Read Durwood’s story here, including the first three chapters of his upcoming thriller, Dear Durwood.
During the Anarchy, I did foot patrols of Manhattan. There were more crimes afoot than mosquitoes the day after a West Virginia downpour. I couldn’t rectify them all. Nowhere near.
But I could rectify some.
Shakedowns were common. I’m neither tall nor big in the chest or shoulders, and thugs occasionally targeted me.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” the leader of some bikers called tonight. “I don’t believe we’ve taken your contribution yet.”
They were standing below an overpass I’d included in my nightly route. Overpasses were frequent sites of criminality.
I said, “My contribution.”
The man swaggered closer. He wore an iron rod through his brow and a denim jacket missing its sleeves.
“We keep this particular part of town safe, since the police can’t,” he said. “Citizen contributions pay for our time.”
I said, “I’m familiar with the racket.”
“Racket?” one of the others said, stepping forward to make a line of two with the leader.
“G’on home,” I said. “The Anarchy’s hard enough on folks. Scum like you make it worse.”
The bikers murmured among themselves. Anger mixed with surprise in their hard faces.
The leader said, “You got some wrong instincts, partner.”
Another said yeah, wrong by a mile. They were gonna teach me some things.
I shifted my duster, allowing them to see my M9 semiautomatic.
“I’ll give you till five,” I said, “to hop on your bicycles and get to pedaling.”
One in the back got hot and said, “We don’t ride bikes, we have—”
He trailed off.
The leader observed, “There’s six of us.”
I said, “Five.”
“You can’t even count!” the hot one said. “Look it, we got—”
“Four.”
I held up four fingers, calloused from working on the van and pulling up johnsongrass.
At my side, Sue-Ann held a ramrod sit.
I counted three.
The leader glanced over his bare shoulder — lumpy, freckled — to check on his gang. About half were hurrying helmets onto their greasy heads.
“Wh—hey, you don’t want this.” He tried to put menace in his voice. “You might take out a couple—”
“Two.”
“—er, couple of us if you’re Billy the Kid, somebody like that.” He chuckled, small, and held his arms like he was cold. “But no way you handle all of us.”
The right amount of time had passed for me to say, “One.” Instead of saying it, I raised a finger.
The leader stared at my finger with eyes big as a bullfrog’s. When he spun back around, he saw he was alone. Motorcycle exhaust fouled the air.
“Next time Sue and I walk this overpass, we’d better not see you.” I nodded to my dog. “Or smell you.”
The biker, his Adam’s apple bobbing in place, accepted these terms.
#thirdChance #microJustice
I heard Crole tell of Big Russ, gosh, it’s been several months now. You can’t trust a fishing story from Crole. He exaggerates. His memory’s poor. He’s liable to tell you a twenty-eight pound channel cat weighed eight-two pounds — and was pulled from the lake wearing lipstick to boot.
[CROLE] “Big Russ weighed two-hundred-fifty pounds. Now there’s people will say I’m full of gator poop to say that number, but it’s accurate. Big Russ was a monster. Still is.
“I was fishing the Potomac, a spot I like over by Kitzmiller, West Virginia side. There’s smallmouth bass to be had there, and trout too. Rainbows or browns — both thrive in abundance. Gorgeous spot. Used to be Indian country, the Saponi tribe. I sometimes wonder if the Saponis ever locked horns with Big Russ. Some chief ever drove his spear into Big Russ and figured he’d bagged a big’un. If he did, I’ll wager Russ dragged him into the water and made a meal of ’im for his trouble.
[DURWOOD] Crole offered me his jug at this point in the story. I don’t generally drink moonshine. It’s a weakness, and Crole’s concoction is worse than most. He brews it with Jolly Ranchers, which I never enjoyed as a boy, and which taste downright vile in combination with his other ingredients: cracked corn, Tabasco, and several others he says are proprietary. I suspect he fiddles from batch to batch, or simply rounds out his pot with whatever’s on hand.
Now he told me to lose my danged skirt and drink. Big Russ was an important figure in his life. I should drink, out of respect if nothing else.
I took a swig.
The stuff tasted like dregs from an ashtray, if you dumped a bag of sugar in and set the whole mess on fire.
[CROLE] “The day I caught Big Russ was cold. October, half the Pin Oak leaves were down. Taking the boat under that skinny bridge, over by the Coal Bucket Restaurant, darned if I didn’t hear water crackling as I steered her through.
“So, Big Russ and me. It all started with a bite. Firm bite, about like you got your lure stuck in concrete. I jerked the line to move whatever fish I’d hooked but couldn’t budge it. I jerked again, harder, hard as I could. I jerked until my shoulder hurt. Still hurts. Used to be I could hoist an 80 pound bag of fertilizer from Nethkin’s over my head easy as a blackbird whistles. Now? Not a chance.
“Big Russ dragged me around that river a solid hour. He was an immovable object, a force of Nature, Godzilla versus Mothra — take your pick. The battle was epic. Clash of civilization stuff.
“I stuck my face into the frigid water and yelled, ‘Quit hiding down there and show yourself, you—’”
[DURWOOD] It’s likely Crole’s swears are unfamiliar to you, but just the same, we’ll cut away.
[CROLE] “‘—possum’s crooked tail if I ever saw one!’
“By the time I’d pulled my face up out of the water, I couldn’t feel my lips nor nose. It worked, though. Big Russ must have heard my taunt because next time I tugged the line, I felt movement. Just a budge, and very slow. My rod was bowed like Cheap Charlie Brubaker bent over scooping pennies off the sidewalk. In my excitement and vigor, I snapped the rod. The reel flew backwards out of my hands and impaled my shortwave radio. To this day, I can’t listen to a Mountaineers game if there’s cloud cover about.
“The end of the rod — the part still attached to Big Russ — flew forward into the lake. I dove headlong after it, abandoning my craft. I swam fifteen yards, snagged the line and rod-end before Big Russ could seize ’em. At this point, I was only a frog’s spit from shore so I swam for land.
“Now Big Russ was only giving an inch at a time, and I had a fairly strong stroke owing to fifth-grade Physical Education — as I got closer to shore, the resistance started pulling me underwater. I kept on. I held my breath and fought, still tugging Big Russ, trying for land where I’d have leverage.
“I swam fully submerged for a good minute. Finally my feet found the jagged, waterweed-covered side of the lake. I hooked one arm around a mossy boulder and kept pulling with the other. Big Russ started giving more — I felt a drift now, like the Titanic’d come loose off the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”
[DURWOOD] Crole having a head of steam going, I felt it unnecessary to correct his geography.
[CROLE] “Only problem was, as I mentioned, I was underwater! My lungs were about to pop and the edges of my vision was going black. I kicked up, kneeling against rock and churning up soot. Finally my head emerged into the candy-sweet West Virginia air.
“I breathed it in, and attacked Big Russ with renewed vim. Ah, he knew it was over then. We both did. The drift accelerated. He started coming toward me good, really cruising, ’bout like he wanted to joust. I set my feet shoulder-width apart and gritted my teeth.
“Ten yards out, I got my first glimpse of his head. It was orange and flecked, severely curved. Wasn’t near as big as I expected for what fight he gimme. Then I saw.”
[DURWOOD] What’d you see, Crole?
[CROLE] “I saw he didn’t have just the one head. A second popped up, then a third. Then a fourth. A whole line of orange, rusty heads, uniform shaped, all curved, all in a row. I kept on pulling, finishing the war despite my disappointment. Big Russ’s tall, tubular body came into view — rusty as his dozen heads.”
[DURWOOD] We were sitting in Crole’s kitchen. He was fixing a batch of turnip and jimsonweed stew, waiting for the vegetables to color. I’d brought my sourdough. It’s best to catch Crole’s cooking early — this batch would last him three weeks or more.
I said, “Big Russ is a radiator.”
Crole nodded and said it came out of a ’73 Chevy, near as he could tell.
I said, “The Indians didn’t drive cars.”
He admitted several preliminary details were misleading.
[CROLE] “Tell you what, though. Big Russ was the luckiest catch I’ve made in the last fifteen years.”
[DURWOOD] Crole was nodding.
I asked, “Why’s that?”
[CROLE] “I’ll tell you why. Because he turned into my distillery. You can’t get that same tang — that quality, complex tang — from a still or a regular barrel. You need rust. Need the antifreeze residue, the more years the better. I believe Kitzmiller gets a substantial amount of acid rain, which helps your flavor as well.
“Whatever the cause, it makes a mean shine.
“Sure you don’t need another swig?”
#thirdChance #microJustice
I entered a marksmen competition in North Carolina. Mostly to see my old Marine buddy.
“We’ll both enter,” he said. “You’ll win, but it’ll be fun to sling lead side by side again.”
I drove the Vanagon down and took Sue-Ann. Sue slept the whole way, tail tucked under my cased M9.
Eukes — that’s my buddy — limped up to me at registration, excited, already wearing his bib number.
“We’re all shooting in the same group,” he said. “How’s that?”
Turned out Eukes, who lived down that way, had fallen in with a bunch of gun jocks. Younger. Active duty.
One said, “In the flesh” as we shook hands.
Another smirked to a fella wearing some special shooting glove. Textured — like a ladies shoe.
The first round was fun. I enjoy the range, and it’d been years since I’d lit one up from 50 yards.
My Third Chance Enterprises work is mostly hand-to-hand. Last time I had the sniper rifle out? Hm. Must’ve been 2011, those Alaskan mystics me and @quaidRafferty stopped from assassinating the premier.
“Hot damn,” Eukes said at my score. “I told these guys. Told ’em about you.”
The fella with the glove pushed out his lower lip. He and I were in first, tied.
At lunch, I pulled Eukes away from his new crew.
Said, “Your boys take shooting serious.”
He nodded, biting a burger. “They appreciate the trade. I told ’em we had sharpshooters back in Desert Storm. Real deal.”
“We did,” I said.
He was so happy, eating that burger, his friends recalling their better shots. The one looked over at us, sly, and pretended to drag his leg.
Second round, Eukes missed the cut. Glove Man and a kid in an *LSU Athletics* sweatshirt got through with me.
“Used to be we shot pretty close,” Eukes told his friends. “I haven’t kept it up like Durwood.”
Glove Man said out the side of his mouth, “Say that again.”
The tournament organizers took a group picture before round 3. They had a 4-star from the base stand in the middle. The young guys stood up front, lifting their shirts to show off their steel.
Eukes and I stood in back on the other side.
He said, “You gotta win this — win it for the golden oldies. I know you can.”
He was right about that.
I said, “I pulled out, Eukes. Let’s get outta here and fish. Have a cold one.”
#thirdChance #microJustice
I started seeing the fella at Nethkin’s Feed & Fertilizer, oh, it’s been six months. Nethkin’s is a fair outfit, but this one was never dissatisfied.
Big red-handed fella.
He came in the other day with a fistful of wilted flowers.
“Your fertilizer’s junk. These look fertilized?”
The checker, Linnie Nethkin, was chewing gun. She was about 15. “Oh dear. No, they sure don’t.” She opened the till. “Did you buy the 4 or 12?”
The man grumped, “What?”
“Pounds. Did you purchase the 4 or 12 pound bag?”
“Oh.” The corner of his lip twitched. “Twelve.”
Linnie started counting out bills.
“No.” I set down the awl I’d been looking at. Broke mine the other day jiggering the van’s carburetor.
I said, “Not today, bub.”
The man whirled from the register. Looked at me like scum in a pretty blue pond.
“What’d you say?”
I put my arm on the counter by his flowers. “You’re taking advantage of these folks’ good nature.”
He went stiff, offended.
“I paid good money for that fertilizer.”
“Like you did the deck screws?”
“They were terrible quality, hardly held my bit—”
“And the bent hammer, look like you had it fifteen years.”
“A quality hammer should last at least—”
“Or the big cooler you bought before the Mountaineer game against State and brought back the next Monday?”
The man’s mouth was open, but the part that made words was out of commission. He scratched himself.
Linnie was holding the man’s refund, blowing a bubble.
I said, “Look it, there’s Bryar looking at paint. And Kenny Koerner owns Koerners Grill. Old Miss Dana who saw Elvis play Nashville live.”
I shifted the brim of my hat to each customer in turn.
“You want to stand up and tell all them Nethkin’s killed your flowers? Killed ’em with bum fertilizer?”
The man, with every eye in the store on him, glared at me hard as the coldest British mercenary, mean as the worst African warlord. And I’ve faced plenty of both.
“Yes.”
He snatched the cash from Linnie and left, and we never saw him again.
#thirdChance #microJustice
I got to the smokestack operator in time. I thought.
“Shut her down!” I said, pointing out his window.
He looked at the stack. It was fifty stories high; his overlook sat at five. My legs burned from the climb—there’s no grade to a vertical access ladder.
The operator checked his gauges. “Computer says we’re a-okay.”
“That’s because the Blind Mice hacked it.” My hat had gone crooked and I fixed it now. “Heck, you can feel the pressure.”
The air vibrated. My calves rattled in stiff boots.
The man spoke through tight teeth. “It, eh…yeah, gets that way during high utilization.”
I asked him if utilization was high. He looked at the gauges and frowned.
But I couldn’t convince him. He was like my old C.O. back in Tikrit. Taggert. Taggert wouldn’t dream of changing his daily routine unless someone showed him where it said to in the U.S. Army Field Manual.
“Suit yourself,” I said.
A half-dozen lines ran between his overlook pod and the stack. I examined them. I had little time—and my recall of ANSI pipe coloring defaults was rusty.
I knew orange was toxic and green was water.
I *thought* yellow meant flammable.
Planting one foot, I swung the other bootheel into the center of the glass. It shattered, brilliant.
Even hotter air rushed in. Charged, busy air. I dove onto the orange line and crawled forward to the valve. Cranked the chainwheel until the small hiss inside stopped.
I closed off the yellow line similarly. This blunted the stack’s belching of smoke and flames. But didn’t stop it.
She was going to blow.
Soon.
I dropped below the line I’d been working like a gymnast on a high bar, and started myself swinging.
One…
Two…
On three, I let go and soared through the air. I lost my stomach. Dropping, flailing about. My boots hit the rungs as the world went red.
#microJustice #thirdChance