'Chief Hammer?' West said. 'Chief Hammer? Are you still there?'
'Bubba…' the second stranger crackled again. 'Somebody's on…'
Static, scratch, blare, blip.
'Goddamn it,' West muttered when her phone went dead.
Bubba's real name was Butner Fluck IV. Unlike so many fearless men devoted to pickup trucks, guns, topless bars and the Southern Cross, he had not been born into the tribe of Bubbas, but rather had grown up the son of a theologian in the Northside neighborhood of Ginter Park, where old mansions were in disrepair and Civil War cannonballs on porches were popular. Butner came from a long line of Burners who always went by the nickname 'But', and it was lost on his erudite father, Dr. But Fluck III, that calling his son But in this day and age set the child up for problems.
By the time little But had entered the first grade, the slurs, the slander and the derision were on every tongue. They were whispered in class, shouted on buses and playing fields, and drawn on sheets of notebook paper slipped from desk to desk or left inside little But's locker. When he wrote his name it was But Fluck. In the teacher's grade books he was Fluck, But.
Any way he looked at it, he was screwed, really, and of course his peers came up with any number of other renditions. Mother-But-Flucker, Butter-Flucker, But-Flucking-Boy, Buttock-Fluck, and so on. When he retreated into his studies and went to the head of the class, new pet names were added to the list. But-Head, Pluck-Head, Mother-Flucking-But-Head, Head-But-Head, et al.
For But's ninth birthday he requested camouflage and several toy guns. He became a compulsive eater. He spent a lot of time in the woods hunting imaginary prey. He immersed himself in a growing stash of magazines featuring mercenary soldiers, anarchists, trucks, assault weapons, Civil War battlefields and women in swimsuits. He collected manuals on simple car care and repair, automotive tools and wiring, wilderness survival, fishing, and hiking in bear country. He sneaked cigarettes and was rude. His tenth year he changed his name to Bubba and was feared by all.
This early Monday morning Bubba was driving home from third shift at Philip Morris, his CB and two-way radios turned on, his portable phone plugged into the cigarette lighter, Eric Clapton on the CD player. His stainless steel Colt Anaconda.44 with its eight-inch barrel and Bushnell Holo sight on a B-Square base was tucked under his seat within quick reach.
Multiple antennas bobbed on his red 1990 Jeep Cherokee, which Bubba did not realize had been listed in the Used Car Buying Guide as a used car to avoid, or that it had been wrecked and had a hundred thousand more miles on it than the odometer showed. Bubba had no reason to doubt his good buddy, Joe 'Smudge' Bruffy, who last year had sold the Jeep to Bubba for only three thousand dollars more than the Blue Book value.
In fact, it was Smudge who Bubba had been talking to on the portable phone moments earlier when two other voices broke in. Bubba hadn't been able to make out what the two women were saying, but the name 'Chief Hammer' had been unmistakable. He knew it meant something.
Bubba had been raised in a Presbyterian atmosphere of predestination, God's will, inclusive language, exegesis and colorful stoles. He had rebelled. In college he had studied Far Eastern religions to spite his father, but none of Bubba's acting out had eradicated the essence of his early indoctrination. Bubba believed there was purpose. Despite all setbacks and personal flaws, he had faith that if he accumulated enough good karma, or perhaps if yin and yang ever got along, he would discover the reason for his existence.
So when he heard Chief Hammer's name over the cell phone, he experienced a sudden release of gloominess and menacing persecution, a buoyant happiness and surge of power. He was transformed into the warrior on a mission he had always been destined to become as he followed Midlothian Turnpike to Muskrat's Auto Rescue, this time for another windshield leak. Bubba snapped up the mike of his two-way Kenwood radio and switched over to the security channel.
'Unit 1 to Unit 2.' He tried to raise Honey, his wife, as he followed the four-lane artery of Southside out of Chesterfield County and into the city limits.
No answer. Bubba's eyes scanned his mirrors. A Richmond police cruiser pulled in behind him. Bubba slowed down.
'Unit 1 to Unit 2,' Bubba tried again.
No answer. Some shithead kid in a white Ford Explorer was trying to cut in front of Bubba. Bubba sped up.
'Unit 1 to Unit 2!' Bubba hated it when his wife didn't respond to him immediately.
The cop remained on Bubba's tail, dark Oakleys staring straight into Bubba's rearview mirror. Bubba slowed again. The punk in the Explorer tried to ease in front of Bubba, right turn signal flashing. Bubba sped up. He deliberated over what form of communication to use next, and picked up his portable phone. He changed his mind. He thought about trying his wife again on the two-way and decided not to bother. She should have gotten back to him the first and second times. The hell with her. He snapped up the mike to his CB, eyeing the cop in his mirrors and keeping a check on the Explorer.
'Yo, Smudge,' Bubba hailed his buddy over the CB. 'You on track come back to yack.'
'Unit 2,' his wife's out-of-breath voice came over the two-way.
Bubba's portable phone rang.
'Sorry… oh my…" Honey said sweetly as she gasped. 'I was… oh dear… let me catch my breath… whew… was chasing Half Shell… she wouldn't come… That dog.'
Bubba ignored her. He answered the phone.
'Bubba?' said Gig Dan, Bubba's supervisor at Philip Morris.
Trackin' and yackin', buddy,' Smudge came back over the CB.
'Unit 2 to Unit 1?' Honey persisted anxiously over the two-way.
'Yo, Gig,' Bubba said into the portable phone. 'What's goin' on?'
'Need ya to come in and work the second half of second shift,' Gig told him. 'Tiller called in sick.'
Shit, Bubba thought. Today of all days when there was so much to do and so little time. It depressed the hell out of him to think about showing up at eight o'clock tonight and working twelve straight hours.
'Ten-4,' Bubba replied to Gig.
'When you wanna shine on yellow eyes?' Smudge hadn't given up.
Bubba didn't really like coon hunting all that much. His coon dog Half Shell had her problems, and Bubba worried about snakes. Besides, Smudge always got a higher score. It seemed all Bubba did was lose money to him.
'Before slithers wake up, I guess.' Bubba tried to sound sure of himself. 'So go ahead and shake out a plan.'
'Ten-fo, good buddy,' Smudge came back. 'Gotcha covered like a blanket.'
Chapter Two
Smoke was a special needs child. This had become apparent in the second grade when he had stolen his teacher's wallet, punched a female classmate, carried a revolver to school, set several cats on fire and smashed up the principal's station wagon with a pipe.
Since those early misguided days in his hometown of Durham, North Carolina, Smoke had been written up fifty-two times for assault, cheating, plagiarism, extortion, harassment, gambling, truancy, dishonesty, larceny, disruptive dress, indecent literature and bus misconduct.
He had been arrested six times for crimes ranging from sexual assault to murder, and had been on probation, on supervised probation with special conditions, in an Alternative to Detention Program, in detention, in a wilderness camp therapeutic program, in a community guidance clinic where he received psychological evaluation and in an anger-coping group.
Unlike most juveniles who are delinquent, Smoke had parents who showed up for all of his court appearances. They visited him in detention. They paid for attorneys and dismissed one right after the other when Smoke complained and found fault. Smoke's parents enrolled him in four different private schools and blamed each one when it didn't work out.