“I sent Plumkin out there to collect the boy, but he came back with the damn dog instead. I want you and Gary to submit formal, written complaints, so get your asses into the station this morning, understand?”
Tony watched the Sheriff of Woodbury collect his uniform-matching, khaki-colored wide-brimmed hat from the countertop, then secure it atop his bald head. Without the hat, he was already tall—close to six-five. With it on, he looked like a freakin’ giant.
“Did you hear me, Tony?”
“I heard you, Dad. I’ll call Gary. See what’s happening.”
Tony listened as his father’s cruiser drove away. There was no way he was going to file any kind of written statement. He was already the butt of too many jokes. Putting in a formal police complaint would label him the world’s all-time biggest pussy. A pussy smacked around by the town idiot who then went crying to his daddy. No thank you. Tony had his own, far more effective, plan in the works.
A knock came at the door.
“Come on in… dickwad.”
Gary opened the door, sauntered in, and sat down in a chair opposite the couch. Tony’s friend said, “You look like shit on a stick.”
“Thanks. Bring what I asked?”
“Yeah… but why my dad’s?”
“Because your dad’s not the fucking sheriff. Your dad won’t even notice it’s gone from his closet. How often do shit-haulers use a gun?”
“Don’t call him that! He’s a Septic Engineer.”
Tony laughed out loud. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day. Septic Engineer!”
“Screw you,” Gary retorted back. “And why do we need it? I’m not going to prison because you have a hard-on for the Perkins kid.”
“I told you, it’s just for backup. To scare him a bit.”
Gary shrugged. “I don’t know about this ... Tony.”
They knew he wasn’t home. Earlier, they’d snuck onto the property—crept up to the back of the Perkins’ house—and peeked in the windows. The old lady was inside and so was the older brother, Kyle. Tony remembered he’d just gotten out of jail. But the idiot boy was nowhere around.
After that, they drove up and down the winding two-track lane, looking for the big moron. Leaving the sleepy town behind, they drove south along the road, eventually slowing down at the high school. Both were drunk as skunks and hazy-eyed. Gary burped, letting the truck’s engine idle as they sat for another ten minutes in the faded-green F150’s hot cab. When Tony moved his feet empty Keystone beer cans clanged together. “It’s hotter than hell in here,” he said, “maybe we should just forget it.”
“Wait… I think he sometimes hangs out with those two old blackies down the road. I think I’ve seen him there when I’m driving by.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Cruise on by… we’ll take a quick look.”
Gary moved the gear selector into Drive and slowly eased the truck forward, unsure which house was theirs.
“Slow down… I think it’s that one there on the left with the leaning mailbox.”
Gary, pulling into the drive, did a wide U-turn so his truck would face back in the same direction. Then, after shutting the ignition off, they climbed out of the truck.
Tony looked around the cluttered-looking property then did a double take, spotting a corrugated steel shed off to the side—its sliding door opened-up wide. Tony liked old cars and he was surprised to see the front end of a true old classic, sitting in there with its hood up.
Tony and Gary, neither one capable of walking a straight line, moved closer to the house. An old black man with a crown of silver hair sat on the shaded porch in a rocking chair. He stopped rocking as they approached. “What you two want?”
Tony said, “You know who I am? You know who my father is?”
The old man answered, “No and no. Should I?”
A screen door swung open and a ginormous black woman, wearing a bright red apron, stepped out. “What the hell you want? Get your skinny white asses off my property now!”
Tony recognized her—Elma White. The elderly man was her husband Rutherford, or something like that.
She towered over them, holding an industrial-size metal dustpan clenched in her fist. Raising it higher, she snarled, “Go on… get off my property. I’m not going to say it again!”
Gary said, “Easy there, Elma… we’re just looking for a friend of ours. You know Cuddy? Cuddy Perkins, don’t you?”
“What you need that boy for? He wants nothing to do with the likes of you two. Now go on… get going before I call the police.”
Tony didn’t particularly like Negros. Or Mexicans. Or the Asians. And don’t get him even started on the camel jockeys. Or anyone not white. Especially when they didn’t know their proper place and got uppity, like this big black bitch.
Tony lifted the front of his shirt, revealing the butt end of a Smith and Wesson .45 tucked into the waistband of his pants. “I am the police and I’ve had as much lip from you as I’m going to take.” He watched as Elma took in the gun; seeing it finally shut her up. Good.
“I don’t know nothin’. That boy ain’t come around here for a few days now.”
Tony said, “What about you, Uncle Tom? You see the boy around here lately?”
The old man spat something brown onto the porch and leaned back in his chair. Staring down at it for a few moments, he said, “I ain’t seen nothin’.”
Tony’s head hurt. Too many cheap beers drunk in the hot sun and now one too many people disrespecting him: First his father this morning and now these two spooks. He pulled the gun from his pants, letting his arm hang loosely at his side. Gary eyed him warily but didn’t say anything.
Tony said, “The next time I come around here, you’re going to show me a bit more respect.” He lifted the nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol and pointed it at the old man’s face. Closing one eye, he lined the gun’s sight between Rutherford’s staring eyes. Tony smiled, finally the old man looked frightened. That’s a start. He moved his aim slightly to the left, toward a closed window, and pulled the trigger. An incredibly loud crack echoed outward onto the distant plains. Elma screamed, and the old man flinched as he twisted away sideways from the now-shattered window. His eyes were tightly clenched shut and Elma was whimpering. Tony had another idea. “Come on, let’s just go,” Gary said.
Tony pointed at his nose. “I told you, I can’t allow this to go unanswered.” He smiled—discovering one more way to screw with the Perkins… the retard’s family. “Old man, that car over in the shed.”
The old man stared back at him. “What about it?” he said, then glanced toward the old shed and his pride and joy—a fifty-year-old Ford Mustang.
“It still drivable?”
When Rutherford hesitated Tony raised the gun. “Uh… somewhat; rear brake shoes need replacing.”
Tony, still feeling exhilarated after pulling the trigger on Gary’s father’s gun, smiled. “We’re gonna be borrowing it… for a day or two. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Like hell I don’t,” Rutherford said, getting to his feet.
“Sit back down!” Tony barked. He looked up toward the second story, counting five small windows. He raised his arm and aimed at the one farthest away, then pulled the trigger five times: bang… bang… bang… bang… bang and all five windows across the front of the house exploded into shards. Elma dropped her dustpan and screamed into her hands, “Stop! Please stop! What do you want? What do you want from us?” sobbing in fear.