Chapter 1 is HERE
CHAPTER 2
A road that was once a trail winds through the Sierra Nevada foothills, warming up for the treacherous climb into the true mountains. The road goes on for 200 miles and is the twenty first century reincarnation of a famous East-West trail that was populated by mule trains, scalawags, sidewinders, cusses, whores, night riders, stagecoaches, walkers, herders and wagons.
The road was once used to carry the miners and settlers. Later, the road would bring farm workers and Okies and refugees from even worse lives than they were about to lead in those hills.
Eventually the road brought prescient new age settlers from intolerable cities, followed by their lawyers, planners, real estate schemers, crooks and tourists.
Many towns were built up along the road. Most of them dried up into refueling stops and places for those who nestled in the hills to get a gallon of milk and an hour of gossip. One town, Salmon Hill, grew and flourished. The grand history of the California gold country is etched on to the elaborate Victorian faces of its buildings. There were sorrier and more sordid details, but he ancient rocks and the stately old Oak trees were the only honest witnesses, and they weren’t talking.
Unlike many gold country centers of commerce and society, Salmon Hill was never completely dependent upon the unreliable fortunes of the miners and thus avoided the cycle of decline, abandonment, neglect and reinvention that tourists came to know of as the “Restored Western Ghost Town”.
Instead, Salmon Hill went through the cycles of abandonment, neglect and reinvention that typify the great American economic nightmares known as “The Mall”. The section of the road that passed through Salmon Hill and that had served as its downtown for over 180 years was still the central source of fine dining, supplies, services and hot gossip for the residents of Calderon County, but only because of hard headed stubbornness.
During the 1970s, parts of Calderon County and the town of Salmon Hill became prime real estate. The new locals were more attracted to the easy parking, abundant arrays of goods and lowered prices that the super stores and malls provided. While the county supervisors were thrilled to see the tax base and job opportunities swell, they were blind to the fact that, as the massive retail operations bloomed, the main drag was turning onto a dried out husk of formerly bright commerce and enterprise.
But the moneyed tourists and many of the old timer locals became sick of the unimaginative, depressingly overabundant array of goods that confronted them in the strip malls and Wal-Marts. They missed the simplicity and personal attention that they received in the smaller establishments. The malls had reached their growth potential and were no longer a source of increased tax revenue.
Worse, carpetbaggers came into the State of California started the dot.com boom, which drove housing prices to the limit of human tolerance. Then the boom busted. Calderon County became host to quite a few wealthy dot com refugees who decided to go for the bucolic life. Some of the electronic setups in those woodsy retreats rivaled the equipment at NASA.
And Calderon County had always been host to those who made it over the Donner Pass, all right, but who proceeded to engage in a process of multi generational failure that lingers to this day. Poverty was an issue, along with all forms of creative and not-so-smart criminal endeavors.
But in the larger world of greed, growth was the word and the promise. Growth for its own sake was the reality. Boom was destined to be followed by bust. With astute planning and shrewd investment, the old buildings and streets were restored to their former gold rush era glory. The shops were repopulated by career-toasted urban professionals who opened law offices and accountancy firms; pubs and restaurants; dress shops and specialty stores.
Now the road brought tourists who could afford to escape the overwrought cycles of big city life. The road brought back the descendants of old timers who had managed to hang on to the original land grants that were handed out when the last Mexican governor bailed out. The road brought newcomers who escaped with their retirement stashes to live as natural people. For these folk, Salmon Hill was the city.
A black van cruised slowly Eastward through the seven blocks that defined Salmon Hill’s revitalized main street. The Sedan neatly u-turned and pulled into the last parking space before downtown ended and the road devolved into a winding, two lane mountain road.
Two men emerged, displaying he characteristic stiff slowness of people who have been driving for hours. They were wearing conservative suits, sensible shoes and generic dark glasses. After a lively pantomime of disagreement, one of them threw up his hands and headed toward Phil’s Chevron, where everyone who is not mentally deficient or on the run from the law knows better than to look for a meal.
After a lengthy search up and down each and every fluorescent aisle, plus some animated dialogue involving the suspect content of the shrink-wrapped, soggy sausages in buns, the two men made their purchases. They added large sugary sodas, grease laden potato chips and pulverized chocolate chip cookies.
The clerk seemed to be a bit on edge. He eyed the men suspiciously and did not relax even after they paid and left. The two men noticed this and hesitated, as if tempted to ask why. They caught themselves and left. They strolled over to a small park, found a perch and proceeded to deal with their feast, each man in his own way.
Shadrach Epiphany Jackson hated to eat food that was like this: nasty, lukewarm and full of dubious ingredients. He wanted napkins and some kind of table arrangement. He hated kitchens that he could not see unless he had a warrant. But Special Agent Shadrach Epiphany Jackson had to keep his partner happy.
“Partners aren’t cheap these days.” He grumbled loudly. He gingerly opened the stiff, stupid plastic, muttering “Geeeesh” when the sour odor and greasy steam escaped, enveloping his face, hair and clothing.
Built like a load of bricks with hair, Detective Ariel Jacob eyed his own feast with naked lust. He removed an offending, rubbery particle and tossed it to the pigeons before entering a blissful state, chewing and giving dirty looks to anyone who looked like a potential food thief. This man was the most feral eater that Shadrach had ever known. With cheeks like two slabs of turkey breast, between which sat a hawk nose with fascinating, elliptical nostrils, Ariel should have made an alarming addition to any social gathering. The problem was that Ariel possessed the most alluring set of heavily lashed, green eyes, a head of blue-black hair and a mouth like Elvis. Viewed from the rear, he even had a cute butt. The women could not leave the man alone. When he was dressed properly, it got even worse.
Shadrach shuddered at the thought of the latest outrage involving Ariel. Ariel had been auctioned off to the highest bidder at a charity event and was featured on the front cover of an elitist and over-produced Sunday magazine. Not that Shadrach had a problem wit that. Ariel was well known for his contribution to charitable causes since they were his primary source of women. But the ridicule from colleagues had lasted for days, culminating in the assignment of the nickname “The Crime Fighting Team of Flabio and Denzel”. Shadrach protested his co-workers’ lack of imagination and their out dated pop culture, but to no avail. Ariel was not flabby and Shadrach looked like a deep brown, six foot, two inch tall distant relative of Thomas Jefferson.
Furthermore, Shadrach believed himself to be very discreet with the ladies, all of them. And now here he was, stuck in this hillbilly town, about to get diarrhea. Maybe E-Coli would knock on his door. Shadrach spoke first. He was not satisfied that their joint disgrace and shame had been sufficiently worn out during the long trip.
“I am a reasonable man. I am quiet. I read the classics. I am an educated man who is just trying to do the right things in life. I do not bring strange women to my rooms. I do not even own a leather metro sexual clothing accessory! So why…”
“Don’t bring that mess up again, man! You’ll ruin a good meal. Anyway, we could get called a lot worse.”
This was true. Their coworkers were already experimenting with other things to call them. Ariel continued to munch and to peer around, looking for someone who might mess with his food. Shadrach knew that such pauses were not invitations to start talking. These were just pauses. A person interrupted Ariel at their own peril. He cautioned himself to resist talking and to just wait.
When he was sure that his food was safe from marauding whatevers, Ariel continued. “What about those two Special Agents from Wichita who got busted for shaking down that madam? “Booked Her and Took Her”?
As if that question resolved the matter, Ariel stood and stretched broadly. “Who knows…maybe I’ll get a personal trainer, get some Lipo, get some buns of steel…lose this gut…”
Shadrach also knew that when Ariel began to speculate to surrealistic excess, he could be interrupted safely. “You already have a gut of steel! Besides, it is humanly impossible for you to inflate those pathetic bagels into buns…”
He interrupted himself with a face that had collapsed like one of those dried apple dolls.
“Man, this swill is vile! What is that? Is that a vein or something? Is that a piece of vein in my sausage? Man!” Shaking the food, he shouted “Look at that, man! What is that?”
Ariel sucked his teeth. “Come on. Settle down. You’ll lower the tone of the place. Let me see…Ahoy! Here. Just pull it out and throw it away. Don’t make a scene, man!”
Shadrach hissed and muttered words like “deviant” and “repellent”. He threw the remains into the nearest trash can. The trash can bore a “Have a Nice Day” sticker.
“That’s it. You take the South side; I’ll take the North Side. Let’s meet up at…”
“Oh yes, and here’s the key to the van. The last time that we tried that method, I found you lying down on the job, half dead in that alley in Beverly Hills. We work together, old man.”
The two Special Agents were exhausted to the point of stupidity. They were following a lead as part of an investigation of an indescribably horrific attack on a small neighborhood of houses in Oakland. Five days earlier, fifty two men, women and children had been murdered in a pre-dawn, paramilitary type of attack. Their bodies were incinerated, their houses were burned to the ground and several surrounding homes were burned. Someone had planted abandoned cars to prevent the fire trucks from responding.
The attack was so well planned, executed and bold that the entire nation was having a cramp. Most of the victims were either African American or were part of an African American family. The neighborhood was an award winning urban renewal project and was a model neighborhood with a highly recognized neighborhood watch program.
This was no surprise since several police officers, four doctors, a couple of attorneys and a variety of solid working class people resided there. Emotions were inflamed when several media outlets immediately began to focus on drug and gang activity, with some implying that the attack was routine.
In just five days, the nation had gotten worked up to the point of exploding into little race wars. It was going to take years, not weeks, to resolve this crime. But the crime had the highest priority, since domestic terrorism was in the public mind ever since the escalation of rhetoric that occurred after President Obama’s election.
Then, it got worse.
Similar crimes, each without any consistent racial overtones, were being committed in Calderon County, and this is how Shadrach and Ariel came to be examining all seven blocks and both sides of the main street of Salmon Hill. They were making their way toward the little Civic Center where they were to check in with Sheriff Danrigel Jones.
Since they were out of their jurisdiction, it was mandatory for them to work under the authority and request of local law enforcement. It was not mandatory, however, for them to check in right away.
An hour later, the more appropriately fed Agents were greeted at the Sheriff’s office by a chubby, pleasant woman who had an affinity for oversized and over decorated cotton tops. The current top had chunks of multicolored glass. It came down to substantial knees that were jammed into purple leggings. Her feet were adorned in jewel encrusted mules. She swayed, with not all of her parts swaying together, as she led them on a brief walk down a corridor that seemed unusually quiet.
The trio arrived at a large office with a title emblazoned on the door: “DANRIGEL JONES” then in smaller print, “SHERIFF OF CALDERON COUNTY, est. 1892”. Then there was a county seal.
Inside, the walls were a fresh shade of warm cream and the carpet was a tasteful Berber. The furniture was of old wood with new upholstery. An impressive array of degrees, certificates and honoraria covered the walls on two sides. The third wall held bookcases. The desk held a closed laptop and a few photos, but was otherwise spotless and uncluttered. The fourth wall offered a view of impossibly blue sky that reigned over a steep hill. Dried out wild oats had turned the hill into a wall of brilliant pale gold that was punctuated by Blue Oak and substantial Sierra Blue Rocks. The California Blue and Gold was truly represented here.
Danrigel “Dank” Jones made an impressive picture, seated formally and stiffly behind his desk. If you were inclined to stereotypes and only paid attention to the steel grey eyes and blonde hair, he looked like a poster boy for Nazi propaganda. But when he opened his mouth and spoke, pure California dude fell out. With a tanned, slightly craggy face and delicate blue shadows under his eyes, Dank Jones had the look of someone who had slept terribly, if at all, for more than just one or two nights. He smelled like baby powder.
“Shadrach Epiphany Jackson” he intoned, rising to wrap his paw around Shadrach’s extended hand and finding that he could not. “And Ariel Jacob…pleasure to meet you but not him. I thought that you two dudes would want to check out Salmon Hill before you, like, went to work.”
He clearly intended to intimidate with the knowledge that his spies were everywhere, and that he was not exactly happy at being made to wait for their visit.
“Don’t worry. We get tourists all of the time. You were perfectly welcome to check out the town before you got around to visiting with me. But tell me one thing…” He stopped, went to the window and stared at the hill. You could cut the testosterone with a fork.
“Yes?” Shadrach demanded. When he was irritated, his voice got deeper and deeper. Eventually observers would begin to check the walls and foundations for small cracks.
Ariel knew how Shadrach was with rednecks. He was getting worried about these two.
“Why would you eat food from Phil’s Chevron? You dudes got a death wish? Big City Nouvelle Gay Cuisine that bad?”
Dank had turned around and he had his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, a sure sign of a showdown of mood.
“Naaaw, man.” Shadrach shot back after a carefully timed pause. It was all in the timing. He was tempted to turn his head and spit, but that would have been going too far. It would give the whole thing away and it was better to stick to the script.
“It’s my partner! He’s got a psychopathic personality that manifests in a need to eat crap. Nasty disease. But we had to hire the handicapped and he tested well. So tell me something, you hillbilly lookin…”
“Shadrach!” Ariel shouted. “No! You’re not going to…”
Dank waited for his moment, then jumped in and gave it his best shot, grinning as he snarled. “So, you got questions for me or not, Negrooo?”
“Yeah! You East Eagle’s Nest lookin’ motha!” Shadrach grinned back.
Then he stopped, suddenly realizing that his Best Friend Since They Both Were Neonates was not quite right. The prank that he and Dank had orchestrated came to an abrupt end.
Dank’s face seemed to wear a lot of heavy burdens. The Native American ancestry that hid behind surface looks that were contributed by his sole European ancestor came out in his features. He sat down and motioned for the others to do the same.
He covered his mouth and stared bleakly out of the window for an uncomfortably long time before he cleared his throat and simply stated that “We’re dealing with folk who surely have the number ‘666’ carved on their behinds!”
© Edith Rene Allen, 1998
CHAPTER 2
A road that was once a trail winds through the Sierra Nevada foothills, warming up for the treacherous climb into the true mountains. The road goes on for 200 miles and is the twenty first century reincarnation of a famous East-West trail that was populated by mule trains, scalawags, sidewinders, cusses, whores, night riders, stagecoaches, walkers, herders and wagons.
The road was once used to carry the miners and settlers. Later, the road would bring farm workers and Okies and refugees from even worse lives than they were about to lead in those hills.
Eventually the road brought prescient new age settlers from intolerable cities, followed by their lawyers, planners, real estate schemers, crooks and tourists.
Many towns were built up along the road. Most of them dried up into refueling stops and places for those who nestled in the hills to get a gallon of milk and an hour of gossip. One town, Salmon Hill, grew and flourished. The grand history of the California gold country is etched on to the elaborate Victorian faces of its buildings. There were sorrier and more sordid details, but he ancient rocks and the stately old Oak trees were the only honest witnesses, and they weren’t talking.
Unlike many gold country centers of commerce and society, Salmon Hill was never completely dependent upon the unreliable fortunes of the miners and thus avoided the cycle of decline, abandonment, neglect and reinvention that tourists came to know of as the “Restored Western Ghost Town”.
Instead, Salmon Hill went through the cycles of abandonment, neglect and reinvention that typify the great American economic nightmares known as “The Mall”. The section of the road that passed through Salmon Hill and that had served as its downtown for over 180 years was still the central source of fine dining, supplies, services and hot gossip for the residents of Calderon County, but only because of hard headed stubbornness.
During the 1970s, parts of Calderon County and the town of Salmon Hill became prime real estate. The new locals were more attracted to the easy parking, abundant arrays of goods and lowered prices that the super stores and malls provided. While the county supervisors were thrilled to see the tax base and job opportunities swell, they were blind to the fact that, as the massive retail operations bloomed, the main drag was turning onto a dried out husk of formerly bright commerce and enterprise.
But the moneyed tourists and many of the old timer locals became sick of the unimaginative, depressingly overabundant array of goods that confronted them in the strip malls and Wal-Marts. They missed the simplicity and personal attention that they received in the smaller establishments. The malls had reached their growth potential and were no longer a source of increased tax revenue.
Worse, carpetbaggers came into the State of California started the dot.com boom, which drove housing prices to the limit of human tolerance. Then the boom busted. Calderon County became host to quite a few wealthy dot com refugees who decided to go for the bucolic life. Some of the electronic setups in those woodsy retreats rivaled the equipment at NASA.
And Calderon County had always been host to those who made it over the Donner Pass, all right, but who proceeded to engage in a process of multi generational failure that lingers to this day. Poverty was an issue, along with all forms of creative and not-so-smart criminal endeavors.
But in the larger world of greed, growth was the word and the promise. Growth for its own sake was the reality. Boom was destined to be followed by bust. With astute planning and shrewd investment, the old buildings and streets were restored to their former gold rush era glory. The shops were repopulated by career-toasted urban professionals who opened law offices and accountancy firms; pubs and restaurants; dress shops and specialty stores.
Now the road brought tourists who could afford to escape the overwrought cycles of big city life. The road brought back the descendants of old timers who had managed to hang on to the original land grants that were handed out when the last Mexican governor bailed out. The road brought newcomers who escaped with their retirement stashes to live as natural people. For these folk, Salmon Hill was the city.
A black van cruised slowly Eastward through the seven blocks that defined Salmon Hill’s revitalized main street. The Sedan neatly u-turned and pulled into the last parking space before downtown ended and the road devolved into a winding, two lane mountain road.
Two men emerged, displaying he characteristic stiff slowness of people who have been driving for hours. They were wearing conservative suits, sensible shoes and generic dark glasses. After a lively pantomime of disagreement, one of them threw up his hands and headed toward Phil’s Chevron, where everyone who is not mentally deficient or on the run from the law knows better than to look for a meal.
After a lengthy search up and down each and every fluorescent aisle, plus some animated dialogue involving the suspect content of the shrink-wrapped, soggy sausages in buns, the two men made their purchases. They added large sugary sodas, grease laden potato chips and pulverized chocolate chip cookies.
The clerk seemed to be a bit on edge. He eyed the men suspiciously and did not relax even after they paid and left. The two men noticed this and hesitated, as if tempted to ask why. They caught themselves and left. They strolled over to a small park, found a perch and proceeded to deal with their feast, each man in his own way.
Shadrach Epiphany Jackson hated to eat food that was like this: nasty, lukewarm and full of dubious ingredients. He wanted napkins and some kind of table arrangement. He hated kitchens that he could not see unless he had a warrant. But Special Agent Shadrach Epiphany Jackson had to keep his partner happy.
“Partners aren’t cheap these days.” He grumbled loudly. He gingerly opened the stiff, stupid plastic, muttering “Geeeesh” when the sour odor and greasy steam escaped, enveloping his face, hair and clothing.
Built like a load of bricks with hair, Detective Ariel Jacob eyed his own feast with naked lust. He removed an offending, rubbery particle and tossed it to the pigeons before entering a blissful state, chewing and giving dirty looks to anyone who looked like a potential food thief. This man was the most feral eater that Shadrach had ever known. With cheeks like two slabs of turkey breast, between which sat a hawk nose with fascinating, elliptical nostrils, Ariel should have made an alarming addition to any social gathering. The problem was that Ariel possessed the most alluring set of heavily lashed, green eyes, a head of blue-black hair and a mouth like Elvis. Viewed from the rear, he even had a cute butt. The women could not leave the man alone. When he was dressed properly, it got even worse.
Shadrach shuddered at the thought of the latest outrage involving Ariel. Ariel had been auctioned off to the highest bidder at a charity event and was featured on the front cover of an elitist and over-produced Sunday magazine. Not that Shadrach had a problem wit that. Ariel was well known for his contribution to charitable causes since they were his primary source of women. But the ridicule from colleagues had lasted for days, culminating in the assignment of the nickname “The Crime Fighting Team of Flabio and Denzel”. Shadrach protested his co-workers’ lack of imagination and their out dated pop culture, but to no avail. Ariel was not flabby and Shadrach looked like a deep brown, six foot, two inch tall distant relative of Thomas Jefferson.
Furthermore, Shadrach believed himself to be very discreet with the ladies, all of them. And now here he was, stuck in this hillbilly town, about to get diarrhea. Maybe E-Coli would knock on his door. Shadrach spoke first. He was not satisfied that their joint disgrace and shame had been sufficiently worn out during the long trip.
“I am a reasonable man. I am quiet. I read the classics. I am an educated man who is just trying to do the right things in life. I do not bring strange women to my rooms. I do not even own a leather metro sexual clothing accessory! So why…”
“Don’t bring that mess up again, man! You’ll ruin a good meal. Anyway, we could get called a lot worse.”
This was true. Their coworkers were already experimenting with other things to call them. Ariel continued to munch and to peer around, looking for someone who might mess with his food. Shadrach knew that such pauses were not invitations to start talking. These were just pauses. A person interrupted Ariel at their own peril. He cautioned himself to resist talking and to just wait.
When he was sure that his food was safe from marauding whatevers, Ariel continued. “What about those two Special Agents from Wichita who got busted for shaking down that madam? “Booked Her and Took Her”?
As if that question resolved the matter, Ariel stood and stretched broadly. “Who knows…maybe I’ll get a personal trainer, get some Lipo, get some buns of steel…lose this gut…”
Shadrach also knew that when Ariel began to speculate to surrealistic excess, he could be interrupted safely. “You already have a gut of steel! Besides, it is humanly impossible for you to inflate those pathetic bagels into buns…”
He interrupted himself with a face that had collapsed like one of those dried apple dolls.
“Man, this swill is vile! What is that? Is that a vein or something? Is that a piece of vein in my sausage? Man!” Shaking the food, he shouted “Look at that, man! What is that?”
Ariel sucked his teeth. “Come on. Settle down. You’ll lower the tone of the place. Let me see…Ahoy! Here. Just pull it out and throw it away. Don’t make a scene, man!”
Shadrach hissed and muttered words like “deviant” and “repellent”. He threw the remains into the nearest trash can. The trash can bore a “Have a Nice Day” sticker.
“That’s it. You take the South side; I’ll take the North Side. Let’s meet up at…”
“Oh yes, and here’s the key to the van. The last time that we tried that method, I found you lying down on the job, half dead in that alley in Beverly Hills. We work together, old man.”
The two Special Agents were exhausted to the point of stupidity. They were following a lead as part of an investigation of an indescribably horrific attack on a small neighborhood of houses in Oakland. Five days earlier, fifty two men, women and children had been murdered in a pre-dawn, paramilitary type of attack. Their bodies were incinerated, their houses were burned to the ground and several surrounding homes were burned. Someone had planted abandoned cars to prevent the fire trucks from responding.
The attack was so well planned, executed and bold that the entire nation was having a cramp. Most of the victims were either African American or were part of an African American family. The neighborhood was an award winning urban renewal project and was a model neighborhood with a highly recognized neighborhood watch program.
This was no surprise since several police officers, four doctors, a couple of attorneys and a variety of solid working class people resided there. Emotions were inflamed when several media outlets immediately began to focus on drug and gang activity, with some implying that the attack was routine.
In just five days, the nation had gotten worked up to the point of exploding into little race wars. It was going to take years, not weeks, to resolve this crime. But the crime had the highest priority, since domestic terrorism was in the public mind ever since the escalation of rhetoric that occurred after President Obama’s election.
Then, it got worse.
Similar crimes, each without any consistent racial overtones, were being committed in Calderon County, and this is how Shadrach and Ariel came to be examining all seven blocks and both sides of the main street of Salmon Hill. They were making their way toward the little Civic Center where they were to check in with Sheriff Danrigel Jones.
Since they were out of their jurisdiction, it was mandatory for them to work under the authority and request of local law enforcement. It was not mandatory, however, for them to check in right away.
An hour later, the more appropriately fed Agents were greeted at the Sheriff’s office by a chubby, pleasant woman who had an affinity for oversized and over decorated cotton tops. The current top had chunks of multicolored glass. It came down to substantial knees that were jammed into purple leggings. Her feet were adorned in jewel encrusted mules. She swayed, with not all of her parts swaying together, as she led them on a brief walk down a corridor that seemed unusually quiet.
The trio arrived at a large office with a title emblazoned on the door: “DANRIGEL JONES” then in smaller print, “SHERIFF OF CALDERON COUNTY, est. 1892”. Then there was a county seal.
Inside, the walls were a fresh shade of warm cream and the carpet was a tasteful Berber. The furniture was of old wood with new upholstery. An impressive array of degrees, certificates and honoraria covered the walls on two sides. The third wall held bookcases. The desk held a closed laptop and a few photos, but was otherwise spotless and uncluttered. The fourth wall offered a view of impossibly blue sky that reigned over a steep hill. Dried out wild oats had turned the hill into a wall of brilliant pale gold that was punctuated by Blue Oak and substantial Sierra Blue Rocks. The California Blue and Gold was truly represented here.
Danrigel “Dank” Jones made an impressive picture, seated formally and stiffly behind his desk. If you were inclined to stereotypes and only paid attention to the steel grey eyes and blonde hair, he looked like a poster boy for Nazi propaganda. But when he opened his mouth and spoke, pure California dude fell out. With a tanned, slightly craggy face and delicate blue shadows under his eyes, Dank Jones had the look of someone who had slept terribly, if at all, for more than just one or two nights. He smelled like baby powder.
“Shadrach Epiphany Jackson” he intoned, rising to wrap his paw around Shadrach’s extended hand and finding that he could not. “And Ariel Jacob…pleasure to meet you but not him. I thought that you two dudes would want to check out Salmon Hill before you, like, went to work.”
He clearly intended to intimidate with the knowledge that his spies were everywhere, and that he was not exactly happy at being made to wait for their visit.
“Don’t worry. We get tourists all of the time. You were perfectly welcome to check out the town before you got around to visiting with me. But tell me one thing…” He stopped, went to the window and stared at the hill. You could cut the testosterone with a fork.
“Yes?” Shadrach demanded. When he was irritated, his voice got deeper and deeper. Eventually observers would begin to check the walls and foundations for small cracks.
Ariel knew how Shadrach was with rednecks. He was getting worried about these two.
“Why would you eat food from Phil’s Chevron? You dudes got a death wish? Big City Nouvelle Gay Cuisine that bad?”
Dank had turned around and he had his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, a sure sign of a showdown of mood.
“Naaaw, man.” Shadrach shot back after a carefully timed pause. It was all in the timing. He was tempted to turn his head and spit, but that would have been going too far. It would give the whole thing away and it was better to stick to the script.
“It’s my partner! He’s got a psychopathic personality that manifests in a need to eat crap. Nasty disease. But we had to hire the handicapped and he tested well. So tell me something, you hillbilly lookin…”
“Shadrach!” Ariel shouted. “No! You’re not going to…”
Dank waited for his moment, then jumped in and gave it his best shot, grinning as he snarled. “So, you got questions for me or not, Negrooo?”
“Yeah! You East Eagle’s Nest lookin’ motha!” Shadrach grinned back.
Then he stopped, suddenly realizing that his Best Friend Since They Both Were Neonates was not quite right. The prank that he and Dank had orchestrated came to an abrupt end.
Dank’s face seemed to wear a lot of heavy burdens. The Native American ancestry that hid behind surface looks that were contributed by his sole European ancestor came out in his features. He sat down and motioned for the others to do the same.
He covered his mouth and stared bleakly out of the window for an uncomfortably long time before he cleared his throat and simply stated that “We’re dealing with folk who surely have the number ‘666’ carved on their behinds!”
© Edith Rene Allen, 1998
