A Matter Of Respect Ch. 09

I got up the next morning around four. Insomnia and I are long time running buddies. Over the years 'stine has developed many of the same habits I have. When I get out bed she never protests. The most resistance I get out of her is a big kitty yawn and full body stretch before she hops out of the sack and inspects her food bowl. 

I had to figure out a way to keep Ajax around the house until the vet arrived. I don't doubt they will come today. This place is a local attraction in its own way. I've had more than one person invite themselves for a tour here. Most times I politely decline. 'I have a dog that likes to bite' I usually tell them. Here in the south that is as good a way of saying 'fuck off' as any. If you give strangers free reign to roam around your property, shit goes missing left and right. There was once a good number of livestock here, so I was betting the stables had a stash of dope for them somewhere. Thirty minutes later I was shaved and showered with a mug of cocoa in my hand as I explored the stables and barn with a big flashlight. 

I hadn't taken time yet to really dig through the stables. The last stable to the left was packed full of hay, or so it seemed. I picked up a small pebble in the row between the stables and tossed it into the big stacks of hay. I heard a thunk noise. Wait a minute now. That's not the kind of sound I was expecting to hear. I wasn't expecting to hear any at all. I turned the hasp on the stable door and pulled it to. The hinges squealed in complaint. The top hinge was almost rusted through so I carefully supported the stable door as I opened it. The last two stables have double doors, made wide so as to allow a grown man and whatever stock he is leading to go through with ease. I imagine getting your ass squished between an angry mare and the door of a stable would not be a pleasant thing. 

There was a tall stack of hay directly behind the door, giving the impression that the stable was packed full. The top bale was higher than I could reach. That's higher than my line of sight, I thought. Pretty slick thinking. Farming folk are masters of compromise and ingenuity, after all. I pushed forward a bit on the stack of hay. It gave with relative ease. The hay was old and dry. It smelled faintly sweet. That makes sense. Way back when, farmers close to home called hay sweet feed. That reminded me of something. 

When I was a kid my mother used to take us to a dairy a few miles down the road from our house. It was a treat for me and all my sisters. Taking ten children anywhere was a challenge, but my mama always took it in stride. You could take empty milk jugs and whatever else you could scrounge up that would hold water, and an old fella in blue overalls would fill your jugs up with fresh milk from a big tank for a buck a gallon. The milk was so fresh that by the time you got home there was a thin layer of cream at the top. You had to shake the milk up to mix the cream. It tasted like sweet heaven. The milk was stored in two huge pale blue tanks. Both tanks had a big mark one one end in grease pencil. I would guess they were left by the local health inspector, or maybe it was a tax mark. No telling. Back then paying your dues was alot simpler than it is now. One of the tanks was fed by a line coming up from the floor. There was a small pipe leading from the first tank to the next. The next tank had a big gizmo at the top that hissed every so often, and a tap at the side where the cold milk came from. Just behind the tanks was a door draped in thick sheets of transparent plastic. The plastic kept the cool air in and the worst of the flies out. Through that door you could see a distorted image of a row of heifers in stalls.

 That always fascinated me. You could actually watch how it was done. That was one of my great loves as a child, the very basics of science. I wanted to know how anything and everything was done. After getting your milk you paid your money. It seems that shooting the breeze with the fella in overalls was also an important part of the transaction. To this very day, that old cuss is the only person I know of outside our family who could recite the names of all ten of us in proper order. He used to greet us by name. I thought he must have been some kind of super genius disguised as a farm hand. The best part of visiting the dairy was just outside the door of the milk room. There was a long holding pen draped in chicken wire about ten feet tall with a crude tin roof. They kept the calves there. 

Adult cows seem to have a vacant expression about them. The calves always looked lively and animated by comparison. One of them would see you walking toward the pen and it would start rubbing its nose against the chicken wire. Soon all of them would be following suit. We would pet them with our fingers through the small holes in the wire. Their hide felt soft like suede. Their big cow noses were mashed against the wire in comical ways.  The fella in overalls would sometimes come over with an armload of big feeding bottles. My sisters would screech and giggle in delight, and the calves would just about jump out of their hide at the sight of the bottles. We would poke the nipples through the wire and watch the calves scramble and push to be fed. Other people who were there to buy milk would be looking at all of us kids, wondering where the hell the tour bus was parked. A few minutes later the whole mess of us would pack into my mama's old brown Pinto station wagon, every one of us with a gallon of milk in tow. 

Damn, memories like that have a way of hitting you. Lately they have been coming to me in rushes. I don't know what's coming over me. I pushed the bales of hay over slowly. The top two bales fell back followed by a hushed slapping sound, like rubbing something soft across a wood surface. I pushed more of the bales over, moving some over to one side so I could play the flashlight into the dark stable.
I shined the light inside. The fallen bales were lying slightly below eye level. They were resting on top of something wide and flat. At first glance it looked like a huge crate of some kind. I took a step inside and my right knee bumped into something. I brushed the loose scraps of hay away and pointed the light down. It was a wagon wheel. Excitedly, I shoved the bales of hay aside and exposed the open bed of a wagon. 

"Oh hell yes." I said to myself.

Moments later I had most of the old wagon exposed. The bed had brackets along each side for attaching a bonnet or plank sides for hauling big loads. The bench seat in the front was slightly higher than the bed, by about eight inches or so. The reigns were tied off to a wooden peg just under the seats. A long wooden beam with all manner of small chains and attachments was tucked under the wagon. I assume that was what they attached the yoke and harness to. The wagon seat and spokes were painted a dull red. The bed and the rest were painted  a pale white. I would bet in daylight the white was the same color as the plantation house. All the metal on the wagon reflected dimly. I touched the hub of one wheel, and my finger came back oily. They had put oil on all the metal so rust couldn't set in so easily. Like I said, farmers are as far from dumb as you can get. For the most part, the wagon looked entirely intact. I couldn't wait for daylight so I could properly unearth the thing.

I rambled around the other stables and found nothing much else. I went to the room where the forge was and gave it the once over. After some more searching I found what I was looking for. I stumbled across an old wooden crate with a metal lock box in it. The box was full of big needles, thick glass syringes and such. The box was lined with felt. There were several small loops in the felt, with small bottles of powdered substances tucked in the loops. This ought to do the trick, I thought. 

I took the box back inside to have a better look at it. I went to my kitchen ( where I do all my great thinking, mind you ) and turned all the lights on. There were seven bottles tucked in the felt loops. Two of them had held liquids at one time. The liquid in one had settled into a thick layer of scummy mess. The other had dried out completely. Each bottle had a label, although most of them were worn away. Four of them held a similar powdery substance, and one was empty. I took a dinner plate from the pantry and emptied one of the bottles of powder out onto it. The powder was a dull white. The consistency was similar to cocaine. I looked at the bottom of the bottle. The letters KET were molded into the glass. I checked the other bottles, and the same mark was on four of them. 

I wanted to be sure of what I was dealing with before I fed it to the coyote. I keep a  laptop computer in the dresser beside my bed. I have a desktop in the reading room, but I don't use it that much. Let's just say that one is strictly for business. I took the laptop out and hooked all the wires and such to it, then signed on to the internet. I searched for about half an hour and came up with alot of good information. The drug was Ketamine, or one of the earlier forms. Seems people these days use it as a designer drug. You have to be off your rocker to swallow something made for horses and cows if you ask me, but hey everyone has their own kick. I got an approximation for the dosage and checked to see if the drug had a shelf life. After checking and rechecking against several sites I decided the stuff was safe to use in small doses. 

An hour later the sun was rising behind me to the east as I walked out of my front door with a styrofoam plate full of doped hamburger meat. The thought of overdosing the coyote and killing him really bothered me, so at the last minute I halved the dose. The old boy is tired and weak anyway. If I have to I'll wrestle him down while the vet does his thing. If he bites me, well I'm just bit. Coyotes are unique creatures. They are nocturnal by nature, but they often roam by day. I can see why farmers and livestock folks would dislike them. They do have a habit of eating things that hit a farmer right in the pocket. I'm no farmer, so for my part the kid is welcome here. 

I headed out toward the three fish ponds. Most animals like a drink of water come daylight. If I'm lucky he's no exception. About halfway there I stubbed my right foot against something hard in the path. Good thing I was wearing my old Harley boots, otherwise that would have hurt like hell. I sat the plate down and brushed the dark soil away. There was a square slab of concrete about two feet in square just below the surface. It was probably gradually mashed down from years of foot traffic and wagons rolling over it. There was writing on the slab. It read:

'Giants trail' 

Above those words was a crude arrow pointing up the path. Below that was more writing, and an impression of a pair of tiny hands in the concrete.

'Ezra Trebenaeu 1892'

Well now. If I keep finding this stuff I may never leave this place. I made a point to put some kind of marker close to the slab. No way do I want a big truck rolling over it and cracking it, if I were to have any serious work done out here. The more I think about making necessary changes to this place, the more I think it needs to stay the same. I wasn't sure why they named the path Giants Trail, but who am I to question the past?

When I made it to the first fish pond I was greeted by the ducks. I had forgotten about them, and there I was holding a plate of something edible. They saw me and immediately made in my direction. They saw me holding something. I imagine in their minds, anything being held by anybody in any form qualifies as FOOD! No doubt generations of the Trebenaeu family have fed these ducks over the years. Soon they were swarming around me. Meanie was making her way behind them slowly. I couldn't feed them so I hissed and stomped the ground. They scattered and stopped a few feet away. Meanie wasn't so easily discouraged. She stomped her way up to me and stopped at my feet. She honked and bobbed her head up and down. I held the plate up high above my head and knelt down in front of her. She eyed the plate then me. She couldn't jump for it and reach the plate, and boy did that ever piss her off. She was wagging her tail feathers and stepping from foot to foot anxiously. 

"Sorry girl. if I let you eat this you're gonna be stiff as a board." I told her. 

She stared at me and the plate for a moment longer, then decided I was a bum ticket. She honked scoffingly one last time then turned and waddled away. Damn, I hope I'm that lively when I get old.
I have no idea what kind of ducks these are. They are bigger than Mallards. The babies are a dirty brown color with pale yellow here and there. The adults have an interesting mix of colors. The feathers on their backs are bluish green in places, mingled with patches of white and brown. The feathers on their backs remind of the color of a junebug's shell. One of the ducks stands almost two feet tall. He is obviously the male. His black beak is wider than the others. His feathers are an even dark brown that turns to a solid black on his upper body. His intelligent eyes are a solid dark brown. He never gets close enough to be fed. He stands a few yards away from the others, watching me closely.  'One wrong step mister' his stare says to me. 

I left the duck mafia and made my way to the next pond. There is a willow tree close to the bank near the end of the second pond. It's a grand old tree with a big canopy. It reminds me of something you'd see in the pages of Southern Living. I saw a dark shape rise from the ground under the willow tree. Sure enough Ajax came limping out into the bright daylight. I met him about halfway to the tree. He was limping badly. His body was trembling with each step. His tongue was lolling out and his eyes were glassy. An injured animal is nothing to take lightly. Even one you know and trust. I sat the plate down and took a few steps back. Ajax stopped at the plate then began eating slowly. He didn't look at me until the food was gone. He lie down beside the empty plate with a terrible look of resignation. His injured leg was swollen and scabbed over. I could count his ribs from damn near teen feet away. I waited about five minutes then walked over and knelt beside him. He lifted his head feebly and looked up at me. I picked the styrofoam plate up, folded it and stuffed it in my back pocket. I hate a litterbug. I rubbed Ajax between his ears. He whined in response. 

"I know boy. I know." I told him. 

I sat down next to him and pet him. I waited like that for about ten minutes or so. Soon he was out cold. I eased my hands under him, waiting to see if he reacted. He was breathing evenly, long slow breaths. I picked him up gingerly and carried him back up the Giants Trail to the stables. I walked into one of the smaller stables and kicked around the hay until I had a nice thick bed. I set him down on his good side then closed the stable door behind me. 

As I was leaving the stables I saw Christine standing in the path between the stables and the house. I couldn't help but laugh at her. She was staring at me like I was a child murderer. 'You son of a bitch. You're going to keep him, aren't you?'.  I ruffled the fur between her ears.

"If you can live with me, you can live with him." I told her. "Now let's go eat."

That's one good thing about arguing with a cat. Offering food always smooths things over. I went inside and washed up, scrubbing up to the elbows. Ajax may be a good boy, but he stinks. As they would have said back home, he stanks. I made a big breakfast and took my time eating. When I go grocery shopping I always buy the jumbo brown eggs. They taste better to me, and every now and then you find one with two yolks in it. That's like winning the redneck lottery. 

I was thinking about Ajax and the old wagon. Finding something like that is better than Christmas to me. I was putting my breakfast dishes away when I heard a horn honking outside. It didn't sound like a car horn, it was a tad too high. I stepped out on my porch to see a person dismounting a motorcycle. The motorcycle had big saddlebags and lots of chrome. The rider removed their helmet, and I saw it was a woman. She had a long ponytail. I walked out to greet her. Turned out she was the vet. We talked for a few minutes, then she got a few things out of her saddlebags and we went to the barn. I told her about the ketamine and the light dose I had given the coyote. 

"Good deal." The lady said. 

Ajax was still out. He would twitch here and there, but for the most part he was still firmly in la-la land. She knelt beside him and inspected the injury. She looked at the bullet wound then nailed me with a piercing stare.

"You got a guilty conscience Mister?" She asked me.

"No ma'am." I replied. "I didn't shoot him."

"Good then." She said in return.

I liked her immediately. She was a tall slender gal. I would guess her age at around fifty five. She was wearing pointy toed cowboy boots and jeans. She had an old stethoscope hanging around her neck. She was wearing a tan button up shirt with pens and thermometers jammed into the pockets. I knelt beside Ajax while she worked on him. She held up a large syringe and tapped the sides before giving him a shot. Soon he had a big bandage on his wound and a healthy dose of drugs in his system. 

"Try to keep him in here for at least a couple of days. If he gets wiley give him one of these in some food." She said, handing me a big bottle full of white pills. 

I thanked her, and we talked a while before heading back out of the stables. I asked her if she had any collars in her saddlebags. 

"I do." She said. "Might be just the thing to keep some jackass from taking another pot shot at him."

She dug through a saddlebag and pulled a big bright yellow color. It was thick and wide. The collar had two metal eyelets near one end. The collar was made for attaching a small shock box to if you have one of those invisible electric fences. I don't like the idea of those things, but it might help for the time being. If Ajax decides he wants to go then I want him to go, but until he heals up I want him to stay put. 

I talked to the vet for a few minutes longer and we discussed her fees. I paid her on the spot, adding a twenty for the collar. 

"I sure would love to take a look at this place sometimes." She said to me. 

"How's tomorrow morning for you?" I asked her. 

She handed me my money back and left me with a smile. 

"Done deal." She said, kicking her motorcycle into gear then driving away.

Things were off to a pretty good start so far. I went back inside and got ready for work. After I was suited I called the hospital and spoke with Ms. Merch briefly. She sounded much better. I asked her to call me when they discharge her. I walked to the garage and pulled the cover off my Mustang. People see me driving this car and think it's odd. I guess I'm not who they expect to see. Matters not to me. I live this old girl.

Soon I was on the interstate headed to work. I decided I would call Finch and spring his new duty at the parking deck on him before I arrived. No doubt he would go straight to Graham and whine. Graham would tell him to do it. I believe in starting off the day on the right foot. I wanted Finch pissed off when I got there, and that damned sure ought to do the trick. 

I called Finch's office from my cell phone. Vetka answered the phone. 

"Do`broye' utro Vetka"  I said. 

"Good morning to you too, sir." She replied. 

Her voice didn't seem so strained as before, and that was definitely a good thing. I asked to speak with Finch, and she said he was not in his office.

"He's at the firing range this time every day." Vetka told me. 

"Well now." I said with a sudden smile. "Is that right? Where might this firing range be?" 

Vetka gave me directions to the range. It was run by the local municipality, so I'm certain all the local good ol' boys use it alot. I doubt Finch was authorized to be off company property to sharpen up his shooting when he's supposed to be at work protecting the good folks of our little company. I wouldn't object to him doing it maybe once or even twice a week, but taking time off the job every day was pushing his privileges a bit. If a man carries a gun I believe he needs to be damned good with it, but I'm not letting Finch use it as a get out of work free card. 

Half an hour later I arrived at the firing range and parked amid all the Crown Vics and Caprices. At the end of the row was a big black Hummer with a vanity tag that read 'Finch1'. Oh yeah, this is going to be good. I strolled inside and stopped at the front desk. I gave the man behind the counter my id and laid both my sidearms out. He didn't give my pistols a second glance. He jotted a few things down then handed me a clipboard with a roster on it. I signed my name and noted there were twenty two columns on the roster. Only nine of them had signatures on them, counting mine. This meant it would probably be easy to get a spot right next to Finch. The man gave me a pair of muffs and I headed into the range. 

Considering it is located in a relatively small southern city, the firing range was pretty nice. It had individual cubicles where you can freshen up on all forms of shooting. There are twenty individual cubicles with motorized racks you can hang your targets from. A pair of buttons on the wall of the cubicle lets you send your target out as far as you like, then draw it back in to check your aim. The distances are marked off evenly with big numbers so you can properly gauge your yardage for each shot. At the end of the range are two open spots with longer reaches and tall berm walls at the end so you can sight in your rifles. 

I saw four men in suits standing in a close group near one of the middle cubicles. I recognized one of them as Finch. He was holding a square paper target. The other men were hovering around him looking at the target. I walked up behind the men and spoke up.

"Mornin' fellas." I said, making a point to exaggerate my drawl. 

I expected Finch to give me one of his shit eating frowns. I was surprised when his face lit up with a big smile and he held his hand out. We shook hands and I said my hello's to the other men. I shook hands with each of them. Finch clapped me on the shoulder. I was thinking to myself. 'He's being way too nice. Something in the milk ain't clean.'

Finch held the target out to me. There were three bullet holes in the center, each about half an inch apart. Not a bad shot at all. 

"Nice shooting." I told him.

"Guys this is my new security super. He will be babysitting while I am out taking care of business from now on." Finch said, the grin still on his face.

Oooh, boy. He shouldn't have said that. I snatched the target from his hand and hung it on the rack in the nearest cubicle. I pushed the button and fed the target back to about thirty yards. I opened my jacket and pulled my right hand revolver out. I use my right hand for my left hand revolver, and my left hand for my right. I drew a bead on the target then looked back at Finch and his friends. 

"He's absolutely right. I am the new babysitter." I said. 

I fired five shots, spacing evenly between them. I never took my eyes off of Finch. After the fifth shot I lay my pistol down on the cubicle table and pushed the button to return the target. I pulled the target down and handed it to Finch. The three bullet holes in the center were gone, replaced by a single ragged hole. There was a bullet hole at each corner of the target, almost a perfect inch away from the edge. I looked at Finch. He wasn't smiling any more.

"Now." I said. "Who wants their fucking diaper changed first?"

All three of his friends took a small step back. I gave them my best politician smile. They stood there in silence for a few moments, eyes wide. Finally one of the guys spoke up.

"Wow! I've never seen someone shoot left handed shoot like that." The fellow said. 

Finch gave him a nasty glare. I looked at the guy and smiled. 

"You know what my man? You just reminded me of something." I told him. 

"What's that?" He asked.

"I just remembered I'm not left handed." I said.

"Do you mind?" I asked Finch, pointing at his gun. 

He reluctantly handed me his sidearm. I put a new target in the rack and fed it out ten yards past the first one. I held the gun in my right hand and squared off, capping shots til the magazine was dry. I left the target hanging there and gave Finch his gun back. I picked up my revolver from the cubicle and handed it to Finch. 

"One shot left hot rod." I said to him.

His friends were staring him down hard. No way the pompous little ass would pass this off. He aimed carefully and relaxed a bit before making his shot. I leaned in close to him and spoke lowly. 

"Aim just a scotch low kid. She kicks like hell." I told Finch. 

Seconds later he fired, and his shoulders immediately slumped. He looked like a football fan who just watched the star quarterback fumble the ball. He handed the gun back to me. The shit eating frown was back on his face. I looked at his friends. There wasn't a word said between them.

"Now. I'll make the next payment on your Hummer if you hit the target. And if mine aren't all within a quarter inch of the center I'll pay that fucker off for you." I said to Finch, watching the frown on his face grow tenfold. "I'll be expecting you in my office in twenty five minutes. Not twenty six, not twenty seven. Twenty five."

I looked at his three friends. 

"And you fellas have a nice day." I told them. 

Fade To Black