Peckerwood Read Free

wild times to mind, flying with the Bucs all night down back roads cranked and mellowed at the same time, sometimes days straight, then shacking up somewhere with his old lady or one of the eager hangers-on after his old lady started staying home with the kid. He did miss it sometimes, but as much as he hated to admit it, Bug was right, he was getting old.
    Steve Miller muscled his way onto the sound system and the scene turned more social. Cliff, Bug and two of the girls mixed hash and pills. They washed it all down with snifters of cognac as the vintage jukebox in the corner played classic rock that stopped cold at 1982. The cabin was Chowder’s Presidential Suite, the place he entertained VIPs if it was called for. The wood was dark and the track lighting just enough to keep you from bumping into the furniture. There was a mammoth satellite dish in the front yard, a boat on a trailer in the garage below and the kitchen and bar were kept stocked with the good life, but Chowder never used the place himself.
    If either guest was made uncomfortable by Chowder’s abstinence or the gruff woman chaperone watching casually from the dark back corner, it didn’t show.
    After an hour of unwinding, Bug retired with the blonde to one of the cabin’s bedrooms and Cliff took the redhead into another. The juke continued to suggest a party even after those attuned to its ideas had left the room. Chowder stretched, popped his neck, and went to the fridge in the kitchen. He passed by the fancy stuff and selected a Coors.
    “Want one?” he said to the third woman.
    “No, I’m good.” She was thickly muscled like a farm girl with hair dyed black and cut into abrupt bangs and corners above her shoulders. She had heavy bosoms and wide hips and her arms and legs were far from dainty, but she wasn’t fat yet. When she stood, her shape was more apparent. She had the athletic build of a wrestler, low and compact, and she bristled with an intensity that made most people uneasy, which is why Chowder always insisted she stay in a corner, out of the way, when she chaperoned.
    “You sure?” Chowder gestured toward the shelves of liquor behind the bar. “Gonna be a long night.”
    “Dad, I’m fine.” She stood and stretched, cracking her back and neck and arms before reaching for the Glock in her waistband and tossing it to her father. Chowder checked the action and slipped it into his own jeans before downing his drink.
    “What’d you bring, Irm?”
    She went out the front door and Chowder drained a second beer in the thirty seconds it took her to return with a pump shotgun. Chowder whistled low. “You look bad ass.”
    Irma pretended not to hear. “Ready?”
    Chowder grabbed another silver bullet and cracked the tab as he headed back across the room. “Let’s give ‘em another half hour.”
    Irm looked irritated, but that wasn’t unusual. “The fuck are we gonna do for half an hour?”
    Chowder sat down in the overstuffed leather recliner and kicked his feet up. “Bitch about your mom.”

 
     

     
    Assistant State’s Attorney Dennis Jordan found himself in a state of sexual excitement listening to the snitch’s story. Police corruption, prostitution, drug-running, murder for hire, it was a career-maker if he’d ever heard one.
    He took out his note pad and began to write furiously. After a moment the snitch stopped talking. Jordan looked up from his notes.
    The snitch wanted his full attention. “Let’s talk about my deal.”
    ASA Jordan looked over the list of names and titles he’d been making: Senator Dennis Jordan, Governor Dennis Jordan, Attorney General Dennis Jordan and circled the last one written down: Sheriff Jimmy Mondale.
    “Alright, let’s do. What do you want?”

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    MONDALE
     
    The information Chowder had given him was that the house way out off of the county road had a lab in the basement. No shit. The shack was straight out of redneck meth-cook central casting. Jimmy