River Rules Read online

  “The party’s just starting,” she heard him say before she lost consciousness

  When she woke up, she couldn’t figure out anything. No memory of where she was and why she had such a headache. Within seconds, she felt throbbing pain in her pelvis. Brock snored loudly, his foul breath making her retch and realize where she was. She staggered to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, feeling for all the world like she’d just birthed twins out of both ends. Nancy reached for some toilet paper and saw a bunch of used condoms in the garbage can by the sink. She had to wet the paper, it hurt so much when she wiped. Wincing with pain, the blood proof that it wasn’t all in her head, she gasped at her perineum bulging purple and puffy, everything swollen, her anatomy almost unrecognizable.

  “Bastard, you fucking bastard,” she cried. Clutching the wall as she made her way towards Brock, she screamed. “You drugged me, didn’t you? And then you raped me.” Big, heaving sobs made her almost incoherent.

  “News to me,” Brock said from the bed. “You begged for it, Nancy. You just don’t remember.” Brock propped himself up on one elbow and laughed. “You should see yourself.”

  “How could you? Fuck you—you hurt me.”

  “Bullshit. You couldn’t get enough, always asking for more.” He sank back onto the pillows and rolled over. “You should thank me. Instead you’re an ungrateful bitch.”

  Nancy wept now with rage, crawling for her clothes. “I’m gonna make you pay.”

  “Yeah, right. Get your shit and get out.”

  CHAPTER 15

  OFFICER KENNY JOHNSON COMPLETED HIS MONTHLY required target practice perfectly at the gun range after running into Jeff and Nancy. His hand-eye coordination never failed him. Getting hired right out of the Police Academy by the Bridgeville PD had been Kenny’s goal after the rude awakening that baseball didn’t love him as much as he loved it. At least not at the Division-1 college level.

  “Too many really good outfielders on the team,” he explained to his disappointed parents. “And in college, I’m just decent—nothing special.”

  They didn’t seem to grasp that no matter how much Kenny tried, he would never be more than second or third-string, riding the bench for game after game.

  “I’m gonna play club ball. It’s fun, less pressure and I can actually have a life.”

  Kenny had a little too much fun freshman year, getting hammered at frat parties and fooling around with lots of pretty young women who found his friendly nature, cute face and jacked body quite appealing. But after getting slapped with academic probation, a humiliating comeuppance for a kid who never got below a B in high school, he hit the books.

  Kenny double-majored in Criminal Justice and Sociology, playing club ball the whole time. Now at the Bridgeville PD, he was at the bottom of the totem pole, but he loved being a cop. Tomassi took him under his wing, doling out advice and kicks in the pants when he thought Kenny messed up or could do better.

  After Peter asked him to look for the photo of the baseball team, Kenny, who shared an old house with some high school buddies, searched his parent’s attic and basement on Saturday. His parents put their modest home on the market, stunned to hear it could fetch three times what they paid for it. Crammed full of moving boxes in every room, Kenny had to walk upstairs to find a giant box filled with all his baseball awards. He rummaged under all the trophies until he found the 5 x 8 picture inside a dog-eared folder.

  Kenny stared at the picture, going over faces he hadn’t thought about in years. He finally located Marco in the front row, a small kid beaming excitedly with a mouthful of big crooked teeth.

  “Damn, Marco. What happened?”

  Kenny looked at Peter, husky and strong in his team T-shirt, and at himself, gangly and grinning in the back row with all the tallest boys. With no one home, Kenny drank straight from an open carton of milk from the refrigerator, left a quick note on the table and let himself out the back door. He carefully placed the picture on the passenger seat of his Jeep.

  Peter wanted to talk to Marco about the same thing Kenny pondered. He waited until Marco was done conferring with his Legal Aid lawyer. Once he got back, it was recreation time. Peter called him over to stand in the shade of a big oak tree. Paco was sunning himself in the corner of the yard.

  “Marco, what’re you now, twenty-three?”

  “Yeah. Twenty-three and goin’ nowhere.”

  “So, what’s up with that?” Peter waited for Marco to respond, but he just kicked the dirt.

  “Coach, no offense. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “Yo, coach. No disrespect, but for real, why’d you do what you did? Just coz you thought it was ugly? Shit, you got a lot more buildings to do. Come to Hatfield, man.”

  Peter laughed but stopped when he saw Marco’s serious expression. “Well, there’s more than meets than eye here, Marco. Really bad blood, for starters.”

  “Jail bad?” Marco looked at him expectantly. “A guy like you with everything ain’t gonna throw it away for nothin’.”

  “Believe me, I don’t have everything.”

  Marco squared up to face Peter. “Ima call bullshit, no offense. You got family, friends, a nice place to live, right? Probs women, too. What you think most people got?”

  Peter sighed and reached out his hand for Marco to slap. “Damn. When you put it like that, I have to tell you. Alright. The fucker who is building that fuel cell is the same piece of shit who ripped off my brother for so much money that we almost lost the farm, and he date-raped one of my best friends. She’s never been the same since.”

  Marco’s eyes popped out as he whistled loudly. “And you just plant flowers? Mess up the motherfucker, Coach. He hurt your people.”

  “An eye for an eye sounds so good, believe me. But I can’t go there. I got a warning to stay away from him long ago or he’d press charges.”

  “I know a guy who knows a guy. Just say the word.”

  “No. Now I’m gonna change the subject. When you get out, you’re gonna need a job. Call me.”

  “You got a business? Nobody hires dudes like me.”

  “Starting a food truck with my brother. You know, the guy who yelled at me non-stop on Saturday.”

  “Yeah. First I thought you was yelling at yourself coz you got almost the same voice. He’s mad pissed. You sure the deal’s still on?”

  “Yup. Might take a while, but it’s on. You know how to drive?”

  “Course I do. Even got a license.”

  “Good man,” Peter clapped Marco on the shoulder. “Hey, I think I see Kenny. Maybe he got that picture.”

  Before Peter could walk across the yard to get Kenny’s attention, Officer Billy O’Leary strolled over.

  “Tomassi needs to see you. Come with me.”

  Peter obliged, following O’Leary towards Tomassi’s small office.

  “Here comes trouble. Hey, jailbird—get over here,” Tomassi called out. O’Leary delivered Peter and happily selected one of the chili dogs that sat in a Tupperware container on Tomassi’s desk. Tomassi, resplendent in knee-length plaid shorts and a bright yellow shirt that strained against his impressive belly, opened a big bag of potato chips and started munching.

  Peter, unsure of how pissed Tomassi still was, waited to be invited. “Beautiful. Donna added hot sauce to the chili, right?”

  “Like a gallon. Take one.” Tomassi commanded, his mouth full of chips.

  Peter took a big bite and smiled, sweat beading on his forehead. “Hot, really hot.” His face turned bright red. “You got any water?”

  O’Leary reached down into the insulated freezer bag under Tomassi’s desk and extracted two bottles. “You want one, Sarge?”

  “Yeah, one for you and one for me, right, Billy?”

  “Aw, come on, John. Have mercy.” Peter took the unopened bottle out of Tomassi’s hand and drank it in two gulps. “Thanks. Tell Donna she’s the best.”

  “I tell her that every day.” Tomassi smi
led broadly and waggled his unibrow.

  Kenny knocked on the door frame. “Whoa, is there one for me?”

  Tomassi handed him the last one. “Enjoy. What you got?” He nodded at the picture Kenny put down on the desk.

  Peter grabbed it and whistled. “Damn, look at that stud of a coach. What a good-looking guy.”

  “In your dreams,” Tomassi said. “So, let’s see. Kenny, there’s you in the back row looking like a dweeb.”

  “Sarge, the kid in the front is Marco Torres, the guy from Hatfield on a second bust for weed. We were all on that team together for two seasons.”

  “Wow, that’s crazy,” O’Leary said.

  “He was a great kid,” Peter said. “A pleasure to coach.”

  “He ran like a deer, so fast. When we had to run around the field, he lapped just about everybody. We had to tell him to slow down; he was making us look bad,” Kenny said with a laugh.

  “He’s young,” Tomassi said. “Maybe he can turn it around.”

  CHAPTER 16

  AT HIS LAST GIG ON LOCAL RADIO BEFORE GETTING arrested, Peter entertained listeners for over two hours as a guest on Bridgeville Byway. After playing back-to-back sets of Creedence Clearwater Revival and Allman Brothers tunes, he launched into some stories about Brutus. His favorite one was always about Brutus terrified to get his nails cut at PetSmart.

  He’d just told some bird-watchers looking for eagles near the ferry that very story when they asked if Brutus was dangerous.

  “This damn dog is a marshmallow, and that’s how he gets more bosom action than me. We just pull into the parking lot at PetSmart to get his nails clipped, and he starts crying. We get in the store, and he’s bawling and shaking like a leaf. In no time, he’s got the buxomest one cradling his head, two extremely well-endowed gals hugging his front legs and another hot babe on his back paws. They’re cooing to him and whispering sweet nothings. I swear he looked at me and winked.”

  Down by the river, Peter enjoyed his reign like a chatty emperor. Walking Brutus, he shot the breeze with just about anyone. He had a special place in his heart for the hopeful eagle watchers who came armed with binoculars and cameras, and who usually left disappointed.

  “It’s easier to find the eagles in winter because they nest in the trees along the riverbank,” Peter consoled. “And if the river doesn’t freeze in a hard winter, you’ll see some of them just soaring above the water, scouting for food.”

  Brutus used these chats as opportunities to relieve himself and to reinforce his alpha dog status. He could stare down a Cockapoo or Goldendoodle in less than five seconds, so lots of dog-walkers waved at Peter but gave Brutus a wide berth.

  “You might see a few Great Blue Herons today—they love it here in spring and summer,” Peter would say to people imploring him for help in spotting eagles. “The biggest one around here is Big Daddy, you can’t miss him. He cruises the river looking for prey—fish, frogs, reptiles. They all go crazy when the shad migrate upriver. But you’ll definitely spot a few Belted Kingfishers, and you can’t miss hearing the racket they make.”

  “Is that a woodpecker?” Someone inevitably asked, pointing to a big bird with a bright red crest and black and white markings tapping away at a tree.

  “Yeah, of course. That’s a pileated beauty, an absolute workhorse. He makes holes other species like to live in, like owls, bats and pine martens. Right now, he’s chowing down on insects who live in dead trees. Check out his size. Just huge.”

  “Are you like the mayor of the river and the wildlife down here?” A well-meaning idiot always asked Peter some variation of this question.

  “Man, the river takes care of me and the wildlife. This river goes 400 miles through four states. And no one rules the river. The native Americans and early settlers fought over the river. And I don’t need to tell you how that turned out. Then, the river turned into a water highway. It carried more traffic than the railroads. But industry used it as a dump. Pollution of all kind—pick your poison. They damn near killed it and all the wildlife that depends on a healthy river like the bald eagles you’re trying to find.”

  Peter could talk about the river for hours. But when people asked about his scholarly credentials, he laughed.

  “I’m a graduate of the school of life. College wasn’t my thing. I’d rather poke out my eyes than sit in a big lecture hall. I worked third shift at Pratt long enough to support my vices: rescuing dogs, hanging out with my buddies and giving Mother Nature the good lovin’ she deserves.”

  After Jeff gave him the corn, Peter took his responsibilities very seriously. He brought in great harvests, thanks to all the upgrades and his own sweat. Once he caught some corn thieves trying to stuff burlap bags full of his prize Silver Queen variety, the one that fetched the highest price. He charged at them, and sicced Brutus’s much-loved predecessor, Angus, a rescue Rottweiler mix, on the culprits. They ran for their lives and dropped the sacks in their hurry to get away. Peter never got tired of telling the story.

  Artie lost his way after his wife died, and he complied with Jeff’s dictate to give Peter a wide berth. But the gut-wrenching loss of the $50,000 that he urged Jeff to invest in Pioneer’s real estate scam after hearing his buddies talk it up, sent Artie to an early grave. It also brought the farm close to bankruptcy when the loan payments were due and couldn’t be paid. After a lot of tense back-and-forth, including coming very close to filing for Chapter 12 bankruptcy, the bank a long-time agricultural lender and, itself, a victim of the swindle, agreed to renegotiate the terms.

  When the Great Recession hastened the decimation of what was left of the manufacturing industry in New England, Peter got downsized.

  “I can’t believe it,” he told Jeff. “Like twenty-five years is gone in a puff of smoke.”

  The middling severance package couldn’t support the mortgage on his riverside condo when he ran the numbers. Always a realist, Peter sold his pride and joy and moved to a small outbuilding catty-corner to the farm’s main house, now a happy home with Jeff and Annie, his wife, and his kids, Rachel and Sean.

  Peter really put his back into renovating the old dwelling. After a lot of help from his fishing buddies, Jeff and John Tomassi, to put in a decent bathroom, kitchen and rear deck, he had a great place to enjoy the sunsets over a cold beer. Less than a tenth of a mile from the river, he could fish, hike and bullshit with Jeff whenever he wanted.

  As soon as Jeff’s son, Sean, finished the ag-sci program at the state university, Peter crowned him the Corn King. Sean planted Butter and Sugar, Early Sunglow and Snowcrest, and revamped the irrigation system.

  After Peter’s doctor read him the riot act about his weight and his drinking, Peter upped his rambles and started working out at BIG, using the personal training sessions he’d won in a fundraiser auction. Ian and Andre quickly took to him while they made him laugh with their messianic zeal to reduce his body fat.

  “You lunatics measure and weigh me like a 4-H cow. Don’t you have something better to do?” Peter definitely had a gut but his broad shoulders and sturdy limbs hid a lot of sins. He drove Ian and Andre crazy because his hiking boots were always encrusted with dirt which he tracked into their gym.

  “You are my punishment for having been very bad in a previous life,” Ian sighed. “Why can’t you at least hose off or buy a pair of cheap sneakers?”

  “Nope, I refuse to support the swoosh. I’m old-school; it’s either this or my old smelly feet, guys.”

  “Dude, you are like Pigpen from Charlie Brown,” Andre scolded, nipping at Peter’s heels with a Dirt Devil hand-vacuum. “And either you’ve been hitting MacDonald’s again or you have 6 pounds of dirt in your damn boots.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Peter.” Ian chuckled and patted Peter on the belly. “Would a carrot kill you? Even if it is dirt, you haven’t lost an ounce and your body fat is higher than ever. And has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a face for radio?”

  “I love being on the radio. You ever listen to me?�
��

  In fact, whenever Peter was announced as a guest, people tuned in for his rich baritone, Brutus stories, and musical stylings. He milked it for all it was worth and felt a responsibility to conjure up the heyday of beloved FM deejays when they spun great rock music and held a generation together.

  But the last time he appeared, just before his arrest, the free-spirited radio station had changed. Peter started to launch into the Brutus at PetSmart story, but the producer wouldn’t let him.

  “Peter,” the host leaned over and covered the microphone. “You can’t say ‘bosom’ on the air. Last time you told this story, we got some angry emails and calls.”

  “So, what am I supposed to say? Tits?”

  “No, don’t say that either. Also, don’t say buxom, well-endowed, chick, or hot babe. Maybe go with something new …”

  “Man, this political correctness crap makes it impossible to tell a good story.”

  “Peter,” the host sighed and held up his hands imploringly. “Tell a different story or wrap it up.”

  So, Peter, after a quick whispered lecture on the difficulties of finding tit synonyms, announced his lucky eagle feather catch, which he altered on the fly to feature Brutus more prominently.

  “Two weeks ago, and this is true, by the way, I caught a huge eagle feather drifting down from the sky. I knew it was a blessing from Mother Nature, so I raised my baseball cap in salute to that magnificent bird. I thanked her for bringing me good luck. I turn around to show Brutus and he’s gone. Suddenly, from the middle of the river, comes a loud voice through a megaphone. ‘We’ve got Brutus.’ I look around to see if he was dognapped, but it’s the high school crew team. Son-of-a-gun Brutus was pursuing some beaver and swam like halfway across the river before he gave out. They haul him out of the water, all panting and exhausted. They save his damn life. So, the spirits have smiled upon me and Brutus. And they can smile upon you. Find us down by the river, and I’ll gladly show you my epic plume.”

  The host moaned audibly as Peter winked at him. Before the producer could cut Peter’s mic, he said, “Step right up, ladies and gents. I’ll be taking names and kicking butt, so no cutting in line.”