Fayette Flatts

"You need to calm down."

These were the words Billie Olsen said up close and personal in Shawn Silverman's face as he stormed into her beer joint.

"Calm down, Hell!" Silverman responded.

He tossed his lanky frame on a barstool loud enough for all the drunks in the rickety one-room tavern, with its chipped-paint front door and spidered window pane, to notice his arrival. Sawdust scattered.

Not giving an inch to the undergrowth of a caterpiller's butt, Billie asked, "You seated?"

"Yea, I'm situated," Silverman replied. His blood boiled.

Billie's no uncertain terms told him, "Good. I'll bring you a Coors silver bullet. It's your favorite kind of beer. After you guzzle the drink you can crush the soft aluminum can like a macho man for all I care."

"I will," Silverman promised. He slapped the top of the bar with a meaty hand and asserted, "Then, when I'm through with that, I'm going to murder that lying, cheating, no account twin brother of mine!"

Billie stopped cold in her tracks stone still. Silverman's threat grabbed her undivided attention. Quickly, she changed the subject. "You're gonna do no such thing, Shawn! What you will do is tell me about your excursion to Maine. I want to hear all about the moose you nabbed. Now, you just keep your tail where it's at and I'll be right back with your cold one. You'll feel better, you temperamental old goat."

His anger not suppressed, Silverman sat where he was...and smouldered. Done with that, he huffed. The heavy breaths he blew out expressed his annoyance. Then, he puffed his wrath. Smoke billowed out his ears.

The entire time she was gone, Billie never cut her eyes off him. She was the one person in Silverman's life who could calm the mountaineer down when he raged. She prayed nothing flew out of his hand up beside a patron's unsuspecting head. True friends, Silverman knew her door was always open, and her path free to walk any time he desired.

His hesitant steps deliberate, Floyd Peters, one of the least popular dregs of Fayette Flatts society approached Silverman. Discolored by tobacco, he missed most of his green teeth. They'd been kicked out of his chompers in barroom brawls he'd lost. Floyd sported a thick half-inch scar above his left eyebrow. A trophy of his most successful motorbike race as a kid.

Nervous, on the verge of hyperventilation, Floyd feared impending danger. He began with a simple, "See you back in town, Shawn."

No intention of being bothered, Silverman replied, "That I am. What's on your mind?"

Floyd wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. The act accomplished little. Beads of perspiration still appeared. "You and me is friends, right?"

A red flag alerted Silverman an issue he wanted no part of was about to be dropped on him. The rambler sat back and answered, "Reckon I'm the only one you got."

Skittish as a prancing wild mustang, Floyd licked his wet lips. He said, "Better just come out and tell ya. Don't lose your temper, Shawn, but, I done bagged your old lady."

Silverman jumped up on his feet in explosive indignation. Provoked by the spark of Floyd's confession, he shoved the stool he'd been seated on aside. It slid halfway across the floor. His hands clinched in tight fists, he swung at Floyd, but missed, and punched a hole through the plywood wall. Frightened, Floyd bolted out the door.

Silverman reached for the reddish-brown hunting knife strapped to his waist. He felt its mahogany, straight-grained handle in the shape of a wolf's head. A young couple he never saw before walked through the door draped over each other. The twosome stood between him and Floyd. With a silent vow of sworn revenge, the hunt commenced. Fueled by the situation, anxious tension filled the bar.

Scurrying, Billie brought a beer and placed it on the counter. Residue from the bottom of the sixteen ounce can left a ring in place. Her eyes flashed to the door. She asked, "What was that no good scoundrel Floyd up to now?"

His stoic posture rigid and upright, contempt radiating on his face, Silverman replied, "Floyd failed to remember sometimes there's severe consequences for his actions. This is one of those occasions." He swallowed half the beer she offered, came up for air, and assured her, "But, that's between him and me."

Billie's request made out of desperation, she implored. "Let it go, Shawn."

"I can't. The degenerate varmint's been with Delores," Silverman told her.

Overpowering surprise amazed her. Billie asked. "Say what? Your wedding's ten days away."

Finishing the drink in his can, Silverman assured her, "There's going to be plenty of celebrating. But, there ain't gonna be no wedding. I got some people to kill."

Billie knew Silverman's words rang true. With a drag on her lit Marlboro, she said, "Go ahead. Throw your life down the toilet, Shawn. Nothing I say is going to stop you." Knowing she was right, Billie crushed out her cancer stick.

*****

Dusk settled in as the last light of evening faded from the sky. Floyd side-stepped overgrown graves in the Forest Glenn Cemetary. He noticed the partially fallen fence around the perimeter and several tombstones leaned. Unrestrained emotions of trepidation, and sinister dancing shadows, panicked him.

Floyd told himself, "It's just mind games. Keep moving at all costs."

When a dark cat darted in front of where he about stepped, Floyd's heart raced. He feared it might explode in his chest. Floyd reached into his pocket. He extracted and popped two nitro glycerin tablets into his mouth. Exasperated, he exclaimed, "Land o' Goshen!"

Triumphantly gleeful, Floyd cleared the graveyard. He looked around. The sight of no one present placated his worry. Floyd stumbled his way through a patch of thick leaves and arid grass. He tripped over arched shoots and deep ruts. When he grabbed a handful of prickly thistles on his way down, Floyd picked himself up with loud curses.

Clear of the tangled brambles, Floyd entered a swamp where mangrove and cypress trees, gnarled like knuckles on a withered hand, rooted deep in Pullman Hollow. In a rush, his boots bogged down in the brackish mire. His precarious footing became treacherous. A slanted wood shack stood in the distance. Floyd pounded on the door like a jackhammering redheaded woodpecker.

Delores Caballero opened it wide. Angled away from Floyd, she looked past him. Exasperated, she proclaimed, "You crazy fool! You look like you see'd a ghost! What's wrong with you?"

Floyd's reckless haste told her, "Shawn's back in town."

Alarmed by the unexpected news, Delores's head convulsed as her neck contorted. She said, "He's not supposed to be here for two more days!"

"He mustta got wind someone's dug under his back fence. I told Shawn what we done," Floyd declared.

Goaded by the loss of her temper, Delores slapped Floyd hard on top of his shoulder and demanded, "What did you go and do that for you moron?"

Floyd replied, "Shawn wouldda found out on his own accord. What was I supposed to do? Play tiddlywinks?"

A hostile frown formed on Delores's face. She scowled, "I wouldn't care if you jumped off the train trestle bridge and drowned in the Elk River below it! You weren't nothing 'cept easy pickings to me when my man wasn't around!"

Emotional distress shattered Floyd's feelings.

Rapid jibber-jabber emitted from Delores's mouth, "Shawn's like a-a bloodhound that's, that's, you know,, hit a trail. He won't turn loose no matter what until, until, it comes to an end. What are we gonna do?"

"I'm skedaddlin' home in a big hurry and grabbin' a tote sack. Then, I'm hightailin' outta town for a spell 'til the dust settles. We ain't got no time to waste. Suggest you do the same thing," Floyd answered her.

He left Delores in her bare feet and hurried in the direction of his post and beam cabin. Floyd knew he had to stay one step ahead of Silverman to remain alive.

**********

Orange tongues of heated flames engulfed Floyd's cabin and the weed-grown property blazed like a tinderbox. Sirens screamed in the not too far off distance. Silverman glanced across a clearing. He observed someone with a polythylene gas can in hand. No explanation needed to be exchanged between them. Silverman knew why the person was there.

"Get outta here!" Silverman hollered.

They hesitated and stared back at him.

This time more desperate, Silverman yelled once more. "Get outta here!"

He watched the person slip behind a poplar tree and disappear into the grove. Silverman wanted Floyd Peters dead, but not in an inferno. He realized there was nothing he could do. Silverman heard a stern voice behind him.

"Drop your gun!" Sheriff Plunkett ordered.

Like molasses run through a sieve, Silverman slowly turned around. He pointed his pistol at the sheriff.

"In case you did not hear me the first time, I said drop your gun, Silverman!" Sheriff Plunkett stood his ground.

Silverman raised the barrel of his gun as though he intended to fire his weapon. Sheriff Plunkett squeezed off a round. A clean-and-through that entered Silverman's belly and exited his back. Silverman grabbed his stomach. His eyes widened as he realized death's dark realm enclosed him. Before he fell dead, Silverman felt the warm stickiness of his own blood gush from the inflicted wound.

Sheriff Plunkett picked up Silverman's .44. He noticed the barrel was unspotted. He smelled the weapon for gunpowder. There were no signs the pistol had ever been fired. Sheriff Plunkett checked the chamber for bullets. It was empty, which puzzled him. Frustrated, he asked, "Dang you, Shawn! Why'd you make me have to shoot you?"


************


Billie Olsen dropped to her knees as the casket-lowering device gently slid Silverman's casket into the cement vault in the fresh dug grave. She covered the black veil on her face with her hands and let the faucet run. At least one person in attendance knew for sure a legend was buried with Shawn Silverman that day. A secret that would never be revealed. The secret of Fayette Flatts.