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Laury A. Egan website
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Sunbury Press
ISBN-10: 1620062208
Type: Fiction
Pages: 192
Copyright: Dec 6, 2019
ISBN-13: 9781620062203
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
A dark, twisted version of "The Bridges of Madison County."
The deck has always been stacked against you. Then an attractive woman promises love, respect, employment, and a home. Wouldn't you be hooked? Jango Jacks is. Jango is a fifty-three-year-old Korean War vet, itinerant worker, and sweet-natured fellow from Kentucky. On a hot August day in 1984, he lands in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, pockets empty, hungry, and in need of a job. After answering an ad for a farmhand, he is hired by a recent widow, Audrey Dalton, and is immediately charmed by her; surprisingly, Audrey also seems entranced and prepares him a candlelit dinner, which turns into an evening of love. Jango considers ending his tumbleweed ways and settling down...until the next morning, when he realizes he's fallen into a dangerous trap.
Excerpt
My feet were screaming from a rubbed-raw blister on my big toe and from walking up and down a bunch of roly-poly hills, through forests, swamps, creeks, and streams of the Laurel Highlands. All in all, I was a blessed mess. Wet boots, socks, and clothes; a back that felt like I’d been carrying a plump hippo around all day. Hard as I tried, it had been impossible to out-walk the heat. No matter how fast I moved north, over the border of West Virginia and into Pennsylvania, the wave of late August misery followed as if it were shellacked to my heels like a sticky shadow.
When I stumbled into a municipality called Lower Falls, it was noon. On the outskirts of town, the crickets were making a first-rate racket; within the city limits, most of the inhabitants were inside, exhibiting common sense by avoiding the sun. I was almost positive I’d never been here before, but the place was as good a spot as any to cool my heels. In front of the borough hall—a large Georgian building, all bluster and self-importance, with its brick façade, triangular pediment, and columns—there was a fountain and a narrow pool.
“Well, aren’t you a welcome sight?” I hopped on the green marble wall, stripped off my boots and socks, rolled up my pants, and plunged my feet in the water, which felt wonderful. After removing my straw hat, I dunked my head, careful not to get my shirt too wet or at least not wetter than it already was.
As was usually the case, the effect of water was miraculous. The hot chaos in my mind quieted and cooled, and my thoughts sorted themselves into calmer, more rational patterns. I raised my head and let the water drip down my face and neck, then exhaled with happy relief, my eyes closed in order to savor the moment. When I opened them, I darned sure wished I hadn’t.
A man stood to my left. He was dressed in black shirtsleeves, gray trousers, and a white minister’s collar. Beneath reddish-gold eyebrows that tangled with some bangs, he was staring at me and frowning. His forehead—what I could see of it—was pleated by parallel lines of wrinkles.
“Mister, we don’t want your sort around here,” he said. “Remove yourself from our Veteran’s Memorial Fountain and leave town.”
I shook the water out of my hair, swiveled my legs over the marble edge, came to my feet, and looked down on the man. While it was tempting to point out I was a war vet, a decorated one, and should have a free pass to the pool, I was pleasant. “Hot day, isn’t it?” Removing a hand towel from my bag, I dried my head briskly. “My name’s Jango.”
The minister snorted with disgust. “Didn’t you hear me?”
Although I make it a practice to give trouble a wide berth, this felt like one of those times when trouble was dead-set on finding me. I’d had some issues with men of the cloth over the years, fellows who took it upon themselves to assume the moral high-ground and felt entitled to express their contemptuous opinion of me. Weren’t they supposed to be kind and gracious toward the indigent population, of which I was a bona-fide member?
I shrugged, trying to appear unrattled, and reached into my duffel bag for my black comb, which still had most of its teeth like I did. After giving my hair a few slow, deliberate swipes and running some sharp retorts through my mind, I settled on a diplomatic response that still showed a little spine. “Well, good sir, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but it’s a hot day and splashing some water won’t hurt anyone and may keep me from passing out on the sidewalk.” I jammed my straw hat on my head and gave him a smile. “And unless I’m much mistaken, I imagine you’d like that a hell of a lot less. Me lying about in front of the municipal building, that is.”
The minister puffed out his ruddy cheeks in vexation and stalked off, leaving a considerable amount of indignant heat in his wake.
“Guess the man had a more pressing engagement.” I chuckled to myself and began drying my feet with the towel, then replaced my socks and boots. After tying my shoelaces, I looked down the street and noticed the minister talking to a uniformed policeman, who glanced at me and began walking in my direction. I decided a retreat was wise and headed the opposite way, with purpose rather than panic, acting like a law-abiding man, which, in fact, I am. Although I hold no prejudice against the law, they often request my swift departure, especially when I’m carrying my worldly goods, thus telegraphing my homeless state. And no doubt the minister had suggested that riffraff of my ilk were at best eyesores and, at worst, a danger to ladies frequenting the nearby mercantile establishments.
After turning the corner and strolling a short way, I spied a newspaper dispenser, rooted around in my pockets, and pulled out some coins to purchase a local weekly paper dated Monday, August 20, 1984. A couple of days old but that didn’t matter. I tucked it under my arm and walked for a few minutes longer to put additional distance between the policeman and me, though the man had not mounted a zealous pursuit. It was too damned hot to bother.
A few buildings farther, I came across one of those charmless state-run liquor stores lit so brightly that buyers squinted like moles surfacing from black tunnels when they entered the premises—even on a sunny day. I suspected Pennsylvania harbored deep animosity toward drinkers and wanted to shine a spotlight on us sinners, kind of like in a police line-up. Three doors away from the state store was a far more beguiling sight: Flaherty’s White Horse Tavern. The interior was illuminated by several brass wall sconces and neon beer signs, one of which had developed an electronic tic, but for the most part, the bar was almost dark enough to hide its namesake white horse, should one be lurking inside. While it was tempting to investigate the tavern’s attributes, finding temporary employment came first because my funds were low, too low to travel elsewhere, although the encounter with the minister and the hostile look on the policeman’s face gave me a bad feeling about the town. I decided this negative attitude was unreasonable, caused by weariness and hunger—I’d been hoofing it since sunrise and only eaten a handful of saltine crackers that had left a gummy coating in my mouth.
Looking once again through the window at the shiny silver beer taps in the bar, I envisioned a frosty mug full of icy, golden goodness. “Uh-uh, Jango,” I told myself.
Instead of opening the door to Flaherty’s, which my hand ached to do, I went around the corner, leaned against the brick exterior, sighed, and opened the newspaper to the classified section. This being farm country, most of the ads were for seasonal help. Fine with me. I didn’t much care what I did so long as I had a little food in my belly and a bottle in my pocket or enough money to rent a seat on a barstool.
With the last of my change, I made some telephone calls and got lucky. A Mrs. Audrey Dalton asked me to come over. She lived a mile or so outside of town, in the direction from which I’d arrived. I slung my duffel over one shoulder and the black trash bag containing Mama’s old guitar over the other and set off. Halfway there, I stopped to replace my shirt with a cleaner one in order to spruce up for my interview.
The Daltons’ white mailbox was decorated with a fading American flag, their name stenciled below in blue. Mature bittersweet vines encircled its wooden post and some sassafras trees overhanging the entrance to the driveway. The nightshade plants bore yellow, orange, and dark red berries amid the shiny green leaves. Pretty but poisonous, except for birds. A sign, which looked decades old, was almost hidden in a cluster of weeds. Burned into its gray surface: Bittersweet Farm. The name appealed to me. Maybe because it implied the owners had a wry sense of humor like I did.
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