Amarillo - a short story

I can't remember when I wrote this short story but I know why I wrote it. I grew up with a mean, red-headed older brother, and a father that had returned from the Second World War with an anger problem he never resolved until the day he developed Alzheimer's. It all came to me when I heard the Bob Dylan song Brownsville Girl that resonated all the way to my soul. Like so many of Dylan's songs, it told a story. I chopped out this short story about brotherly love and fatherly control. It's crude and unapologetic. Hope you love it.

Amarillo

We crossed the Panhandle at sundown, heading south toward Amarillo. Jim hadn't moved in over an hour. He just stared out the window at crimson light bleeding up from the horizon. Finally, he fidgeted in his seat and folded his arms.

He just stared out the window at crimson light bleeding up from the horizon. Finally, he fidgeted in his seat and folded his arms.

"You know, little brother, this reminds me of a movie I seen once."

 Hoping to free him of the blue funk weighing on him since we left Wichita, I said, "Tell me about it."

Jim leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, and took a long, dreamy breath.

"Don't remember much. A kid trying to make a name for his self shot an old gunfighter in the back. Left him for dead on the edge of the town."
"What happened?” I asked.

 "Sheriff waylaid the kid and beat him senseless. By then folks from town had gathered, wanting to string the boy up on the spot. The dying gunfighter wouldn't have none of it. Turn him loose, he said. Let him feel what it's like to live life in the sight of a gun."
"What's it mean?"

 Jim offered no answer. His eyes had closed and stayed that way until I braked the Ford on the outskirts of town. Not knowing where to go from there, I nudged him, waiting until he shook away his bad dream.

 "Teddy Jackson's place. Down the road a ways," he mumbled. "Next to a used car lot."

 We passed miles of used cars, cattle pens, and wrecking yards, finally finding Teddy Jackson's trailer house behind a twelve-foot fence topped with concertina. The sign on the gate said Teddy's Junk House. When I stopped the old Ford Jim reached across the seat, leaning on the horn until a woman with a thatch of thick red hair came out of the trailer and shined a flashlight through the windshield.
"Closed up. What the hell you want this time of night?"

 "Here to see Teddy," Jim said.

 "Well, he ain't here. Come back tomorrow."

 "I'm Jim Droon and this is my brother. Teddy's expecting us."

 The red-haired woman must have known we were coming because the muscles in her face relaxed, and she said, "We won't see Teddy till the bars close down."

 Swinging back the gate, she let us drive into the lot, smiling when Jim winked at her. Flushing visibly red even beneath dim fluorescent light flooding the junk lot, she straightened her yellow hair bow.

 Darla was her name. She took to Jim right off and him to her. The trailer was a mess, Teddy's junk occupying every inch of floor space. It did not bother Jim. Without asking permission, he sprawled out on a faded sofa older than both of us were. Darla didn't seem to mind and before long they were sharing tequila straight from a bottle. I passed when they offered me a swig. We had not eaten all day and I didn't think hard liquor would help the dull ache in the pit of my gut.

 Darla and Jim were in a world of their own so I walked down the hall to the bathroom. When I finished my business, I rummaged through the kitchen, looking for something to eat. All I found was a single can of Lone Star, its top already popped. With nothing better to eat or drink, I sipped flat beer till it got too hot.

 "How do you like our little corner of the world?” Darla asked when I returned to the couch.

 "It's so -"               

 "God forsaken?"

 "You got it." Jim grinned when I said, "But it reminds me of Kansas, all big and open. We had a tree once, you know?"

 Darla rubbed a dark bruise, shaped like a buffalo's head, on her calf. "Only one tree?"

 "Yeah and it didn't last long. When Mama was working and Daddy off playing pool, Jim siphoned gas from the tractor, poured it on that tree and set it on fire. Said it bugged him the way wind caused it to brush against the screen door."

 Leaning forward on the couch, Darla said, "Hey, Jim, what did your Daddy do when he found out?"

 By now, Jim was all grins. "Let little brother tell you. He's better at it than me."

 Glancing away from Darla's expectant eyes, I said, "Jim didn't want a whipping so he sneaked off to town, but not until he left the half-empty gas can beside my bed. Daddy come home all sotted up. Found the burned-up tree and can of gas. I didn't know what hit me when he yanked me out of bed by the hair, beating me with the buckle of his belt till I begged him to stop."

 "You survived," Jim said. "Besides, that's why you're the little brother, little brother."

 Just before midnight, Darla said, "Amarillo's a hell hole. Ain't enough life here worth embalming. Been thinking of hitchhiking back to Dallas. Where you boys headed?"

 "South," Jim said.

 "How far south?"

 "Till the wheels burn off that ol' Galaxie."

 "San Antone," I said. "Jim says it's like paradise. Jobs for everybody. Beautiful weather."

 I did not miss the glance Darla shot Jim. "Well, don't take everything you hear too seriously, kid. San Antone's okay, but for my money the place to be is Dallas, any time."

 Shaking my head, I said, "We're going there for sure. Jim says they pave the streets with gold."

 Darla laughed and she and Jim kept right on drinking till the bottle was empty. About two-thirty we heard brakes screeching outside the fence and I sensed it was Teddy, coming home from an all-day drunk. We watched him stagger out of his dented blue Biscayne. When he saw Jim, recognition flooded his ratty eyes.

 "Jimmy," he said, latching his arms around Jim's neck. When he kissed him on the mouth Jim didn't flinch, but I saw a strange look flicker and die in Darla's green eyes.

 "Get in this house," Teddy said, steering Jim back toward the trailer door. "Who's this you brung with you?"

 "Little brother," Jim said.

 "Looks bigger than you," Teddy said. "Darla, I'm starved. What's to eat in this place?"

 Darla stalked off to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of stale rice soaked in red sauce I had somehow missed. She didn't bother heating it up and Teddy didn't seem to mind, eating it straight from the bowl without offering any to me or Jim.

 "Jim and me spent time in McAlester," Teddy said. "Hard time. Jim kicked the shit out of a guard." A wicked grin spread over his skinny face. "What a man your brother is. What a man."

 "Shit, Teddy. You're the one," Jim said. "You always had a plan. The rest of us were just doing time."

 "A plan is what I got right now," Teddy said, edging closer on the sofa.

 Teddy had finished the red rice. Now he filled a shot glass with tequila. Darla had passed out on the couch and Teddy sipped his drink, staring at Jim. "There's a bank in town, ready for the breaking. You boys interested?"

 Jim said, "Maybe. At least in hearing what you got to say about it."

 "End of the month payroll," Teddy said. "Probably forty thousand dollars, or so. Twenty each."

 Teddy paused as Jim reflected on the amount he had mentioned. Leaning closer, he said, "I drive. You walk in, hand them the note, collect the money and walk out. I'll pick you up on the corner. Nothing to it."

 Not believing what I was hearing, I waited for Jim to laugh, or at least change the subject. He did neither.

 Instead, he said, "How many guards?"

 "Just one," Teddy said. "That's the beauty. They got all the money in the world and no security. We'll waltz right in, take what they got and hit the road without a hitch."

 I tried to catch Jim's eye but he glanced away. Considering Teddy's scheme, I guessed.

 "When?” Jim finally said.

 "Tomorrow. Right after they open up."

 "Won't give us much time to case the place."

 "That I already done," Teddy said.

 "You think about it," he said, patting Jim's cheek before sauntering off to bed in the next room. Darla rubbed her eyes, blinked herself awake, and followed him. Jim kicked me off the sofa, wrapped his hands behind his head, and grinned.

 "You wouldn't rob another bank, would you Jim?" I asked.

 "Not me, little brother, us."

 "If Teddy wants to rob a bank, let him do it alone. He don't need you."

 "Teddy's just a driver. He can't pull this job alone. Besides, Teddy and me shared a cell in McAlester. He's smart and knows how to make things work. If he says this is a good bank to rob, then I believe him."

 "If he's so smart, why did he wind up in McAlester in the first place?"

 Jim ignored my question and said, "We need Teddy to drive and I need you to back me up."

 "But what about San Antone?"

 Jim stared at the ceiling, smiling his crazy smile, and said, "This is San Antone."

 "No way. You promised Mama and you promised me. I won't let you screw your life up again."

 Jim's eyes had closed but I knew he was listening because of that grin on his face I had seen all my life.

  Quit your belly-aching, little brother," he finally said. "Neither of us is going to rob anything. I was just kidding."

 "You sure?"

 Jim passed out on the couch, the only answer to my question a coyote, somewhere down the road, howling at the moon. Propping my shoulders against a wall, I closed my eyes but mental meandering prevented sleep until almost dawn when Jim nudged me awake with his foot.

 "Get up, little brother. We're going into town and get something to eat."

 My gut ached. So did my head, but during the long night, I had somehow convinced myself it was all a joke. When my stomach growled I remembered my hunger and the bacon and eggs Jim was promising.

 Teddy, Darla, and Jim were not quite ready to go so I chewed on a piece of cardboard until they killed the last of the tequila. Temperatures had dropped below freezing during the night and we had to push the Ford to start it. The ride to town seemed endless and we found the streets deserted when we got there - like winter on Mars.

 Jim and I sat in the back seat of the Galaxie, Darla riding shotgun, as Teddy circled the block. They both looked strung out and it worried me. Maybe it was just last night's Lone Star but the atmosphere in the car made my gut feel like slag lead. Finally, Teddy stopped and let us out.

 "I'll park this heap around the corner," he said. "Just come running."

 Darla reached through the window, giving Jim a hug and frantic kiss and waving as Teddy pulled away. Drawing me like a magnet, Jim drew a deep breath, patted his chest and started down the street,

 "Why aren't they coming with us?"

 "Cause Teddy's lazy and looking for a closer place to park. Cafe's just down the street and I ain't waiting."

 When we rounded the corner, I looked in both directions for the pancake house but did not see it. Instead, a bank door beckoned and I realized Jim had suckered me. Grabbing the front of my pea-jacket, he shoved a big revolver under my belt and pushed me through the front door.

 "Don't do this," I said.

 Jim grabbed my shoulder, cupped my ear and whispered into it. "All you have to do is stand right here and wait on me. I'll do the dirty work and no one will even know you're involved."

 "I'd follow you to hell. But robbing a bank -"

 "You never robbed a bank before?"

 "Jim, you know I ain't"

 Jim's eyes began to glaze. "It's pure sex, kid. Pure sex."

 Now my knees were shaking, my heart thumping against my ribs. Across the room, one fat guard propped up the wall, drinking coffee from a plastic cup. Jim strolled past him, straight to the nearest cashier where he pulled out his pistol and stuck it in the woman's chest. Outside the bank, I had felt like I was about to puke. Now, time began passing like a slow-motion Technicolor pan across the room. As if I weren't really there, but knew I was.

 "You're too young to die, beautiful," Jim said to the scared woman. "Put your money in this sack and signal your boss over here, now."

 The young woman's body stiffened like a chopped stump. Color drained from her face and saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth. Looking at her, it made me wonder if she would piss her pants before I did.
Don't shoot me," she said. "Please!"

"Put the money in the sack," Jim said, his words growing progressively louder. "Then call your boss over here."

 The woman's voice was also growing louder and had become noticeably shaky when she called to a well-dressed man beside the open vault.

 "Jeremy, over here."

 With a glance of disapproval, the young banker in a blue suit approached the booth. He had no chance to comment on the cashier's disrespect before Jim stuck the pistol in his face and eased the two of them down the row. Jim followed Jeremy and the woman into the vault.

 I glanced at the big clock on the wall and waited. Although it seemed like forever, less than five minutes passed before Jim strolled out of the vault. He was alone. Slung over his shoulder was a heavy-looking bag and I thought we were home free. Instead, fate suddenly dealt us aces and eights.

 Jeremy or the cashier must have tripped an alarm from inside the vault. A siren began wailing and people started screaming and throwing themselves to the floor. The fat guard pulled his pistol and dropped to his knees, fanning the bank. Jim was almost to the front door when the man yelled for him to halt. Without waiting for a response, he began shooting. His pistol erupted, my heart counting three explosions.

 The first bullet caught Jim in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second took off a chunk of his right ear and the third struck him square in the belly. I watched helplessly as he staggered back against the wall, pluming blood painting a crushed rose across the front of his jacket.

 It was not over. The fat guard rushed forward, jamming his pistol in Jim's face. Amid screams of the people in the bank and sirens wailing outside, he prepared to pull the trigger. I had already started for the door, but I could not leave, knowing I had to save Jim. Use the gun he give me. Yanking it from my belt, I pointed it, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

 All my luck had ebbed sometime the day before. Catching sight of the weapon in my hand, the fat guard squeezed off a round from his pistol at the exact instant. His bullet burned a hole through my leg, igniting sharp pain just below my right knee. My bullet lifted him off his feet, crushed him against the wall, robbing his breath until no life remained in his eyes. He was dead and it was me that had killed him.

  Somehow, reality fazed me less than intense pain surging through my leg. Steadyng Jim before he collapsed to the floor, I fought back my nausea, wondering what weird anomaly of life caused blood to gurgle from my brother's mouth while letting his eyes remain clear as Amarillo's cold December sky.

 "Get us out of here, little brother."

 Trembling bodies lay sprawled on the floor, blocking our path to the door. I stepped over, through and between them, hauling Jim to the front door, the bank's alarm still screaming bloody murder, distant sirens blaring as we stepped outside.

 Down the street, Teddy and Darla waited in Jim's Galaxie. Teddy saw us first, slamming the car into reverse, burning rubber all the way down the road until he reached us. Amid all the confusion a crow cawed, somewhere overhead. For a moment, I thought we was back home in Kansas.

 "Teddy, Jim's shot. Help us."

 The front door opened and Darla bolted out, rushing toward us like an excited chicken, wrenching the moneybag off Jim's shoulder instead of helping me with him. The car door slammed behind her, old tires screaming as they burned rubber around the corner and disappeared.

 "Bastard," Jim said, weak from loss of blood. "Get me out of here. I swear I ain't doing no more hard time."

 The crowd gathered on the sidewalk scurried out of our way as I moved us along with no idea where to go. Then it appeared before us - a cross topping a church steeple and red brick fencing a churchyard. I dragged Jim through the gates.

 "Inside," I said. "The priest will give us asylum."

 "Dumb shit," Jim said. "We're bank robbers. There's no asylum for us."

 I pulled him forward anyway. By now, my right leg was numb from the knee down and my head felt as if I had taken two dozen fast circuits on a broken tilt-a-whirl. Fighting the urge to throw up, I pushed through the heavy oak doors, into the main chapel of the church. We made it to the third pew before I collapsed.
"They're coming," I said.

 Jim's laugh surprised me. When he spoke, I had to lean closer to hear him.

 "You know, little brother, last night I dreamed about that movie again - the one where the kid shot the old gunfighter."

 Blood had soaked my jeans and I felt faint and sick but Jim's throaty voice swam inside my head like a trapped goldfish. In response to his question, I could only nod.

 "The gunfighter just lay there in the dirt," he said. "Half dead, but staring at me as if I was a cockroach he wanted to stomp. So were the sheriff and all the town folk."

 "Just stay quiet and the priest will get you a doctor. You'll be fine."

 Ignoring me, he said, "It was me, the dirty bastard who shot the gunfighter in the back." He laughed and coughed up blood that foamed down his chin and neck. "This morning when I woke up, I could still feel the noose around my neck."

 Jim slowly massaged his neck as more blood gurgled from his lips and a cold glaze crept over his blue eyes.

 "Hang on. They're coming for us now."

 "Too late. I'm gutshot, little brother. Maybe I'll see you back in Kansas sometime, and maybe that old gunfighter again, somewhere along the way. Gotta go now. Daddy's coming. Take care of him for me, will you?"

 Jim's body went slack in my arms as the church's heavy oak doors swung open and I gazed up helplessly at the dozen men pointing angry pistols and rifles at me, and through the portal, I could see hazy clouds dulling the pink winter sky.

 A chill breeze, leaving a pall in my heart, gusted down the aisle. It whistled like Daddy's belt, causing me to remember the sting of its buckle. Hard and cold as it flailed long red whelps across my back.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Pole Dancer - a short story

I can't recall the exact time I wrote this short story though sometime during the 80s is a safe guess. It's about a man, an American Indian man, visiting a strip club to watch his sister perform. The idea came to me after I had visited a strip club. I'd had a conversation with a dancer who was upset because her father had come into the club to watch her perform and to try to convince her to quit her job. The bouncer had thrown him out before he'd had a chance to do either. 

Reading the story again after many years I can still feel the anger in my words that I felt following a failed marriage and, most likely, still suffering from PTSD from my time as an infantry machinegunner in Vietnam. The sentences are choppy and the dialogue stilted but I refrained myself from launching into a massive edit job because it was written by the person I was at the time and not the same person I am now. Thanks for reading Pole Dancer and I hope you like it anyway. P.S. If the subject of nudity offends you then please stop reading now.

Pole Dancer

Another hot Oklahoma day, dry clouds streaking a faded sky as dervishes of swirling dust burnished Joe Redbird's elbow. Two crows, examining an armadillo carcass, moved out of his path. Joe had other things on his mind and didn't notice as he passed a slow-moving pumping unit, siphoning the last greasy sips from a dying reservoir. Scattered remnants of a once proud industry littered both sides of the road, staining the dry earth with dirty water. Overhead, a lone hawk floated in a thermal updraft.

Redbird pulled into a pea-gravel parking lot surrounding a freestanding cinder block building. Broken neon lighting, mounted on two pilfered stands of drill pipe, proclaimed the place Valley of the Dolls.

Shading his eyes from noon sun, he steered the pickup between a red Chevy and a dented Fat Bob Harley. Waves of damp heat flooded the cab when he opened the door. He didn't bother stretching as he side-stepped a drunk Okie leaning against the wall.

He squinted into murky darkness, smoke accosting his eyes and loud music his ears. At least the air-conditioning felt good, chilling his sweaty neck as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A half-nude waitress encircled his waist with slender arms, pressing her breasts into the small of his back.

"Whatcha having, Geronimo?"

"Pitcher of Bud," he said.

"Smile, Chief. Can't be all that bad."

Redbird's expression remained dark, despite the young woman's friendly prodding. He nodded toward the bar circling center stage. His mousy-haired server puckered her lips and made lewd kissing sounds. When he refused to respond, she wriggled her nipples between thumb and forefinger and then kissed him on the cheek.

"You need something, just whistle. I'm Anita."

Redbird's features remained impassive as Anita winked and backed away through the crowd. When his eyes dilated enough to see, he glanced over his shoulder at the dozens of other patrons. Bikers in leather and chains, soldiers with shaved heads and roughnecks in dirty overalls. They filled the large room to frantic capacity, and he had to elbow his way to an empty chair at center stage.

His dollar tip earned him a wet kiss when Anita returned with his pitcher of beer. Ignoring her, he wiped the lipstick off his face with the back of his hand. Anita shrugged and eased away through the crowd. After draining the first glass, he poured another. Then he faded into cool darkness as pulsating-neon flooded center stage.

Several-dozen prairie voyeurs rattling beer bottles soon replaced the jukebox. A new dancer was preparing to come on stage, and shrill whistles began piercing the darkness. Redbird cocked his head for a better view of the wooden stage.

Staggering up the short ramp, a young blue-eyed blond woman licked her lips. Clad in only a bra and gold sequined g-string, she smiled at the whistling, cat-calling audience staring back at her. When the jukebox began, she gyrated in a drunken simulation of sensuality. Above blaring rock and roll, a high-pitched voice shrilled.

"Hey baby, show us your snatch."

When someone put two soft hands on Redbird's shoulders, he knew who it was without turning to look.

"What are you doing here, Joe?"

Redbird pivoted in his chair, gazing up into a dancer's dark eyes.

"Pete Thompson said I'd find you here."

The young woman's long hair draped in raven waves over bronze shoulders. Reflections in her dark eyes rippled like black paint in a blender. Joe's neck grew warm as he sensed the gaze of everyone around them. They were admiring the attractive dancer, a woman with smooth skin, brown as his own.

"Pete's right. I'm a dancer."

Glancing over his shoulder at the girl on stage, Redbird said, "Like her?"

When Victoria shut her eyes, Redbird could almost feel the hot flush spreading up her neck. Opening them, she stared at the floor.

"Mom send you?"

In a voice barely audible above the loud music and grating background voices, he answered, "Mom doesn't know you work here. Maybe you can tell me why you do?"

Redbird leaned forward, touching her hand, causing her to wrench away and back into a drunk at the table behind her. The man groped her leg before she could move away.

"I have no answer. Least one you'd understand."

"Try me."

"Vicky, you're up next," someone called from behind the bar.

"Have to go," she said. "Finish your beer and get out of here before you embarrass us both."

"Will it embarrass you to have your big brother watch you strip and do squat thrusts while these monkeys masturbate in the dark?"

Vicky shook her dark mane. "I don't do that. They are to watch me dance. That's all."

Glancing at the girl weaving drunken circles on stage, Redbird said, "You call that dancing?"

"What about you? You've been here before."

"Different," he said.

Victoria tried to smile, but her quivering lower lip betrayed her true feelings. She leaned against the table so no one else could hear her reply.

"Why is it different?"

"Because people are laughing behind your back," he said.

"Who are they laughing at? You or me?"

"I don't dance in a titty bar."

"Yeah, and I suppose all your friends have great respect for the way you earn a living, driving a garbage truck."

"Honest work."

"So is dancing."

"This isn't dancing, Vicky. It’s obscene. I feel sorrow for you and shame for our family."

"Only thing you feel is your throbbing head and queasy gut when you wake up Sunday morning with puke on your pillow."

"Doesn't change things," he said.

Victoria touched his hand and said in a whisper, "I can't expect you to understand. I've wanted to dance since I was a little girl."

"But why here?"

"Because we all have decisions to make, and don't always have enough choices."

Redbird folded his arms and shook his head. "These scumbags don't care if you dance, or parade around on all fours. In fact, I'm sure that's what they would prefer."

"I do it for myself, Joe. Not them, and not you." When he didn't reply, she said, "Just get out of here. Please."

He stayed in his chair, noticing glints of sadness flicker and fade in the darkest corner of her eyes. Her lip quivered, and she drew a breath, almost losing the tiny halter covering her breasts when she exhaled. Clutching it to her bosom, she hurried away through the crowded tables.

Though impassive, his shoulders began shaking in an almost imperceptible tremble. Sitting straight up in the rickety bar chair, he locked his folded arms against his chest and turned toward center stage. Everyone locked on to the blue-eyed dancer. No one had noticed the confrontation. Enveloped in her third song, she'd already discarded the sequined halter covering her breasts. As he watched, she yanked on her golden g-string.

With eyes like a stalking wolf, she promenaded across the stage on hands and knees. When she spotted Redbird and saw his frown.

Pulling the snap of her g-string, she twirled it once around her head, sniffed it, and then tossed it around Redbird's neck. With a satisfied smirk, she flipped over, wrapping long legs around her neck. She rolled across the stage, displaying her shaved privates. Her performance brought whistles from the drunken crowd.

Redbird turned away. Some perverse curiosity returned his gaze to the stage. He locked onto the young woman's sweating body, dirty from the dust tracked floor. She writhed in widening circles, not forgetting Redbird until the music ceased.

When the song ended, she collected the dollar bills scattered across the stage and grabbed her outfit in a slight bend of the knees. Redbird folded his arms and turned away, trying to lose himself in the remaining slug of beer. At least, until a hand touched his shoulder.

"Another pitcher, Chief?"

Redbird nodded. After returning from the bar, Anita filled his glass, sipping from it before handing it to him. Confused by his rampant emotions, he studied the rose tattoo on her breast and the strange gold fleck in her left eye. She licked foam from her lips with an overt flick of her tongue. His dollar tip earned him another wet kiss, followed by solitude as she departed to wait on someone else.

Attracted by the booming jukebox, Redbird's gaze returned to center stage. As beautiful Victoria appeared through the neon-lighted darkness, he held his breath.

Except for her near-nudity, she seemed a beautiful princess, ascending dirty steps to a royal throne. Behind Redbird, the anonymous audience whooped and whistled their approval. He couldn't look her in the eye but couldn't take his own off her body. His face and neck grew red. Victoria was tall and dark, moving across the stage like a dandelion wafting in the breeze. She pirouetted in slow, measured circles, long raven hair billowing in synchronous waves.  Her eyes, dark and liquid, mesmerized and quieted the audience, Her movements possessed them. Victoria whisked off the tiny halter covering her breasts during a slow turn on the polished pole. As a single entity, the crowd gasped.

Joe Redbird watched, along with bikers, soldiers, and roughnecks. His skin flushed with rising anger. Unable to forget the leering creatures gaping at his beautiful sister, he turned away. His head began to shake with a subtle flutter that crept into his shoulders and down the base of his spine.

Victoria's last number sheathed its patrons in a tight knot of rapt concentration. As bass notes resonated through the murky darkness, her movements entwined them. Nothing disturbed her as she revolved around the polished pole, like a holographic vision in a giant music box. Finally, she whisked off her last garment.

Screaming shouts and wild applause punctuated her curtsied finale. Smiling at the ovation like a prima ballerina, she waved, acknowledging their praise. As she prepared to exit the stage, Redbird hoisted his half-filled pitcher of beer, hurling it at his sister.

She dodged the missile, watching it crash into the wall-length mirror behind center stage. An explosion of flying shards liberated the audience as angry patrons closed around Redbird. A fat security guard bullied his way through the crowd. When he reached for Redbird, the tall Native American took a round-house swing and knocked him on his ass. With fists raised, he pivoted in a semi-circle, daring anyone to touch him. Someone did.

Willowy arms encircled him; the gentle pressure of soft breasts in the small of his back calmed him like water on a lighted fuse. With fury bleeding from his soul, he allowed the woman to back him to the front door.

"Get the hell outa here and don't ever come back," the fat security guard called after them.

Someone started another song on the jukebox, and another dancer took center stage. Bar patrons grumbled but returned to consuming more beer and watching the next performance. Mousy-haired Anita pushed Joe Redbird into bright August sunlight of the graveled parking lot. He halted when she shouted at him.

"What right have you got pulling a stunt like that?"

Naked, except for a yellow strip of tawdry cloth covering her pubic hair, she waited for his answer. It never came. Instead, his apathetic stare caused her to shield her bare breasts with a perfunctory arm.

A pickup passed on the highway, honking its horn and raising dust devils on the blacktop. Heat from late afternoon sun sent perspiration trickling down Redbird's neck. Wiping it away, he continued staring at Anita in silence.

They stood like gunfighters preparing to draw their weapons. Brilliant sunlight revealed all the young woman’s physical flaws. Her self-confidence began to wane, and even the rose tattoo on her breast seemed to fade. Redbird stared at stretch marks on her breasts and belly, blinking as he studied her bowed legs. After gazing at angry scars of adolescent acne on her almost pretty face, he turned away.

Her shoulders sagged. Taking a single step backward, she tripped on a rock in the uneven parking lot and almost fell.

Quivering with emotion, she said, "Victoria is beautiful. Everyone loves to watch her dance. If you didn't want to see, you shouldn't have come."

Redbird didn't answer, unsure of what he had seen, or how he felt. Returning to his pickup, he lowered the windows before cranking the engine. The heat felt like the last agonizing breath of a bursting lung.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced again at sad Anita, her arms folded across her bare breasts. Numbed by emotion and too much beer, he spun the tires in loose gravel and drove away back down the lonely blacktop road from where he had come.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Prairie Justice - a short story

I wrote Prairie Justice shortly after the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City. Being in the Oklahoma oil business for so many years, I've met a bunch of crooked oilmen and more than a few corrupt judges and public servants. If my memory serves me correctly, this story is the first appearance of my cowboy detective, Buck McDivit. Yes, Buck preceded my French Quarter sleuth, Wyatt Thomas. Which character do I like the best? I have no answer to that question since the two are like children to me, and I love them both. Hope you love Buck as much as I do. If you do, please check out Blink of an Eye and my other books in the Paranormal Cowboy Series.

Prairie Justice

Buck McDivit braced himself against a dump truck, staring at the deep hole before him. The broad scar was all that remained of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Glancing at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, he wondered why his new client had wanted to meet him here at dawn. Privacy, he guessed. The area was vacant, except for the ghosts of 168 recent victims. A scratchy voice behind him said, “Don't turn around. No need to see who I am.”

The sudden intrusion caught Buck by surprise. He lowered his arms that had shot toward the sky. “I don't recognize your voice, so I guess you're here on business.”

“Good guess,” the man said.

When the stranger's voice dissolved into a moist cough, Buck could smell his sour breath. He didn't turn around. The client wanted privacy and anonymity and expected him to comply with his wishes. The voice sounded familiar despite what he'd said. He was trying to remember where he'd heard it when the man placed a sheet of legal paper into his hand. Though dim light and morning haze precluded him from reading the document, it was a mineral lease.

“You know what it is, hotshot. You were a lease broker during the boom and a city cop before that. You didn't become a P.I. until after the oil bust.”

“You know about me. What about you?” Buck said.

“Everything you need from me is on that lease and in this.” He placed an envelope in Buck's empty hand. “Your retainer and a name. I want you to give him a hand-delivered written report when you finish your investigation. Now give me five minutes to vacate the premises before you turn around.”

“That's it?” asked Buck.

“You're smart. You'll figure everything out.”

“Maybe, but a hint would be nice.”

When the man started to speak, morning air sent him into another coughing jag. When his damp hack finally subsided, he said, “Vengeance is best served on a cold platter.”

Five minutes later, Buck McDivit was alone again.

***

Noisy diners crowded the tables in Cattleman's Café. Buck didn't notice. He was too busy studying the lease while working on a plate of steak and eggs and a side of lamb fries. Pushing thirty, he'd yet to consider the possible ill effects of too much cholesterol. A semi loaded with cattle screeched to a halt outside on the street.

The envelope contained ten Ben Franklin's and the local newspaper reporter's name. The document provided a bounty of information. The term, date of execution, lessor, and lessee, and the legal description of the mineral lease. At this point, it all seemed meaningless. Somewhere amid typed details lay a mystery the unnamed client had already paid Buck a thousand dollars to solve. He finished his coffee and used one of the hundreds to pay the tab.

The mineral lease named Clayton Jones as its owner, his address the Lazy J Ranch. The ranch lay just outside Okarche. Buck cranked his Dodge Ram's big engine and headed up the Northwest Passage to pay Clayton Jones a visit.

A week had passed since the wheat harvest. Now, rural roads were finally clear of combines and grain trucks. Buck liked it that way, nearing eighty as he reached the turn-off to El Reno. From there, he had a little to go. He found the Lazy J Ranch a few miles south of the Northwest Passage, just off Highway 81.

Fresh white paint graced the barns, sheds, and fences surrounding the property. This was a working ranch, a life-size replica of an Oklahoma Paint Horse advertising its main product. He followed the drive to a sprawling ranch-style house, parking beside a red Corvette with a vanity tag that said Tushie.

“Anyone home?” he called when nobody answered his knock.

He followed a manicured path to investigate a commotion in the backyard. There, he found a young woman galloping a horse around several barrels. She didn't immediately notice him. Buck tipped his Stetson when she did, waiting until she'd dismounted and tethered her horse to the fence.

“I'm looking for Clayton Jones. This his ranch?”

“You're at the right ranch, but Daddy's at the horse auction in Oklahoma City. Maybe I can help you.”

“Wish you could,” he said, returning her smile. “I think I need to speak with your dad.”

“Too bad,” she said. “Sure boring around this big ol’ place, all by myself.”

A cattle truck passing on the highway blasted its mournful horn as it disappeared over a hill. Too busy considering if her reply had a hidden meaning, Buck didn't notice.

“Oh, I'm not in any particular hurry,” he finally managed.

“Mama has peach pie fresh out of the oven. I'll fix a pitcher of iced tea to go with it.”

“You got yourself a deal,” he said, following her up the walkway to the house. “What's your name?”

“Sheila. You?”

“Buck McDivit. I like your jeans, Sheila. I'll bet your friends call you Tushie.”

The young woman didn't turn around, but he knew she was smiling and could almost feel her face turning red. Her jeans were tight, faded, and shiny from wear, with thin fabric almost nonexistent across the seat of her pants. When he dropped back for a better look, she yanked off her hat and used it to block his view. Her reaction sent them both into a convulsion of laughter. Stopping at the house, she shook her thick mane of wheat-colored hair, sat on the back porch, and thrust a boot toward him. It was then he first noticed her big green eyes and pouty lips.

“How about a hand, cowboy?”

Buck needed no goading, eager to revel in the young woman's attention. Once free of the boots, Sheila led him into the kitchen, removed the pie from the oven, and began making tea.

“I love this ranch,” Buck said.

“You like horses?”

“You bet. I live on a horse farm myself, over in eastern Oklahoma County. Thoroughbreds.”

“You own a thoroughbred horse farm?” Sheila asked.

Buck smiled and shook his head. “I wish. I help run the place and do a few chores. In exchange, the rich lady who owns it furnishes my office space and a place to live in the horse barn. I have my own pony, though.”

“What else do you do for the rich lady?”

Sheila giggled when he said, “Oh, this and that.”

Young Miss Jones seemed taken by Buck's wavy hair and brown-eyed good looks. After waiting until he finished his second slice of Mama's pie, she walked him to his truck.

“Where'd you say your daddy is?” he asked.

“Bidding on fall stock at the horse barn. Won't be back till late tonight.”

Ignoring Sheila's innuendo with some difficulty, he said, “I sure need to see him today and ask him about this.”

When he showed Sheila the lease, she said, “This is Grandpa's signature, not Daddy's. He's at Eischen's in Okarche.”

“A little early for lunch.”

Sheila grinned. “Gramps likes drinking beer and yakking with the customers. You can do almost anything you like when you're ninety.”

“That's a fact,” he said, climbing behind the wheel.

After starting the engine, he cranked down the windows to release the cloud of super-heated air trapped inside the cab. Before driving away, he gave Clayton Jones's granddaughter an assessing look.

“Say, Sheila. How'd you like to go two-stepping Saturday night or maybe take a moonlight ride by the river?”

Sheila waved and said, “Sorry. I have a boyfriend.”

Buck wanted to spend more time with her. Find out if she did have a boyfriend. Next time, he thought. Today, he was in a hurry. Spinning his tires in the dirt, he headed north, burning rubber when he reached the highway.

He arrived in Okarche in five minutes. Eischen's bar, famous for its cold beer and Okarche Fried Chicken, is a block off the main highway. The oldest bar in Oklahoma had closed only once since opening in 1896, resulting from a recent fire. Now, it had reopened. Its bright new awnings proclaimed it had returned better than ever. Buck found Clayton Jones sitting at the bar.

“You Mister Jones?”

“Who wants to know?” asked the old man in faded overalls.

The barroom was dark, air-conditioning icy cold. Clayton Jones hadn't bothered removing his cap, and Buck suspected he rarely did.

“Buck McDivit. Got a minute?”

When the old man smiled, Buck recognized a glimmer of his granddaughter's features. Jones raised his hand to get the bartender's attention.

“About all I got,” he said. “And not much left of that. Hey Johnny, bring the boy a Coors and another for me here.”

Buck took a moment to savor the icy draw before showing Clayton Jones the lease. The old man slipped his reading glasses out of his overalls and perched them on his nose, squinting to read the document.

“Leased the minerals under the ranch to Darrell Lamm for fifty dollars an acre. He turned the lease to Winchester Oil for ten times that amount.”

“Sounds like you should have held out for more.”

“Might have if I’d known about the gusher Winchester would find. Thousand barrels a day.”

“Oil?”

“I don't mean soda pop.”

Buck reflected on the old man's answer and sudden change in demeanor. “Lamm wouldn't have any way to know that before he leased you, would he?”

Clayton Jones chuckled. “Son, you're pretty smart. Darrell Lamm is more than just an oil man; he also owns a bank. Guess who banks there?” Buck shrugged. “Seems I had a mortgage, and Winchester a seismic survey pegging the Lazy J as the hottest oil property in northwest Oklahoma. Lamm got a look at it while visiting their office.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don't, for a fact, but I have strong suspicions.”

“Sounds like Lamm got the best of both of you.”

“That's about the speed limit around these parts,” Jones said. “Far as I'm concerned, a banker is the only thing more crooked than an oil man. Lamm has both bases covered.”

Talk of Clayton Jones' crooked banker further exasperated the sudden ill effect on the old man's demeanor. When he closed his eyes and slumped against burled walnut, Buck signaled for two more beers.

“Didn't mean to bring back bad memories. At least Winchester drilled you a good well.”

The oil well immediately raised Jones' spirits, his smile restored when he'd finished his fresh draw. “I reckon you're right about that. I'd almost forgotten about the damn lease, anyway. Winchester drilled the well while I spent the summer with my daughter in Texas. With the royalty money from the well, I paid off the mortgage on my ranch and all the rest of my debt.”

“Then there's your silver lining,” Buck said.

“No thanks to Darrell Lamm. I'd still love to give him a little shot of reality.”

“Maybe you can. My client seems to think something's wrong with this lease. Mind taking another look?”

Clayton Jones didn't mind and reexamined the lease. Closer this time. Finally, he shook his head. “Afraid I can't help you. That's the lease I signed, all right.”

The news was different from what Buck had wanted to hear. Finishing his beer, he patted the old man's shoulder. “Guess I better run over to El Reno and check the records myself.”

Clayton Jones stopped him before he reached the door. “Say, Buck, I don't see a wedding ring on your finger. You single?”

“Still holding out for the right woman,” he said with a grin.

“Why don't you give my granddaughter a call? I sure need someone to hurry things up if I'm going to see grandchilluns before I die.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jones. I'll keep that in mind.”

Buck saluted as he walked out the door. Kids were the last things that worried him as he headed south toward the Canadian County Courthouse. Pumping units and tank batteries lined the road. Black gold. Life's blood of Oklahoma. He passed a large building that gave him other thoughts.

The Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes had constructed a vast bingo hall unlike any he'd ever seen. It looked like a Las Vegas casino, complete with flashing neon lights. He gunned around the last sweeping bend, finding the Canadian County legal complex near the center of El Reno.

Two new buildings, both labeled County Courthouse, sat a block apart. Buck took a chance and chose the closest building. Refrigerated air swept over him as he entered the new facility. The hall led him to a large open room that looked like a bank, complete with tellers. A prominent sign stated the kinds of business handled. Divorce, civil domestic abuse, domestic relations, and issuing process server's licenses. His favorite was beer, bingo, and pool hall licensing. A friendly clerk informed him he was in the wrong building.

In the Hall of Records, he realized why his client had researched his employment history before hiring him. What other private investigator knew how to check records? Likely a bunch in Oklahoma City. Within ten minutes, he'd located the file copy of the lease Darrell Lamm had taken from Clayton Jones. He spent a moment browsing through the documents in the book before having a clerk make copies for him. Sitting alone at a booth in the corner, he studied the copied documents. Finally, he had it.

Once he realized the mistake in the lease, it stood out like flashing neon. Except it wasn't a mistake. Someone had altered Clayton Jones' lease with correction fluid, the culprit likely Darrell Lamm. He'd typed a new date, adding six months to the term. All this he did before assigning the lease to Winchester Oil. The insinuation was clear—fraud and deceit, Lamm's motive to add value to an aging lease and make it more marketable. And maybe there was something else.

Buck broke all existing speed limits, blowing past cars and trucks as he raced down Interstate 40 toward Oklahoma City. He needed to reach the geologic library before it closed at five. He made it with ten minutes to spare, winking at Cyndi Gates, the cute librarian, as he hurried past the front desk. He found what he needed in a musty file cabinet.

Several geologists spoke to him in passing. He responded with only a salute, intent on looking at the completion report for the Winchester Oil #1 Clayton Jones. Like the old man said, the well had blown in for more than a thousand barrels of oil daily. It had already produced a quarter-million barrels of oil. It was a hell of a well, making Winchester Oil, Darrell Lamm, and Clayton Jones happy. But something was wrong. Now, Buck knew what it was.

According to the date on the report, Winchester had yet to begin drilling in time to save the lease. Clayton Jones hadn't noticed because he'd been in Texas that summer, visiting his daughter. Winchester Oil had dug a well, a fabulous well, on an expired lease. Now, Winchester was producing and selling oil it didn't own. The company was guilty of stupidity, lack of due diligence, and Darrell Lamm of civil fraud. The severity of their crimes mattered little. When Jones found out, both would have the devil to pay.

***

Buck exited the high-rise after dropping off his story with his client's appreciative reporter. At the front door lay a stack of the newspaper's latest edition. He stopped to glance at the picture on the front page. State Judge Indicted for Malfeasance, the headline read. Buck recognized the man in the picture.

Judge Henry Lang. He remembered the ousted judge's scratchy voice ruined by too many cigarettes. A Grand Jury had indicted him for taking bribes and rendering prejudicial court decisions. Buck didn't find it unusual that Darrell Lamm had instigated the investigation. For reasons unknown, their business relationship had gone awry, and Lamm had taken the judge down.

The reason didn't matter. Lamm had made a big mistake in calling for Lang's ouster. The Judge likely knew the location of many of the oil man’s skeletons. Instead of getting mad, he'd gotten even. If he were to go down, Lamm would go down with him.

No one would miss Judge Lang except for the companies and individuals that had paid big bucks for his decisions. As for Lamm, if he died tomorrow, a telephone booth would suffice for everyone who would attend his funeral. Tossing the newspaper back on the stack, Buck headed for his truck. Right now, he had problems—thirty hungry horses waiting for supper. Scattering gravel in the parking lot, he headed east. Maybe he'd call Sheila when he finished his chores, give her another chance to go two-stepping Saturday night. Maybe, but not before drinking an icy Coors and taking an evening gallop on his faithful pony.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.