I ain’t one for goin’ to church, except for weddin’s an’ funerals, though I do put on a clean uniform the Sundays I work. This Sunday I was workin’ an’ I had all the open case files out on my desk. I was tryin’ to set up one of those charts where you put all the names across the top, other pertinent information down the side, an’ X in the places where a pertinent fact applies to a particular name. I put a X in all the places where I could be fairly sure a fact—like missin’ or dead—applied to the party in question, a O where I could be pretty certain that a fact couldn’t apply—like Arnold bein’ the father of Angie Boone’s kid—an’ a ? if the fact might apply, however unlikely it was.
What I ended up with was:
After playin’ with the possibilities for a time, I added Angie an’ Peter to the top line, an’ Os an’ ?s to show neither of ’em was dead or missin’; Angie might have killed either victim but didn’t father her own child; an’ Peter might’a killed Headless, but not Puzzle Man, an’ he almost certainly wasn’t the father of Angie’s unborn kid. My chart looked like a scratch game of tic-tac-toe, but I couldn’t think of nothin’ else to do just then ’cept say to myself, Cheer up, Homer, things could be worse. I should’a knocked wood.
My thinkin’ was interrupted, suddenly, by horns honkin’ an’ brakes squealin’ outside on Main Street. This is highly unusual for Sunday mornin’, when most of our citizens are either in church or home sleepin’ off Saturday night. Of course, I got up an’ had a look. Main Street seemed like the city in rush hour—cars an’ trucks bumper to bumper in both directions. Lot of ’em were blowin’ the four-way stop at Cross an’ peelin’ off down that street as well. There was more vehicles in sight than I’d’ve bet were even registered in Boone County. A lot of ’em had outta state plates.
I grabbed the phone an’ dialed the state police. “This is Deputy Sheriff Deters, West Wheeling,” I tole the dispatcher. “What in hell’s goin’ on?”
She tole me. A waste-oil tanker’d turned over on the interstate, westbound, an’ blocked the westbound lanes. An’ the sludge it was carryin’ had run down onto the eastbound lanes an’ put them out of commission, too. “It’s a mess,” she said. “I hope you don’t have another murder you need help with, Deputy, ’cause we got every man, woman, and draftee out there with the EPA trying to clean it up.”
“I don’t s’pose you got any detours marked?”
“I guess not if you’re callin’ about it.”
“Thanks a bunch,” I said, an’ hung up. I got out my crowd control bullhorn, my traffic citation book, an’ a pile of accident report forms. I figured I’d need ’em.
I went downstairs an’ was about to go out the door when the Evangelical Congregational Church service let out—or maybe they broke early ’cause of the commotion outside. Anyway, Nina was at the head of the pack that come filin’ outta the town hall council room. When I spotted her, I had to take a step back, an’ I nearly fell over the congregation’s portable notice board.
It was the first time I ever saw all of her in a dress. It came to just below her knees, an’ the sight made my knees a little wobbly. Her legs were just as pretty as I’d imagined. The rest of her looked fine, too. I took off my hat without thinkin’, an’ stood there, starin’ in awe.
Nina pretended not to take much notice. She was studyin’ the notice board message: THE LARGEST ROOM IN THE WORLD IS THE ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT, though I’m sure she knew it by heart.
I might’ve stood there all mornin’ ’cept just then there was the screech of metal scrapin’ metal, lots more honkin’, an’ some major takin’ of the Lord’s name in vain.
That got to the congregation, which was pilin’ up behind Nina. I led the parade outside, where we discovered a semi-truck’d overturned on top of several cars. Weren’t no people hurt, but the truck’d split open, liberatin’ its cargo: what seemed like thousands of white chickens was escapin’ in every direction. At least half a dozen cars, that I could see, had run into the back of the truck in a huge chain reaction, an’ a couple had run off the street to avoid a tail-ender. Motorists trapped by the wreckage were streamin’ outta their cars. Chaos was buildin’. The situation called for organization, an’ I was suddenly glad for my stint in the army. When in doubt, get ’em to line up an’ salute.
Forgettin’ her dress for a moment, I turned to Nina an’ said, “Quick, get down to Saveway an’ commandeer their take-a-number machine.”
She nodded an’ took off.
The park across from the town hall was startin’ to fill up with chickens; stranded motorists an’ their passengers; Congregational parishioners; an’ people pourin’ outta the Baptist church across the square. I spotted the Truck brothers an’ several other volunteer firemen about the time they spotted me. We all come together in the middle of the park.
“D.W.,” I said. “You think you can round me up a livestock truck?”
He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Patrick Truck tossed Dwayne his keys, sayin’, “Take my Jeep, D.W., so you can go ’round traffic.”
Dwayne took the keys an’ took off. I told Patrick, Richard an’ the others to see if anyone was hurt.
Just about then, Nina come back with the number dispenser. People was shoutin’ an’ carryin’ on, so I could hardly think straight. I needed to get their attention, so I took out my pistol an’ fired two rounds into the parkway. That did it. There was a short pause in the action. I got on the loudspeaker an’ told everyone to take a number an’ I’d write up their accidents in order. I finished with, “Line-cutters will be sent to the end of the line.”
Meanwhile, the chickens was spreadin’ out all over downtown.