Jock Überreacher - Cracking the Case

I arrived in the small, dusty town of Bootyville wearing only my white Jockey shorts.  I travel light.  It’s better and easier that way.  Comfortable too.  I like to remain anonymous and what kind of description can anyone give about a man wearing only Jockey shorts besides “He was only wearing Jockey shorts?”

No particular reason I stopped in Bootyville, but I was about to find out just what kind of nasty, nefarious, really, really bad burg it was.  The bus door slid open with the whoosh of air you’d expect from a bus door.  The driver didn’t give me a glance, but I noticed his eyes blink and his toe tap on the accelerator pedal located right below his foot, right next to the brake pedal, which he didn’t tap. That told me everything I needed to know.

I got off the bus at the school bus stop right on the edge of a dusty cornfield and across the street from a dusty school.  School was out.  I could tell school was out because nobody was in the school. As a shower attendant in the YMCA, I learned to be observant and quick. A couple of teachers hung around outside the building which was a school, chewing toothpicks and waiting for their boyfriends or husbands to come back from the mill and pick them up.  The two I saw could have been thirty, or thirty-one…maybe thirty-two, or thirty-three.  Although I was some 300 yards away, I could see their beady eyes because their eyes were open, but not wide.

I knew whomever was coming to pick them up….one of them may have been thirty-four…would be coming from the mill. I’d seen a sign coming into town.  “We love our Mill.  You’re darn tootin!’  The”darn” was in red and crisscrossed with two black knitting needles.  Underneath, in smaller black letters was printed, “Trespassers will be shot.”

The cop car, its long antenna making little thin circles in a sky strewn with dusty clouds, like a mosquito searching for cow in heat, stopped beside me.  The deputy had a three-day growth of beard and a year’s worth of tartar on her teeth.  A long, thin coffee stain ran down the front of her greasy shirt.

“We don’t like your kind in Bootyville,” she snarled, staring down at my freshly painted, cheery red toenails.  “Best you chase down another bus and high tail it.”

It’s an old trick I learned while serving as a Tennessee Oyster Investigator.  A man paints his toes a bright red and nobody notices his face.

I guess I should introduce myself.  The name’s Jock.  Jock Überreacher.  I’m a professional drifter and problem solver, if you catch my drift.  I’ve lived all over the country, but only a day or two at a time.  I was born that way.  My pappy was a very strict drifter and he taught me all he knew about drifting.  My mother didn’t seem to mind the drifting life, but then she was seldom there, being a First Sergeant in the Army and an expert with a pistol, knife and extended, electronic mouth organ.  Although I didn’t see much of her in my early years, she taught me a lot about unnamed combat in her letters.  It was what you might call urban jungle survival by correspondence.  She left me with one very important lesson.  There’s a time to fight, using very special unnamed combat techniques only a mother can teach, and a time to act innocent and play your mouth organ.  Nowadays, I never went anywhere without my mouth organ strapped to my leg, just above my ankle.  You just never know.

The deputy hadn’t gone away.  She just sat there, the car idling, while she stared at my toenails and snickered while I answered her.  “What if I decide I like Bootyville, and want to make it my semi-permanent home?”

“What if I decide to pull out my pistola and make them cute little tootsies dance?” she asked.  It could have been rhetorical, but I couldn’t take the chance.

It looked to me like she was reaching for her gun.  I took a step forward and before she could even say Texas Two Step, or Alabama Circumstantial Mambo, I’d reached inside the cop car and disarmed her.  They don’t call me Überreacher for nothing.

Distracting the subject and grabbing the weapon from inside a car with the window down was a practiced skill I’d acquired during my undercover time as a street-side window washer in Detroit.  Obviously this deputy had never been to the big, mean streets of a city where crime never sleeps.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” I purred, showing her the barrel end of a 357 Super Sport Cranium Adjuster.

She spit out a thin stream of tebacci juice, but missed me by a mile.  “Betsey Bullhockey don’t give out her name to strangers.”  Then she smiled, like that was going to make me go all warm and cuddly inside.  “You’d best give me back the gun,” she said.  “It ain’t loaded, anyhoo.”

I should have known that.  The weight was different, lighter.  A shell weighs….wait a sec.  You have to add in the weight of the grains of the powder.  Then you have to consider the bullet itself.  Anyway, it was lighter.

“Since Sheriff Willie T Tyler took over, the town ain’t been the same.  He don’t abide no fuss or mess and that includes bullets for our guns.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Restaurants can’t use stoves to cook nothing and no lattes neither.  Makes too much of a mess.  Sheriff Willie T keeps a clean town.  Especially when it comes to food.  He’s all for Raw and Order.”

I handed the weapon back and Betsey gave me a ride into town.  “I spec you can use something to eat.  The Camptown Race Treat’s right over there.  Best peanut butter this side of ….”  The words drifted away as Betsey spied a tall, lanky man come out of Camptown, look around nervously, shiver, wink, tap the top of his head twice, and amble down the street.

“Something’s fishy around here,” she mumbled.  “I’ve seen that same man come out of the restaurant before.”

“Maybe he lives around here.”

“Maybe so, but the last time he walked in the other direction.  That just don’t make sense.”

“Going for a haircut?”  I could see the barber pole twisting in its red, white, and blue way.

“Nobody goes for a haircut around here.”

“Why not?”

“Sheriff Willie T don’t like it.  Hair all over the floor.  He’s talked the town council into paying the barbers not to cut hair.  Pays ‘em a thousand dollars a week and that don’t include tips.”

“Wow, not exactly razor thin profits.”

“But, if that tall, lanky stranger walked that way, he must’ve had a reason.”

I went through a few more possibilities with Betsey.   Public toilet?  Dishwasher repair shop?  Gas station?  Pet shop?

She had an answer for everything.  No public toilets without a prescription.  Dishwashers repair not open on days of the week.  Gas station by invitation only.  And, he didn’t look like one of the Pet Shop Boys.

“There’s only one thing it could be,” I surmised.  “Egg counterfeiting.”

Betsey looked confused.  “I’ve heard of all sorts of things.   Fixing chicken races.  Eye socket enlargement schemes.  Fresh butter sold as filler dirt.  But egg counterfeiting?”  She had a look of disgust on her face and let me know she was willing to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this.  Shave her face. Comb her legs.  Brush her teeth.  Give up chewing tobacco until after breakfast.

We waited until nightfall.  I’d asked more questions about egg operations.  “Well, she said, “There’s only one place any kind of egg counterfeiting could happen and that’s at the old Whiffer place near the county line.”

“You’re talking about That County?”

“I’m sure as hell not talking about This County.”  I was warming to her cheery sense of humor.  I chuckled.  Then I belly laughed.  That’s not just an expression.  My navel gapped and made a whistling sound.

Before we headed out to the old Whiffer place, I had Betsey make a stop at the Dis-arm Surplus and Pituitary Gland store.  If this was going to mean night work, I’d better be dressed for it.  I picked up a pair of jungle camouflaged briefs, a genuine flashlight, and a sap, which must have weighed a bunch because my underwear sagged when I stuck it in back.

It was getting dark by the time I got changed and got back to the cop car.  Betsey evidently approved, but she had something to add.  “Just stand there a sec.”  She pulled out a can of black spray paint and sprayed over my red toes.  I started to object, but she was right.  Nobody would recognize me now.

The old Whiffer place looked pretty much as you would expect.  It was old, with an old barn, where they used to keep old cows.  You could still sit in the car and catch a whiff.  Hence the name.

We waited a long time.  It was dark, then it was light, then dark again.  Let’s see.  We started on Monday.  That meant tomorrow was Wednesday and yesterday was Tuesday.  That would make day after tomorrow Thursday.  Who knows what would come next?  Could be Monday started again.  When you’re on a dangerous stakeout, you can’t worry about trivia.

Evidently, sitting in a dark car, at night, outside town, brought back the same memories for Betsey it did for me.  “Kiss me, you formerly red-toed devil,” she whispered.  And with a slight belch, she puckered up and slid my way.  But, before my lips could find hers, the bright sweep of a truck’s headlights brought us to our gnarly senses.

“I knew it,” she said under her tobacco breath.  “The tall, lanky guy was the driver of that truck and he’s headed to the Whiffer place.  He was already at the Whiffer place but I didn’t correct her.  “I’d be willing to bet,” she continued, “that truck is loaded with counterfeit cackleberries.”

“Well, the yolks on them,” I said, stepping out of the cop car.

“Where are you going?” she wheezed.

“This nefarious racket is over.  Right now.  Right here.  And, I’m just the man to finish it.”

I could tell she loved the masculine growl in my voice.  Most women do.  Until they see the white underpants and red toes.  That’s why I usually stick to phone sex, but, Betsey was different and I don’t mean just in grooming and personal hygiene.   She had the savoir-faire of a woman who knew what she wanted and what she wanted right now was justice for all the chickens and farmers who worked tirelessly to produce the finest eggs in the world. She was with me.  There was no way she was going to let their pride, sacrifice, and occupational stench be diminished by cheap, plastic eggs, filled with sugary chocolate, and sold as the real McCoy.

Four men, dressed in black, stepped out of the truck.  Then another man stepped out.  That was five.  I recounted just to make sure.  Yep.  One, two, three….”Jock, look out!” Betsey called, “There are four men stepping out of that truck!”

She’d messed up my count, but that didn’t stop me.  I recounted.  She was not correct.  There were five of those vicious, egg-counterfeiting hombres. Unless I’d miscounted.

I pulled the sap out of my underpants and tugged the waistband back up to my waist.  Then I tugged the Jockeys higher to give my legs more freedom.  With stealth, I crept up to the old Whiffer place.  I’d learned creeping when I got my Salamander Merit Badge.

Inside I could hear voices.  It sounded like a barbershop quartet, but the harmony didn’t fool me.  These harmonious punks were up to no good.

There were a dozen ways I could approach this operation.  I could use stealth to sap them one at a time and hope the others didn’t notice.  I could scream real loud and run like hell.  I could scream real loud and get Betsey to run like hell.

Instead, I decided on something they’d never expect.  I pulled out my mouth organ, which had been strapped to my leg, on the side, below the knee, but above the ankle, and played my version of Moon River as I sauntered casually into the barn.  They barely noticed and kept on singing and stacking crates of counterfeit eggs.  At least I thought they hadn’t noticed until I felt a barrel of cold steel being jammed down the back of my jungle camouflaged Jockeys.

“Blow one more note, son and I’ll blow your nosey ass away,” a deep voice growled.  The fifth man!  It was Betsey’s fault.  She’d messed me up while I was counting.  But, there was no time for recriminations now, not while my ass was in a jam.

“You’re Wilbur Crankside,” I said confidently.  “But, you’re known hereabouts as Eggshell Whitey.”  There was a gasp.  They were no doubt asking themselves the same question I was asking myself.  How could I possibly know that?

Now I remembered.  I’d seen a sign outside the school that said, “Today is Wilbur Crankside Day, or as we all know him….Eggshell Whitey!”

It was starting to all make sense.  What better place to store crates and crates of counterfeit eggs than the local schoolhouse?  The old Whiffer place was only the distribution point.  God only knew where all these choco-malted-eggs would wind up.  Chances are the streets of the big cities of America would be strewn with them.  Kids everywhere would end up as sugar-addicted derelicts.  

Crankside had started with one school and built a business based on corruption.  No wonder the whole town could be paid not to barber and cook and clean and shave and brush their teeth.  A huge operation.  That could only mean the sheriff had to be in on it.

“That guy over there is the Sheriff and he’s in on it,” I said, bringing another gasp from the men who had stopped unloading and were paying full attention.

“Yep, I’m Sheriff Willie T Tyler,” he said proudly. “And, you’re a dead man, you Jockey wearing, black-footed stalker!”

“Not so fast, Sheriff,” came Betsey’s melodious baritone.  She held her own gun, pointing at the Sheriff’s chest.  “Now, all you vicious hombres git down and eat dirt.”

“Thanks, Betsey,” I said, “but you forgot there aren’t any bullets in your gun.”  I probably shouldn’t have said that.  357 hindsight.

All hell broke loose.  First thing I did was use an unnamed combat move to un-jam the pistol from my Jockeys and turn it on its owner.

“Jokes on you,” he smiled.  “My gun’s not loaded either.”

I looked at the Sheriff.

“Mine neither.”

Even the smartest criminals make simple mistakes. These boys hadn’t been messy enough.  I dove for the closest guy, while two of them climbed on my back and tried to garrote my privates with my own underwear.  My high pitched squeal told everybody they’d found their target.  Then, two of the others started to sweet-talk Betsey.  I saw the look on her face which said, “Oh help!  Oh, help, help!”  It gave me the burst of adrenalin I needed to leap to my feet, free my swollen, non-detachable parts, and start to really hurt some vicious hombre hiney.

Betsey and I took the whole gang out with unnamed combat moves, busting some heads, removing false teeth, tickling them ‘til their fat jiggled like jelly, giving haircuts with broken beer bottles, getting phone numbers so we could contact their next of kin.  When it was over and the last vicious hombre had gone to meet the real egg maker in heaven, Betsey and I saddled up and rode back to town.  The inside of the old Whiffer place looked like there’d been a choco-egg fight in a phone booth.  We’d leave it to the CIA, FBI, and others who knew the alphabet, to figure out how so much damage could be done without a trace of DNA left behind.

My work was done.  It was time for me to move on, so I decided to drift.  It’s what my daddy taught me and it’s what I do best. 

That night Betsey and I had a long heart-to-heart.  We discussed whether eye gouging or splitting infinitives was the best form of submission. Then we talked about us. Even before I’d unsaddled her and taken the bridle off, we agreed that what we had was too good to last, or even to mention to normal people.  Still, parting with Betsey was bittersweet.  She gave me an empty can of chew as a reminder of the wonderful, unmentionable times we’d shared.  I gave her the somewhat stained, camouflaged Jockeys.

When the bus was well out of town, I tossed the chew can out the window.  I like to travel light.  The mournful, drifting sound of my mouth organ was the only reminder that Jock Überreacher been anywhere near Bootyville.