Nobody's Fool Y'all

16

 She drove to the Hope Rock Mini Storage on the outskirts of town. She parked in front of storage unit number 16B. It was an extra-large one on the corner. She took out her key and opened the lock. Pushing up the garage door, she entered the unit. 

Smiling, she opened the door of the '55 Chevy and cranked it up. The big motor under the hood purred like a kitten.

Easing the car out, she parked alongside her sedan. She got her luggage out and put it into the cavernous trunk of the old Chevy. She drove her newer car inside the storage shed and locked the door. She pulled the garage door down and secured the lock.

"Road trip time, here we come," she said.

Hadley put the top down. She cranked up and backed out onto the road. She'd only gotten a few miles when she noticed the car started steering funny. The Chevy was pulling to one side, and it felt like she was driving through tar.

A flat tire.

She eased off onto the edge of the road. Luckily for her, there was a wide grassy area where she could park without a risk of being hit by other passing cars. 

At least, that was a blessing, she thought. So many mountain roads had narrow shoulders, and for Hadley, almost non-existent guardrails.

That's not to say there were not guardrails, but for Hadley, if one side of the road dropped off into a gorge miles deep, you needed nice big, high guardrails. Of course, if the road crews had taken her advice, no one, except perhaps tractor-trailer drivers, would be able to see any of the beautiful scenic views.

She got out of the car and inspected the damage.

"I should have taken you out for spins regularly," she muttered. "Harry always said the tires would dry rot if a car wasn't driven."

She popped the trunk.

A battered old pickup came down the road. The driver passed her, turned around, and slowly parked behind her. 

Hadley would recognize that rust bucket anywhere. You could barely read the four letters on the tailgate. There was a war being staged on the back of that old truck. Between the rust and the dirt, the painted letters did not stand much of a chance. The rust elsewhere on that old clunker was gaining ground, too.

The driver's door creaked in protest at being forced to open. It made Hadley wonder if the old door wouldn't drop to the ground. A dirty brown boot dropped from the cab and was suspended for a moment in midair. 

A man in his thirties stepped out of the truck, a smile on his face. But as Hadley always noted, the smile was more smirk than anything else.

"Hey, Bo Dean," she said.

"Looks like to me," Bo Dean said, "you're havin' a right smart bit of trouble on a lonely, deserted road."

"I'll say," she said.

The hairs stood up on the back of Hadley's neck. Bo Dean sauntered up close and rubbed his hand along the glossy paint of the Chevy. His nails were long and dirty. His hands were grimy. Hadley glimpsed down to make sure Bo Dean's hand did not leave a slimy streak behind.

"She's surely a beauty," Bo Dean said.

He licked his lips and stared down at Hadley intensely.

He wore a white tee shirt, plain with no logo. The veins in his arms stood up under his skin. His biceps bulged. 

Bo Dean was not wearing his usual ball cap. His hair was shaved on the sides and short on top. The hairline at his temples was receding faster than flood waters after a storm. But it was his eyes that made Hadley squirm like a worm on the end of a hook. They were dark and intense. And he had a way of lowering his forehead so that he appeared to be looking right through you.

Bo Dean was a walking billboard for trouble. He knew it, and he wanted you to know it, too.

"You still keep this gem locked up at the mini storage?"

Hadley knew that Bo Dean was fishing for information. She was usually open and forthright, giving most folks the benefit of the doubt and believing in the good of mankind. But Bo Dean Bradley caused all her red flags to unfurl and flap feverishly.

"Bo Dean," she said, "I'm in a hurry. I've got to change this tire and meet Maury."

The mention of the sheriff's wife had the just effect on Bo Dean that Hadley hoped.

"I'll help you out, Hadley," he said. "Don't get your feathers ruffled. Just tryin' to be friendly."

Too friendly, she thought. Bo Dean watched over Hadley's shoulder as she took the key and popped the trunk. She felt his warm breath on her ear.

"Had a lotta trunk space in these old ones, didn't they," he said.

"Bo Dean," she said, "back up! I'm liable to bump into you and stumble over my own two feet trying to stay out of your way."

Bo Dean took a step back.

"Before you start," she said, "I've only got ten dollars in my pocket. It's all I can pay you. If that's not enough, tell me now. I'll change the tire myself. Harry taught me how years ago. It's not rocket science. And like I said, I'm in a hurry."

"I'll change your flat," he said.

Hadley stepped aside and let him work. She hated to eyeball the man every second, but with Bo Dean, it paid to be vigilant.

Bo Dean ignored her. He knew what folks said about him. Far from feeling ashamed, he seemed not to care at all. Many adjectives came to mind when his name was mentioned. And none of them were good. Shifty. Lazy. No account. A bum. A hoodlum. The list was endless.

But Bo Dean had one ace in the hole. His sister thought the sun rose and set on him and nothing he was accused of, or ever did, would convince her otherwise. She protected him, enabled him, and paid his bail after his many scrapes with the law.

Hadley kept her eyes glued on Bo Dean to ensure the tire was changed correctly and the jack and flat were put back securely in the trunk.

"Here's your money," she said. "Thanks for your help."

"My pleasure," he said.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

"You ever want to get rid of this," he said, pointing to the car, "give Nylette a call."

"I'll keep that in mind," Hadley said, watching him walk back to his truck.