Читать книгу The Case of the Booby-Trapped Pickup - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: A Terrible Explosion

Did you understand any of that business about the witch? I never figured it out, but when you work around Drover, you have to expect a certain amount of chaos and nonsense. But the important thing is that we were able to rush two loyal dogs to the scene of Slim’s latest crisis.

We got there just in time. Slim’s face had turned red. There was fire in his eyes and his lips were pulled back in a snarl of rage. He held a ball-peen hammer in his right hand and, well, I got the impression that he was ready to throw it through the windshield.

“Okay, Drover, let’s set the formation. It’s obvious that Slim needs our help.”

“Gosh, what’ll we do?”

“What do you think? We bark, of course, but not ordinary barks. For this deal, we’d better go to Motor Tune-up Barks. Ready? Let ’er rip!”

Boy, you should have been there. It was really something to see and hear—two brave dogs pouring heart and soul into a chorus of barking against rust, corrosion, sludge, and your other evil agents that cause pickups to quit running. I don’t know as we’d ever done a better job with the Motor Tune-up Program, and I think it would have worked if only . . .

I guess Slim didn’t understand what we were doing. (How many times has that happened? Thousands of times.) Maybe he thought we were just barking, just a couple of dumb mutts yapping at nothing in particular. In other words, he missed the whole point of the Motor Tune-up Barking Procedure. Just about the time we had really gotten into a rhythm and were pumping out some outstanding barks, he whirled around and screeched, “Knock off the dadgum noise, will you?”

HUH? Knock off the . . .

Okay. Fine. Sure. If that’s the way he felt about it, you bet, we could sit there like knots on a log and let his dumb old pickup rot into the ground. I mean, I had plenty of things to do and didn’t need to take his insults. If he thought he could fix his rattletrap piece-of-junk pickup without help from his dogs, by George, that was fine with me.

I turned to my assistant. “Okay, Drover, let’s shut ’er down. Our help isn’t wanted here.”

“Oh, darn. I was just getting into the good part.”

“I know, but we can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped. We’ll just have to let him learn the hard way. Mark my words, son, they’ll have to tow that pickup all the way into town and leave it with a mechanic.”

“Gosh, that’s too bad. You reckon we could have fixed it?”

“Oh, sure, no question about it. Two more minutes of barking would have done the trick. But don’t be discouraged. We did all two dogs could have done. Let’s get out of here.”

I gave Slim one last wounded glance and started to leave, but just then Loper came walking up from the house. I figured we might as well stick around and witness the next chapter in the drama.

Loper walked up to the front of the pickup and looked under the hood. “Problem?”

Slim nodded and gestured with the hammer. “Yalp, but if you’ll leave for about five minutes and cover your ears, I think I can fix it.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Won’t start.”

“It’s probably flooded. I smell gasoline.”

“It’s a piece of junk.”

Loper gave his head a shake. “Slim, some of us have the talent to fix machinery and some don’t. You couldn’t fix a yo-yo if the string broke.”

“Yeah? Then start it yourself.”

“I will. The secret is, don’t pump the foot-feed.”

“I didn’t.”

“That floods the motor.” Loper opened the pickup door and sat behind the wheel. “Watch and study your lessons, Slimbo.” Loper turned the key and cranked the motor. He cranked it for two minutes and nothing happened.

A lopsided smirk spread across Slim’s mouth. “Don’t quit now. You’ve still got some battery left.”

Loper showed him the palm of his hand. “Patience. That was just Step One. Did you open up the carburetor?”

Slim hitched up his jeans. “No, I didn’t, and do you know why?”

“Because you’re too lazy.”

“No sir. The reason is that the last time me and you tried that, we had a little explosion.”

Loper shrugged. “That was a freak. I’ll have a look.”

“Okay, buddy, you’re paying the bills on this outfit.”

Loper removed the air filter and looked into the carburetor. “Give ’er a crank.” Sitting behind the wheel, Slim hit the starter and the motor turned over several times. It didn’t start. Loper raised his hand in the air. “Hold it. I see the problem. It’s getting too much gas.”

Slim heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “Loper, the pickup’s twenty years old and it wants to be traded off for a newer model. You can’t run a ranch with junkyard equipment.”

“Sure you can. That’s how you stay in business in a bad cattle market.” Loper walked into the barn and came back with a handful of wrenches. He flashed a grin. “I’ll have it running in five minutes.”

Slim shook his head. “In five minutes, you’ll have parts strung out over three acres, and it still won’t start.”

Loper brought a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’ll never learn anything if you’re flapping your mouth all the time.”

Loper leaned over the fender and went to work on the . . . whatever it was. Slim looked down at us dogs and grinned. “Y’all watch. He don’t remember what happened the last time we tried this, but I do.”

Slim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while Loper clanked and banged under the hood. After about five minutes, he yelled, “Okay, give ’er a crank.”

Slim stuck his head out the window. “Reckon you ought to step back a ways?”

Loper shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Slim, we’re burning daylight.”

“That ain’t all we’re fixing to burn.”

“Crank the motor!”

“Okay, buddy, you asked for this.”

Slim hit the starter and . . .

KA-BLOOEY!

The top half of Loper’s body disappeared inside a cloud of blue smoke while his hat and several pieces of the former air filter floated down to the ground. As the smoke began to clear, I could see Loper standing there with a dazed expression on his face. He was still in one piece, but it appeared that some of his hair had been singed and he’d lost about 30 percent of his mustache.

Slim was chuckling when he stepped out of the cab. “Are you hurt?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you about it.” Loper snatched his hat off the ground and slapped it back on his head. “Find a nylon towrope and let’s haul this wreck into town.”

“You going to trade it off, finally?”

“No, I’m going to get it fixed. That’s a good pickup.”

“Oh yeah, when it ain’t dead or blowing up. Loper, that thing’s got two hundred thousand miles on it.”

“That’s right, and we’ll drive it another two hundred thousand. Let’s head for town.”

“Loper?” Slim walked over and laid a hand on Loper’s shoulder. “As one of the few friends you have left in this world, I need to tell you something.” Loper shot him a suspicious glare. Slim leaned closer and whispered, “Half your mustache got blowed off. Before we go to town, you might want to trim the other side so you don’t look like a crazy person.”

Loper’s hand went to his upper lip and felt around. He seemed surprised that Slim was right. “Get the towrope,” he snarled, and went down to the house to trim his whiskers.

Well, that had started the morning off with a bang. (A little humor there. Did you get it? Started the morning off with a bang. Ha ha.) But when the cowboys left the scene of the explosion, I glanced around and realized that . . . Drover was missing! Fearing the worst, I searched the immediate area around the pickup and found no trace of the little mutt. What I found was . . .

I’m not sure that I should reveal this next part. I mean, all my training in Security Work had prepared me for the tragic side of life, but I’m thinking of the kids. You know my Position on Kids: I hate to scare ’em or shock ’em too badly, or give ’em stories that’ll make ’em cry. And when I saw those little pieces of white fuzz on the ground . . .

Oops. I wasn’t going to say anything but it just popped out, so now the cat is out of the sandbag. Okay, we might as well plunge into it.

In the course of conducting an All Points Search for Little Drover, who was missing in action, I found several fragments of whitish fuzz lying on the ground. They looked very much like . . .

I can’t say it. It’s too hard, too sad. I mean, Drover was the weirdest little met I’d ever mutted, but we’d worked together for years, and after all we’d been through together . . . a guy gets attached to his comrades, you know. We shouldn’t. In a dangerous business like Security Work, we’re always aware that, well, one of us might not come back from a haderous mission.

A hadderzous mission.

A hazzzeruss mission.

A hazzarduss mission.

HOW DO YOU SPELL THE STUPID WORD? I don’t care. Skip it.

Now I don’t remember what I was talking about. This really burns me up, because I know it was something important. The weather? Maybe that was it. The weather that morning was pretty nice, a little chilly but . . .

We weren’t talking about the weather. Bones? Maybe so. I love bones, all kinds of bones, but I guess my favorite is steak bones. Ham bones are pretty nice, especially when they’ve been cooked in a big pot of pinto beans, but for flavor and chewing excitement, you can’t beat . . .

Wait. Drover had vanished, remember? And we had just discovered a few pitiful fragments of his . . . well, his exploded body. I hate to put it that way (the kids), but sometimes we can’t escape life’s terrible tragedies, no matter how hard we try.

I heard a voice beside me. It said, “Boy, the air filter sure got shredded.”

“That’s not an air filter, pal. You’re looking at the remains of a friend of mine.”

“Gosh, how sad. What was his name?”

“His name was . . . ” I turned and looked at the mysterious stranger who had . . .

HUH?

Never mind. Skip it. Sorry I brought it up.