closer, staring at Johnson in his u-trou. Slowly, the figure took a pack of cigarettes from a chest pocket in a checked shirt, undid the cellophane wrapper, and lit one from the pack, inhaling deeply. Johnson glanced to the shelf under the window where he’d put his Marlboros hours ago. They were gone. Now he stared across the concrete apron and watched the stranger smoke his cigarettes.
“Mind if I bum a smoke?” the stranger asked. Less a question than a challenge.
“Keep the pack.”
His companion chuckled. “Peter, allow me to introduce a colleague. Marjorie Morningstar—not her real name—Peter Johnson.”
The figure strode into the light: a woman about forty-five, short hair, clean complexion, but clearly strong, wearing a lumberjack outfit, slouch hat. She placed a .22 caliber pump-action Remington with a scope carefully against the wall. Then slung a large bedraggled thing onto the concrete.
“But you can call me Large Marge.”
The thing on the concrete was a wild turkey, sans head. She’d shot the thing with a spitball and blown its head off. Annie Oakley. At the time Johnson didn’t know enough to appreciate what skill that took, but Wallets sure did, murmuring “Hmmmmm” with great admiration.
“If you want breakfast, pluck it.” She eyed Johnson in his skivvies somewhat dubiously. “Hard day at the office there, Sport?”
Johnson lost all words. He handed her the whiskey with a shrug of shared admiration. “The commute is hell,” he finally replied. “But when I get home . . .” Johnson looked around him, at the fire, the garage, the coil-sprung car seat, “I’m in the country.”
Large Marge showed him many things. How to catch fish in a stream and how to trap a rabbit. How to heal his raw ankle with some leaves in the forest. How to wash and shave, and even how to make a hood of burlap to keep the mosquitoes at bay so he could sleep. As the days passed, Wallets seemed to fade into the background, watching from afar yet occasionally offering a suggestion: “How about trout tonight?” Or a test: “There’s a firearm stashed in an abandoned shed two hundred yards off the base perimeter. See if you can get it without being spotted.”
From that task, he returned at dusk to find both Large Marge and Wallets missing from their base camp and the reason perfectly obvious. A boom box was blasting ZZ Top into the trees surrounding Dobbs Diesel. Inside the garage bay two large Bikers and their pretty Bitchslut—who looked and acted about fourteen years old—had moved in for the evening, finding the accommodations Johnson struggled to build much to their liking. Large Marge and Wallets found him in the dark some hours later quietly sitting in the woods near the camp. The Bikers had partied and sexed up their bitch all night and now lay snoring on the hammock and couch.
“Could be The Outlaws,” Marge whispered. “Bikers who run crystal meth from Florida to Maine. Model citizens.”
Wallets gave Johnson a handful of fallen leaves, saying, “This should do it.”
Johnson wrapped his shoes in rags to keep them quiet and managed to put a fistful of crushed dried leaves in one of the Harleys’ gas tanks. Never mind the other—it needed a key. Damage done, he retired to the trees. If Wallets was impressed, he never showed it.
“They’ll get down the hill all right and konk out somewhere around the gate to the Base,” he explained. “Then the Sheriff will come for a look-see, as these two studs seem to be boning their own sister. They won’t be back. Did you find the gun in the shed?”
It had been concealed under some broken clay pots and spilled potting soil, sealed in a plastic ziplock bag. Johnson showed it to them. “Good. Let’s do some plinking.”
The first thing he learned was that anybody could shoot a gun. The second thing was not everybody could hit something. The gun itself, a
.32 caliber snub-nose revolver looked like something Dick Tracy might carry—small,
“Mind if I bum a smoke?” the stranger asked. Less a question than a challenge.
“Keep the pack.”
His companion chuckled. “Peter, allow me to introduce a colleague. Marjorie Morningstar—not her real name—Peter Johnson.”
The figure strode into the light: a woman about forty-five, short hair, clean complexion, but clearly strong, wearing a lumberjack outfit, slouch hat. She placed a .22 caliber pump-action Remington with a scope carefully against the wall. Then slung a large bedraggled thing onto the concrete.
“But you can call me Large Marge.”
The thing on the concrete was a wild turkey, sans head. She’d shot the thing with a spitball and blown its head off. Annie Oakley. At the time Johnson didn’t know enough to appreciate what skill that took, but Wallets sure did, murmuring “Hmmmmm” with great admiration.
“If you want breakfast, pluck it.” She eyed Johnson in his skivvies somewhat dubiously. “Hard day at the office there, Sport?”
Johnson lost all words. He handed her the whiskey with a shrug of shared admiration. “The commute is hell,” he finally replied. “But when I get home . . .” Johnson looked around him, at the fire, the garage, the coil-sprung car seat, “I’m in the country.”
Large Marge showed him many things. How to catch fish in a stream and how to trap a rabbit. How to heal his raw ankle with some leaves in the forest. How to wash and shave, and even how to make a hood of burlap to keep the mosquitoes at bay so he could sleep. As the days passed, Wallets seemed to fade into the background, watching from afar yet occasionally offering a suggestion: “How about trout tonight?” Or a test: “There’s a firearm stashed in an abandoned shed two hundred yards off the base perimeter. See if you can get it without being spotted.”
From that task, he returned at dusk to find both Large Marge and Wallets missing from their base camp and the reason perfectly obvious. A boom box was blasting ZZ Top into the trees surrounding Dobbs Diesel. Inside the garage bay two large Bikers and their pretty Bitchslut—who looked and acted about fourteen years old—had moved in for the evening, finding the accommodations Johnson struggled to build much to their liking. Large Marge and Wallets found him in the dark some hours later quietly sitting in the woods near the camp. The Bikers had partied and sexed up their bitch all night and now lay snoring on the hammock and couch.
“Could be The Outlaws,” Marge whispered. “Bikers who run crystal meth from Florida to Maine. Model citizens.”
Wallets gave Johnson a handful of fallen leaves, saying, “This should do it.”
Johnson wrapped his shoes in rags to keep them quiet and managed to put a fistful of crushed dried leaves in one of the Harleys’ gas tanks. Never mind the other—it needed a key. Damage done, he retired to the trees. If Wallets was impressed, he never showed it.
“They’ll get down the hill all right and konk out somewhere around the gate to the Base,” he explained. “Then the Sheriff will come for a look-see, as these two studs seem to be boning their own sister. They won’t be back. Did you find the gun in the shed?”
It had been concealed under some broken clay pots and spilled potting soil, sealed in a plastic ziplock bag. Johnson showed it to them. “Good. Let’s do some plinking.”
The first thing he learned was that anybody could shoot a gun. The second thing was not everybody could hit something. The gun itself, a
.32 caliber snub-nose revolver looked like something Dick Tracy might carry—small,
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