The Chihuahua Desert is the kind of place where javelina patrol the dusk without a worry as to the nature of men or what they do. The kind of place where the light of the half moon is bright enough to wake a person from his dreams. The kind of place where the air can sit fixed for hours like fluid in a vessel and then rage at the pitch of night, pointing all the lechuguilla stalks south like a million compass needles. The kind of place where packs of fearless coyotes stroll through campsites, the source of human scent, indagating tires and tents in the dark of night.
He dreamt of being much younger and of his grandmother’s brother, Sheriff Conway Harland, arresting him after his girlfriend had helped him hide in her cellar. Harland chased him through the weathers of every season in a single night. In his dream, his crime wasn’t robbery but some deranged attempt to blow up something and the bomb squad boys told him, It’s a good thing that charge of yers didn’t go off cuz you woulda blown yerself to kingdom come; kingdom mutherfuckin come.
It would take several days for the Bluetooth adapter to arrive at the Panther Junction post office. Poole was in no hurry to ship it. In fact he nearly decided against it, experiencing a tinge of paranoia but he believed in Hatchet regardless of the risks. He shipped it FedEx ground a day late just to make him sweat and he didn’t answer any of Hatchet’s phone calls until the online tracking indicated arrival. He didn’t tell Jane right away about his contact with Hatchet and he never told her about his felonious obstruction of justice. She asked his whereabouts, wanted to know how he sounded and did he ask about her?
He asked how you took it. Did you tell him how I needlessly flipped out? I don’t think telling him you weren’t cool with it is admitting that you needlessly flipped out. Thank you. Poole told her that he sounded fine. He added that he actually sounded chipper. You think this thing could have changed him for the better, Jane? he asked later that night over shots of whiskey in a bar lit in neon. You’re not gonna go crazy on me too, are you? He sounded happier than I’ve heard him in a while; even with the arguing, he sounded relaxed like he was having a good time. Of course, he’s in a good mood, Poole, he’s $500,000 richer and he might have gotten away with it. True. But we both know—! she spat at him and realized they were drunk, we both know he’s gonna regret this; he needs us. Yeah. He’s gonna get cold out there and he’s gonna wanna come back and I don’t know if I can handle that. Poole watched the tear in her eye. He wagered inwardly whether it would fall or would she wipe it away? Blink it away?
Poole had spent his twenties working in a family owned pawnshop acquainting himself with the value of stolen property. Johnny and Ricky Buckney had spent their entire lives in that pawn shop, raised by their aunt and uncle who hailed from a region of Appalachia where they celebrate homecomings with a good ol’ fashioned car burning. They ran a by-the-book by-the-numbers business but their parenting style resembled that of any species of spider. Within a decade of tutelage in the store, Johnny and Ricky became one of only three trusted fencing operations in town. Even though this was a younger, more reckless Dexter Poole, he was infatuated more with the profits than the criminal thrill of it. In contrast, Johnny, a year younger than his brother, took to risky behavior, entertaining unlikely odds, trying to outrun a meth habit he had developed with a girlfriend that got him pinched for a few felonies worth of stolen property. The brothers uprooted and moved their operation to Fort Worth. Though the pair always seemed on the verge of total destruction, Poole understood the Buckneys and he felt he could trust them.
He dreamt of being much younger and of his grandmother’s brother, Sheriff Conway Harland, arresting him after his girlfriend had helped him hide in her cellar. Harland chased him through the weathers of every season in a single night. In his dream, his crime wasn’t robbery but some deranged attempt to blow up something and the bomb squad boys told him, It’s a good thing that charge of yers didn’t go off cuz you woulda blown yerself to kingdom come; kingdom mutherfuckin come.
It would take several days for the Bluetooth adapter to arrive at the Panther Junction post office. Poole was in no hurry to ship it. In fact he nearly decided against it, experiencing a tinge of paranoia but he believed in Hatchet regardless of the risks. He shipped it FedEx ground a day late just to make him sweat and he didn’t answer any of Hatchet’s phone calls until the online tracking indicated arrival. He didn’t tell Jane right away about his contact with Hatchet and he never told her about his felonious obstruction of justice. She asked his whereabouts, wanted to know how he sounded and did he ask about her?
He asked how you took it. Did you tell him how I needlessly flipped out? I don’t think telling him you weren’t cool with it is admitting that you needlessly flipped out. Thank you. Poole told her that he sounded fine. He added that he actually sounded chipper. You think this thing could have changed him for the better, Jane? he asked later that night over shots of whiskey in a bar lit in neon. You’re not gonna go crazy on me too, are you? He sounded happier than I’ve heard him in a while; even with the arguing, he sounded relaxed like he was having a good time. Of course, he’s in a good mood, Poole, he’s $500,000 richer and he might have gotten away with it. True. But we both know—! she spat at him and realized they were drunk, we both know he’s gonna regret this; he needs us. Yeah. He’s gonna get cold out there and he’s gonna wanna come back and I don’t know if I can handle that. Poole watched the tear in her eye. He wagered inwardly whether it would fall or would she wipe it away? Blink it away?
Poole had spent his twenties working in a family owned pawnshop acquainting himself with the value of stolen property. Johnny and Ricky Buckney had spent their entire lives in that pawn shop, raised by their aunt and uncle who hailed from a region of Appalachia where they celebrate homecomings with a good ol’ fashioned car burning. They ran a by-the-book by-the-numbers business but their parenting style resembled that of any species of spider. Within a decade of tutelage in the store, Johnny and Ricky became one of only three trusted fencing operations in town. Even though this was a younger, more reckless Dexter Poole, he was infatuated more with the profits than the criminal thrill of it. In contrast, Johnny, a year younger than his brother, took to risky behavior, entertaining unlikely odds, trying to outrun a meth habit he had developed with a girlfriend that got him pinched for a few felonies worth of stolen property. The brothers uprooted and moved their operation to Fort Worth. Though the pair always seemed on the verge of total destruction, Poole understood the Buckneys and he felt he could trust them.
Edit 11.22.2018