The Backwoods

(II)

“Hey, Pappy Halm!” Trey called out just as he stepped out of his cruiser in front of the Qwik-Mart. “What’choo think you’re doin’?”

The old proprietor stopped, cane in one hand, dragging the large front garbage can with the other. “I’m takin’ out the fuckin’ garbage, ya moe-ron. What’s it look like?”

“Looks like an old codger tryin’ ta pull twice what he weighs. Let me take care a’ that for ya.”

“Aw, fuck you, ya young fuck!” the old man railed. “I was bustin’ beaver when you was a tadpole in yer daddy’s sack. Back in my day I could haul ten of these, with you on my back.”

“I’m sure ya could, Pappy. But that was back when Roosevelt was in office. Teddy Roosevelt. So why don’t ya let me take that?”

Old man Halm jerked on the big can a few more times, grunted, then gave up. “Fuck it! My taxes pay your salary, so you empty the sucker!”

“My pleasure, Pappy. You can gimme a free coffee once I’m done.”

Halm waved his cane in the air. “Yeah! I got’ cher free coffee for ya right here, so you come ‘n’ get it!” And then he grabbed his crotch and hobbled back into the store.

Sergeant Trey laughed at the old man’s spunk. A tightwad pain in the ass, but Trey liked him. Pappy Halm was a black-and-white, commonsense kind of fella, and Trey felt that he himself was too.

What he was doing right now, for instance . . . it made sense, and no, it had nothing to do with giving the old man a hand taking out the store garbage.

The point was the contents of the garbage can.

If I don’t do it, someone else will.

Trey knew he was a lousy cop deep down, but he felt confident that that didn’t mean he was a lousy person. It’s all give and take. Dog eat dog. Shit, I‘m a decent guy mostly. I pay my bills, provide for my wife, even go to church at least twice a year. . . . Perception was interpretive and abstract. Trey arrested bad people, so that was good, right? He helped make the world a little bit safer by submitting to an ungratifying and often sordid job. He and Marcy never had kids—because, after knocking up a good dozen gals before tying the knot and paying mightily for abortions, he got a vasectomy. See, one thing was for sure: he sure as shit didn’t want kids. Marcy wanted kids bad, but he never told her about his trip to the doctor, because if he had she never would’ve married him, and back in her day she was one hot number. Trey wouldn’t stand for her marrying anyone else, especially as good in bed as she was. So that was the short version. He lied. He let her marry him believing he would give her children when in fact he was shooting big-time blanks.

Which was beside the point.

The point, relative to the true nature of Trey, was that if he did have kids, he’d be a decent father. He knew that. He wouldn’t neglect his kids, wouldn’t beat ‘em, and would make sure they always had food in their bellies. Period. And as far as husbanding went? The same. I’m a good husband, damn it, he felt sure. He kept a roof over Marcy’s head, kept food in the fridge, and never slapped her around, even when she mouthed off. Five years after they got married, her looks went to shit in a handbasket, legs turned to cellulite tubes, tits dropped down to her belly like a couple of limp sacks full of flour, but even with all that, Trey never cheated on her. Oral sex on the side wasn’t cheating (it was a Southern law: “Eatin’ ain’t cheatin’,” and by God, Trey was a Southern man) because it lacked the intimacy of intercourse, that parameter of closeness that coupled the body and soul, so a few blow jobs per week from hookers and bar tramps hardly constituted a breach of the covenant of matrimony. So, yeah, Trey was a faithful husband to boot.

And as for certain private activities that he might engage in on occasion . . . did that make him a bad person?

No, he felt determined. No way.

He had some connections—all cops did. Ain’t no force on earth can stop the drug trade. Better me makin’ some cash than a dealer. After all, he’d spend the money more responsibly, wouldn’t he? Once he dragged that big garbage can around to the back of the store, it didn’t take too much plowing around before he came up with the tackle box full of crystal meth that Chief Sutter had dropped in there yesterday.

Yes, sir, Trey thought.

He tossed the box in the patrol car, emptied the garbage, and brought the can back around. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, looking at his watch, and I gotta go pick up the chief. He was about to go in the store for a quick coffee, just when his cell phone rang.

“Sergeant Trey here.”

“You recognize my voice? Just say yes or no.”

“Sure do.”

“Good. Don’t say my name.” A pause. “You recall our previous conversation? About the backup plan?”

“Sure do,” Trey said.

“Things aren’t working as well as I’d like. So I’m going to implement that plan. Are you up for it?”

Trey smiled. “Sure am.” Then he remembered what he’d tossed into the patrol car a moment ago. “And you ain’t gonna believe what I just pulled out of the trash. . . .”