Read Online Armadillos & Old Lace by Kinky Friedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Kinky Friedman
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could see blood dripping from her breast and her side and her neck—”
“Hold the weddin’, J. Tom. It’s just some old lady’s dream. Maybe Violet Crabb had gas or something. Why are you trying to spook me with this?”
“I thought you’d be interested since you were checking up on the same old lady she was dreaming about. The two of you coming in like that was a little too close for coincidence. What’s goin’ on, Kinkster? You wouldn’t be wearing your Sherlock Holmes cap under that cowboy hat, would you?”
“Hell, no, J. Tom. You know I always wear my little yamaha under my cowboy hat. Covers my horns.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been hearin’ some rumors out of the courthouse to the effect that some of the recent deaths around the Hill Country may not have been from natural causes. I checked over some of those obits and there’s been a lot of little old ladies droppin’ like Texas houseflies around here lately.”
I paced back and forth in the trailer, like a tiger tethered to the telephone. I’d been careless letting J. Tom know what I was looking for. Now, whether I got into the case or not, I had a pesky journalist on my hands and in Kerrville it was always a slow day for news.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said.
“You still want to hear about Violet Crabb’s dream?” asked J. Tom relentlessly.
“Spit it.”
“Blood’s pouring out of her sister and suddenly the white dress goes up in flames. Just before she’s totally engulfed in the flames, she whispers one word.”
“Plastics?”
Graham laughed a little longer than was necessary. The cat eyed me impatiently.
“What the hell was the word?” I asked.
“Cotillion,” he said.
CHAPTER 15
The next morning I woke up to a nightmare of my own. A Martian was standing in the trailer at my bedside. Each of its eyes was tunneling blinding silver beams of light into my brain. The effect was paralyzing, not to say a bit unnerving. I’d always wanted to be picked up by a UFO, but not before breakfast.
“Kinky,” said the Martian. “Wake up!”
I sat up in bed and realized that the Martian was Marilyn and the tunnels of light were the sun’s rays reflecting off her thick glasses. On her head, I now observed, was a rather singular silver porpoiseshaped cap that read I SAW SEA WORLD.
Marilyn had, no doubt, left her bunkhouse early, possibly to avoid bunk cleanup, and somehow slipped into my trailer, where she’d stood there like a Martian and scared the hell out of me. Security was pretty lax on the ranch. I, of course, was in charge of security.
Marilyn was what we called a “floater.” Someone who didn’t necessarily go where they were supposed to go or stay where they were supposed to stay. They tended to cause havoc with bunkhouse counselors, but I felt a certain kinship with them. I’d been a floater most of my life.
We talked about cats and bugs and handicrafts for a while and eventually I aimed her in the direction of her bunkhouse group, put some coffee on, and fed the cat some tuna. While I waited for the coffee to perk I tended to my morning ablutions over the small sink next to the giant steer’s head. The eyeball, I noted, was still missing. It was a good thing, too. No matter how well you washed your face or brushed your hair, in the tin, carnival mirror of the green trailer everyone looked like William Henry Harrison.
The sun was doing its best to seep through dusty windows and rusty screens into the bowels of the trailer, but the place still gave off somewhat of a rain forest ambience. I took a cup of coffee, a cigar, the obituary notices, and a rather surly attitude and stepped outside the trailer into the blinding sunlight. A group of young boys, the Mavericks, I believe, came riding by on horseback and waved and shouted. I waved and shouted back.
“Good morning,” I said.
“It’s afternoon,” one kid yelled back.
Still searching for some pattern in the death notices of
“Hold the weddin’, J. Tom. It’s just some old lady’s dream. Maybe Violet Crabb had gas or something. Why are you trying to spook me with this?”
“I thought you’d be interested since you were checking up on the same old lady she was dreaming about. The two of you coming in like that was a little too close for coincidence. What’s goin’ on, Kinkster? You wouldn’t be wearing your Sherlock Holmes cap under that cowboy hat, would you?”
“Hell, no, J. Tom. You know I always wear my little yamaha under my cowboy hat. Covers my horns.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been hearin’ some rumors out of the courthouse to the effect that some of the recent deaths around the Hill Country may not have been from natural causes. I checked over some of those obits and there’s been a lot of little old ladies droppin’ like Texas houseflies around here lately.”
I paced back and forth in the trailer, like a tiger tethered to the telephone. I’d been careless letting J. Tom know what I was looking for. Now, whether I got into the case or not, I had a pesky journalist on my hands and in Kerrville it was always a slow day for news.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said.
“You still want to hear about Violet Crabb’s dream?” asked J. Tom relentlessly.
“Spit it.”
“Blood’s pouring out of her sister and suddenly the white dress goes up in flames. Just before she’s totally engulfed in the flames, she whispers one word.”
“Plastics?”
Graham laughed a little longer than was necessary. The cat eyed me impatiently.
“What the hell was the word?” I asked.
“Cotillion,” he said.
CHAPTER 15
The next morning I woke up to a nightmare of my own. A Martian was standing in the trailer at my bedside. Each of its eyes was tunneling blinding silver beams of light into my brain. The effect was paralyzing, not to say a bit unnerving. I’d always wanted to be picked up by a UFO, but not before breakfast.
“Kinky,” said the Martian. “Wake up!”
I sat up in bed and realized that the Martian was Marilyn and the tunnels of light were the sun’s rays reflecting off her thick glasses. On her head, I now observed, was a rather singular silver porpoiseshaped cap that read I SAW SEA WORLD.
Marilyn had, no doubt, left her bunkhouse early, possibly to avoid bunk cleanup, and somehow slipped into my trailer, where she’d stood there like a Martian and scared the hell out of me. Security was pretty lax on the ranch. I, of course, was in charge of security.
Marilyn was what we called a “floater.” Someone who didn’t necessarily go where they were supposed to go or stay where they were supposed to stay. They tended to cause havoc with bunkhouse counselors, but I felt a certain kinship with them. I’d been a floater most of my life.
We talked about cats and bugs and handicrafts for a while and eventually I aimed her in the direction of her bunkhouse group, put some coffee on, and fed the cat some tuna. While I waited for the coffee to perk I tended to my morning ablutions over the small sink next to the giant steer’s head. The eyeball, I noted, was still missing. It was a good thing, too. No matter how well you washed your face or brushed your hair, in the tin, carnival mirror of the green trailer everyone looked like William Henry Harrison.
The sun was doing its best to seep through dusty windows and rusty screens into the bowels of the trailer, but the place still gave off somewhat of a rain forest ambience. I took a cup of coffee, a cigar, the obituary notices, and a rather surly attitude and stepped outside the trailer into the blinding sunlight. A group of young boys, the Mavericks, I believe, came riding by on horseback and waved and shouted. I waved and shouted back.
“Good morning,” I said.
“It’s afternoon,” one kid yelled back.
Still searching for some pattern in the death notices of
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