The Feet of God

15 - HOT ON THE TRAIL

While I hung my head out the window to avoid the exhaust, Bob turned around in the front seat and explained, “Here’s how it works.  We’re going to drop you off just outside the four corners of Gorda Fortuna, and you’ll walk over to the gas station and ask the attendants there where the Remington ranch is.  They know everything that’s going on around these parts, so pump ‘em good for information.”

“What’s my cover story?”

“Oh, just tell them you’re supposed to help do some carpentry work or wall-painting or something like that, and casually ask for directions.  Got it?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll be waiting for you down the road, just around the bend outside of town.”

I could guess how Bob and Rufus would occupy themselves while I was doing all the hard work.  I got out of the car and they tore off.  Rufus peeled up a buckshot spray of dirt and pebbles in my face.  Fucker.

Turns out Gorda Fortuna consisted mainly of a gas station tucked under a billboard that said “Welcome to Fabulous Gorda Fortuna.”  Out in front sat a matched pair of gas jockeys.

“How y’all doin’ today?” I nodded real amiably as I approached.  I looked around and smiled, “Nice day, huh?”  They stared at me.  “You guys wouldn’t happen to know where the Remington spread might be located, would ya?”  Their eyes was suspicious if not outright hostile.  “I’m supposed to help a buddy,” I clarified, “on a plumbing job out that ways, you see.”

The older of the two leaned back scratching at his crotch with one hand while the free hand poked up the brim of his John Deere cap.  “Wullll, can’t rightly say.  Ain’t never heard of no Remington spread.”  He turned to the younger gas station guy, “You know anything ‘bout it?”

The younger one put on a big fake grin.  “Nah,” he shook his head side to side.  “Ain’t never heard of no Remington place hereabouts.”

Just then a big eighteen-wheeler flatbed loaded with lumber came zooming by, skidding as it turned off onto a dirt road a few hundred yards further along.  Above the treetops a huge cloud of dust rose up and turned the blue sky brown.  I figured these good ol’ boys might not know much about helping a needy feller find directions, but I had me a notion I’d just found my answer.

I tipped the bill of my cap, “Well, thanks.  I think I’ll just keep on lookin’ then.”  As I headed off to a secret meeting with my two co-conspirators, the younger one piped up, “Yeah, and you can tell that crazy old bitch we ain’t givin’ out no more gas for frozen turkeys.  Cash only, ya damned communist hippies.”

Popular posts from this blog

The Feet of God

67 - ONE IOTA OF DIFFERENCE It was turning light outside and morning dew sparkled like glass beads.   It was time for me to go.   I tucked the gun back with the stacks of bills stashed inside Yeller Tom’s leather case, then headed over to a gravel path that snaked downhill toward two lanes of asphalt where I might hitch a new ride. While walking along the path a white pebble landed at my feet.   I didn’t know I had company.   I looked back and saw an old man and woman tossing away whitewashed stones from the second letter E in BIBLE HELL.   (I figured there wasn’t much for kids to do around here except maybe Fentanyl, alcohol, screwin’ their first-cousins, and pull’n practical jokes like this.) “Hey, up there, watch out!” I shouted, as a flung white rock hit me above the eye. The elderly couple stood up in a shock of surprise, almost as if they was caught red-handed do ’ n something wrong. “Sorry, friend.   We were cleansing away some smut.” ...
Read more

The Feet of God

60 - UP AND AT ‘EM I heard Yeller Tom whistling Reveille .  “Wake up,” he gave me a smack to the head. I rubbed my eyes awake.   The effects of knockout gas and dope and booze still lingered.  He handed me a small pack of seeds. I didn’t disguise my disappointment.  “I was kinda hoping for an omelet with bacon or French toast or something more nourishing.” “It is not for you.   Feed le pigeon , Gertrude.” The smell coming from the cage below my seat was getting kinda rank.   “Ain’t you gonna clean this bird’s cage?” “ Non .”   Yeller Tom’s nose flared.   “Now we fly.” I ripped open the bag of seeds and threw ‘em below my seat. Yeller Tom pulled on levers and knobs and dials again, and his little blue biplane started with a huge discharge of smoke.   As we taxied down the bumpy path I knew there’d be no in-flight meals served but I could sure go for some breakfast.   Even a lousy bagel without the cream cheese, but I didn...
Read more

The Feet of God

64 - HATE TO EAT AND RUN I watched Madame and Yeller Tom grow smaller and smaller until they vanished through the swing door back of the pastry counter.   My head rolled backwards and my eyes saw above me countless holes in ceiling tiles moving, breathing, expanding, shrinking...damn, this was some kinda special cream cheese. I then heard a voice, “Jeebus, how much didja eat?”   It was the bear of an airplane mechanic, Chuck.   He’d entered the bakery shop and sauntered over to the coffee stand and poured a cup.   “Here, drink this, it’ll help pull you together.” I fought to stay focused as I held the hot mug.   “You’re no barrel of laughs,” I cracked myself up.   “Mr. Grease Monkey.”   I doubled over laughing. “Just drink,” the huge man ignored my convulsions of idiotic laughter.   He grabbed a folding chair and sat down beside me.   “You’re gonna be stuck in that plane with Tom for hours, y’know, and you don’t wanna be flying high...
Read more