Blackjack and Pearl Chapter 5

Chapter 5...Friday Morning

  That morning, Rhonda J carried her coffee, toast and newspaper back to bed. Cornelia raced ahead and hopped into the bed first. She squirmed, stretched and sprawled on her back, her legs sticking straight up in the air.

“Corn Dog, you little clown...move over. Do you always have to hog the whole bed? Look at you...”

Leaning over the scruffy terrier mix, Rhonda J scratched and kissed the dog’s head between the ears. Cornelia in return, licked Rhonda’s face on the lips, and tried to communicate her undying loyalty, producing every dog sound available in her vocabulary.

Rhonda J laughed. “Oh...Cornelia J, your mama’s exhausted. What a night...” she muttered, thinking of the night before and Deputy Dennison. There was something about him. A quality. A sensuousness. The way his lazy eyes seemed to tease her.

She picked up the paper. The headline of the Oakhurst Weekly News read, “Dogs Rescue Drowning Man.” In between sips of hot coffee, she finished reading the article.

Picking up the phone Rhonda J pushed speed dial. “Beth...it’s me. Have you read the paper yet?”

“No? Well, it’s about Carson. He almost drowned. And get this...two dogs rescued him. One white and one black. Might they be yours?”

“Yep...that’s what I’m thinking. Those little rascals,” Rhonda agreed.

“I have to get showered and into the office. Meet for lunch?” She asked, then added, “Hitchin’Post?”

“Right, okay, later girlfriend,” Rhonda J put the phone down, threw back the comforter, dashed out of bed, and into the shower. Cornelia watched, but decided to stay put. The little dog knew something was up, and all her senses were wired into high alert.

While showering, Rhonda’s thoughts would not leave Deputy Dennison alone. The new growth of hair on his face; it had been a long day. His habit of running both his hands through his light brown hair; he was tired. The way he caressed his cup of coffee between his thumb and fingers; although he only took one sip.

She forced herself to turn the shower off and stop thinking of him, though she would have preferred to linger for a good hour or so. Once she stepped outside the shower, Cornelia was at her side. Tail wagging so fast it might have propelled the happy  dog to the Milky Way and back.

“Corn Dog! You’re wearin’ me out. Stop. Just stop,” she pleaded, while sopping up her wet hair with the towel.

Throughout the whole hair and make-up routine, Cornelia never let up. She pranced about with such pizazz, Paul Simon would have said she had diamonds on the soles of her feet. This was serious dog business, and no way was Cornelia to be left behind. Make it or break it, this was her best performance ever. And it did prove true, because before long, Rhonda J. hollered, “Corn Dog...in the car. C’mon you’re going’ with me.”

They took off in a tornado of dust and exhaust fumes. Heading down Road 415, five miles above the speed limit, dodging potholes, and with Warren Zevon on the radio singing, ”Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein.”

Carson, Carson, Carson. What was going on with him? She knew something was up. Could feel it. Like maybe another woman, but maybe not. Something else was involved...one of his Real Estate deals? You just never knew with him. The guy was connected with everyone. There was a wild side about him. She knew there was alot of stuff he never let on about. There was a real slickness about him. A secret side. Like the time he didn’t come home for over a week. Not even a call.

Traffic slowed as Rhonda J and Cornelia coasted into town. The usual weekday tourists were about, clogging up the roads, watching the scenery instead of cars. Impatiently, Rhonda turned into the Carson Realty Office on Highway 41. She had two hours to make her cold calls and wrap up an escrow before she met Beth at the Hitchin’ Post. But first, she tried calling Carson on his cell phone, doubting he would answer. There was no answer or service.

Around noon, Beth Robbins pulled her Subaru into the parking lot where she was to meet Rhonda J. She had a serious problem of being habitually early. Most people would not consider this a fault, but it bugged the hell out of her. It seemed the Universe was right in sync with her when it came to placing her at the right place ahead of time. There was no trickery she could muster to ellude it. Whatever the invite, she was the first to arrive.

Scouring the parking lot, consisting of gravel, potholes  and trucks, she walked towards the door. From outside she heard the slurred chatter of male voices. She dreaded entering a bar or restaurant by herself. She knew it was silly, and had to get over it. So, Beth Robbins strolled into the establishment, with an air of nonchalance. A confident smile masking her lifelong insecurity, lit up her face. She had a look people trusted. A girl next door but with a slight edge. The edginess was all dependant on the haircut. If the bangs were cut too short, diffidence loomed.

The dining room was empty, while every stool in the bar was claimed. An eclectric, boisterous lunchtime crowd, which was par for the Post, turned towards her as Beth entered. She got nods, a couple of “Heys,” Most of the patrons had been here since breakfast and wouldn’t leave until before dinner. It was the office of the self-employed, yet unemployed. Business was conducted here, the same way a golf course was used. Deals of all shades were made. Yard sale deals and tactics, strategic firewood marketing techniques, weed-eating opportunities and pharmaceutical manufacturing and sales. Friendships bonded, then forgotten the next day, due to massive quantities of drinking, drugs and loss of memory. They would then wobble out and drive home to unlucky spouses, or dogs, and unwind with a couple beers and a joint.

Sitting down at one of the window tables, Beth surveyed the bar crowd. It was a line up of hats. Baseball caps, crumpled straw cowboy hats, one dirty sock hat, and a couple bandanas.

Rhonda J’s SUV turned into the parking lot under a trickle of shade, Cornelia panting with enthusiasm, and hanging out the window with her tiny tongue flapping. Beth watched as Rhonda J kissed her dog on the head, then sauntered through the door.

All the hats at the bar turned their attention to the door again.

“Hey look who’s here...Rhonda J herself. Girl...how you been?” Freddie the bartender asked.

“I’m tellin’ you, Freddie, it’s never dull. Never dull. Looks like business here is good, huh?” She asked with a perky giggle, noticing all the bar stools had men upon them.

“Oh this is just the usual midmorning through late afternoon crowd,” he winked.

A few slurred acknowledgements filtered down the bar along with several raised mugs of Bud on tap.

Beth who had been watching and listening with amusement from the dining area, decided to join her friend at the bar.

One of the more coherent patrons mentioned Carson and the dog rescue. That in turn caused two or three of the less coherent ones to slap hands on the bartop and raise the bar of rowdiness a tad higher.

Rhonda J and Beth stared at each other, rolled their eyes, and tried to avoid being sucked into this one. It was not common knowledge around town, that Carson and Rhonda J were an item.

“How about splitting a burger and fries?” Beth asked.

“No, I think I better stick to a salad.”

“Really? A salad at the Hitching Post? Get outa here...”

“Oh...alright,” Rhonda J caved in with a laugh.

The guys at the bar were still carrying on about the local infamous dog rescue. The man at the end with the sock cap and days growth blurted, “If you want my opinion, the Fireman’s involved.”

Rhonda J’s ears perked up, as did Beth’s. He mumbled something inaudible, which sounded to Beth like ‘Horton’s drugs’. Then the whole bar collapsed into quiet. His loose lips broke an unwritten law. Two guys jumped up from their barstools and headed to the pool table, picked up the cue sticks and started playing where they had left off twenty minutes ago, before the women came in. The other guys took their cues from them, lowered their heads and stared at their wavering reflections in their drinks, except for the guys drinkin beer. They held onto their bottles and caressed the labels and glass as they might the thigh of a woman. Percy might have his loser qualities, but he did have important ties to the community.

Freddie wiped his hands nervously on his already dirty apron and shouted to the kitchen, “Order! One burger, no onion, large fries!” Then he stood in front of his now quiet customers and shouted,” Who’s ready for another?”

Two fingers lifted up and Freddie popped two caps and slammed the beers, on the distressed bar.

Beth and Rhonda J paid the bill and sat at the table by the window, as far away from the bar as possible, under the old wooden canoe hanging from the ceiling.

“So, my question to you is...who is the Fireman?” Beth asked.

“That would be Percy.”

“Percy...why do they call him the Fireman?” Beth asked.

“Because he also volunteers as the fire lookout on Miami Mountain,” Rhonda J said staring at her friend.

“Is he weird?” Beth asked lowering her voice, and looking back at the quiet behaved bar.

“He’s a creep. A total slimeball, and he’ll be one of your neighbors if you buy that place. He lives on Cooper’s ranch, the LA attorney, way up the mountain. Off the grid even.”

“How do you know him? Just heresay? Gossip?” Beth asked.

“Everybody knows Percy. His family owns one of the biggest ranches in Raymond. On Road 600, by the way. He’s a Viet Nam vet. Does that explain it?”

“Which ranch is that?” Beth asked trying to pull this out of her friend.

“Silver Star Ranch...where the cattle drive you’re going on is,” Rhonda J divulged. Both were silent as Freddie arrived with their lunch.

With a flourish the bartender slid the plates of the halved hamburger in front of them. He then place the plastic basket of fries in the middle.

“Anything else I can get you ladies?” Freddie drawled with a smile. “I made ‘em give you extra fries,” he bragged.

“You’re the best. This is the best looking hamburger and fries I ever saw!” Beth exclaimed beaming.

“Thanks Freddie,” Rhonda J said.

All the condiments were on the table. The shiney metal napkin dispenser, plastic squeeze bottles of mustard, catsup, and ranch dressing. There were also three different bottles of hot sauce including Tabasco.

Beth took a fry and dipped into the portion cup of mayo on her plate. Then splashed Tabasco in with the mayo.

“You’re so strange,” Rhonda J observed.

“I never did understand the fascination with ketchup in this country. I am much more European. They love mayonnaise over there. And besides what’s potato salad, other than potatoes and mayonnaise?”

Changing the topic, in between bites of the thick messy hamburger, and after wiping the juice from her hands on the thin napkin, Rhonda J began filling Beth in on the story of Carson, or what she knew so far.

“So, I have a hunch...that somehow...he has become... involved with the...drug business up here,” she spoke haltingly.

Beth not saying a word, stared and listened patiently, but concentrated more on her burger and not making a mess. Eating was one of her favorite things to do.

“Maybe he stumbled upon one of the labs or crops in the high country. I don’t know...or maybe, maybe Percy has more of a vested interest in Miami Mountain than just checkin’ for fires,” Her hands went up in that grand gesture of ‘who knows?’ “All I know is he somehow got involved and they tried to kill  him,” her voice dramatically lowered to a whisper.

“When can you see him in the hospital?” Beth asked, pouring more hot sauce in the mayo.

“The cops aren’t allowing any visitors. I tried calling...couldn’t even talk to him. And his cell’s not working. Probably lost it while almost drowning,” Rhonda J said.

“This is serious,” Beth said while wiping her greasy hands on a wad of the thin napkins “Ok...so...who was the woman Carson was with at Slim’s?”

Rhonda J just kept chewing as if she hadn’t heard the question.

“Rhonda J...girlfriend! You’re not answering and I know you know,” Beth taunted.

Beth watched her friend twirl her last fry in the blood red puddle of ketchup on her plate.

“That was Victoria, his ex,” she admitted finally eating the french fry that practically bled to death.

“He’s seeing her again?” Beth asked.

“Apparently. Honestly, I don’t have any idea what is going on,” Rhonda J said. “I don’t like it. Not one bit,” she added adamantly, while swirling another fry in the pool of blood.

Beth’s cell phone rang. She grabbed it right away saying, “Let me get this. I’m waiting to hear back from Lona about the offer on the ranch.”

Rhonda J watched as Beth listened. Not a bite was eaten during the call.

Rhonda figured the call sounded promising because Beth kept saying words like...great...alright...uh huh...that could work...cool.

Beth ended with, “I’ll swing by the office and pick up the counter. Ok...at the front desk. Thanks Lona!”