ED LYNSKEY's crime short fiction has appeared in such online venues as HandHeldCrime, Plots With Guns, Judas, The 3rd Degree, Hardluck Stories, The Murder Hole and others. Ed Lynskey has three novels making the usual rounds: The Dirt-Brown Derby, Pelham Fell Here, and The Blue Cheer.
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EXTRACT FROM PELHAM FELL HERE

Chapter 1

"That's all we have in stock, sir." Glancing over, I took instant note of the young sales lady talking to the hunter. Tilting a chin at the three boxes of #7½ shotgun shells stacked on the countertop, she continued: "I pulled our inventory list. No luck. Sorry."

"The hell you say." Tendons corded in the hunter's bull neck.

"I rechecked. We’re sold out. Sorry."

Shuffling closer, I leaned my elbows on the plate glass, pretended to inspect the Nazi Luger, a black beauty. Some GI, I bet, had swiped the souvenir off a dead German corporal on Omaha Beach.

"How’s that? Ain't you stocked any extras?" The hunter's knuckles crushed boxes into his fist. Whiskey on his breath, his tone took a hard edge.

She folded arms on her chest. "Johnny rush ordered more. On the UPS truck, 9

A.M." A smile struggled to appear. "I’ll notify you then, if you’d like, sir."

The hunter exhaled a gruff snort; his red-veined eyes bulged. "Johnny hoards a few boxes for his preferred customers," he said, jerking a thumb toward the back room. "Tell you what. Fetch your boss. Go ahead. I wanna a word with Johnny."

"Johnny’s left for the day." She stabbed keys on the cash register, refusing to acknowledge his glare. "With tax, total is $64.65."

"Do me this favor. The second Johnny waltzes in, have him buzz me," said the hunter. Weaving forward, his hand crabbed the lush underside of her breast. "We clear?"

Trembling, she debated a half second, a blur slapped him across the nose.

"Ouch! "

"Dougie, hey," I cut in. "How's the shooting? I mean besides with your mouth." Sidling up, I curved my fingers around the concealed Buck knife. Creosote stained on his bibs and coat scraped my nostrils.

"Ouch. Huh?" Dougie massaged his sore nose. "Doves are flying hot and heavy, yet here I stand jawboning with you about dreck."

"Didn't your mama teach you some days go like that?" I shoved him good-ole-boy style.

"Touch me again, you’ll buy gloves, half price." That said, Dougie heeled to shoulder by shelves of camouflage suits and racks of 20, 16, 12, 10, and .410-bore shotguns. "Damn cracker," was audible before the door banged shut, but I elected to ignore his compliment.

The young sales lady spritzed Windex on the glass countertop, wiped in circular motions. Her features fell pinched and pale. "Now, what might you want, mister?" she inquired, her inflection shaky. Worrying with agate key chains and a March of Dimes can, she added, "No more birdshot. Really. And Johnny's traipsed off, again."

From her sorghum lilt, I pegged her as a Tidewater native, probably this side of Norfolk. What won me over was her hair – hominy-hued, swept back and held by two blue butterfly barrettes, one to each side. That and the wonderful way she smelled. But I browsed too long. Her eyes darted overhead to the big clock.

"M-m-me? Oh, I'm a lousy hunter," I said. "I like guns, you see. Nothing like a NRA nut. I target shoot for sport."

She had to wonder about my sudden stutter.

"Anyway, you're not a local," I added at last. "Are you?"

"My dad is Randall Darling," she said. "I'm Rennie Darling, if it's anything to you." Tossing her head that coy way girls do, she transferred her frank expression to me. "His tract has the oaks out back, right? I've blasted out mistletoe sprigs. With his permission, of course." Embarrassed, I put a lid on it. No ring, no watch, and no bracelet. Unadorned, her hands were exquisite, slim as a dove’s wing. She slipped them into the front pockets of her designer jeans.

"Is it lunchtime?" Craning her head and neck, Rennie saw the clock hadn’t moved.

"Would you mind if I dropped by again?"

"Why on earth should it matter to me?" Rennie switched on a smile, her first.

Nodding, I almost turned into a gun cabinet. Not until I was inside my dilapidated rat truck did I realize it. "What's wrong with me?" Palm whacked forehead. "Guess what? She doesn't know my name."

That afternoon, chilly and gray for late October, I bush-hogged a thicket on a triangle of river bottomland the Mormons owned. As bosses went, they were tolerable and hadn’t tried to redeem my soul. I slid into a groove, hacking and chopping scrub brush. Every so often, the whirling steel blades mauled a flint pile raising a racket that failed to dint my reverie. With the John Deere tractor lacking fenders, ant nests and chunks of copperheads flew across my boots. Man, I was in the troposphere.

For some reason, I mulled over Rennie Darling. Who was she? Was she married? Single? Rich? Did she date? I envisioned her dad Randall Darling patrolling his mistletoe oaks, brandishing a Coleman. He discharged his shotgun in the direction of any disturbance -- a practice called "a sound shot." An hour or so short of dusk, I somehow mired the John Deere in a bottomless marsh. Chaining its axle to my truck's winch, I could extract it in a matter of minutes, but my yen to hunt up my cousin Johnny Chapman took priority. I knew where to find him, too.

Behind Leona's Bar & Grill, tomcats tangled on the Dempsey Dumpster. I walked faster. A white Chevy van at the traffic signal jinked an illegal left on red. The Volunteer Fire Department whistle shrieked. This, the first cold snap, fires ignited in dirty chimneys. Greasy smoke previewed rib-eye steaks sizzling on Leona’s grill.

Inside, Johnny Chapman, all 350 pounds, had commandeered a booth by a curtainless window. His trademark Cherry Swisher cigar smoldered on a tinfoil ashtray and under it The Pelham-Democrat.

"Darker than a witch’s twat out yonder." His wrist motion summoned me over to squeeze in opposite him. "How's the turf farm?"

"I quit. Convict labor. I'm bush-hogging for the Mormons up the country. Started Monday. $13 an hour. Easiest money I ever earned."

"That a fact? After you sicken of it, and you will, scribe a beeline back to the gun shop. Vintage carbines I got in need gunsmithing. Leona! Fetch this boy a steamy mug of your split pea soup. Pul-eeze, ma’am." He set aside his knife and fork, finger-tapped ash from the lit cigar.

I went with my best material. "Got a work joke for you."

Johnny couldn’t help but roll his eyes. "Good thing I’m half lit."

"You wanna hear it or not?"

"All right then. Hit it. You’re busting a grape to tell me."

"This man with an orange dick -- "

Johnny grinned. That irked me a little. "You heard it already?"

"Yow. It’s started with gads of potential is all."

"He goes to the doctor to have it checked out. Doc examines him, runs tests, lab work, the whole shebang. Can’t diagnose why the man has an orange dick."

Laughing, Johnny provoked my own giggles. "Go on," he urged me.

"The doc breaks the dire news to his patient, then asks, ‘What’ve you been up to of late?’ Guy scratches his head, says: ‘Since I got fired last week, all I do is watch porno flicks and eat Cheese-Doodles.’"

Johnny burst out braying and I joined in. We almost blew a gut laughing. "Man, that’s rich," he said. "Rich."

"Mind if I bum a butt?" I asked, snickers dying away.

"They’re Newport Lights," he replied. "What geezers with orange dicks smoke."

"Yeah. Never mind. I’m trying to quit."

A toddy, refreshed by the bourbon bottle between his thighs, flushed down the last cubes of steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and butter beans.

Leona’s split pea soup was passable, at best. Between spoonfuls, I talked. "I tipped by the gun shop. That Luger, save it out. I'll swap you for it. My Beretta, maybe." Then, after a swallow, I casually added, "Saw the new girl behind the counter."

Johnny tweezed a fleck of tobacco from flabby lips worming into a grin. A long draw brought to a round, sparky glow to the cigar stub. Staring up at the ceiling fan, he vented a banner of smoke. "Did you? Already, huh? You pups never fail to come sniffing."

"Don’t get your balls in a bunch. Is Randall Darling her daddy?"

"Yeah, but she grew up on her mama’s truck farm." He belched, continued to gossip. "Eerie, too. Her mama, I heard, was out pinning up wash early Labor Day. Next

thing, she dropped dead. Heart attack. I didn't know women got them, did you?"

Shaking my head, I hollered out for a Black Label, flexed my cramped knees. "Mr. Darling got in some trouble a few years ago," I said.

Johnny squirmed. "Illegal firearms sales. Bogus. He had the right paperwork."

"Still, he put in some slammer time downstate."

A belligerent scowl stiffened Johnny’s face. "Don’t you ever bring that up with Rennie. Hear?"

My palms did a down pump. "Whoa. Nothing intended like that. So, what's Rennie's, uh, pedigree?"

Johnny butted his cigar. "I don't know diddly dot about her love life. She puts herself across with class. A hard worker if ever I saw one. I don't fancy loosing her. You understand me in that regard?"

The Black Label tasted green as in sawdust. Shredding the bottle's label, I stalled. "Understood."

Swabbing his mouth on a table napkin, Johnny chuckled. "Why should I fret? I’d bet the gun shop you haven’t said ‘boo’ to Rennie. Wise up. Haven’t you ever broken ranks with a girl before? Quit slinking around like a whipped blue tic. After a year, I’m pretty galled by it."

"Mildred slept around. Didn’t you catch her red-handed?"

Squinting, Johnny studied me through cigar haze, his cobalt blue eyes serious. Candor was his strong suit, why I valued him as a friend. He’d go to the wall for me. "Yeah, so why beat yourself up?"

"I’m a sucker for heartbreaks and sluts," I replied.

"You’re a sucker for barroom brawls," Johnny said. "Your jaw better?"

My hand rubbed the spot. Still sore. "Damn Chet Peyton is always stirring up shit."

"Uh-uh," said Johnny. "And you end up paying for it."

Out the window, the same rattletrap Chevy van shambled up to the traffic signal, backfired, and died.

"It doesn't matter. Rennie's a ghost. College bound. Not a cow college either. A real deal, up north. Her rich Aunt Vi offered to bankroll it. Rennie’s a little old, but there’s no time like the present." Johnny screwed on the bourbon bottle’s top.

The shrug inside my shirt was small. "What’s to entice a smart girl to carve out a life in this hellhole?"

"You might be surprised." Johnny’s look held mine. I wondered at his meaning. "You need it bad. Get a professional. Gone bone a whore up on 14^th Street. It’d do you a world of good, boy."

"Thanks, doc, but I can handle it."

"By the way, Dougie bragged he owed you an ass whipping."

"Wrong. I'm fixing to wax the deck with his ass," I replied. The van’s driver now crowded the doorway, rubbing his fisted hands for warmth, and looking bewildered. A Rebby cap crowned him.

"Listen at my cuz, the tough guy falling in love. Save some of Dougie for me to work over.."

"Sorry. He's all mine," I said.

"Nuts to you. Finish your beer, give that joker a jumpstart. Go on, I’ll get this mess. You pay next time."

It turned into a drama, the jumpstart did. Right off, Rebby Cap chiseled $10 off me for gas. Second, he didn’t pack his own jumper cables. That meant we improvised with mine. Third, inside the van, the radio rang out Yoko Ono’s maniac ranting. Could things get any worse?

Rebby Cap's fondness for lip farting wore thin. I popped the hood. Anxious to finish, I butted the front of my truck against his dented grill. The stretched cables just did clip on both pairs of battery terminals.

At a conversational distance, Rebby Cap smirked, the headlights shadowing his face. His sneakiness bugged me. Cracking the van's side door, he hoisted through one leg at a time. My suspicion centered on jailbait -- a lightweight package unwrapped on a shag carpet and stoned to the tits, her lips pouty with impatience to blast off.

"Kill your lights," I yelled out.

Rebby Cap complied. Windows and side ports were tinted, one headlamp, driver’s side, was blotted.

I hollered: "Crank, give her a little pedal."

Rebby Cap ignitioned until my battery juiced his. The glass paks exploded thunder. He wiggled out, detached the cables, and the Chevy van rocketed off. No thanks, no go shit in your shoes, nothing. Truth be told, however, I was relieved.

The following day, it was Friday, a noon drizzle saturated things enough to wet down the dust. By early afternoon, the clouds gave way to sun. Deer flies drilled through my camouflage T-shirt. Faraway sounded the pap, pap, pap of dovehunters’ shotguns. I yearned to enlist but, like a good soldier, gutted it out bush-hogging.

While attacking a catbrier patch, thorns savaged my shins. By mid-afternoon, the sun burning through overcast rendered the day a sauna. I took five. The PTO ran when I dismounted so I switched off the John Deere. A dog down on all fours, I lapped water from a cold country spring.

A little later, the rain returned, stinging my cheeks. The temperature plunged twenty degrees, no less. The sluggish John Deere waffled before conking out. Grinding the key, I couldn't restart it. Soaked to the skin, wet hair plastered in eyes, chattering teeth, I clomped to the truck, spanked its pistons to life, put on heat. Out the windshield, I witnessed red clay churned into runnels of blood.

Rennie off to college -- I chewed on that. It curdled my thoughts. A bluegrass song playing on the hillbilly station celebrated how an enchantress brought a joker down a gear or two, then left him "like a fox on the run." A thousand times, I’d warbled along with The Country Gentleman. Now the lyrics were spiriting me back to the gun shop, back to Rennie. I floored the pedal.

Well past five o'clock, the gun shop hadn't yet closed. A low-slung brick structure, a grizzly bear growled on its flat asphalt roof. A day or so after Thanksgiving, I clattered up a 12-foot extension ladder, tricked it out in a Santa suit. Now I parked by the Grumman canoes shelved under a tin pavilion. Like a bear, I hibernated inside the truck cab using visual imagery to hatch a plan.

Okay. I'd surf in, start a conversation. "Uh, hi there. I'm the gun geek. It’s Rennie, right? I’d never forget such a lovely name. Guess what? I could’ve attended college but opted to pursue my local options. My trade? Er, I bush-hog for the Mormons. But I'm wild out fun at dancing. What's say we go tonight?"

What a crock, I muttered. A royal crock.

The gun shop was less congested. The familiar compound of mineral oil and musty khaki emboldened me. At one end of the narrow shop's clutter, several out-of-state tourists were pawing Civil War swag. Photos of trophy kills lined the knotty pine panels. Once my eyes grew accustomed, I waved at Rennie who was sorting gloves behind the ammo bins. She looked radiant in a cranberry red sweater, tight but tasteful.

"May I be of assistance, sir?" she asked me. "Oh, it's you, again."

"I'm Johnson," I blurted out. "Frank Johnson."

"Then, how may I assist you, Mister Frank Johnson?"

"From now on, just Frank," I corrected her. "I hoped we might go somewhere tonight?"

"Sorry, Frank. My employer, Johnny Chapman, has one iron-clad rule -- I can’t date the customers."

"Technically, I’m not a customer. Johnny is family, as much as I hate to admit it. He won’t grouse. Trust me. I’d love to see you." I couldn’t stop myself from gushing.

Rennie allowed a weary smile. "I see. Okay. I'm at the old Shepherd place, first apartment upstairs on the right. No number. Come by seven o’clock, no earlier please. Just knock. See you then, Frank."

Of course, once inside my cab, I anguished over what I’d just done. Then, I recalled Johnny's maxim how life ran short too fast. I resolved to enjoy it. A while later after a navy shower, two pats of Old Spice, I was in high strut. Hadn't dated in three years but not too rusty.

Along Rogue’s Road, so named because highwaymen had waylaid travelers in Colonial days, I drove by the great stand of oaks. Melrose Castle, its parapets visible poking through the treetops, was nestled therein. During the 1850s, a Scotsman, homesick for his scones and stones, funded its erection. He brought over his bride. By and by, they died childless.

The gothic castle by now was thought a natural part of our town. The almost imperceptible trace leading to heavy, iron-studded doors gave teen-agers a popular lovers lane.

The Shepherd place -- an ex-Victorian manor on Franklin Street -- was subdivided into rentals. Such desperate domiciles choked Pelham. Not that I was peering down my nose. I recalled proud Sears homes and shade trees flanking these same avenues. Girls in culottes on porch gliders sipped colas through bent straws. Cannas bloomed above wrought iron fences. Sidewalks swept clean lay even. The Shepherd's oldest, Ronnie, played star shortstop. I was second baseman.

Somewhere between the feed store and the black folks’ washerette, a blue funk seized me. I'd fallen well short of the brass ring, hadn’t I? This rat truck and a doublewide were my sole possessions. On my first swipe by Rennie’s, I felt despair. Fire escapes jutted away from the upper floor like crutches. The boxy structure's roofline sagged across the middle. Several shutters were wind-tossed. Acrid smoke came from stoves burning pulp pine. Back in high school, Ronnie's VW had plowed headlong into a telephone pole; his parents unloaded the house within days. I never saw them again. In my view, they were better off -- any opportunity to flee Pelham held out that promise.

Early, I docked across the street. No lights warmed any ground windows. A feeble illumination from above was the bedroom where Rennie primped. I could see her at a bureau mirror, dabbing on perfume, debating, and then leaving the top button undone. The cab was hot. I heaved tin cans, a broken shovel, and a tool chest into the bed. After unscrewing the gun rack, I shoved it under the seat. The half-empty pint of gin hid in the glove compartment.

Whistling, I tuned in nighttime radio. Jim & Jesse, Reno & Smiley, Flatt & Scruggs, and Mac Wiseman wailed those romantic ballads squeezing your heart in a pincer of woe and misery. But maybe that never happened in real life. Maybe real love could hold woe and misery, if for a momentary stay.

Poof! The upper bedroom light blanked. Rennie floated down, invaded the night. Minus scarf or hat, her face was recognizable from my sentry post. She came in a fuzzy parka and a short skirt. Plaid.

Turning to say something, she peered down -- she wasn't alone.

Two small children trailed her out to the porch.

Stooping, she tugged tasseled stocking caps over their ears. Their miniature haloes of breath cracked the frost-bitten air. Grasping eager hands in her own, she paraded them to a Prizm. Her ruby taillights disappeared around the block.

She'd return in a few minutes -- "seven o’clock, no earlier." That much I was certain about. And, of course, I could be gone. I could split right then, never see Rennie again. Gone like the fool fox on the run.

I next thought of Johnny’s devious omission about the kids. After switching off the radio, I strolled across dim asphalt to the porch. Putting fire to a cigarette, I caught myself marveling what her children's names were just as Orion the Hunter rose up to chase the moon across the nocturnal sky.

 

Chapter 
2

Something was amiss. I festered in bed chain-smoking filterless Camels. A beer can was my ashtray. Jesus and the Sacred Heart on the wall watched over me. My plans, all but wrecked now, had been to trawl along a chopped cornfield, my eyes pinned skyward to mow down doves. Instead, my mind was restless as the flying doves.

What were my prospects for a second date with Rennie? Not favorable. From the get-go, last night had been a fiasco. Conversation trailed off. She frowned at my ordering a Michelob Lite. (Was it a frown?) A terse "thanks" whispered at the door yet no good night kiss. (What was up with that?) Instead, a subtle squeeze on my forearm. (What did that signify?) Afterward, I tailed her to the babysitter. (Two kids?) In the end, sick of self-loathing, I dashed on a pair of Levis, a Blue Devils sweatshirt, and Dingo boots. Hands pushing in the pockets, I loped into the kitchenette.

A camouflage suit, a blaze orange cap, an ammo belt, a two-quart canteen, a 5-gallon bucket, and decoys waited on the countertop. Scrolled up in the vest pocket next to my hunting license was Johnny’s map to the latest dove jackpot. My Fox pump 12-gauge was already in the rat truck along with a heater.

As if on cue, the phone jangled. Posting a glance out the picture window at a combine making silage on the next farm over, I snagged the handset. "Johnson."

Terrorized by my neighbor’s tomcat, a dove screaked out of the blue spruce. My ambitions for a morning hunt rekindled.

"Frank?" Rennie’s gasp stunned me. "I'm at the gun shop. It’s awful."

"What?"

"Johnny." She heaved for air.

"Slower. Please." The thumb callus I bit hurt. "Okay, Johnny. What of him?"

"I came in. Johnny’s sprawled in blood . . ."

"Blood?" I heard myself bark. "Sit tight."

The handset clunked to the drainboard. I raced, didn't think. Frosty grass was slick. I fired up the truck to jerk around. At full throttle, it jumped and bucked over blacktop. Once, I swerved to miss an International Harvester. Gory images seethed my mind. Johnny shot? At last, the gun shop bounced into the windshield through which I stared.

Four deputy cruisers had lightbars flashing, doors ajar, trunks popped. My stop was a gravel-spewing skid. Shoulders shivery and hair mussed, Rennie lashed her legs from the Prizm. She sprinted to me, arms out. Together, we surged for the door.

Inside, Sheriff Kilby plus four deputies by the register threw down somber gawks. They murmured, exchanged heavy nods. Yellow tape quarantined ground zero. No customary hoots and hollers. Halogen lamps bathed muzzleloaders and Johnny’s trophy heads of elk, puma, and bear.

County Coroner rocked on his haunches. His platinum hair -- a rug for sure -- slept contently in place. Rising, he whistled between teeth. "Holy Saint Paul, what sausage a 12-gauge pointblank range creates." A folksy twang flavored his speech.

Ducking under the yellow tape, I mined deep for intestinal grit to view my best friend in death. A coppery stench flew up my nose; murky blood oozed beyond the tarp. Custom-tooled Wolverines were Johnny’s. Little dispute. Few, if any men, I knew laced up a Size 13 work boot.

"For the record, is he, sonny boy?" The CC kicked Johnny’s Vibram sole as if it bore a "GOODYEAR TIRE" imprint.

"Is he what?" My tone grew volatile. The brute weight of my Dingos crushed the CC’s toes as I maneuvered by him. "Excuse me." It was for his ears only.

Wincing, the County Coroner pointed the Parker pen. "Johnny Chapman?"

"You need new glasses? Of course it is."

The CC scribbled notes. "Cash register was jimmied, till emptied. I’ll need an inventory to check for missing firearms. Did Johnny work late last night?"

Rennie spoke. "Mr. Chapman often stayed after hours."

"Body temperature and stage of rigor indicate time of death was, oh, one A.M.," said the CC. "No later than two A.M."

Sheriff Kilby behind us cleared his throat. "Ernie, snap me close-ups. Shot from all angles, too. You others scour this CS. Bag and tag anything evidentiary."

Whirling into action, they fell into a grisly ritual. For some reason, Rennie and I unpacked and shelved three cartons of Sterno Folding Stoves. When the UPS truck lumbered up, we wandered out to unload it. Too bad busy hands didn't distract me.

The finality of Johnny’s loss was just touching home. Was I up for dealing with it? After giving Mildred the heave-ho, for weeks I was depressed. I never shaved or showered, chucked my day job, and vegetated by the TV. Life was 100% shit; 0% sugar. I called my depression to the core "The Jet Jackal." Only Johnny gave a half-damn. Now that he was no more, who'd tote the bucket?

Mildred leeched me to a bag of bones. My heroes were cold-hearted bastards adrift in life. A few men were like that. They didn’t care a fig about what their wives did, or who with. Marriage equated to a sham. Mr. and Mrs. bunked in different rooms. Took separate vacations. Managed bank accounts. Took turns sobering up in the drunk tank. Those men told me it was cheaper to keep her. Once my divorce attorney’s hours were billed, I took their meaning.

Sheriff Kilby’s Asp poked me. "Account for your whereabouts last night."

My mind blanked; Rennie broke in. "Frank was with me."

"At one in the morning?"

"Is that against the law?" I asked him. Sheriff Kilby jutted a lip, shrugged his left shoulder.

After horsing around his stationwagon, the CC unlatched the tailgate and offloaded a gurney to wheel up between the bystanders. We worked fast. Dropping to one knee, I grasped the bulging end of the sheeted bundle.

"Steady, Frank," a deputy said. "I don’t fault you for being PO’d. Johnny was a standup guy. It might be prudent, though, to reel in your horns with the CC."

"He can bite my ass."

"My point is a little tact greases a lot of skids. Lift, count of three."

We guided the gurney to the stationwagon, the deputy and I on either side. As we were settling in our human cargo, rubberneckers on the highway tapped their brakes.

The CC sized up my truck. "Don’t you rack a 12-gauge, sonny boy?"

To deny it made me a liar. "A Fox pump on a sling."

"You’ll consent to a lab analysis?"

I went over, unlimbered the Fox. Stock first, I handed it to Sheriff Kilby. He sniffed its chamber. "No fresh cordite," he said. "Probably no residue in the barrel."

"Sonny boy is a squeaky clean killer." The CC buttered Rennie with his eyes. "Better have sonny boy bone up on his alibi."

"He was with me," she repeated.

"You’re done here," I said. "Move it." The CC and I bumped toxic glares.

He repeated: "Better bone up on your alibi."

Cruisers, red and blue lights splintering the gloom, mounted a crawl to Pelham. In the tail-end car, Sheriff Kilby marked me. How long before he jammed me with Johnny’s murder? Today was Friday. He’d a whole weekend. Much could happen in that span. A north wind skittered paper targets on the shooting range.

Seeing a lifeless Johnny had unglued me. A dozen thoughts on the murder converged. Was it a thrill kill? Probably not; it smacked of something deliberate. Unbuttoning a formless topcoat, the stickup artist had swaggered up. Or was he some beetle rubbed raw because the world owed him a living?

He demanded contents of the cash drawer. "Fat chance, nut bag," Johnny would’ve chuckled. The lopped off shotgun reared up: Kablooey! The sun scuttled under gray mangy clouds as I re-played the thud of Johnny’s body striking the linoleum.

Cracking the town limits, the CC activated his siren. Johnny Chapman by benefit of death was free. Lucky duck. Given time enough, I’d end up as one of Pelham’s bitter, cynical old farts. In contrast, with Johnny, one would always associate youth, vigor, and humor.

Rennie and I drove across the highway to McDavid’s Restaurant. A solemn elderly black man armed with squeegees propped the door. Rennie smiled our thanks. The cashier, a wiry young man in a blue smock and a paper sailboat hat, took our order. Back when I was more solvent, Chet Peyton from time to time lent me a hand with gunsmithing. Despite our age and pigmentation differences, we were friends.

"Sheriff Kilby poked over for coffee, gave me a head’s up," he said. "I can help you."

"Yeah, how so?" I peeled back the tab to the coffee’s plastic lid.

"While I drained the grease trap," said Chet, "this van circled the gun shop lot."

Weary, I sipped. "So what?"

"So: they started popping off shotguns, acting all crazy." Chet chomped down on a fry. A buzzer buzzed; the fish fillets swimming in hot grease were browned.

Gathering napkins and plastic utensils, Rennie leaned near. "Frank, what is it?"

"Pro’lly nothing. Gimme a sec, okay?"

"They took a notion to juke in here," Chet went on. "I hightailed out back, fetched a meat cleaver." Pausing, he jiggled the fillet tray. One fillet toppled into the hot vat. Chet plucked it out with his fingers. He never flinched.

Was he immune to pain? "And?"

"By the time I’d bounced up front, they’d vanished."

"Johnny had me jumpstart a van. A white Chevy, driver’s side lamp smashed. A dude in a Rebby Cap behind the wheel."

"That be the one."

"Why didn’t you tell the Sheriff?"

"I did. He said he’d be back to jot it down. Ain’t holding my breath. Listen, you need any assist, you got my number."

I saw a bantam weight before me. "Thanks, I might at that."

After our unappealing breakfast was picked at, Rennie took out the Prizm's keys. "Do you mind driving? I need to go by the babysitter."

I arched an eyebrow. "Babysitter?"

In a semi-daze, she only nodded and I played it cool, not peeping a word.

* * *

To my pleasant surprise, I hit it off with Gin and Buddy who, like their mother, were brunettes. When Rennie introduced me as her "new friend," I liked the way it sounded. Rennie appeared relieved. Both kids appraised me, eyes bright and unblinking. Buddy extended me his sticky, small hand. "Charmed I’m sure," he said. Gin giggled.

"Did you guys do any fun stuff this morning?" asked Rennie. I sawed the steering wheel right pulling from the babysitter’s driveway.

Gin blurted out: "I made a dinosaur out of Play-Doh."

"I built a space shuttle," said Buddy. "Frankie Shreeve sat on it. What a dork."

"Frankie is a dork," Gin chanted. "Frankie is a dork, Frankie is a dork."

Rennie twisted around to them. She meant business. "Okay, act nice you two. Remember, special good manners in the company of guests."

"Yes ma'am," was their chorus.

Rennie's apartment was a plain yet clean space. Sunbeams curtsied through a window on pocked linoleum. It along with the stove, refrigerator, sink, drainboard, countertops, dishwasher, and range hood were that avocado green plaguing the 1970s. These rooms, six counting the bath, felt lived in, what my doublewide lacked. Why was that?

Keyed up, I couldn’t concentrate worth beans. Outside wavy windowpanes was bleak. Bare branches denoted a barer season. That afternoon sailed by as a numb blur. I recall at one point being creamed by Rennie at backgammon.

"Who'd kill in cold blood," she asked, "for a piddly few dollars?"

"Don't know but this can't go unsolved for very long."

Rennie must’ve detected a certain tone in my voice. Her long lashes uplifted. "Shouldn’t it be a police matter?"

I let that go unanswered because I didn’t dig lying to her. Later in the afternoon, she ran me to gun shop to pick up my truck and I followed her home. After Gin and Buddy trooped off late to bed, Rennie and I conferred at the kitchen table. A siren howled along the low edge of town. Rennie hooked a strand of hair behind her ear pierced with a sapphire stud. The beer I was intent on enjoying blistered my tongue. Why did everything taste like bile?

"Tomorrow I’ll go scrub the display cases, all behind the register. Floor could stand a stiff scouring, too."

"No. You shouldn’t have to see that again. I’ll fetch in a cleaning service."

"The gun shop, is it now yours?"

Rennie's innocent query startled me. For owning just a pickup and doublewide, being thrown a business to run came as a knuckleball. "Must be. Johnny's lawyer, Gatlin, will dot the i’s, cross the t’s."

"Oh . . . as in Robert Gatlin?"

"Yeah, sounds right. Know him?"

"I know about him," she replied. "He has a practice much sought after up near Middleburg."

My tongue snarled. "Johnny always rode on the coattails of the right folks."

"No, Gatlin defends the underdog. Pro bono. A self-made billionaire, he picks his own fights."

"He must be smart," I said.

"After the autopsy, the County Coroner will release Johnny's body," said Rennie. "You ready to make funeral arrangements?"

"Actually, no. Thinking that far ahead boggles my mind."

Rennie's coral red fingernail tagged a Yellow Pages listing. "Should I call Fincham’s?"

"Please do. A maple casket," I said. "Only a native wood could satisfy Johnny."

"Local clay never quite scrapes off, does it?"

I concurred. Reminded of something, I scanned the kitchen. "It’s none of my affair, but have you packed?"

"Packed?" she asked. "What on earth for?"

"You’re moving up north, right?"

"Up north? Am I now?"

"For higher education," I said. "On your rich Aunt Vi's dime."

Laughing, Rennie ran water in the sink. "Good old rich Aunt Vi. Johnny and I concocted that tale to discourage guys from hitting on me."

"It made me think twice." I drained the beer’s dregs, deposited the bottle in the recycle bin. "I should be going." In the background TV conversation, Jay Leno’s dull-witted monologue was punctuated by stale applause.

"Do you have other family in the area?" she asked.

That got a head wag. "Afraid not. My dad and mother died in an auto smashup. An inebriated CPO humping back to Norfolk missed a red light. T-boned them."

"Have mercy. I’m so sorry."

"I better shove off. Late as it is."

Rennie lifted my jacket off the chair.

"Call you tomorrow?" I zipped up.

"I’d like that, Frank."

The crisp starless night did little to perk me up. On the dark road though the long night to my trailer, I mulled over the white Chevy van and Rebby Cap. In all probability, a hacksawed shotgun rode strapped under the van’s dashboard. Was Rebby Cap, in fact, a deranged killer? A Berkowitz or Bundy? My pulse spiked.

Twin spears of headlights impaling me in the rearview twice splashed on-off high beams. I lazed off the accelerator. A Peterbilt tractor-trailer hauling hogs for the slaughterhouse blew around me. Diesel horn bleated. Hey, fuck you, too. My blackening mood took pity on those hogs encrusted in their cold shit on a still colder night.

Read Charles Williams: More Than A Slight Return by Ed Lynskey