Bounty hunters capture a felon.

     Georgia Winestock sat at her desk absent mindedly twirling a lock of her blonde hair with a forefinger and pondering the situation before her. She had to make a decision whether to go after a dangerous bail jumper now, knowing his location, or to wait until her partner and love mate, Jim Hanson, got back to coordinate the felon’s capture. She could possibly lose the man to Little Havana during the interim or even worse, lose him to the Everglades.

     She opened the manila file again on Willy McGreevy, pulled out his mug shot, and tacked it to the corkboard. She stood there for a moment studying the mug of one ugly miscreant: six-feet, two-inches tall weighing two eighty, bald as a billiard, hairless from birth, not a shadow of an eyebrow. Mother and sister probably one and the same. Hillbillies: if it bleats, nail it—zapow.

     She tacked his rap sheet alongside the mug shot.

     The man obviously had an aversion to Wally World: receiving stolen property in ‘73, four years in Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, Tennessee; receiving stolen property in ‘78, two-year fall in state penitentiary, Reidsville, Georgia; and grand theft, Miami, Florida, trial pending, for which the business was on the hook for fifty grand. She went to the door and shouted down the hall.

     “Virgil, Sutter, my office in two shakes of a coon’s tail.” Damn, it’s contagious.   She shook her head.  

     Virgil Jones entered the office stomach first, wearing Hollywood shades and draped in a red Hawaiian shirt that could double as an infield tarp. He had lost thirty pounds in the six weeks he had been in Florida, but the loss had not made a dent in his girth at two hundred seventy-five pounds, five feet nine.

     Sutter Gibbs, the Jack Sprat of the duo, was razor thin at six feet and lucky to weigh one-forty “Covered and Smothered”.

     Virgil eased around behind Georgia’s desk and flopped into her swivel chair, his bulk exceeding the manufacturer’s recommended ass-capacity by forty pounds—to the third power. He got one foot on the desk when he saw her do it and die look, and opted for terra firma.        

     “Guys, I want your honest opinion on McGreevy since we’re all relatively new at this. Should we go after him or wait for Jim?”

     “Ain’t no question there. Jim shore wouldn’t want us to lose him to that swamp or little Cuber. Let’s go round the feller up. We’re talking fifty large here,” Virgil said.

     “Been watching Miami Vice again huh, Virg,” Georgia said.

     Virgil grinned, pulled out a pouch of Redman and pinched a chew. “Shorenuf.” He raised the pouch in offering—his Kentucky equivalent of the arm fart in a crowded elevator.

     “No thanks, I’m trying to cut-down,” she said straight faced and turned to Sutter, who was standing in the doorway, “admiring” Virgil’s urbane-charm and wit.

     “What about it? Should we go?”

     “I hate to say it, but I agree with ‘Pappy Yoakum’.” Sutter said, nodding toward Virgil. “If McGreevy goes to the Everglades, it may cost us ten thousand just to track him down. Or worst case, we never find him. I say we take him at the flophouse tonight.”

     She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. “Who’s on him now?”

     “Little Davie Gonzales,” Virgil said. “He’s got McGreevy staked out in Jemima’s Dog and Hog on Canal Street. Old chrome dome’s been suckin’ up suds there all mornin’.”

     Georgia laughed. “Dog and Hog? Jeez. Food or patrons?”

     “Both,” Sutter answered. “It’s a swill hole—one street better than skid row . . . ”

     Sutter knew the place well. The bar and grill originally had a dog track attached to it in the twenties before the large real estate developments consumed everything with acreage. “Jemima” was only the recent preface to the namesake: Saul’s Dog and Hog.

     “Maybe we should take him now if he’s been drinking that long? He should be well on his way to passing out,” Georgia stated.

     “That’s a possibility. Virgil and I could go in and check him out, see how far along he is. You wrote the bond, so he hasn’t seen either of us.”

     “The bond—thanks for reminding me,” Georgia said. “I guess I’ll learn which ones have happy feet.” She clapped her hands together and slid off the edge of the desk. “Okay, let’s do it. Call back with a status report. I want to be in on the take-down with this knuckle head.”

     Virgil fired up the new Chevrolet Dualie he had bought with some of the “appropriation” from Foulwell, their last case. He had never had a new vehicle of any kind, and he splurged to hillbilly excess. He added every gadget available from winches front and rear, to running lights top, sides, and tailgate. He even added reflector mud flaps all around and was looking for the pièce de résistance, a coon tail for the radio antenna. He proudly named her Lil Poon and proved it with perfect script on the doors. As he pulled into traffic, he hit the ooga horn, the blast of which could peel paint.

     Sutter clamped his hands to his ears. “Damn it! You killed that guy back there.” He watched the side mirror, at an old man clutching his chest, leaning against a brick wall trying to catch his breath.

     “Anyone who lays eyes on this truck knows exactly where we’re from: ‘Two more briar hoppers from Kentucky’, they say. ‘Give’em a year and that rig’ll be on cinder blocks in front of their trailer with the broken windows and flat tires patched with duct tape guarded by the two coon hounds.’ Christ! We have to fit in down here, Virgil.”

     “Well, the joke’s on them fools. The trailer ain’t got no tars.” He guffawed, slapping the steering wheel.

     “C’mon, you know what I mean: the baloney sandwich at the Fontainebleau, the patched up old inner tube in the pool. Huh? What about that? Cocktail glasses as spittoons—now that was real classy. Jethro Bodine wouldn’t even do that. Shit, we’re the South Beach Hillbillies—without Jed’s money.”

     “I reckon you do favor old Granny Clampet a bit. All skinny and mean.”

     “You’re hillbilly hopeless.” Sutter threw up his hands.

     “Ah, chicken lips! I know what you mean. It’s just that I don’t give a big stump-jump about what people think. I ain’t you. They like me as I am or they can just kiss my Kentucky fried, baloney eatin’, briar-hopper ass.”

      Sutter was readying a comeback when Virgil spotted the Dog and Hog.

     “Whoa there, Nellie,” Virgil squalled, slamming on the brakes, barely missing a Wonder Bread truck as he fought traffic, zagging Lil Poon to the curb. With horns quiet and middle fingers folded, Virgil sat there with his shades dangling from one ear while Sutter contortedly cricked his own neck, checking for whiplash, neither man saying anything. 

     On pause for only a moment, life moved on. “Hey, there’s little Davie, two cars down.” Sutter got out and spoke back through the open window. “I’ll go fill him in on what we’re doing. You hit the Dog and I’ll follow in two shakes.”

     Virgil reset his shades and reached into the deluxe cab, pulled back a hatbox. In it was the pride of the Caribbean, a genuine Panamanian Straw complete with a three inch, red paisley band—two hundred dollars worth of get your sister off the street. Virgil cocked that mammy-jammer and headed out ‘fer bidness’. 

     Sutter, leaning down at the window of Little Davie’s Merc, caught a red flash from the corner of his eye. Looking up, he saw Virgil bebopping through traffic, navigating toward the Dog. My God. The cornpone Hawaiian: Bermudas, knee socks, sandals, red tent and now a goddamned sombrero.

     “Do you believe that getup?”  

     “That’s classic Virg,” Davie said. “The boy’s in hawg Heaven, as he would say.”

     The Dog was dark even without shades. Virgil stuffed his glasses into his shirt pocket, noting the music blasting from the jukebox. Country twang—all day. George Jones was wringing’em out with “He Stopped Loving Her Today”.

     “Hey, big red,” came a female’s voice from the back of the room. “Yeah, you, love thang. You in the red kimono. Back here, you big hunka, hunka burnin’ love.” Virgil could see little but a neon Strohs sign glaring from the back wall. “Jemima wants a look at you, baby,” came the voice again, punctuated by an uproariously wild cackle. He headed toward the voice. “That’s it, honey. Come to mama,” she squealed over the clack of beer bottles, the music, and the din of a dozen or so conversations.

     The joint was elongated at length and narrow in width, with booths on the right, the bar on the left, and Virgil now bebopping the runway. His vision quickly adjusted enough to focus on what awaited. Holy frijoles! He was staring down the aisle at an awesome sight: an Amazon. She was three hundred pounds of African pulchritude, six feet tall if an inch. White spandex screamed.

     She didn’t wait for him to reach the booth. In two steps, she had him in a bear hug. “Um, um, you as roly-poly as I am, suga. Let me look at you,” she said, stepping back for the full effect. “I told Willy here, you was a man wit balls. Anyone who got the jowls to come out in public dressed like that deserves a free drink and a piece of this black ass—and here I am, honeysuckle.” She did a perfect pirouette, ended up with her arm around his shoulders, and ever-so-smoothly hip snuggled him into the booth and pushed in beside him.

     “Jackson,” she yelled at the bartender, “beer and shots over here.” She looked at Virgil. “What’s your drink, suga lips?”

     “Any ole thang with a skull and crossbones on the label,” Virgil said, already caught up in her exuberance. “What’s the happy occasion?”

     “My old man here. He just gave me this rock.” She offered up an ebony ham with a ring and stone proportionate. “He’s goin’ back up north for a few weeks and this is his way of keepin’ big mamma on the string till he gets back. What’s your name, honey?” Virgil told her. “Well, Virgil Ray, meet Wild Willy McGreevy, my man, big meat.”

     Virgil gulped, managed a “Howdy” with a weak grin and a handshake commensurate. The man was a big son of a bitch, to be sure, but he had hair and eyebrows. It quickly registered—fake hair.

     “Where ya from up north, Wild Willy?”

     “Tennessee,” McGreevy said, in a voice with the rumble of a bass drum. “I’ve been workin’ in Kentucky the last few months though, a little town up there called West Liberty.” He pumped up his chest, posted a beaver eatin’ grin. “Been doing guvment work.”

     Virgil’s ears pricked. “I was born and raised in Morgan County. Been through the town. Ain’t much, there—some moonshiners, a few wacky tobacky farmers. How’d y’all find work?”

     “I’ve been workin’ security for the sheriff up there, cause of my size. I’ve been keepin’ trespassers and them undesirable types from the Dixie strip mine sites at night. The equipment costs a lot of money, and the owners don’t want nobody at it. And I bust a head now and then on them that don’t listen to Sheriff Bronson.”

     “Old“Digger”Bronson’s still around, huh?” Virgil asked, just as Jemima’s hand wandered down his thigh and found its target. He yelped a falsetto eek, which drew a befuddled look from McGreevy—“Big Red” began to sweat. He took a chance and side-glanced Jemima. She was smiling like a Cheshire in a catnip patch.

     Sutter heard Virgil’s voice, but the old eyes had not adjusted enough to see anything. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a Strohs. By the time the beer arrived, he could see Virgil and party sitting two booths down. He could also see that McGreevy was not as drunk as expected. He called the bartender back and ordered a round for the table. “Tell’em it’s a toast to southern hospitality.” He sipped his beer and waited.

     When the drinks arrived, the three turned almost in unison and raised their shots in toast then downed the liquor in one gulp. Wiping dribble from her chin, Jemima waved Sutter over. “Come on and join us, li’ bit. You welcome here, honey.”

     Sutter ambled on over to the table, and she gave him the once over. “My, my, you a skinny minnie. Set yourself right down here by some dark meat and potatoes,” she said with a bawdy laugh. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the booth beside her. “You ain’t been eatin’ enough, baby, taters or .” Her wild cackle reverberated all the way out to the street.  

     Three hours and fifteen toasts later, Jemima was sitting on the toilet with white spandex bunched around her ankles and an overwhelming urge to pee and or sleep. Feeling no pain, she slipped sideways off the seat and hit the floor with a splat. Semi-recumbent with her head resting against the wall, she piddled then smiled serenely and hugged the sandman. Say good night, suga, and sweet dreams, chocolate woman.

     At the table, Wild Willy McGreevy was in the last stage of a crying jag, a combination of something to do with a botched penile implant and his missing his Grammy. He was ready for a power-nap posthaste. Sutter was lying in the booth behind them with both feet in the air resting against the wall, comatose—or dead. Virgil was designated driver—and long-time-recognized moonshine-hawg par excellence, courtesy: “The Greater Morgan County Moonshiners Association.”

     Virgil glommed a two-wheeled cart from the bartender, Jackson, and managed to get McGreevy loaded and out the door quite easily. Crossing the busy street in rush hour traffic proved to be a little more problematic; McGreevy had passed out.

     After observing two load shifts and a spill, Georgia and little Davie brought Virgil’s Dualie around in front of the Dog and the three of them managed to winch their hairless cargo onto the bed of the truck. With old baldy asleep and handcuffed to the roll bar, Virgil went back into the Dog, shouldered Sutter out, and deposited him alongside McGreevy.

     “Is he dead?” Georgia asked, as the three stared down at Sutter.

     “Naw, just a few drinks south of shit-faced,” Virgil said. “He’ll be okay in a day or so. He never could drink.”

     Georgia wasn’t so sure. She pulled out her compact and mirrored his breath. “He’s still breathing, but he’ll have one hell of a headache tomorrow.”

      Virgil grinned, reached down and stripped the false eyebrows from McGreevy and carefully stuck them over Sutter’s. He saw Georgia’s look of disapproval and shrugged. “So, sue me. I owe him.”

     None of the four made it into the office the following morning until after ten, Sutter later than the others, around noon. Unless something unusual took place during a takedown, from which the group could learn, they usually didn’t confab more than a few minutes; the next case was always pressing. However, McGreevy was from back home and Virgil felt compelled to talk about some of the things that had been said in the bar. They huddled up around the coffee urn and Sutter, who was working his fifth cup of the day.

     “Old baldy’s been working for Sheriff Bronson, doing some mighty suspicious things. He said he burnt the Johnson’s barn. Now, I know old Bronson’s been on the take for years from moonshiners or them ole boys couldn’t operate, Morgan County being dry. But I never thought he’d be mean and spiteful enough to burn somebody out. Old baldy said the Dixie Coal Company wanted the Johnson place for some reason or other, and when the kid, Lawrence, wouldn’t sell, old baldy burned the barn and roughed the man up.”

     Sutter’s mouth finally became operable. “I thought Big John Treadwell owned the coal company?”

     “Must have been sold,” Virgil said. “He did own it. Baldy said a family named Beirkart out of Lexington bought it—or had something to do with it.”

     Georgia’s attention piqued. “I went to school with a Penny Beirkart from Lexington. We still talk at least once a month.” Georgia rose. “I’ll give her a call now and see if she knows anything.” She left for her office to make the call, leaving Sutter to the mercy of one without a mother-of-all hangover.

     “That big woman rode you like a last place jockey on a two dollar horse before you wussed out, Granny Clampet.” Virgil simulated a jockey, reins in one hand and whip in the other, working flank to flank. “She was a whompin’ and a whuppin’. Then she had them big bloomers down around her ankles, just a bumpin’ and a grindin’, a washin’ your face in that big twat so um, um good.”

      Virgil pinched his cheeks out and made a blubbering sound with his lips. “She swallered yur face clear up to them lop ears then used’em as handles. ‘Twas, I say.” Virgil paused for theatrical impact. “It ‘twas . . . twat to mouth resuscitation.” Nitrous oxide could do nothing for Virgil. Georgia heard him knee slapping from the other end of the building.

     Raising his hands in defeat, Sutter moaned. He was still too deep in misery to make a good comeback. “You win today—so just shut up and let me die.”

     Virgil grinned like a possum eatin’ grapes. He was cookin’.

     In a few minutes, Georgia appeared in the hallway. “The connection to the Beirkart family is Lawrence Johnson. He works there on the thoroughbred farm, and he’s been missing for about six weeks. Jim and I will be heading to Lexington as soon as he gets back from Foulwell. So, let’s get busy and line up some prom dates you two can waltz with until we get back.”

     On pause for only a moment, life moved on.