Chapter Twenty One

 

Content to relax and let Amber drive, I enjoyed the cool breeze as we tooled along the road to Dill City. We found Sheriff Amos Bonner perched behind his desk, pouring over uneven stacks of paperwork. When he glanced up and saw us he frowned, then rotated his shoulders and slouched back into his chair.

“Sheriff Bonner, I'm Amber Armstrong,” she said, extending her badge for his inspection.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” he said, scratching gray stubble shadowing his fleshy jowl.

“We're not here to waste your time, Sheriff. I have just one question.”

Bonner glanced at the cracked crystal of his old Timex. “Should take about thirty seconds. About how much time I have to waste before heading out on my rounds.”

Bonner hoisted himself out of his chair. He smoothed away an imaginary wrinkle in his khaki shirt before moving slowly across the room. When he reached the door he removed his worn Stetson from a peg on the wall and adjusted it on his large head.

“What's the story on Bear Townsend,” Amber asked.

Bonner didn't bother turning around. With his back to us and his hand on the doorknob, he said, “Low life, drug using, knuckle headed troublemaker. Now you've asked your question. I answered it. Time's up.”

“You think he could have murdered Bill Logan?”

Amber's blunt question stopped Bonner in his tracks. He turned around slowly, removed his hat, and rubbed the bald spot on his head. “Now who the hell said anything about murder?”

“Mr. Logan is convinced his brother is the victim of foul play. Frankly, Sheriff Bonner, so am I.”

“Well you just take your be-liefs back to wherever you came here from. I'm the sheriff in this county,” he said, stabbing his index finger into his sternum for effect. “Ain't no indication the boy's disappearance is anything other than accidental.”

“New information, Sheriff. Bear Townsend assaulted Mr. Logan and implied he had done the same to his brother. There were witnesses. If you ignore this the State's Attorney General might have reason to suspect you're covering something up.”

“And just how's the Attorney General gonna to get wind of this new information?” Bonner asked, his cheeks becoming progressively redder.

“If I have to, I'll file a report through my office in Brannerville.”

“You got no jurisdiction.”

“Brannerville is Bill Logan's home of record. I have a perfect right.”

“Then you just do that little girl,” Bonner said. “Sheriff Tate, your superior officer, is a friend of mine. We'll see who he believes and what he thinks about you digging through someone else's dirty clothes.”

“If you'd do your own wash, I wouldn't have to. Let's go, Tom,” Amber said, brushing past the rotund Sheriff before he could reply.

Sheriff Bonner shouted something at us as we traced the fluorescent-lighted hallway to the parking lot, but we did not reply. We passed two police officers on the way and they stared at us, as if we might be escaping criminals. When I opened the door for Amber, I glanced back down the hall. Bonner's face was flame red, his legs spread in a shooter's stance, but his index finger instead of a pistol was pointing at a spot between my eyes.

“Son, you so much as spit on the sidewalk and I'll have you seining shit in a state-owned rice paddy. You understand me?”

I gave him a backwards wave and exited the basement of the County Courthouse to the parking lot. Outside the sky was dark blue and completely free of clouds. From the industrial part of town down by the river, a fast moving freight train whistled a mournful signal to the motorists waiting at an intersection for it to pass. I had to put my hands on Amber's shoulders to calm her shuddering anger.

“He shouldn't have treated me like that,” she said.

“He doesn't strike me as the type that worries much about political correctness.”

“I'm sorry, Tom. I made a fool of myself in there.”

“The hell you did. I don't know about your career as a poet but you'd have made a dandy prosecuting attorney.”

Amber blinked and the flush slowly abated from her neck. “Think so?”

“Absolutely. You provided him just a hint of doubt. If he's somehow involved in a cover-up, you made it impossible for him to let it rest.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. “Thanks. Even a hell-raising poet needs occasional reassurance.”

By now the sun was high overhead and our breakfast melon already long forgotten by my growling stomach. The keys to the Jeep were in Amber's hand. I took them from her and climbed behind the wheel.

“I'm hungry. We can discuss Sheriff Bonner over lunch.”

Amber didn't argue. Not knowing the location of any vegetarian restaurants in town, I made a beeline to the Sunrise Cafe. Vera, still dressed in her pea green uniform, met us at the door. She remembered me. Grinning broadly, she slapped my back and escorted us to a table by an open window. Somewhere outside someone was mowing grass, probably for the last time of the season, and the wall behind me vibrated with the high-pitched drone of a two-cycle engine.

“Honey,” Vera said. “You still visiting our little town?”

“I'm starting to like it here,” I said.

“Oh, it'll grow on you all right. Like mold on an old loaf of bread.”

Vera's deep voice resonated against the walls and melded with the drone of the lawn mower as she laughed at her own little joke.

“Who's this pretty little thing you got with you?” she asked when her laughter abated.

“This is Amber. She's a friend of mine.”

As if she knew no strangers, Vera measured Amber's arm between her thumb and forefinger.

“Your mama must have known how to hide the grits,” she said. “Don't worry, Honey. Earl's chicken fry'll put some fat on your fanny.”

“Amber's a vegetarian,”I said, holding up my hand to stop her. Vera stared at me as if I had just informed her that Ronald Reagan was a Communist. In case she did not understand, I added, “She doesn't eat meat.”

“Well it ain't no wonder she's so skinny. You just sit tight, Honey. I will have Earl fix you up a fried veggie plate that'll make your mouth water. And fatten you up, too,” she added, winking at me before hurrying away to the kitchen.

I expected to find Amber upset by Vera's blatant assessment of her slim figure. Instead, she smiled and quipped. “It's really a tragedy to visit a place where no one has an opinion.”

When I stopped laughing, I said, “I met Vera and her husband Earl yesterday. They filled me in on some of Gray Townsend's proclivities.”

“I'll bet your ears are still burning,” she said.

Shortly, Vera returned with two steaming plates heaped with food. I ate my chicken fry with gusto, albeit some guilt as I sat across the table from Amber. She didn't seem to notice. Steamed zucchini, fried okra, green tomatoes, and an appetizing assortment of other vegetables occupied her attention.

As we worked on our meals, the cafe filled with noontime customers. The person outside the window finally finished mowing and the hum of patrons and rattle of plates replaced the little engine's throaty drone. When we finished lunch, Amber and I sipped hot coffee and discussed our next step.

“What now?” I asked.

“Check out every place in town Bill may have visited. Ask questions. Try to dig up a lead.”

“You don't sound confident.”

“Like I said in Brannerville, the trail's stale.”

Her pronouncement cast a gray pall on my morning optimism. The remainder of the afternoon was spent visiting libraries, courthouses, paper mills and every cranny Bill might have frequented. As Amber had predicted, our search proved fruitless. When we called it quits cottony clouds were forming above us, a cuticle of crimson and pink rimming the western horizon. Instead of returning to Turkey Gap, Amber headed for the town's industrial district.

We followed the dusty back road through Dill City's seamier side, past bars, used car lots, and slaughterhouses. It also led to Pancho’s. Amber parked the Jeep in a graveled parking lot littered with chopped Harleys and bikers already celebrating approaching sundown.

“What do you think you're doing?” I asked.

“One more person I need to talk to,” Amber said.

I noticed she said I and not we. An evening chill had replaced cool afternoon and Amber grabbed her black nylon jacket from the back seat and slipped it over her shoulders.

“This place could be dangerous,” I said. “Bear's a borderline psycho and he's not going to admit he harmed Bill.”

“Probably not,” she said, stepping out of the Jeep.

“Then what do we have to gain by being here?”

“Stay in the Jeep, Tom. I'll take care of it.”

“Take care of what?” I said, hurrying after her across the parking lot.

She didn't bother answering my question, sprinting instead up the stairs and entering the front door. I took a deep breath and followed her.

A single large room encompassed the bulk of Pancho's and dark paneling did little to offset its cave-like feel. Darkness was awash in neon light, crowd noise and a Neil Young psycho-melody blaring from the corner jukebox. Fifty or so leather-clad bikers looked us over closely when we entered the front door.

“What'll it be?” the stringy-haired bartender asked.

“Draw and a Coke,” I said.

I noticed the heart tattoo on his hand as he stared at me. He was probably trying to decide which of us wanted the Coke. When he nodded and moved away to complete our order, Amber sat on one of the tall stools and turned her back to the counter.

“Two bucks,” the man said when he returned with our drinks.

I paid him and took the stool next to Amber. A young woman with unwashed hair and a frown on her acne-ravaged face occupied a stool at the far end of the Formica counter. Dressed in worn blue jeans and black tee shirt, her elbows were on the bar, her nose in a warm mug of beer. Two men wearing earrings and leather were shooting pool at a table in back. An eight ball slammed against the rack and an indecipherable hum of muffled obscenities accompanied the clatter. Someone was talking to himself as he beat on an old mechanical pinball machine.

One thing struck me. Unlike New Orleans or most places in the Deep South, there was not a black face in the place. Thinking back, the only black person I had seen since arriving in Sheriff Bonner's county was Zekiel. I didn't have long to reflect on the thought.

“See Townsend?” Amber said.

“Nope, but you can bet we will if he's anywhere around.”

Despite crowd noise and a room that reeked of stale smoke, body odor, and urine, the cool soda tasted good after a day spent mostly in the sun. Someone approached us through the room's smoky confines as I savored it.

“You Logan?”

The breath of the young man standing in my face made Pancho's bar smell like rose petals. The amateur tattoo on the back of his hand said Clint. Little more than a gawky adolescent, Clint had shaved his head on one side. Long greasy hair touched his shoulder on the other. His eyes were red and watery, the soft skin around them swollen like overripe plums. A skull and crossbones painted on his black tee shirt said 'Ded Head'. I nodded in answer to his belligerent question.

“Bear's outside. Wants to see you.”

He stumbled out the front door and half of Pancho's frowning patrons followed him.

“I think the shit is about to hit the fan,” I said.

Without replying to my remark or waiting for me to react, Amber followed the skinny youth to the front door. Suddenly my neck grew red hot and explosions began reverberating in my brain, along with flashes of blinding electrical static. What remained of the patrons in the once-crowded bar parted before Amber and me.

When I stepped through the door the acne-scarred woman from the end of the bar appeared through the crowd and took a drunken slap at me. Because of the bombs exploding in my brain, I was only vaguely aware of her shouted obscenities or the saliva dripping down my neck when she spat in my face. Ignoring her, I caught up with Amber as she reached the Jeep where we found Bear Townsend leaning against the hood.

The late afternoon sun was low on the horizon and muted crimson filtered through Townsend's red hair. His Hitler mustache twisted into an amused grin as he watched us approach through the throng of smelly bikers. His right hand was resting on the hilt of a long-handled ax. From the looks of the Jeep's mangled right front fender, he'd already made use of it.

“Bring your cunt along to hide behind?” he said, looking over Amber's shoulder at me.

“He doesn't need anyone to hide behind,” Amber said. “I'm the one looking for you.”

Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by the rumble of thunder but only silence issued from the bloodthirsty spectators drawn into a tight semicircle around us.

“Your pansy boyfriend tell you I got a big set, Baby Cakes.”

“He told me you're a sadistic monster. I thought I'd just give you some of your own medicine.”

“I think he must have told you about my giant schlong. Why don't you just kneel down and check it out for yourself?”

With his left hand, Townsend reached for Amber's head. Amber, although eighteen inches shorter and almost two hundred pounds lighter than her assailant, reacted immediately, blocking the big man's hand with her own forearm. Even faster, she reached into the flap of her nylon jacket and whipped out a .38 caliber police special. With the full weight of her diminutive body, she swung the pistol like a battle-axe, catching Bear Townsend across the base of the nose.

Townsend's eyes crossed and he sank to his knees, blood gushing from the cut as he grasped his nose and leaned forward. Amber gave him no time to react, her knee exploding upward into his chin. As Townsend fell forward, she kicked him in the head for good measure and then wheeled around, brandishing the pistol, forcing the stunned crowd to back away from the fray. Clint, the greasy youth that had summoned us from the bar was standing beside me. Before he could step away, Amber grabbed his shirt collar and rammed the pistol into his mouth.

“Which one's Bear's?” she said, glancing with angry eyes at the row of choppers. When Clint didn't immediately respond she shoved the pistol deeper down his throat until his watery eyes grew round and glistened with fear. “Which one? And you better not lie to me.”

Clint pointed to a chopped Harley and fell backwards in the gravel when Amber gave him a push. She lurched through the mob to Bear Townsend's awaiting motorcycle. Aware of what she was about to do, everyone backed away and watched her empty the pistol into the black chopped pig.

That was her first mistake of the night. Everyone, including myself, counted each report from the pistol. As they closed in around her, I grabbed the man in front of me, trying desperately to bull my way through the crowd. I managed to reach her but not before half a dozen angry bikers got there first.