picked her nose and wiped her fingers on the underside of the table, unflinching beneath his gaze while he killed a pot of coffee. Neither had said a thing the whole time.
“Grab her up top.” He said to nobody. Tate came around and reached under her armpits while Chowder got her knees. They hefted her into the office and laid her on the couch. Her left eye was beginning to blow up and turn purple. Tate went to the kitchenette and began filling a Ziploc baggie with ice cubes. “What’re you doing?” asked Chowder.
“Just getting her some ice,” Tate said, “For the swelling.”
“Uh-uh. Let that shit swell. Her pageant days are behind her anyhow.”
The sound of a truck pulling quickly out of the lot sent him to the window again. That rusty Chevy was gone, leaving a cloud of exhaust. Great. His chicken-dick buddy had split. He went back outside to check the damage.
There was a semi-circle of spectators around the bloody guy on the ground. Some of them glanced in the direction of the departing car. “What happened?” Chowder demanded.
The chunky new girl, Cinnamon, spoke up. “He provoked her.”
Chowder looked down at the victim and saw that it was Terry Hickerson.
“Shit,” he muttered. No doubt he did. “How exactly did he do that?”
Cinnamon giggled a bit at the memory. “He was real worked up all night. Just all riled. Kept after folks till, I don’t know, they hit him.” She shrugged like he was a puzzle. “Offered Irm twenty bucks to go three ways with us.”
“That’s all?”
Cinnamon nodded. “He had a way, though. You had to be there, I guess.”
Chowder patted Terry’s pockets and retrieved his wallet. Inside, he found three credit cards, none with names matching Terry’s, a couple old lotto tickets and a note written in magic marker.
Chowder unfolded it and saw a phone number written beneath the announcement that if you have found this note on the unconscious body of Terry Hickerson you were advised to call his son Wendell Hickerson, who would come pick him up.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TERRY
Terry Hickerson’s house had been constructed much like his life had been - with many odd bits strung together in unlikely juxtaposition, blaspheming symmetry and patched on as afterthoughts years in between inspirations.
The original structure consisted of a small bedroom and bath with a kitchen and living room heated by a wood-burning stove, simple and executed with enough integrity to bear the years and indignities they carried without a creak. A door had been cut into the bedroom and another, larger bedroom and bath added on so that reaching them required passing through the front. The addition was not heated and thus unused during the coldest months. It leaked in the northwest corner during the constant showers of spring and late summer.
A canopy had been erected on the house’s east side and converted later into a single car garage. Eventually, this was the new, improved kitchen with cabinets on the back wall and linoleum tile on the floor. Somewhere along the way, enthusiasm for this project had waned and the south wall was never completed, leaving the barn-style doors, added when it was a garage, until they broke completely off the rusted hinges. Now there was a vinyl tarp fastened across, which whipped about in the winds strong enough to penetrate the woods, and required replacing every two years. The room’s function had returned to garage, though not the type used to shelter automobiles, only tools, scrap wood for the stove or for patching holes, paint cans and sundry broken things awaiting repair or salvage.
Each addition, over the years, had begun to sink into the soft earth of the yard, leaving varying degrees of incline toward the original modest square structure and daylight gaps in portions of the ceiling that were covered eventually by plywood pieces which had formed, by providence, to the same approximate size and
“Grab her up top.” He said to nobody. Tate came around and reached under her armpits while Chowder got her knees. They hefted her into the office and laid her on the couch. Her left eye was beginning to blow up and turn purple. Tate went to the kitchenette and began filling a Ziploc baggie with ice cubes. “What’re you doing?” asked Chowder.
“Just getting her some ice,” Tate said, “For the swelling.”
“Uh-uh. Let that shit swell. Her pageant days are behind her anyhow.”
The sound of a truck pulling quickly out of the lot sent him to the window again. That rusty Chevy was gone, leaving a cloud of exhaust. Great. His chicken-dick buddy had split. He went back outside to check the damage.
There was a semi-circle of spectators around the bloody guy on the ground. Some of them glanced in the direction of the departing car. “What happened?” Chowder demanded.
The chunky new girl, Cinnamon, spoke up. “He provoked her.”
Chowder looked down at the victim and saw that it was Terry Hickerson.
“Shit,” he muttered. No doubt he did. “How exactly did he do that?”
Cinnamon giggled a bit at the memory. “He was real worked up all night. Just all riled. Kept after folks till, I don’t know, they hit him.” She shrugged like he was a puzzle. “Offered Irm twenty bucks to go three ways with us.”
“That’s all?”
Cinnamon nodded. “He had a way, though. You had to be there, I guess.”
Chowder patted Terry’s pockets and retrieved his wallet. Inside, he found three credit cards, none with names matching Terry’s, a couple old lotto tickets and a note written in magic marker.
Chowder unfolded it and saw a phone number written beneath the announcement that if you have found this note on the unconscious body of Terry Hickerson you were advised to call his son Wendell Hickerson, who would come pick him up.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TERRY
Terry Hickerson’s house had been constructed much like his life had been - with many odd bits strung together in unlikely juxtaposition, blaspheming symmetry and patched on as afterthoughts years in between inspirations.
The original structure consisted of a small bedroom and bath with a kitchen and living room heated by a wood-burning stove, simple and executed with enough integrity to bear the years and indignities they carried without a creak. A door had been cut into the bedroom and another, larger bedroom and bath added on so that reaching them required passing through the front. The addition was not heated and thus unused during the coldest months. It leaked in the northwest corner during the constant showers of spring and late summer.
A canopy had been erected on the house’s east side and converted later into a single car garage. Eventually, this was the new, improved kitchen with cabinets on the back wall and linoleum tile on the floor. Somewhere along the way, enthusiasm for this project had waned and the south wall was never completed, leaving the barn-style doors, added when it was a garage, until they broke completely off the rusted hinges. Now there was a vinyl tarp fastened across, which whipped about in the winds strong enough to penetrate the woods, and required replacing every two years. The room’s function had returned to garage, though not the type used to shelter automobiles, only tools, scrap wood for the stove or for patching holes, paint cans and sundry broken things awaiting repair or salvage.
Each addition, over the years, had begun to sink into the soft earth of the yard, leaving varying degrees of incline toward the original modest square structure and daylight gaps in portions of the ceiling that were covered eventually by plywood pieces which had formed, by providence, to the same approximate size and
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