Dodged the Bullet: Chapter One

You Can't Run from Family

Family are like assholes: we all have one, usually embarrassed by them while we pretend that they don’t exist. Unfortunately, my family is the biggest, the loudest and the crappiest of them all. My name is Harley Dodge and I was born a hillbilly with a freak, little talent that links to the dead.

I didn’t say I was happy about it.

I suppose that is why when I was younger, I dreamed of running away from Boolee, West Virginia and the reality that is my life.

Growing up in the hills of the Appalachians meant I was never one for keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground of reality. Because, let's face it, reality wasn't any fun. Reality had rules and restrictions; reality had consequences; reality sucked. Blame my misguided thinking on all those fairy tale stories Mom read me each night. They were cool, they were wicked and they were nowhere near that is Boolee, West Virginia. I believed every single one of them was more real than my present reality or, at the very least, that I could fly. Yep, fiction was fun. Fiction was exciting; fiction was as far from reality as one could get without needing a potty break.

My (particular) favorite was The Wizard of Oz. I too wanted to follow the yellow brick road because Dorothy learned it had led to Emerald City. Emerald City was all sparkly and new. Emerald City had lots and lots, of munchkin people who were always happy, always friendly and never cared about such trivialities like, how you dressed or talked or how far back your ancestral tree reached. Emerald City also had a grand wizard who could grant you magical wishes. As a girl born and raised a hillbilly of Boolee, West Virginia I had a ton of unfulfilled wishes and decided one day, I was going to find the yellow brick road that led to Emerald City and ask the grand wizard to grant me new parents or possibly, a shiny, new identity. I fully believed the key to finding this altered reality started somewhere around the back lot near the creek bed of my family home.

Needless-to-say, I did not find bricks or anything that led to a magical city and I eventually gave up on yellow roads, fairy tales and wishes altogether. By my senior year of high school, I made good on my desire to run away from Boolee and reality and never looked back. Then, foolishly and shamefully, I came crawling back and found myself cornered at the worst possible time of my Dodge life.

Unfortunately, this bullet riddled road led straight to the pokey. I should not have been surprised that after two days sweltering while laying low around the lackluster and depraved town of Boolee, West Virginia I found myself wishing I were anywhere else instead.

For some inexplicable reason, I decided that sizzling, Friday morning of late July, to brave a venture out beyond Aunt Bertie's Victorian and visit the Piggly Wiggly for a sampling of chocolaty goodness. Besides, she was out of coffee beans and I had chewed down my last fingernail. The sun was so hot it plastered my t-shirt to my barely-there chest, arms slicked with sweat but I didn’t care because my mind was gleefully (smugly) reminiscing about my narrow escape from my lousy, no-good, rotten, rat-fink, two-timing, shit of a lousy husband’s legal problems to notice otherwise.

So, there I was crossing the half-emptied parking lot, lazily strolling toward my Bentley I refer to as, Black Beauty, cradling my bag of goodies to the crook of my sweaty arm while enjoying the rush of euphoria from a chocolate covered wafer when I realized someone was watching me. No, not watching--surrounding me. It was half of the stations Wannabes, dressed in matching, blue and grey uniforms, squatting behind their county issued SUV's and, lock-armed with me in their crosshairs for a no-good misguided and misunderstood reason.

Yep, I shouldn’t have been surprised but surprisingly, I was.

The sudden shout of, “Freeze, police!” caused me to stumble and trip over my booted toes. I went down on one knee while the brown paper bag of chocolaty goodies slipped free of my lethargic hold before I landed like a skydiver smack dab in the middle of that mess.

I might have heard someone snicker. It could have been me as I squirmed through the mess and glanced about. Two eggs rolled away and across the steaming asphalt, chocolate milk and coffee grounds swirling about my right arm like a finger painting while the bread lay mashed from the weight of my stomach. Even the double chocolate fudge cookies, coconut zingers and cheese crunchies wound up twisted and crushed to an unrecognizable pulp beneath my knees.

I bet you I can save one of those zingers though...

“Hands in the air, nice and slow,” shouted another trigger-happy officer as I was reaching toward one of those, cream-filled pastries.

Dang it--that was my last twenty bucks! I think.

I also think a passing bird just left its mark on top my head.

Now, normally the innocent would immediately do as told. Hell, even the guilty might hesitate, contemplating the officer’s stern suggestion before bolting in the opposite direction. Not me. I am proud to say that I struggled to my booted feet then glanced wildly about, wondering whom they were aiming for when I realized it was moi.

I chuckled, biting the half-eaten cookie into bits, choking as I dry swallowed. Because, I do not like to waste food, especially the chocolaty kind and that cookie was the first thing I had eaten since yesterday. I told the officer, back at the pokey that my giggle was a nervous defensive reaction. He did not share in the laugh. He was the one who had tasered me.

You see, I really wasn't guilty but I was most certainly, not all that innocent either.

I wasn’t guilty of what they were currently handcuffing and Mirandizing me over: stolen property. Namely, Black Beauty, my thirty-third-birthday-present-Bentley presented to me last Christmas by none other than my Trolloping ex, Dickie. Secondly, I wasn’t innocent because after they ran my Social, they discovered a slew of nasty little no-no parting gifts I allegedly but happily bestowed on my no-good, two-timing, skank-loving, ratfink, backstabbing shit-of-a-lousy-husband.

They also learned that I was that Dodge who had fingered a killer.

“Tell me again why you stole said vehicle, which brought yourself to these here parts, Miss Dodge?”

Firstly, I cringed inwardly. The Wannabe drilling me as if I were a parishioner caught picking their nose on Easter Sunday was young, younger than I am. This meant he was not in my High School graduating class and judging by his nasally accent I was convinced he was a transfer. So, either he didn’t know then or must not have heard recently about ‘Miss’ Dodge’s past other than what the present rap sheet before him indicated. Because if he had, he would already know I was a native, hence my unspoken reasoning for returning to 'these here parts' against my better judgment and free will.

Secondly, I sighed and shifted in that stiff back, stiff squared and armless chair opposite the cluttered metal desk he sat behind, protectively. Being that he was a Newbie to these parts of Boolee, I wasn’t in the mood to correct the ‘Miss’ to ‘Misses’ with even so much as a spitball. That would come up later, I was certain.

I looked Newbie over: blonde flattop crew cut; stoic expression to his forgettable, brown eyes; broad but slender chest, arms like a baseball pitcher. He had a slight cut to his upper lip that I could only presume was the result of a feeble attempt to shave peach fuzz above his narrow lips. I smirked. Most boyish-looking men his age is desperately trying to grow that scruff out, competing with the one that shadows my Great-Aunt Margret Spigot Dodge's upper lip; the one she refused to tame down decades ago. God forbid they feel inferior to her impressive growth.

Newbie repeated his question with a clenched jaw, glancing back and forth between my, soon-to-be infamous rap sheet and me, while his left knee knocked against the metal desk as if his leg were a dog with fleas.

I gave him the stink eye.

He did not blink but his body continued to hum with anxious electricity like a relapsing addict.

I switched over to a shrug instead. Why bother telling Newbie the truth if his mind dead-set on the matter of “said stolen vehicle”? It would only confuse him further. Instead, my mind wandered back to my reasons for coming back to Boolee, West Virginia in the first place.

Let me just emphasize, people do not move to Boolee on purpose. They sure as hell don’t end up here on a whim because Boolee is so small, so insignificant that you won't even find it on a map. Go ahead and Google it on one of your fancy apps if you do not believe me. Moreover, if you do think you've found it, turn around and run away. When people say that it is time to 'get the hell out of Dodge' they mean Boolee because know this: People like my past and me purposely run from it as in, sprint for the nearest exit and never, ever look back.

Not intentionally, do we come back.

Foolishly, I did and I stuck out like a sore thumb at an arm-wrestling match.

I never belonged in Boolee, not ever. Even without Miss Surelee’s hundred-dollar, hair straightening and Barely Brunette coloring that otherwise, left my hair disheveled like a frequently raided, rusty colored rat nest, I stood out, precariously. I was the oddball back then, nearly repelling all that Boolee had to offer such as the weekend sleepovers at the local pokey, drinking at the drive-in, driving jacked up trucks through my cousin Waverly’s muddied swamps or crick jumping, crawfish hunting, rifle wielding, truck rally gatherings. Instead, I studied like there was no tomorrow, even earned a little extra cash tutoring or writing up papers for other kids to turn is as their own. Other than that, I kept mostly to myself.

Okay, not really, that was one of my twenty-something cousins who helped. I found other ways of amusing myself that left little to the imagination. I had good reason. Cross my toes and hope to look innocent, honest.

Okay, okay...I guess I am more like that nasty little secret you hope remains secret, which is why I jumped at the only opportunity to leave this stink-hole behind...with Boolee’s urging. Ironically, it became the very reason I ended up slinking back, tail between my legs, white flag of surrender flapping in the jasmine and pine-scented breeze.

That one decision in my life, jumping at the first real offer to leave this tick of a town for greener pastures only lasted fifteen years. Sadly, my charming snake-in-the-grass found something even greener—-actually, blonder--and nearly twelve years his junior. I cried and begged. I even tried kicking and screaming to keep our phony marriage intact, but that led to some rather nasty rug burns I am not at liberty to discuss...not yet, anyways. Therefore, I did what any other rationally scorned woman would have done: I went all Kung Foo on his ass by breaking his favorite Native American Indian collector plates (they were fake, by the way,) before packing a bag and hightailing it back to the last place on earth I cared to be. Boolee, West Virginia.

What was I thinking?

Apparently, I wasn’t.

If that did not put a huge spur in my butt, it put something much colder and more sinister in my daughters’ heart. The four-day, cross country drive, cheap motels and even cheaper fast food became clouded over by icy stares, useless pleas, down-right blame-—at me of course--because in her fourteen-year-old mind it was my fault my marriage broke up and most definitely my fault for her current living situation. How do you tell a teenage girl that her father preferred his women barely legally driving, walking or talking? More appropriately: young and dumb.

Nope. My daughter looks at me as if I just rounded up Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and a Thanksgiving Turkey for mass execution while her father is the prince charming of my tragic story.

As if.

Newbie’s jaw clicked; his patience on the verge of snapping that pencil he was wielding in two to bring me back from my delusional reminiscing. He was now glaring at me and I could feel the floor vibrate from his incessant leg bouncing. Five more minutes of this and I was certain the yellowing, blue and white checkered linoleum would crack a hole in the floor, big enough to swallow me up...hopefully.

Luckily for me I didn’t have to wait that long. The door behind me flew open bringing with it a waft of freshly brewed, ground-roasted deliciousness and sounds of Boolee’s short-arms of the law busy faking work. Luckily, for Newbie, it brought another Wannabe, thus saving him from having to witness another one of my famous stink eyes.

“Snyder wants a word,” said a twangy, deep chuckling voice; his voice the voice of a native, unequivocally. “I’ll take over from here.”

Newbie shot deep chuckles a piercing look, nodded curtly, shot me an equally annoying piercing look then shot out of the creaky chair like the bullet he was hoping to aim at my gut.

My head drooped and I inwardly sighed. Just my luck: bad cop, good cop routine. I dug deep, finding a second resolve to get through another round of hit-and-miss questioning.

“And close the door behind ya,” deep chuckling voice called toward the retreating Newbie.

There was a pause and then stomping footsteps drew closer followed by the click of a door, muffling the sounds of the bustling station. Those size thirteen rubber soles stormed away once more. A moment later, papers shuffled followed by a soft thud and then the chair opposite me creaked then settled before deep chuckles said, “Dang, Harley, what’s goin' on?”

Yep, you heard right; I wasn’t bluffing. My name really is Harley Dodge, inherently named after Red’s two greatest loves: a two-wheelie with more horsepower than a thunderstorm and his cherry red, pick-em-up, truck. Of course, the last name is hereditary, from a long lineage of proud males whom not directly related to the truck-building brothers. Do not tell Red, he would like to think different.

Okay, you can stop laughing now.

My eyes sprang open. I knew that voice.

As my eyes drifted over the top of the papers haphazardly piled about the desk between us, I felt a boulder sink to my stomach. A wood placard about the length of a ruler with gold metallic nameplate had my knees shaking because I had overlooked this during the Newbie shakedown. It said, Detective B. L. Pine.

My gaze shifted north. His eyes still sparkled with the youth of his former self, but his once chocolate hair was now showing signs of thinning, dulling, even graying and receding, exposing a splotchy forehead, etched with worry lines. At least he kept his bowling ball shaped head buzzed cut and was smart enough to not get plugs. He is only two years older than I am but from the looks of that potbelly and softened demeanor corralled by unofficial looking plains clothes he looked more like fifty.

I realized on an intake of breath that I just went from bad cop to a slap from the past: My ex-boyfriend, Brentwood Lewis Pine and he didn’t look happy to see me either.

“Brent,” I breathed, unable to keep the surprise from making my voice sound wobbly or the shivering from reaching my toes. I shouldn’t have been surprised considering, Brent’s father was the previous Sherriff, but it looks like he made good on his desire to follow his father’s example after all.

Brent chuckled once more, causing crinkles to encircle two pools of molten blue-grey.

Oh, man, I'm screwed...

Sensing my brain-fart, Brent continued with our unexpected meeting. “Can’t say I’m sorrah to see ya back,” he said, leaning back in his wooden banker style chair, causing it to creak to his movement. After taking a moment to finger my rap sheet he continued, unassuming (or ignoring) of my need to sprint for the nearest exit. “But I thought you’d done-did left... what...fifteen years now? Thought you’d never wanna come back neither.”

His smile was genuine while his curiosity had me wishing that Newbie would storm back in here and drag me off to a cell, throw away the key, and refuse any visitors for the rest of my miserable, sorry-ass life.

He remembers. He wasn’t the only reason I’d left...just part of the problem. I suddenly felt like someone had switched off the air-conditioning an hour ago.

“Sheesh, what’s up with Newbie,” I had finally found my voice as I subconsciously rubbed my previously handcuffed wrists, doing my best to keep my eyes from laser locking his cup of java.

“Who--him,” He said with a nod toward his door.

I nodded sourly. “He’s a bit trigger happy, don’t you think?”

“It was only a stun gun, Harley.”

“He’s not from around here, is he,” I asked all puss-faced.

“Nope, transfer. Down from Pike County,” he said, shuffling papers about his desk. “Listen, Dodge, about this--”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Owens seems to think it,” he said overlooking my need to be daring as he took a sip of said deliciousness then swiped at two caterpillars fighting for real estate under his round nose. Seriously, his mustache needed taming. He looked me in the eyes concluding with, “But for me, it all depends.”

“On what,” I lobbed back, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. Two can play men’s so-called games of evasiveness.

“How much you all willin' to spill,” he said with another disarming smile.

That’s just great, answering my question with a question was an all-time low. Especially one loaded with past innuendoes mingled with my present dilemma. No doubt, he hasn’t forgotten.

Not one left out of stomping through a mud puddle, I sat up a little straighter and puffed my pitiful B-cup sized chest out (okay, maybe my bra size is a little closer to an A-cup although, some days, it can be debatable). I was ready for this duel. “What exactly do you want to know, Brentwood?”

His eyes dipped to the top of his desk then right back to mine, piercing, maybe all knowing.

“I’m detective now, Miss Dodge.”

“Misses,” I corrected a bit too spritely. I figured if I had to endure this get-together caffeine free then the least that I could do was up his uneasiness by slinging back a zinger of my own. Besides, he had it coming. Unfortunately, I only noticed a slight twitch to the corner of his eyes as the only thing he was willing to give up in response.

“Right...Misses,” he glanced once more to the rap sheet, a smile creeping to his chapped lips when he questioned, “Trollop?”

Shoot. Me. Now. Please.

Trollop is my ex’s last name. Legally, it should have been mine, but I had refused to take it on a matter of principles. Try explaining away Trollop as a family name, with a straight face and a daughter on the verge of womanhood. Yeah, I spared her a lifetime of grief over that one monumental mistake.

He couldn’t help but notice my cringe. I guess that explains how he made detective. That cringe was my body’s natural way of physically repelling any association with that dipshit, my ex, not that present company might soon fall into that category.

“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “You had it right the first time. Dodge...just Dodge.”

Detective Pine arched a thinning eyebrow only a fraction of an inch before leaning forward, forearms resting on my rap sheet, his face stoic emanating Newbie’s favorite expression.

Okay then, down to business--my business; the reasons for my arrest here in tick Ville.

He flashed his steely blues. Man, he made me nervous, but not in a googly-eyed, schoolgirl-crush kind of way. More like, incarcerated to the principal’s office while Red, my uncles and neighboring cousins all showed up to give me their version of disappointed grunts, head shakes of shame and cross-armed stances of disproval. Not that I would know firsthand or anything.

Therefore, I deflected.

“You grew up, Dick-tective,” I said before my brain caught up with my mouth. I did a mental head thunk hoping to keep this from happening again.

“You too, Dodge,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens...” I was babbling; stalling, actually; just how much did that rap sheet tattle about me?

“Let’s get to the guts and glorah of this-here little ditty,” he said challenging, clearly un-rattled by my need to drag boots as he tapped an index finger on my now illusive bad rap sheet. “We all can catch up on ol’ times later.”

Wonderful, I’m giddy with bitter excitement.

“What’s to tell, five-oh,” I quipped.

That little ditty earned me another arched eyebrow. It even hovered a second longer than the first time he reacted to something I said. He needs to stop though because it is distracting my inner dumbass detector. Of course, it never worked that well in the past, so why should it operate efficiently now?

Ah hell...even my thoughts are babbling...

“Dodge...”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling the weight of my present circumstances, come to full oh-shit alert.

“For starters,” he glanced at my rap sheet once more. (How many times had he read that damn thing?) He chuckled yet again with a quick shake of his head before he asked, “farer-bomb?”

“Bonfire,” I corrected. My eyes glistened with glee remembering the bonfire back in Amarillo to our drained, Texas-sized pool, Dickie's personally tailored clothes as fuel, his precious fifty-grand Chevy as the igniter.

Yep. Good times.

After a pause, Brent asked, “Ya wanna elaborate?”

Not really.

See, here's the thing about asking a Boolee resident if they want to ‘elaborate’. No, we do not, because the second we do, it will rocket around town faster than a bullet fired during hunting season. Then again, it could just be me not wanting to elaborate on my present-past because most Booleeites can’t keep their traps shut no matter how large the bribe to do otherwise. Gossip is a sport around here because well...it is about all the sport there is to do in Boolee that does not involve a shotgun or beer.

Boolee is mostly secluded, backed up to the Appalachians and surrounded by hills, valleys and cliffs all overgrown with trees, shrubs and brush as far as the eye can see. Moreover, for this reason, most Boolee residents keep to themselves, as in, they keep the outside out. Ever mention the Olympics to a Booleeite in passing and they’ll proudly show you a displayed, ten-pound, open-mouth bass next to the wall-mounted stuffed head of an 18-pointer-buck; coincidentally, came petrified by my very own, Aunt Bertie. Yeah, we do not get out much.

As an added insult, most of us related to someone else like a scrap quilt put together by a bunch of sugar-hopped, thimble-toting, needle-stabbing, blue and pink haired women with nothing better to do then gossip. You can’t go five minutes without stumbling upon someone else’s business, whether you want to hear about it or not.

Regardless of good old boy Brent having the inside track to my latest shenanigans back in Amarillo, he was still at a loss for the juicy part: my reason behind why I did what I did; because firebomb a story does not make, but shish kebab Chevy and cowhide did.

Yeah, I am not letting loose that can of accelerant, Brent or no Brent.

“You have the report,” I gave a half, one shoulder shrug. “You tell me?”

“Christ, Harley,” he hissed. “Did you all really,” he glanced down at the rap sheet yet one more time (at this rate, he should have the damn thing memorized!) before saying, “set his truck on farer?”

“If it says so,” I shrugged the other shoulder. This was getting old. The fun ran out over that little ditty half an hour ago with officer Newbie. I shifted gears and butt cheeks. “What I’m most curious about Detective, is why the entire department of Wannabes surrounded me exiting the Wiggly, over a simple misunderstanding?”

“A stolen vee-hicle ain’t no misunderstandin’, Dodge,” he said.

“I didn’t steal it,” I gave another shoulder shrug hoping he had forgotten about the incident with Red and me when I was ten. I was more concerned about why that Trolloping S.O.B. suddenly cared about my whereabouts when he was thrilled to the heavens that I was leaving Texas and his smug-ugly mug to my rear-view mirror.

“It was reported missin’ three days ago,” he said, refusing to let up.

“Yeah--by whom,” I asked with little interest.

“Anonymously,” he said.

Whoa--big word, little man...

“Bullshit! And I don’t mean the game.”

Now, if any other, God-fearing, law-abiding citizen had spoken to Detective Pine that way, they might be staring down the concrete end of a jail cell, weekend vacay, all expenses paid and curtsey of Boolee’s taxpayers.

Me? Well, let us just say I know a few secrets of my own involving a one very flustered Dick-tective Pine to know that I will not be getting any jail time from my little outburst. My current problem however, might land me an extended sleepover.

“Cat got your tongue, Brent?”

“Watch it, Dodge,” he cautioned with a point of his pudgy index finger. And here I thought he was going to whip out a bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in that big old metal desk of his so we could belt one back like we did in the olden days.

Not.

“It was a one, Mister...Trollop.”

Uh-huh. It was my daughter, Laney, whom I was certain, had tipped them off, anonymously, or, at the very least, had phoned her father of our whereabouts. I snickered. I had already put two-and-two together and figured as much. I just wanted to hear Brent mutter the word ‘Trollop’ one more time.

I know...I’m shameless.

After another moment of contemplation on his part, not mine, he added, “You all done-did marry that jackass, dint ya?”

Yep, Dickie is a jackass. “Uh...sort of...”

“Seriously, Dodge,” he said, the seriousness back in his voice. “What’d ya ever see in that guy?”

“He was my way out,” I said, nonchalantly.

“Oh Dodge,” he began. Was that pity in his voice? “You all can’t run from your past.”

“Apparently not,” I deadpanned, leaving that loaded nugget to hang in the air between us.

Brent heaved a heavy sigh and shifted in his creaky chair before he continued with my interrogation. "Bonfarer...alright-e, movin’ on,” he shook his head more firmly this time, eyes back on me, disbelieving to ask, “This-here other thang?”

“What other ‘thing’,” I asked, giving the annoying universal air-quotes a tryout. I always wanted an opportunity to do that ever since my lousy husband was so keen on springing that on me every other day. You know just in case his point bounced off my ears into the oblivion; he wanted to be certain I wouldn’t forget. Who knew today, I would get my wish? Too bad that I had to go and waste it on Brent though.

On the other hand, maybe not. Detective Pine arched both eyebrows.

“Seriously, Dodge,” he said, his chuckling resuming. “Did you all--and I quote—-‘spray-paint child molester all over Mister Trollop’s garage door, front door and driveway’?”

Oh, nicely put, Dick-tective.

See? I knew he memorized my rap sheet of glory! I’m so honored...

“At three in the morning,” I said, not batting an eye. That was the not so innocent part of my questionable innocence.

Detective Pine did not blink back.

“So, Dodge, am I to believe that the rest of all this-here is true?”

“Depends,” I replied, picking invisible lint from my blue jeans, clearly bored, hoping we could get to the booking phase of my arrest and twenty-question session. Besides, my butt was starting to tingle, on its way to going numb.

“Depends,” he said, mimicking my elusive answer. He stared at me, slack jawed for a hiccup, mentally shook off his confusion then said, “I’m askin’ ‘bout this: unmentionables shredded and stuffed down the garbage disposal or pluggin' up toilets. Shoes hack sawed in half and piled in the farerplace. I don’t--jeezus, Harley—-I don’t even wanna know what the deal with the lizard means.” He glanced up from my badass rap sheet. “You all want me to keep goin'?”

I met his gaze and gave him my version of a chuckle. That last bit was one of my more creative ways at revenge. So why wasn't Brent laughing? After all, I had gotten the idea from his momma, albeit in a roundabout sort of way. Then again, Brent wasn’t much for pranks back in the day either. I can see why he wasn’t so much as grinning. I can see why being a cop suited him.

Detective Pine’s shoulder drooped a bit. “Harley,” he began talking to me like one of his drinking buds from down at the Whiskey Barrel. “It all were one thang when we all were kids, but this-here is some five-alarm shit. Vandalism...carjackin'...those-there thangs ain’t nutin to joke about.”

No, that’s right. I should have Facebooked the moment instead.

“It was my house, too,” I replied, all cool-like, cat-like.

His left eye narrowed.

Guess he had moved on from the eyebrow flicker.

"Your house...and the um...unmentionables, was yours as well,” he asked me with a squint of the other eye.

“Yes, and maybe,” I stated, flatly. Some of those unmentionables may or may not have once belonged to jailbait: my husband’s former, not me, the latter.

“Jeezus, girl,” he hissed through uneven, coffee-stained teeth. He leaned back with a heavy sigh as if he had just run a marathon, barefooted then scrubbed one chunky hand down the side of his face.

I jumped at his dumbfounded expression to ask, “What I want to know, Dick-tective, is who’s going to reimburse me for my road-kill groceries down at the Piggly Wiggly?”

“Hmm,” he said, picking up his pen and clicking it once. “You all not really gonna press that are ya, Dodge? Otherwise, I might have to ticket you all for litterin’.”

Swell. “Are you serious,” I asked then plastered a scowl on my face, cackles reared. Okay, buddy-boy, let’s rumble!

“Back it up there, Dodge, I sent Connelly down to deal with the matter,” he said, gracing me with another deep, throated chuckle. “No need to thank me, Harley, I just saved your bacon.”

Oh. That’s. Just. Wrong.

“Are we done here?”

“Not quite,” he said, shuffling the papers atop his desk. “The vee-hicle in question is still bein' looked into. The rest, however, needs some explainin’ on your part.”

“I don’t see how any of that other stuff is your problem, Dick-tective.”

“Perhaps not here, but Mister Trollop seems madder than a cat gettin’ declawed in a tub-a-bubbly over what you all done-did,” he said, bringing us back to my pending incarceration.

Damn it, I knew I had forgotten something before I fled from that jerk and his no-good Texas sized ego.

“Now, Dodge, don’t go gettin’ any ideas.”

Freaky...did he just read my mind?

I flashed him my stink eye; nope, nothing.

“I mean it Dodge,” he continued. “He’s raisin' a bucket-load of hell and if you all don’t cooper-ate, I’ll have no choice but to hold ya over ‘till the Sherriff in Amarillo is notified.”

Craptastic.

“That would be a bad idea, Brent,” I said, my voice laced with warning.

“Why’s that, Dodge?” he asked strumming his fingers heavily upon the top of my famous rap sheet, clearly ready to pay me back for what I had done to him and Boolee fifteen and a half years ago.

However, I wasn’t ready to dig up that problem and at best, I flashed him a look that said I could not believe he of all people needed to ask. He still didn’t get the hint of why I wasn’t ready to explain. So, for added measure, I raised my left hand, palm side up, eyes wide and daring him to remember. Two seconds later, his eyes lit up with surprised understanding, or perhaps, he looked spooked. No worries, because a second later, he slowly rubbed both hands down his eyes, nose, mouth before he took a deep breath. Then, as he gave a narrowed glance my way, he said through tightly pressed lips, “Christ, Harley what exactly have you all gone and gotten yourself into this time?”

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