I am not a prude, but I did think Poppa was never going to sell all of the Love Doctor’s product, even if every person in Clement County bought two of the economy-sized bottles. The Love Doctor lube wasn’t flying off the shelves until the burglars came along and loaded up as many cases as they could carry off. Did I mention that each one was the economy-sized half-gallon plastic pump bottle?
Nope. I’m not joking. I didn’t think they packaged that stuff in such large containers.
Some of the people around town thought the break-in was the result of some bored teenagers’ prank that got out of hand. Another theory was that some overzealous members of the Holiness Congregation had taken it upon themselves to rid Clement County of the horribleness that Poppa was peddling. But everyone was betting that if the cops caught the thieves, there would be plenty of mountain justice handed out before the thieves made it to jail. Not so much for the burglary, but for disrupting the public servants’ favorite eating routine. You don’t mess with cops and their meals.
About a week after the burglary at Poppa’s, well past midnight, I was once again perched upon my favorite hiding point above the state two-lane. Like a hunter in a duck blind, I was watching the highway, waiting for a speeder, able to see a long ways in either direction. Calls and disturbances on midnight shift rolled in ebbs and flows in Clement County. Weekends you were going call to call from drunk and disorderly to domestic disputes to just general stupidness. Wednesday nights were usually pretty calm. You might get a call now and then, but mostly after 1 a.m. it was quiet, so you either worked at staying awake or tried to stir something up. Even though there was only myself and Jack O’Bannon, another rookie trooper, working the whole county, I wanted to get into something, so I was hawk-eyeing the highway. I was in the middle of eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my wife made for my dinner when Jack O’Bannon radioed dispatch that he was pulling a car over for speeding.
I started my cruiser, thinking if the car rabbited on Jack we might get in a good chase. Young cops love chasing people. I was no different; whether it was a car chase or running someone down on foot, I ate that stuff up. Instead Jack almost immediately radioed dispatch that the driver had pulled to a stop. Jack called in the car tag. Listening, I thought it was odd that the car was from a county almost all the way across the state from us. Jack called back and said he had made contact with the driver and all was fine. Settling back in, I was about to open my little cup of applesauce when Jack keyed up the radio.
“Unit 322, you in service?” Jack asked. Looking down, I noticed that Jack had called me on our car-to-car radio channel, which didn’t reach outside the county. We used that when we didn’t want our talk overheard back at post. Rattling off a mile marker on a road outside of town, he asked, “Can you meet me at my location?”
Shoving the applesauce in my lunch pail, I answered, “Ten-four.”
Though it wasn’t chasing someone, I did get to drive really fast to get to Jack’s location. I found Jack’s cruiser sitting on the side of the road. In front of his car was a Ford Mustang. What surprised me was a man was sitting on the grass at the rear of Jack O’Bannon’s Crown Victoria. Getting out of the car, I walked up, and as I got closer, the bigger this guy got. Jack’s easily six-foot-six in his stocking feet, and I would bet this guy was just as big. But his arms were pumped up like Popeye’s, and his arms barely made it behind his back to meet the cuffs. I saw the full-sleeve tats and the pale pallor of a man not used to sunlight.
“What’s going on, Jack?” I asked as he intercepted me outside earshot. A small breeze was blowing, and I got a distinctly weird smell wafting off of Jack’s prisoner. Something chemical. And something else I couldn’t quite put my nose on.
Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, “I stopped this guy doing almost a hundred. I mean, he was screaming, but once I lit him up he just pulled over like a kitten.”
I nodded. I got it. An easy stop.
“When I asked him where he was going in a hurry, he said, ‘I want to get out of this crazy county.’”
I shrugged. Jack was excited, but I didn’t see why. “Okay.”
“Just listen to what he has to say.”
I made a noncommittal grunt, already regretting that I had left my applesauce for this.
“Trust me, Bo. This is great. You’ll see.” Leading me over to the guy on the ground, Jack nudged him with his foot. The man looked up with hangdog eyes. “Tell my partner what you told me.”
The guy shook his head, droplets of water flinging off the ends. “Man, if you’re going to take me to jail and violate me, just do it. I don’t want to be made fun of.” I tipped my flashlight and shined it on the man. He was completely wet. Hair. Clothes. Shoes. Not just wet. He was soaked through, and here we were in a drought.
“Ronnie,” Jack said before I could ask about how Ronnie got wet. “Tell the story. We might can help you.”
I shot Jack a look. He just smiled.
Ronnie cleared his throat. “Okay.” Long sigh and another head shake. “I’m out of the joint just two weeks. I owe a guy a favor from when we were locked up together.” He glanced at me and Jack. “Don’t ask, I’m not going to tell you the guy’s name. No way. I’m not going to snitch that way.”
As I stood there, the chemical smell was getting stronger, and the other smell was too. It was a weird one. Like someone had tried to replicate a natural odor and didn’t get it right.
“Ronnie, get to the story,” Jack said, directing the guy back on point.
“Okay, okay,” Ronnie said, hair falling into his eyes. “So my friend gives me a piece of paper. Directions. He says just drive over to Clement County and pick up five pounds of weed. No money. It’s all on the front. All I have to do is go see the little dude.”
Jack smiled at me, really broad.
Ronnie kept on rolling with his tale. “Only my guy told me, ‘Don’t call him little, dude, or midget, he don’t like that.’ I said, ‘Cool, man. I just go pick up five pounds of homegrown from a dude and drive it back.’”
“And you got five pounds?” I asked, my excitement growing.
Ronnie sighed, tilting his head back. “No, man, you can check. I don’t have any weed. No cash. Nothing.”
Now I was getting into this. I knew he had to be talking about Londell Creech.
“Tell him,” Jack prompted.
The smell was distracting me. I couldn’t place it, though it kind of smelled familiar. Almost like suntan lotion.
Ronnie gave us a ticked-off look like he thought we were making fun of him. Another sigh. “So I drive out in the middle of nowhere on this road. Whitehouse Road. I remember because it made me think of D.C. and the president. And I went way back, and just like my guy said, there’s this big old brick house on cleared land. It’s lit up like the Vegas strip. Music going. Every light on, like a party. I pull up in the yard, thinking there will be a ton of folks there, but no one was around. I rang the front door. I yelled.”
“And?” I asked.
“No one answered. I walked around the back, where this big old steep hill was. There’s one dude and a chick. All stoned. And they’re slip-sliding.”
“Slip-sliding?”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “You know, those things kids have that are slick plastic. Lay it down and hook a hose up and they slip-slide on it.”
“Got it,” I said.
“This little dude is running around smoking a big old doobie and is only wearing a leopard-print man-thong. And the chick is naked. They are slip-sliding. Except this is the longest, biggest slip-slide I think ever was made.” He paused. “So I said hello and asked about the weed. He said his brothers were gone and I had to see one of them. He said I could wait. So we smoked some weed, and they slid down the hill.”