This is part 2 of a 3-part story. Part 1 can be found here.

I probably wasn’t out long. A hundred-pound Rottweiler has a lot of poking power in his nose and doesn’t take no for an answer. Goblin poked and prodded me around. My head hurt from the hangover, my jaw was the size of a large arbor reel, and my thigh was a bloody mess.

First thing’s first. I took my shirt off and bound my thigh. Then I got in the truck and maneuvered it to hook the winch onto the trailer and dragged it roughly back to my stoop. I had a new bay window thanks to the assholes, but I would worry about that later. At least it would keep me dry for the night.

After that I got into my shed and took a pair of forceps from my waders and went inside to my fly-tying bench. Lesson 101. Leave some damn Bourbon in the bottle. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way – with beer. I got a Dead Guy and slammed it for the pain. Then I probed around with the forceps until I was sure the wound was mostly empty, and sopped up the prodigious blood using both of my good towels. Time to get re-married and register for new linen, I thought. I took a curved needle and some nylon gut I had and tried to pull the wound together while I was still in shock and thought this was a good idea, but it was more of a hole than a cut, so it was going to be one hell of a scar. I let the dog lick it a little to clean it out. I think the dog worries about me some, but I’m not so sure he wouldn’t just eat me if I dropped dead in the trailer. Finally, I poured a bunch of Super Glue into it and went into convulsions until it set up.

I reflected on the view to the back of the trailer, somewhat improved by my friends. Suddenly I started laughing. Of course, they just had to use a Dodge Ram. I shared this with the dog. Goblin doesn’t always get me, but I think he’s mostly laughing at me anyway.

Suddenly, I was exhausted. I wrapped the wound, got a big ol’ slice of Velveeta to settle my stomach, and laid down in my bed, away from the recent remodel. About noon, I got up. Since it was raining, I didn’t even bother to visit or call Mikey, I just went down to the bar.

I was limping real bad by then, looked real bad, felt real bad, and was developing a might bad attitude. Goblin came in with me like he always did. He didn’t cuss, he didn’t fight, he held is liquor reasonably well – discounting the gas – which made him a whole lot easier to ignore than to eject. The bartender even kept a bowl for his beer.

“Looks like the devil knows you’re dead.”

“And this ain’t heaven.”

“Does he know I’m dead?”

“Not yet.”

Mikey held up a finger. The bartender took one look at me and brought him a bottle and an extra glass. It’s that kind of place. Mikey poured real quiet like, handed me a glass, and held his up.

“Friends.”

“Watch your back.”

And we both tossed them back.

“What happened?”

“The guys who own the dope showed up. It appears whoever beat us to it, wasn’t them. They got pictures of the truck, which makes us – me – for it.”

“Negotiation?”

“Me. The dog. Still here.”

“Pretty crafty. Finder’s fee?”

“Working on it.”

“Case C.”

“Yep. Case C. Somebody else scores the stash and we get stuck holding the bag.”

“Didn’t see that coming.”

“Likewise.”

“Plan?”

I smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

I figured it like this. In our greed we overlooked the one obvious thing. The spotter. Whoever was watching the site, he’s seen us – and anybody else who was there. If we didn’t do it, and he hadn’t turned anybody else up, well then, I had some questions for him. We had a few more to kill the pain, and then gave Goblin the bottle to carry.

I drove up the highway onto the spur road. Part of the way up I pulled out the 8 x10, took a look, drove a little further, and parked.

“S’up?”

“Let’s check something out. I want to walk through the woods on the left here for a while, off the road.” I held up the picture.

“Ah.”

We got out. Walking was bad, but I figured it would clear the humors out and I should stick to it as part of my constitution. We only had to walk about a quarter of a mile before we found it, which was good because I figured I only had an eighth of a mile in me when we started.

On a tree was an infrared camera with a sending unit. Smart and low tech. You could get them from Cabella’s to watch game trails. Some guys even set them up so they could remote fire the rifle and then go pick up the deer. Sportsmen, I think they call themselves. I reached over and turned it off. Then I think I had a bit of nausea, because next thing I remember was Mikey pulling up in the truck and I had this puky taste in my mouth.

“Flesh wound my ass.”

“Ayuh. Now what?”

“Back to the gate.”

Mikey drove up to the gate, nice and slow, but I wanted to puke at every pothole.

“Kinda gray.”

“Inside and out, brother.”

Rain was clearing up by then and the sun hurt my eyes. I grabbed my fishing shades off the rearview as we pulled up to the gate and got out.

“Whatcha looking for?”

“We’re some dumbass sonsabitches, Mikey. All that time we figured we was being watched, and we never checked on it. Definite optimists.” I started looking round at the ridgelines, and eventually went back to the truck for my binoculars.

“Shit.”

I handed them over. “Double shit. How did we miss that?” There was a little trailer, not unlike mine, up the ridge at the end of the road. Made perfect sense. They were all over the hills. The logging companies paid some guy to just hang out and keep an eye on the equipment. Somebody comes along and offers him a little extra to do what he was doing anyway and la-tee-da, there’s your spotter. We hopped into the truck and drove off.

“Beep.”

“Beep?”

“I want to come in all unsuspicious-like.”

“If you say so.” Mikey was obviously doubtful of my reasoning.

We beeped as we pulled up and parked. It turned out to be unnecessary. There at the foot of the stoop was the spotter, in his skivys, socks half off, and missing the best part of his head, a sawed-off just a few feet away.

“Ewwww.”

“Likewise.” I sat there and looked out the window.

“So how do you figure it, this guy gets popped because he loses the package?”

“Maybe, but then who got it? Makes more sense that somebody smarter than us whacked him and then took the package.”

“Okay, but how come they are not on Candid Camera, comme nous? Wouldn’t your friends have paid them a visit too?”

“Yeah, that’s a good question.” I grabbed the door handle.

“What are you thinking?”

“First, puke. Second, look around.”

“Ah…”

“Just watch the damn dog and keep it running.”

“Watch your back.”

“Likewise.”

I got out and promptly fell to my knees. I puked for a bit and managed to get up. This was getting to be a long day. Goblin was whining to get out, but I told him to stay put. I walked up and looked at the body for a long time. The blast went in under the chin and took off pretty much the top of his head. The face was kind of mushy like one of those old-time dried apple dolls.

I looked at the scatter gun, then went into the trailer. This guy made me look like Martha Stewart. I sifted through porn, empty beer cans, and old food tins. On the counter by the sink I found some binoculars, much nicer than mine, and focused them on the gate to the lake. I could read the Keep Out sign no problem. On the edge of the counter was a pad of paper from a windshield company. I picked up a pencil stub and shaded to read the impression. 735 UXC II. Shit, the plates to my truck and the number of times he’d seen it. His wallet was in his jeans on the floor and I pulled out the license.

I eventually got back into the cab and let Mikey keep driving. I took out the license, “You know this guy, Steve Jenness?”

“I know him, local kid. Dumb as shit. Him and his brothers always doing one stupid thing after another. I think Tom is up in Monroe right now doing three-to-five or some such. Is that who that was? Couldn’t even tell with his face all crêped up like that.”

“Well, if it wasn’t he stole his wallet.”

“Damn. Stupid ain’t evil, you know?”

“I don’t think the devil cares, or if he can even tell the difference.”

“Seems that way.”

I dropped Mikey at the bar, then followed him home and hitched up his boat.

“Treat it like it wasn’t your own.”

“Watch your back.” Then I headed up the road to make some calls.

Some things stick in your brain the way a broken molar sticks in your craw. I’m telling you; I know this, you can argue the brain part but the broken molar is unimpeachable. I pulled the bottle out from under the seat and did some serious anesthesia on the way home.

Parked in front of my dream house was a blacked-out Ford Exploder with big dumbass mags and wide low-profile tires on it. Probably the first time this thing had ever been off the tarmac. I eased up and got out, telling Goblin to stay, but he wasn’t happy about it, and began barking and growling something fierce. That dog has a real good danger sense about him.

As I walked out between the vehicles two large black men got out of the Ford. “Evenin’” I said.

“Where the fuck’s my dope,” said the passenger.

I held up my hands “Whoa, I still got a day and a half.”

The two exchanged a look. “Whatchu talkin’ about?”

“Didn’t you send two associates to do that?” I pointed at the trailer.

The passenger smiled and it looked startling white in the dusk. “You start there,” and he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, “where you gonna go?”

Goblin was just about to chew through the door. “Goblin! Sitz!” It quieted him down some, but I could tell it was temporary.

“Well, they said it was their dope, now you say it’s your dope, how do I know who is telling the truth?”

The driver pulled back a well-tailored coat to show me the butt of a 9mm. “Truth enough for you?”

I pointed to my jowl. “Unfortunately, they had the same argument.”

“Mr. Boon,” said the passenger. “I’m a businessman, not a thug. I assure you; you have my dope. Those other men were scamming you.”

“The were pretty persuasive. So persuasive, I told them I had it, even though I didn’t.”

“It’s your plate we got up on the mountain, Mr. Boon, how do you explain that?”

“I was up there fishing. I think somebody fucked you and wants to blame it on me. I think the other guys were in on it and got double-crossed.”

“Seems like you are in a pre-dicament. Those guys will kill you if you don’t deliver my dope to them, and I’ll kill you if you do.” He smiled at me again.

“Those guys will kill me no matter what, that’s why I’m not going to bother lying to you. Go fuck yourselves.”

The driver went for the gun. Goblin, who had been trying to chew through the glass gave up, and just launched his body through it. The shooter spun in that direction but hadn’t really processed what was going on. Goblin hit the ground, made an impossible turn, and came around the tire out of the shadows. I went in the opposite direction. He looked at me and Goblin took him right in the forearm, wedged deep in his jaw. One shot hit the dirt where I had been standing. Goblin dropped him like a scarecrow and he started shaking his head back and forth with incredible power.

“Motherfucker!” His eyes were rolling back in his head. I picked up the gun and looked over the two of them at the boss. He looked calmly at his employee.

“All of this is so unnecessary. Please call the dog off.”

“Aus!” Goblin let go and trotted over to my side. I held the gun low next to my thigh. I don’t like guns and I couldn’t even tell you if the safety was off on this one, but I wanted to appear confident.

“My plate. How’d you get it?” I kept an eye on the driver as he scuttled back to the SUV and leaned against it nursing his arm. He and Goblin seemed to be entertaining each other. Something about a dog. It rattles your medulla oblongata. Your reptile brain, if you will. So much more effective than a gun.

“My spotter.”

“The one you killed?”

“Pfft. Why would I kill that dumbass? He was dead when we got there. We found it inside on a piece of paper.” He reached inside his coat and I raised the gun, but he pulled it out slowly. From where I was standing it at least looked the right size to be from the notepad.

“I’m being straight with you. I didn’t steal your dope. I was fishing. I just want out. Seems like you should be talking to them other fellas. I think they had something going, but it fell through. Why don’t I just give you their number and you can work it all out?”

“I like you. I want to believe you. Hell, I even like your dog.” He looked at his sidekick. “Damn stupid with the gun, boy. Damn stupid.” He looked back at me. “But somebody’s got my dope, and I just can’t let that go.”

“Maybe it’s just lost.”

“Why am I thinking that’s not the case? Why is Steve dead if he didn’t know where the dope was or if they didn’t put their own spotter on site?”

“I hadn’t worked that out.”

“But you're working on it. That’s good. I like that.”

“You got men setting up to take your shipment, you can’t just let that go, neither.” I was desperately trying to get out of the middle of this.

“Well, I’ll deal with those men, if they exist. You find me some dope, I might just be able to keep you alive.” He looked at the driver. “Can you drive?” The driver grunted in acknowledgment and got in. “You got 24 hours,” said the boss. He flipped me a card across the roof and then he got into the SUV.

I walked over and tapped on the window, when it slid down, I handed in the gun. “I don’t suppose there is a finder’s fee?”

The boss laughed. “I like you man, don’t make me kill you.” He motioned with his hand and the driver gunned it, spraying my much-maligned trailer with rubble.

“Fuck.” I looked down at the dog. “Who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?” His ass started gyrating like a Rapula broke-back lure. I rubbed his massive head. “I think I owe you a steak.” We walked up the stoop and made the small leap into the trailer. For almost a moment I had forgotten about the thigh. Damn jump made it hurt like hell and I had to grab the counter to keep upright.

“Honey, I’m home!” I groaned through clamped teeth. Then I got Goblin a steak out of the meat drawer and myself some cold Progresso soup out of the can. I got a bottle of Bella Dry Creek Zin out of the cellar, okay the closet, and poured a healthy slug into a Reidel stemless glass and put it on the floor next to his bowl. That was one sweet dog and I owed him big time. We finished up and then I went outside and started a fire and got the bottle out of the truck. Today had been a long day. I hurt with dull aches places I didn’t even remember getting shot. Tomorrow was going to be longer.

“Dog. You don’t mind if I dispense with the formalities, do you and just call you, Dog? Dog, I think those guys might really own that dope.” He looked up at me contentedly, farted, smelled his ass, looked at me like I had committed the grossest of offenses, and sprawled out near the fire.

“I love you too man,” I continued. “Not that it makes any difference who owns it. First, I got to find it, then give it to two sets of people. The only upside is that somehow, we need to come out of this alive.” I looked down, but all I could see were the red bags under his eyes. He could’ve been asleep for two days the way he looked. I finished the bottle and tossed it into the fire. There were going to be some cold nights until I finished my forced remodel.

This is part 2 of a 3-part story. Part 3 will be published shortly.