Authors: Jacqueline Colt
The phone in the kitchen was ringing off the wall, Rocky slammed the screen door as she ran to capture the beast.
“Rocky, it is Jazz Harris, I’ve been trying to call you for a couple of days.”
“Hi, Jazz, uh, I had a dredging accident and been laid up, couldn’t get to the phone,” Rocky said.
“Holy crap, are you gonna be okay?” Jazz was almost breathless with concern.
“Eventually I will, I just have less of one finger,” Rocky explained.
“What! I’m coming right out there, you can’t be alone to recover. My God, I can be there in six hours.”
“Could you Jazz that would be so much help, just for a couple of days.”
“As long as you aren’t the patient from hell,” Jazz joked.
“I’m all that and more, come anyway, I’ll behave,"Rocky promised.
C
hapter 23
C
ontinuing to mull the job problem while she wandered the area, she took a reality check look at the meadow. There was a treasure trove of money waiting in the front yard beyond the patch of lawn. There was possibly a gold mine.
Setting her coffee mug down on the porch steps, she hurried into the warm cabin and found the old phone book.
Metal dealers, scrap metal dealers, metal recyclers. There were some listed, most in Sacramento. Rocky would prospect the metal mine in her front yard.
Not being able to drive that week, did not preclude moving the truck to the closest pile of metal and pitching scrap metal to make a truckload. A small truckload, she had no idea how much weight the old truck would be willing to haul to Sacramento next week.
“Okay, that was a worthwhile call,” Rocky told the uninterested dogs who were napping on the cooler porch.
“The scrap metal people do not take every kind of metal, but they said the price was good right now, for what they accept,” Rocky was feeling better; having her project of the week laid out. A call to the auto junkyard in Auburn was even more positive news. It would buy most vehicle parts.
"And, you guys." Still talking to the dogs. "Maybe we can find some big tub or something to use as a water catcher."
Rocky remembered to have her cell phone slung on her belt, and with a second mug of coffee, she again toured the front yard.
It must be the after effects of the painkillers; Rocky felt her brain was hopping from one subject to another.
She told the dogs, “I’m not waiting any longer to know, I’m calling the Sheriff Substation about Mom’s chairs.”
After waiting on hold long enough to do a complete walk around the cabin and to rescue Thumper the Jackrabbit from the soaker hose in the front, the dispatcher told Rocky that Deputy Dixon would call that day.
“Fine, I’ll surely be here,” Rocky said with some mild disgust, it seemed she was always waiting for someone to call or arrive.
The day continued along with Rocky picking small pieces of metal to go to the scrap yard, and trying to keep Thumper out of the river. The little jackrabbit was now completely bonded to the canine species and wanted to follow the dogs into the river for a swim. The soaker hose was a pale substitute to the bunny.
By late in the afternoon, Rocky was hot, dirty, sweaty and tired of scrap metal. The dogs and Thumper were cool, clean, damp,smelling of river water and sunshine.
Rocky was particularly tired of the Deputy Sheriff not returning her call. The county wasn’t that populated and certainly no hotbed of crime.
“Why isn’t he returning my call?” she asked of Thumper while wiping the mud from the little jackrabbit’s huge back feet. Thumper twinkled her nose and blinked her big brown eyes.
* * *
When Jazz drove them to Old Town, she mused as she stretched out in the seat. The friends had spent the morning on the two-bit tour of the gold country.
“I’ll get Daddy to buy the whole town and I could move out here and have so much fun.”
“Great, then please Madame Town Owner, lengthen the runway at the airport to take the jet, and put in lights so we could use it at night, but first run the county sewer line up to the cabin,” Rocky said. “I’d like having you as a neighbor and Mayor, very convenient.”
“Good idea,” Jazz said, “I like your thinking.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent giving Jazz practice with the dredge on dry land, and then she went into the river to check out her new equipment.
Jazz, of course, took to the underwater work like a little green frog. She was a natural athlete knowing how to use her body to achieve the goal. Rocky had shown Jazz the grid map on the wall of the living room. The grid delineated the portion of the river bottom that had previously been sampled and found gold bearing. She moved rocks from the grid they would use the first day Rocky was cleared to get wet.
Jazz and the dogs held swimming races up and down the river, with Jazz winning and Phoebe second. Thumper was a very unhappy bunny being stuck on the dry beach, slamming her big hind foot on the sand. Rocky sat on the beach with the aggravated rabbit and took photos of the group. Jazz was enough aware of the camera to ensure that her face was never in the camera’s viewfinder, Rocky did not notice.
Late in the afternoon the cabin smelled of sugar and baking from the morning when the group moved back inside. It was pleasant and homey smelling. Rocky and Jazz made grilled pizza on the new barbeque. They concocted a huge salad, and splurged on a glass of red wine each even though they knew that it would put them to sleep instantly. The friends sat on the little back porch. They fed an apple to Thumper and watched the stars appear before the moon rise.
“That is one of the reasons I like this place,” said Jazz pointing at the rising moon.
“Boston is so light that you hardly ever see the stars. As far from city center as we live, we don’t see the stars like this,” Jazz said. “This is magnificent."
They lapsed into comfortable silence enjoying the chirps, sighs, peeps from the sleepy wild critters and the thumping song of the frogs near the bridge. Rocky wondered if Callaghan liked to look at the stars.
* * *
“Darn, they did it again,” Rocky was fuming from the front porch in the morning sunshine.
“Did what?” said Jazz between sips from a glass of juice.
“They knocked down the mailboxes, and if you look over to the right, you will see that they also tagged the bridge with graffiti,” Rocky said. “This is the second time this week for the mailboxes and the post office lady won’t deliver the mail unless they are upright.”
“I thought only urban areas had problems like that,” Jazz said looking at the desecrated historic bridge.
“The mailboxes catch it at least once a week and the bridge about once a month,” Rocky said. “I’ll get the paint and roller. This is not what I wanted to do this morning,” Rocky commented in disgust. “If I ever get my hands on the little brats I’ll wring their scrawny necks,” Rocky planned.
“You are going to paint the bridge? Why don’t you call the city to come and paint it out?” Jazz asked.
“Because waiting on the county to do it, will take as long as the city of Boston to take care of it. I’m a proactive citizen. I straighten them up and paint it out,” Rocky explained.
“I don’t know how long the city would take to do that, we don’t have graffiti or a vandalizing problem in our neighborhood. It happened once a long time ago, Dad took care of it, and it hasn’t happened again,” Jazz said offhand.
“What did he do?” Jazz had Rocky’s full attention. She was tired of this paint and repair routine.
“I don’t know exactly, I was a teenager. I didn’t ask. I’m sure it was very proactive, though,” Jazz got an amused look on her face.
“I’ll be a half an hour or so,” Rocky said pulling on her boots.
After dark and dinner, there was a terrific shriek of metal against metal coming from the county road.
“Dang it, there go the mailboxes,” Rocky yelled as she made for the flashlight.
Jazz was out of the door before Rocky could breathe. As she jumped down the steps she could hear Jazz’ footfalls down the driveway. The dogs lit out after her, always ready for a good chase and capture.
By the time Rocky hotfooted it to the mailboxes, what she saw was a big truck impaled on the metal stake that Jazz had driven on an angle into the end of the row of mailboxes. Rocky heard a noise near the bridge and saw by flashlight beam Jazz duck walking a man toward the bridge. Rocky could catch a slight murmur of Jazz’ voice, by the time she ran onto the bridge she could hear the man shouting.
“I’m a juvenile, you can’t do this to me,” said the male voice.
Rocky arrived there in time to see Jazz dangle the juvenile over the edge of the bridge by his feet.
“Bitch, you are going to get in big trouble. You can’t do this to me. I’m seventeen. Pull me up right now, and I won’t hurt you,” he yelled.
Jazz leaned over the side of the stone bridge and said something to the boy. Then she swatted his body against the side of the stone bridge.
“Jazz you can’t do this. Whatever are you thinking?” Come on I’ll help you lift him up,” Rocky said.
“No, don’t come near here, Rocky, I’ve got him,” Jazz said now holding him with one hand as she warded Rocky off with the other.
“Jazz, this is not good, you can get into real trouble,” Rocky pleaded.
“Hey, listen to her bitch, ya know, you are going to be in trouble. You are going to jail, to jail. My Dad will see to it that you rot. I’m a juvenile, you can’t do a thing to me.”
The boy was bent in the middle so he could look at Jazz as he screamed at her.
“When does being a juvenile excuse property damage and a bad mouth?” Jazz again slammed the kid into the side of the bridge.
“Crap that hurts, stop that. Are you fuckin’ nuts? Let me up. I said I wouldn’t hurt you, I won’t, I promise,” the boy crossed his heart as Jazz slapped him for the third time against the bridge.
“How much do you weigh, bambino?” Jazz asked in a calm reasonable voice that was scaring the heck out of Rocky.
“Huh?” the startled frightened boy responded.
“Come on, how much do you weigh? Stop stalling if you want to get out of the mess you have gotten yourself in,” Jazz was almost whispering by then.
Jazz turned to Rocky, and with a glint in her eye asked, “How deep is the river right here?”
“It is around twenty feet at this time of year,” Rocky answered, hoping against hope that it was a bluff with the kid.
“Honey Babe, answer me this, how much do you weigh?” Jazz asked for the third and Rocky suspected the final time.
“Uh, one twenty, why? You stupid ugly old witch, you are going to be in trouble. Get me up, my head is starting to hurt. I need some Tylenol. This is kidnapping, you can’t do this to me. I have rights,” the kid was winding up for another tirade.
“The only right you have is the right to shut your mouth,” Jazz advised.
“Ya know what you are, you’re brainless. You’re Looney Tunes, nine cents short of a dime, one bulb short of a…,” the boy did not finish his sentence.
Jazz let go of the boy’s ankles and dusted her hands together like she was ridding them of kid cooties.
Jazz said, “That was proactive, Rocky, not painting.”
With her back held in a confident attitude Jazz stalked back across the bridge, leaving Rocky staring over the side looking for the boy’s body.
In a brief moment the sputtering teenager, was splashing on the surface of the river, and Rocky saw Jazz smoothly dive into the water.
Rocky ran as fast as she could across the bridge, arriving at the river edge in time to see Jazz with a headlock on the teen, climb out of the river. Jazz had the boy bent backward with the headlock, even though he was taller, and she looked as if she had no intention of letting go. Jazz again duck walked the boy back up the rise toward the mail boxes.
When Jazz was close to the impaled truck, she shoved the boy into the cab of his truck. She tossed him his cell phone.
“Call your Dad to come and get you,” she demanded. “Do it now.”
The boy sat on the driver’s side and rubbed his neck. He started to shiver and not from the cold.
“I said call your father now, tell him to come and get you. Do it now,” Jazz demanded again in a colder than a glacier voice.
“I can’t call my Dad, he will kill me,” the boy replied using the classic standard teenager excuse.
“Sweet Pea, there are two options here in this game plan. One is that you call your Dad, and he kills you. Can you guess what your second option is?” Jazz asked softly.
The boy’s head flew up and he looked at Jazz standing next to the truck with her hands at her sides.
Somehow, she was looking threatening and yet nonthreatening.
“What’ll I say; I don’t know what to say? He’s going to kill me,” the boy whined.
“You’ll tell him that you mowed down the mailboxes and in doing so you impaled his truck’s radiator on a metal stake. You’ll tell him you were going to paint obscenities on a historic bridge, but thought better of it. You’ll tell him that the truck will require a tow truck and you will require a ride,” Jazz stated as she turn away and walked toward the driveway. As the women walked up the driveway Rocky still had the feeling of dread in her stomach.
“Jazz, setting aside the fact the kid is a juvenile, he could have hurt you.” Rocky said feeling the need to talk, though uncertain how to approach the subject.
“Not even close,” Jazz replied succinctly.
“Yes, you were, he is so much bigger than you are,” Rocky stated flatly.
“Rocky, that kid gets exercise by rolling a mouse. His arms were like marshmallows and he had a gut. He isn’t old enough to have his full strength and coordination. Two years from now, I wouldn’t consider messing with him myself.” Jazz was looking like they are discussing some gymnastic event she coached, instead of assault on a juvenile.
“But he could have been hurt when you dropped him off the bridge. Jazz that was a stupid thing to do,” Rocky said.