to have her hands on knives and forks in case she needed a weapon.

“Nice place you got here,” the big one said. He looked around, even over his left shoulder to the back corner booth where Carl Broadnik sat.

“Thanks,” Jo Lynn said. She continued rolling forks and knives into napkins.

Poncho had gone back into the kitchen, but he stationed himself at the order window, watching. Jo Lynn imagined that he still had that meat cleaver in his hand.

“You the owner?” the brute asked. His little weasel buddy kept looking at her, grinning his rotten teeth grin.

“Uh-huh,” she said. Her hands shook, and her heart pounded. Fear formed a solid knot in the pit of her stomach.

“Not a whole lot of business today,” the big guy said, looking back at Mr. Broadnik again. “I bet that casino has took a lot of your customers.”

“Oh, it’s usually slow this time of the day,” Jo Lynn said. Then she realized her mistake, and quickly added. “But we get a lot of regulars coming in starting about now. Usually get some police coming in for their afternoon break.”