He looked the way Sunday morning would if it were a person; deflated, the pathetic remnants of the kind of weekend that leaves you stranded and wearing someone else’s shoes two towns away. This particular specimen had a scar that ran down the side of his face and a flattened nose that had seen more than one fist in its day. He wasn’t the man that Rocco had initially sent them out to follow – a college professor who had taken an extended test drive in a brand-new Tesla – but when the boss calls and says to switch mid-stream, there was no arguing with the decision.
That Rocco, owner of Rocco’s Recovery, had sent them to tail the truck said more about the lack of other options than any faith in the pair’s abilities to complete the job successfully. The most experienced investigator had been arrested days before and was languishing in the county jail for unpaid traffic tickets, the lone female in the office was out on a honeypot mission, and the only licensed repo man was currently on sabbatical at Downtown General Hospital. That left just Beans and Sparks to fill in the gaps.
The day before, a local butcher shop had hired Rocco to hunt down a missing meat truck. Meats by Marky, a small, family-run business, had made a tidy sum by renting out their extra refrigerator trucks. One renter, however, had failed to pay the monthly fee, and the company now wanted their property back. Although they were not qualified to repossess the truck, Sparks and Beans could run down the anonymous tip that had forced the company to call in Rocco.
“Just follow and photograph, don’t get involved,” Beans mocked. Mostly inept and completely self-absorbed, he had never met a situation that he couldn’t complain about, especially if he considered it beneath him. “Ugh, why do I always get the boring jobs? I want to be in a highspeed chase or something! Or a gunfight, like Wyatt Earp. I’m an amazing shot, you know.”
“You get the boring jobs because you suck at life, and I’m your babysitter.” Beans was a pain to work with, but Sparks badly needed the job. The money was crap, the work was thankless and long, and he was the lowest man on the totem pole; but it didn’t require any training, and braces and spousal support didn’t pay for themselves. He dealt with it the best way he could, knowing that he didn’t have to work with the man all too often.
“Your face sucks at life,” Beans retorted. He sighed and shifted the subject of his annoyance. “Look at this freak. We drive for two hours only to end up at the end of a mile-long dirt road with Mr. Sunday parked and idling in front of this decrepit barn. It’s creepy. Rocco should have sent someone else.”
“There is no one else. And Mr. Who?”
“Sunday. Mr. Sunday, the giant, crushed can-looking blockhead sitting behind the wheel.” Beans waved toward the truck with “Meats by Marky” painted on the side in bright red. They had parked Rocco’s elderly Lincoln in a small patch of woods across from the driveway, and the view was semi-obscured. Beans complained about that, of course, but there was precious little else for cover. “Because he looks like if Sunday had a face. Shut up.”
Sparks rolled his eyes. “Guess I’ll take some snaps while we’re waiting.” He twisted in his seat to reach the camera in the back, and the effort left him gasping for breath. Although the telephoto lens did add bulk and weight to the camera, the real problem was that fast food and sitting in a car for hours a day had blown his health to hell and back. He had never been a small man, but the lifestyle was catching up to him quicker than he had intended. Of all the issues Beans had, his weight was not one of them, and he taunted Sparks mercilessly.
“You gotta slim down, chubs,” he smacked through a mouthful of sandwich. Barbeque sauce flew from his mouth and sent flecks onto the steering wheel and dashboard; the crumbs from the bread tumbled down his chest. “You’re getting kinda big. If you aren’t careful, Rocco will have to buy a dump truck just to fit you in it.”
“He says, through a mouth full of processed junk and fake meat,” Sparks mumbled. The camera whirred and clicked as he took a series of pictures. “How can you eat that and still only weigh like, 85 pounds?” Beans grinned and puffed out his chest.
“First off, this is real meat from my favorite restaurant, with their homemade sauce. It is the most delicious food on the planet. Number two, I have a superior metabolism, and the weight literally melts off.”
“I don’t think that’s the right word. Maybe you should be Sparks, and I should be Beans. I obviously love food, and you’re clearly on something.” Beans bragged about everything, which drove Sparks crazy when they were forced to work together, but a movement near the truck caught his eye and distracted him from berating the man. Sparks gestured to Beans to silence him.
They both leaned forward eagerly and watched the truck back into the shadow of the barn. Mr. Sunday lumbered out of the cab and stood silently beside the door, arms akimbo and feet slightly spread. He wore sunglasses that were too small for his face, and the scowl made him look angry and dangerous. He didn’t look around; simply waited.
“Pictures, Sparks,” Beans said quietly. When his partner failed to comply, he snapped more urgently. “Sparks! Pictures!”
Sparks startled, then quickly swung the camera up. They watched with growing curiosity as Mr. Sunday turned suddenly and disappeared from view.
“Now what in the world is this?” Sparks whispered.
A thin figure, clad in a brown butcher’s apron and large blacked-out goggles, had walked around the side of the building, pushing a wheelbarrow that was piled high with black packages. Mr. Sunday walked over and, without a word, took the stranger’s place. He walked quickly to the rear of the truck and tossed the parcels into the shadows. As he finished with the first load, the strange fellow in the apron, along with an assistant, brought two more wheelbarrows, each piled high with the same peculiar items as the first.
“Is that… trash bags? Hefty trash bags?” Beans whispered.
Sparks peered through his camera and shook his head. “Not that I can tell.”
Beans felt his blood run cold. “This could be bad, Sparks.”
“It could also be good, Beans. It could be…” His voice trailed off. “I mean, it could be anything. We do what Rocco wants, follow this guy, and take some pictures. Best case, we get some reward money.”
“And worse case, we end up dead.” Beans chewed on the inside of his cheek and weighed their options. He wasn’t paranoid usually, but there was something unnerving about the entire situation. They could follow this guy, or they could call the whole stakeout off. Rocco would fire them, but at least the kink in his gut would go away. Sparks would think him a coward if he suggested leaving, though, and Beans couldn’t have that.
“Let me call Rocco.”
“Maybe you’re not a total idiot,” Sparks said. He laughed loudly when he heard Rocco scream at Beans after finally picking up the phone.
“Follow and photograph, don’t get involved,” he said, bitterly, when he hung up. “Rocco wants to know where the truck ends up, and he has forbidden us from touching anything. He only wants photos. It isn’t fair!” Beans stiffened suddenly and ducked down. Sparks did his best to mimic the movement but could only slide so low in the seat. Mr. Sunday drove past them in a puff of dust and gave no sign that he spotted them, so Beans turned on the car. “Now, we follow him in realtime.”
“Maybe we’ll get that high-speed chase you so desperately want,” Sparks chirped as Beans pulled onto the dirt road.
“Maybe we will. And Big Bertha in the glove box says if we get into a gun battle, we’ll have a real fighting chance. Get it? Gun? Fighting chance?” Beans snorted and slapped his leg. Sparks was less than amused.
Four bags of chips, three sodas each, and a two-hour impassioned speech about the world’s best barbeque later, they caught up to Mr. Sunday outside of a warehouse in the industrial part of the capital city. He had parked in front of a shipment company and walked inside while the other two men watched from across the street. Beans recognized the opportunity and grinned widely at Sparks. “What?”
“You got your tools?” he asked.
“Of course, I’ve got my tools. I’ve got my lockpick set, the ax, the bolt cutters,” Sparks ticked each item off on his fingers. He took in his partner’s goofy grin and comically arched eyebrows, and a matching smile spread slowly across his face. “I have all the tools, in fact.”
“Give me your lockpick gear. I’m about to see what’s in the back.” Beans unbuckled his seat belt and popped the door open while Sparks dug for the kit and handed it over. “Whistle real loud if someone comes.”
He bent over and dashed across the road toward the unguarded truck. He realized almost immediately that he hadn’t quite thought the whole thing through. What if the lock was more complicated than he could pick? What if someone saw him and raised the alarm before he could get his ass back to the Lincoln? There was no way he could take a man as large as Sunday in a fight, especially with Sparks still in the car. Nerves hit him for the first time, and he felt his stomach lurch. For all of his blustering, Beans knew that he was not a brave man. Bertha would be useless if he had to use her on someone. He wasn’t a good shot, in fact he had never used a gun before, and his hands were shaking something fierce. He swallowed his nerves and mumbled a quick prayer under his breath as he crossed the street.
“Oh, Saint Someone-or-other, patron whatsit of idiot thieves and repo hopefuls and like, babies, please let this all work out in my favor for once, not like that time in Atlantic City with that one chick. Something, something world peace. Amen and all that.”
Beans stayed low when he made it to the truck. He could hear the bright buzz of the refrigerated compartment as it puttered along and kept the contents cold. He shot Sparks the thumbs up before he slipped to the rear of the truck and slid the tools from his back pocket. Lock picking was not his strong suit, but after a moment of fumbling and soft cursing (which had to negate the prayer, he was sure), the padlock click and disengage. He took a deep breath and slowly raised the rolling gate, pausing with his heart in his stomach when it rattled. The sound seemed to echo through the empty street. Beans slid his arm, up to the shoulder, inside the icy darkness, and tightened his grip around the first solid thing that he touched. Whatever it was, it stuck to the floor, and Beans yanked with all of his strength to pull it free. He took a brief second to look at it before closing the door and locking it shut. He ran back to the car.
“Oh my god,” Sparks breathed. “You seriously did that.” Beans laughed and threw the stolen goods onto the other man’s lap.
“All in a day’s work.” Beans answered, full of false bravado. No one ever needed to know about his lame little prayer, or how close he had come to soiling himself. Their laughter died down as Mr. Sunday exited the building. Sparks readied the camera, and Beans followed.
Sparks nudged the package, unceremoniously dumped onto the floorboard with the used take-out boxes and trash from their travels. ““What do you think it is? It’s too small to be a gun, at least one that packs a punch. I bet it’s drugs, man. I bet it’s a brick of coke.”
“More like meth, with how that guy was dressed back at the barn. How much is that worth on the street, anyway, do you think? Fifty thousand? A hundred?” Beans allowed a car to merge into traffic in front of them but kept a sharp eye on his target. The more cars he put between them and Mr. Sunday, the better.
“I have no idea but look, normally I’m a good guy, right? I say we open it up, and if it’s drugs, we sell it.” Sparks said. They had already stolen the thing, he reasoned, so they might as well go full-tilt. He could at least get closer to getting out of debt.
Beans scrunched his face up in a parody of a thoughtful face. “Maybe we hand it over to Rocco and let him deal with it? Or, we turn it in, right to the cops. We could be helping take a drug ring off the streets. Can you imagine? The people would be so grateful. Doors would open for us, and then no more cheating husbands and insurance fraud.”
“No more tailing cats during the day,” Sparks replied. He rolled his window down and stuck his hand out. The car reeked of barbeque sauce and red meat. “No more following college kids with helicopter parents.”
“No more late-night stakeouts, bad food, or broken relationships,” Beans countered. The last hit Sparks harder than he anticipated, and he winced.
Mr. Sunday pulled off the main road and parked at a local restaurant. Beans squealed with joy.
“He’s going to Metheny’s! That’s what I was eating earlier! I’m going inside to get a sandwich and call Rocco. You want one?” Sparks raised his eyebrows at Beans’ sudden generosity. The man must genuinely love the food.
“Yeah, pulled pork slider. Make it two. I’m not that hungry.”
Metheny’s Country Barbeque was a local institution and a favorite to more than just Beans. It had flourished despite natural disasters, attempted arson, and every economic downturn since its founding in 1956. The original owners had only been able to afford a tin shack at first, the same shack that served as the entrance to the current dining area, but success brought expansion. Bare beams and picnic tables were the only decorations, there were no menus, and the waitresses all wore blue jeans. What money they saved on frills was spent on the food, and the clientele howled for more. One visit was enough to turn anyone into a lifelong patron, and the lengths that folks were willing to go to place an order could often be outrageous. It wasn’t unheard of for the order line to snake out the front doors and down the block, or for the waiting time to be seated balloon past an hour. There were never any complaints. As Beans waited, he felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket.
“Sparks, what.”
Beans looked around and watched as smiling waitresses delivered food to customers. His stomach growled as the children at the nearest table smacked their lips and banged their utensils on the table.
“Brisket! Brisket!” they chanted in unison.
“Come back to the car.” Sparks’ voice sounded high and thin, almost frantic.
“What? No, I’m in line. I’m starving.”
A few feet away, an elderly couple lifted racks of ribs to their mouths and took huge bites. Beans watched as their tongues snaked out and licked away every bit of the sauce smeared on their faces. The wife leaned over and tenderly wiped the corner of her husband’s mouth with a fingertip before thrusting it into her own. His stomach growled again, louder than before.
“Come back to the car, Beans. Come back to the car. COMEBACKTOTHECAR!”
Sparks screamed, and Beans felt his heart drop. He excused himself repeatedly as he stepped out of the line, but no one objected or seemed to notice. They all had their eyes trained forward, waiting patiently for their turn to order. His initial fear dissipated once he left the restaurant, but it returned as he approached the Lincoln.
Sparks had managed to open the door before he vomited and now leaned halfway out while still buckled in. He alternately sobbed and screamed, pausing only to dry heave. Terror ran through Beans as he ran the last few steps to his partner.
“Sparks! What happened?” Sparks didn’t reply as Beans knelt next to him, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit. “Sparks, you gotta tell me what’s wrong.” He clutched his stomach and began to rock in the seat.
“The truck, it was a delivery,” Sparks gasped. “To here. THE DELIVERY WAS TO HERE, AND YOU ATE IT.” He screamed again, unnaturally high.
“What delivery? Sparks, what the hell are you talking about?” he yelled. Beans glanced to the front of the restaurant and noticed the absence of Mr. Sunday and the meat truck. “Mr. Sunday delivered something? Here?” Sparks whimpered and pointed into the distance. Beans swallowed hard and walked slowly to the place his partner had indicated.
From a few steps away, he could see the thing he had stolen in the grass, but there was something off about it. Beans closed the gap and discovered that the package was ripped open. There was an area of pure, startling white in the middle, now. Every cell and atom in his body wanted desperately to flee, to run back to Sparks and put a million miles between them and Sunday, but pure machismo drove him forward. Beans started to shake nervously and bent to pick it up, his stomach twisting. What he saw sent him a step back with a shriek so loud that it threatened to rupture his vocal cords.
There, with ice crystals still attached to it, was a pale human hand.
The brain, that twisted mass of pulp cradled inside of a human’s skull, is a strange and wonderful thing. His mother, long since gone, once said it could either be a savior or a tormentor. The truth of that statement hit Beans as a flood of recollections bombarded him, events that were too fresh for him to have already forgotten. The darkness in the back of the truck, the way his hand touched several items that were lumpy and strangely shaped. He remembered the smell that came rushing at him when he opened the rear door, a scent that not even the cold could mask; copper, loads of it, and that could only mean one thing. Blood. The realization left him lightheaded, and for the first time in his life, Beans swooned. Before he hit the ground and blessed unconsciousness took over, his eyes trailed over the hand-lettered signs that covered the front façade of Joe Metheny’s Country BBQ.
All organic meat since 1956!
Locally sourced ingredients!
The freshest cuts around, guaranteed!
Bring a piece of our neighborhood home with you today!
Try our Special Sauce. It’s bloody good!
