Graveyard Fields Page 8

  “Can you give him this?” I put the key ring on the counter.

  The woman—who, if her name tag could be trusted, was Barbara—grabbed a yellow Post-it note.

  “And your name is?”

  “Davis Reed.”

  She wrote my name on the note, saying the words out loud as she jotted them down. When she finished, she gave me a knowing look. “Wait a minute. You’re the writer.”

  I was about to tell her she was wrong. I had been known as many things in my life: officer, private detective, liar, drunk, asshole. But writer was new to me, especially since I’d not yet written a word.

  “Deputy Johnson told me about you,” Barbara said. “He says you’re writing a book about Cold Mountain. You know there’s already a book about that.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I’m a writer too. I have a blog. It’s about southern cooking. I write down all the steps of a recipe and post them along with pictures I take with my phone. My last one was about pinto beans. It’s a popular blog—I have over thirty readers. You should look it up; it’s called BarbsCountryKitchen.com.”

  As Barbara spelled out the website address, I heard a sound behind me. When I turned, a skinny man about my age was walking toward me. He wore greasy blue coveralls and a camouflage ball cap with the Ford logo stamped on the front. His limp was much worse than mine. His left leg dragged behind him like a broken tree limb.

  The man hobbled up to the counter and looked directly at Barbara, ignoring me altogether. His body odor was ungodly, and I took a step to the side to get out of its range. One step didn’t work. I needed to take about fifty more.

  “What do you want now, Floppy?” Barbara asked.

  “It’s the same as last time. Someone’s broke into my garage.”

  “Is anything missing?”

  “No, but my things is out of order. My tools and stuff. I keep my things organized, and when I went in this morning, my plug wrench wasn’t where I left it yesterday and my jumper cables was on the floor, not on the hook where they’s supposed to be. I know, because I keep my things organized.”

  Barbara rolled her eyes and let out a deep breath.

  The man glanced at the key ring sitting on the counter and cocked his head like a dog reacting to a high-pitched whistle. He then looked over at me as if I’d just magically appeared. His eyes gave me a once-over from head to toe. I looked back at him and smiled. I assumed this was the notorious Floppy Johnson, the grandson of the man who’d claimed to find, then lose, or maybe not lose, a chest full of gold. Dale had said Floppy was crazy, which was always a vague diagnosis at best. But from what little I’d witnessed of Floppy so far, I thought Dale might be right on the money.

  “Who are you?” Floppy asked me. “I don’t know you, I ain’t never seen you before—are you from around here? ’Cause I know just about everybody here and if I’d seen you before, I’d remember you, but you don’t look familiar to me. So what’s your name and where are you from.”

  “Floppy, leave this man alone,” Barbara said. She then pushed a button on an antiquated intercom system that sat next to her computer. As she spoke, she leaned down so close to the microphone I thought she might take a bite of it.

  “Deputy Norris, could you come out front, please?”

  A moment later a door behind the counter with PRIVATE written across the front opened and my archnemesis stepped through. Skeeter was wearing his mirrored aviators and rolling a toothpick between his clenched teeth. If my eyes had been lasers, I would have burned a hole through his face.

  Skeeter stared at me for a moment, then looked at the key ring sitting on the counter.

  “Hey, Skeeter,” Floppy said. “You still drive that black ’Stang? I tell ya, I think Sally could take her. Maybe not off the line, but you give me a good stretch a road and Sally’d blow by you like you’s standing still. Now my buddy Cecil has a ’Stang, but it’s an old five-point-oh and sounds like one of them big motel ice machines when it cranks up. Now, I don’t never get that ice when I’m at a motel, ’cause you don’t never know what’s been in them little plastic buckets. Them nice motels give you them little bags to put in the bucket, but still …”

  “Floppy!” Barbara yelled. “Go with Officer Norris.”

  Skeeter gave me a scowl, then turned around and walked back through the doorway. As Floppy followed him, I thought about Skeeter’s “black ’Stang” and how much I would enjoy etching the word prick into its hood.

  “Sorry about that,” Barbara said. “Floppy’s in here at least twice a month with some sort of emergency.”

  She glanced toward the door, then leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “He thinks the government is out to get him,” she whispered. “The boys used to investigate every time he’d come in with a complaint. But now they just take a statement and forget about it. It seems to calm him down for a little while.”

  “Why waste the time taking a statement? Why not tell him to get lost?”

  Barbara lowered her brows. “Because he’s Deputy Johnson’s cousin. Now here, let me tell you more about my blog.”

  14

  After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Barbara’s plans to monetize her website of cornbread and banana pudding recipes, I excused myself and headed back to the cabin. I spent a couple of hours and a couple of beers lying on the couch regretting that I’d agreed to go to Long Branch with Dale. I didn’t really feel like going out. But Dale was not one to be denied. If I didn’t show up at his house by seven, he would track me down and drag me out by the ankles.

  At 6:58 I pulled up to Junebug’s to find Dale standing in the driveway. I could have seen him from a mile away. Actually, I probably could have seen him from outer space. He was wearing an enormous orange University of Tennessee sweat shirt. I realized it was the first time I’d seen Dale out of uniform. I guessed this was his “going out” wear.

  When Dale wiggled himself into my Mercedes, I asked him if the couple had come by the sheriff’s department to collect the keys.

  “They never showed,” he said. “And that’s the last I have to say on that subject. Now let’s go get hammered.”

  While driving into Waynesville, I fought the urge to comment on Dale’s sweat shirt. I wanted to ask him if the sun knew he’d stolen its look. But Dale didn’t seem in any mood to joke. He kept rubbing his hands together and taking deep breaths. It was like I was driving him to a job interview.

  When we pulled into the Long Branch parking lot, Dale turned to me. I’d never seen him look so serious.

  “Now, Davis, listen to me. Tonight I’m gonna make a move on the brewery owner, Beth. And I need you to be my wingman.”

  “Wingman? What does that involve, exactly?” I said.

  “You laugh at my jokes and make me look interesting—not that that will take a lot. And then when me and Beth start hitting it off, you make yourself scarce. Go to the bathroom or wait in the car until I close the deal.”

  “Make you look interesting, then disappear. Got it. Hey, nice sweat shirt, by the way.”

  “It’s my alma mater.” Dale pronounced the last word the same way he pronounced tomato.

  “You said you were expelled.”

  “Yeah, but I went there for a while.”

  “Well, I drove through the campus of Duke once, but I don’t wear their sweat shirt.”

  Dale snarled. “You’re a shit wingman, you know that?”

  * * *

  Long Branch had taken a page out of the microbrewery design handbook—reclaimed wood tables, chalkboards, vintage lightbulbs surrounded by small wire cages, shelves of books and board games. It was like every microbrewery in the country used the same interior decorator.

  Dale and I found a high-top table near the bar and sat down.

  “I’m not fucking with you, Davis. Tonight’s about two things: one, not talking about BMWs, key rings, or books you ain’t writing, and two, me taking Beth home.”

  “I’m your ride, dumba
ss. You really think the owner of this brewery is going to jump at the chance to ride back to your dad’s house with me and a guy who looks like the mascot for Florida orange juice?”

  “Brother, how long have I known you, a month? You ain’t seen me work my magic. Tonight’s going to be a lesson for you.”

  As we argued that point, I noticed Dale glance over my shoulder toward the bar. Suddenly his eyes grew wide and his jaw lowered a few inches.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  Dale didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. A second later a cute young woman holding two menus stood next to our table. Her short blonde hair curled outward just before it hit her shoulders, and she wore a very—and I mean very—low-cut black tank top with the brewery’s name printed on the front. At least I think it was the brewery’s name—the woman’s breasts were so large that the printing was stretched to the point of being almost illegible.

  “ ’Evening, fellas,” she said. “Can I get you a beer?”

  I took a menu while Dale continued to stare at the woman’s chest. I glanced up at him every few seconds, worried he might fall into a hypnotic trance and start walking zombie-like around the restaurant.

  “I’ll have a pint of the Dark Secret IPA,” I said.

  The waitress nodded and turned to Dale. “And what about you, sunshine?”

  I laughed, and Dale snapped back to consciousness.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  The woman smiled and walked away. Dale’s eye followed the path of her Daisy Dukes all the way back to the bar.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “That girl’s shorts are so tight you can see her ovaries.”

  “She seems to be your target demographic.”

  Dale frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about? That woman’s exactly my type.”

  “Should I start my wingman duties when she comes back?”

  Dale gritted his teeth and shook his head. “No. That girl’s hot, but tonight’s about me and Beth. I’m gonna stay focused.”

  I studied the menu, trying to decide what my stomach could handle. “Do you want to split a burger?”

  Dale looked at me with disdain. “That’s the gayest fucking thing I ever heard. I ain’t splitting shit with you.”

  The woman returned with our beers and took our food order. Dale got the burger with everything, and I settled on a cheese quesadilla.

  “What’s your name?” Dale said to the woman as she collected our menus.

  “Daiquiri.”

  “Like the drink?”

  “Yep. I’m a little bit sweet, a little bit sour, and too much of me will make your head spin.”

  I jerked my head toward Dale. I wanted to see how focused he could remain after hearing a line like that. I was impressed. He rolled his shoulders and bit his lip but didn’t lose sight of his goal.

  “Well, Daiquiri, would you tell Beth I’d like to speak to her?”

  “Who’s Beth?”

  “The owner of this place.”

  Daiquiri laughed. “The owner’s name is Diana.”

  I snorted, and some beer dripped down my chin. Daiquiri shook her head and wandered away. I placed my hand on Dale’s shoulder and gave him a consoling smile.

  “Lesson one. Get the fucking name right.”

  * * *

  The IPA was very good, crisp and hoppy without a lot of malt aftertaste. I guessed they used Pacific Northwest hops, which have a stronger citrus flavor than German hops. I loved it. It was the kind of beer I could drink all day, every day. Not that that was an especially high bar.

  I finished my beer before Dale finished his, which was a first. He seemed distracted.

  “Thinking about your strategy?” I said while looking around for Daiquiri.

  “I could’ve sworn her name was Beth.”

  I caught Daiquiri’s eye and held up my empty glass. She gave me a nod and walked toward the bar.

  “Come on, man, liven up,” I said. “I’m ready for a lesson in the art of the pickup.”

  Dale straightened his posture and downed the last half of his beer. “And you’re gonna get it, buddy. You just watch.”

  A few minutes later I noticed a woman walking from the bar toward our table. She was carrying a single beer in her hand. As she approached, I realized she was the same woman I’d seen at El Bacaratos, the one who’d driven off in the vintage Mercedes. She stopped at our table and raised the beer.

  “Who is this for?”

  I pointed at Dale, who sat like he was posing for a passport photo.

  “Hi, I’m Diana. Or is it Beth? I’m not really sure.”

  She was beautiful. I’d caught a glimpse of it when she walked past me at El Bacaratos, but here, with her standing close to me, I could see she was on another level. Perfect skin. Green, shimmering eyes. Soft, wavy hair. But it was her dimples that really yanked my crank. Dale had described her as “hot as shit,” and my assessment was that she was absolutely gorgeous.

  Dale cleared his throat and began to speak in a voice I’d never heard from him before. It was authoritative and confident and somehow free of obscenities. I figured it was his official voice, the one he used when he testified in court.

  “I’m Deputy Dale Johnson, and this here’s Davis Reed.”

  We both shook Diana’s hand. It was warm and soft, and I wanted to put it in my pocket.

  Diana pointed at Dale’s beer. “Do you like the IPA?” she asked.

  This was when Dale’s lesson in how not to pick up women officially began. He talked about the beer as if it were a science project, breaking down every nuance the way a restaurant critic deconstructs a Michelin-starred meal.

  “So therefore,” Dale went on, “I believe the IPA is the best gauge of a brewer’s competence.”

  Diana nodded politely. “So do you like it or not?”

  “It’s great,” I said, jumping in to save Dale. “I’d like to get a couple of growlers before we leave.”

  “Sure, just tell Daiquiri. Hey, nice to meet you both. Thanks for coming in.”

  As Diana walked away, Dale stared at me like I’d just picked his pocket.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he said. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m working my magic.”

  I shrugged, then began wondering how a woman like Diana had gotten into this business. She didn’t look like any brewery owner I’d ever met. They were usually guys with bushy beards and potbellies. I liked Diana’s style much better. Much, much better.

  I scanned the bar and watched a few guys nurse their beers between stealing glances at Daiquiri. One guy, who had his back to me, wore a black T-shirt with the Ford Mustang logo printed on the back. On the sides of his buzz-cut head I could see the tips of plastic earpieces hanging over the backs of his ears. My temperature rose a few degrees.

  I wondered if Skeeter was there looking for bad guys like me. Guys that needed punishing. I thought about telling Dale how Skeeter had pulled me over and then keyed my Mercedes. In the end I decided to keep that to myself. Skeeter was my business, and I didn’t need Dale trying to talk me out of my revenge.

  * * *

  Daiquiri brought our food, and Dale devoured his burger in less than five minutes while I picked at my quesadilla. When Daiquiri returned to clear our plates, I asked her if she happened to know anyone who drove a red BMW 2002. As soon as I asked the question, Dale kicked me under the table and I yelled “Shit!” much louder than was polite.

  “Are you okay?” Daiquiri asked.

  “Sorry. Yeah, I’m good. So does that car sound familiar?”

  “Can’t say it does. Why you asking?”

  “I found a set of keys that belong to the owner. I’m trying to track him down to return them. The back of the BMW is covered in Long Branch bumper stickers. I thought he might be a regular or even work here.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you.”

  I asked Daiquiri for two growlers of Dark Secret IPA. When she walked away, I avoided Dale’s glare by focusing on one of the TVs
mounted above the bar.

  “Don’t ignore me, motherfucker,” Dale said. “First you get all up in my shit when I’m trying to hit on Beth, or Diana, or whatever the fuck her name is, and then you go and start talking about them damn keys again.”

  A few minutes later Diana placed two growlers on our table. “These are on me,” she said.

  Dale inhaled sharply and pushed out his chest.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “This is a fine—”

  “So, are you a deputy too?” Diana said to me.

  “No, I’m a writer.” It was still a weird thing to say.

  “Really? What do you write about?”

  “I’m working on a book about the plane crash on Cold Mountain.”

  “I didn’t know a plane crashed up there.”

  “Yes, that occurred in 1949,” Dale said, wiggling his way back into the conversation. “It was a B-52 bomber with eight war heroes aboard. A sad, sad story.”

  “It was actually 1946,” I said. “And it was a B-25. Five men were on the plane—they all died in the crash.”

  Dale huffed at my correction and made a comment about Daiquiri not being very attentive. “I’m going to the bar to get another beer,” he said. “I think our waitress retired.”

  When Dale was gone, Diana laughed and said, “He’s something, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. But he’s actually a pretty good guy. I think he’s just nervous. He was planning on asking you out.”

  Diana laughed again. “I see. Well, he’s off to a pretty bad start.”

  “I’m supposed to be his wingman, but I don’t think I’m fulfilling my duties.”

  Diana flashed her dimples. “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

  I was certain I was blushing, but I powered through it. “Hey, didn’t I see you at El Bacaratos a couple nights ago?”

  Diana cocked her head. “Were you standing by the counter when I was leaving?”

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  Diana sat down on Dale’s stool. “So tell me more about this book.”

  * * *

  As far as my book was concerned, there wasn’t much to tell, so I guided the conversation around to my home-brewing hobby. As I talked about hops and fermentation and IBUs, Diana sat spellbound. I was spellbound too. Her eyes were so soothing I wanted to crawl in her lap and let her feed me cookies. I fell into such a trance I didn’t notice Dale standing behind Diana until a wadded-up cocktail napkin hit my face. I figured that was my cue to drop back into wingman mode.