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A Vane Attempt
by Terry Sanville

“I got a Texas-sized hole in my front page,” Clyde McAllister complains. “Go find somethin’ ta fill it.”

“I can think of a few things to stuff in your hole,” Steve Edwards, the Star’s senior reporter, cracks.

“Ha, ha, very funny. Just dig up somethin’…and make it quick.”

“What do you want me to do, make up a story?”

“Don’t care,” the editor says.

“How much do you need?” Steve asks.

Clyde chews thoughtfully on his unlit Crooks cigar then spits into the Styrofoam cup he carries around. “Better make it at least ten column inches, with a photo.”

“You know it’s too late for today’s edition. Give me ’till tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will be worse. Ever since the Bradleys’ incest trial finished up, it’s been slim pickin’s. If ya can’t find something we’ll have ta run Ernie Dillard’s Ford ads on the front page.”

“Jesus, not that fat son-of-a-…”

“Hey, remember where ya workin.’ You’re not chasin’ stories for some fu fu El Lay paper anymore.”

“Got it. But get some rim rat to dig up today’s filler. I’ll deliver for tomorrow.” Steve leans his big sloppy body back in his chair and tightens a sagging suspender. “Just need to make a few connections.”

“Then get the hell out there and do it.” Clyde points to the newsroom door.

Grumbling, Steve shambles through the front entrance of the tin-sided building and pauses in the hot shade under the lone tree along Blanco’s dusty Main Street. He jumps when the noontime siren high atop the old brick-and-plaster Courthouse blares into action. Damn it, keep expecting an earthquake or tsunami, he complains to himself. He stares past the Courthouse and across the square. A clutter of pickups crowd in front of a gray clapboard building, the rear half of its roof burned away and gaping. Steve re-crimps his cowboy hat and ambles toward the saloon, pointed boots slapping against the skillet-hot sidewalk. A few Texas-sized margaritas should help fill the void, he thinks.

* * *

Chuck Bruster and his third cousin Merle Orthomeyer are whooping it up at the Sweet Blanco Rose, downing glasses of Liberation Ale and swapping stories. Chuck used to work as a mortician at Offy’s Funeral Parlor and Crematorium. Offy fired him after he caught Chuck pinching jewelry from the stiffs, including an emerald pendant from around Miss Ida Mae Thompson’s throat, one of her most overworked organs.

As for Merle, nobody quite knows what he does. But every time some housewife reports laundry stolen from the Wash-O-Rama, the March of Dimes coin box at the Pick ’n Save disappears, or a case of burgers goes missing from the DQ, a black-and-white rolls up to Merle’s ’55 Airstream and hauls him away.

Today, the cousins are behaving themselves. Merle greets each new saloon patron with a broad grin and a fine, country, “Howdy, how y’all doin?’”

“Sa how’s Blanco’s ace reporter?” Chuck calls out as Steve Edwards pushes through the heavy door into the dark interior. “That’s ace with two s’s.”

“Too damn hot. How you boys stand it?”

“Cold beer, lots of it,” Merle answers and belches. The other patrons nod. An old replay of a Cowboys game is showing on the badly adjusted color TV and every few moments there’s a chorus of hoots and yells. The bar feels like a stuffy closet full of shoes, but doesn’t smell half as good.

“Give me a margarita rocks with lots of ice,” Steve tells the bartender and slides onto the stool next to Chuck.

“You’re in a bit early today,” Eric says and shoves a tall glass into the ice.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a story. Anybody leave one here by mistake?”

Eric grins and fingers the unlit cigarette tucked in back of a radar-dish ear.

Chuck leans in close. “I hears the widow Lowery is puttin’ out again.”

“That’s no crime, unless she’s giving some to you or Merle.”

“Well, word goin’ round she’s gettin’ a monetary, ah, remuneration for her services.” Merle stumbles over the word Steve taught him the week before.

“You know that for a fact?” Steve asks.

“I don’t got no money, so no. But maybe Chuck and me could do some research for y’all if you stake us the price of a piece of ace.”

“In your shape I’d be surprised if you can get it up… off that bar stool.”

Eric laughs and sets a full dripping glass with salted rim in front of Steve. The reporter downs half of it before coming up for air. When he does a bright flickering light shines through the transom window above the front door and splashes across bottles of Jack Daniels, Old Crow, peppermint schnapps, various tequilas, and Jägermeister.

“Ah, jeez,” Merle complains. He shields his eyes from the glare and pulls a filthy baseball cap down over gray-streaked curls.

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

“The County put a new weathervane on top of the Courthouse,” Eric says. “Every day about this time the sun catches that damn rooster just right and it shines in here. Disturbs the old alkies… er, sorry Merle, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“Hey Steve, maybe you could write a column about it,” Chuck says, ”ya know, complain to the powers that be.”

Steve finishes his margarita and motions for another. “I can already see the headline: ‘County Puts Cock on Roof.’”

“Nah, I gots ya a better one,” Merle says. “County Screws Cock to Courthouse.”

“Or how about, ‘County Uses Cock to Tell Which Way the Wind Blows,’” Eric says.

“Yeah, but you gotta put up curtains or somethin,’” Chuck complains. “That damn light’s givin’ me a headache.”

“I’d rather be drinkin’ Lucy’s swill down the street than put up with that,” Merle says.

“Why don’t you boys just march on over there and give the County Clerk the what for,” Eric shoots back.

The cousins scowl and stare into their beer glasses. Eric eyes Steve.

The reporter frowns. “Don’t look at me. I come in here late when the glare isn’t a problem. But ya know, I saw one of them rooster weathervanes at a flea market over in Johnson City. The guy wanted five hundred bucks for the thing. Said it was a real collectors’ item.”

Chuck and Merle simultaneously raise their heads. Eric moves to the other end of the bar to be out of earshot of anything incriminating.

* * *

It’s two o’clock on Saturday morning and the cousins have just finished last call at the Blanco Rose. Outside, a cold fog tickles Chuck’s skin. He scratches his bare arms -- he’s only wearing a wife-beater undershirt -- and then his ass. Merle fumbles for keys and climbs behind the wheel of a battered turquoise pickup, only to realize it’s Chuck’s truck he’s sitting in. He slides out, grins sheepishly, and stumbles around to the passenger side.

“Just what the hell did ya think you were doin?’” Chuck asks from the edge of the saloon’s front porch.

“Your heap is just as ugly as mine. I got confused,” Merle says.

“Well, if ya ever had any money, you could get some decent wheels… or at least a goddamn good paint job.” Chuck joins Merle in the cab.

“The Rose is takin’ all my scratch,” Merle grumbles.

“Yeah, mine too. So what da ya think? Wanna go looking for somethin?’”

“Nah, I’m too drunk ta do any second story work.”

“What about third story work?” Chuck points to the Courthouse across the square and the bronze rooster that seems to float in the fog above its roof. Corner spotlights illuminate the widow’s walk and glint off the weathervane.

“Do y’all think Steve was right about that thing?” Merle asks.

“He’s a smart guy, always workin’ the angles. If we could get three hundred we’d be set for, ya know, a couple three weeks.”

“I don’t know. Riskin’ ma neck for a stupid cock...and the cops...”

“Those boys are asleep in the basement, don’t worry about ’em.”

“Yeah, well if it’s so easy, why don’t you haul your sorry ass up there?”

“’Cause I’m the brains of this operation and you’re not,” Chuck says. “I know this fella in Del Rio who’ll give us a good price. Who the hell do you know?”

“Shut your pie hole and let me think.” Merle stares at the blocky burgundy-and-white building with CAUSARUM JUSTIA ET MISERICORDIA inscribed above its massive front portal.

On the sidewalk in front of the Blanco Star, Steve Edwards huddles in a rickety chair made from mesquite branches. In his lap is a pair of binoculars, a note pad, and his Nikon with telephoto lens and flash. He wraps his coat tight and shivers. The fog begins to lift and he raises the binoculars. Come on, boys, make up your minds. I got a deadline, ya know!

Meanwhile, back at the saloon: “Get me the rope from the back,” Merle orders.

Chuck bounds out of the cab and rummages around in the junk-loaded pickup.

“Jesus, be quiet will ya,” Merle complains as he joins his partner.

“Relax. Ya want another shot for your nerves?” Chuck reaches under a pile of trash and retrieves a nearly empty bottle of Old Granddad.

Merle waves him off. “Better not. If I get busted for D ’n P one more time, Deputy Bledsoe’s gonna put me on the road detail.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they’ll go easier on a sober thief,” Chuck cracks.

Merle coils the rope and slips it over a shoulder. The duo cuts a more or less straight path toward the Courthouse and the towering oak at its eastern wall. At the tree’s base Merle reverses his baseball cap and rolls down the sleeves of his terminally-wrinkled work shirt.

“Wait, you’re gonna need tools.” Chuck runs back to the truck and returns with a screwdriver and crescent wrench.

At his observation post, Steve raises the camera and tries to focus on Merle. The light’s not good and the fog blurs the images just about right. I want to catch them in the act, but not get ’em busted, Steve thinks and smiles. Knowing Merle, he’ll probably buy ten copies of the Star to send to his mama in Enid. Come on boys, make me proud.

Merle clutches the tree’s rough trunk and shinnies aloft. For a middle-aged guy with a paunch, he’s surprisingly agile. In just a couple of minutes he straddles the thick limp overhanging the Courthouse’s flat roof. He ties off the rope and swings himself onto the widow’s walk.

Merle kneels next to the rooster and fumbles with the screwdriver. He manages to detach the weathervane, tucks it under an arm and moves toward the edge of the roof to pull in the dangling rope.

Steve raises his camera and lays an index finger on the shutter button just as Merle steps on the Courthouse’s old copper rain gutter. There’s a loud crack. Merle pitches forward. The rooster goes flying. Buzzzz-click!

* * *

“So tell me again why you were out there freezing your ass off?” Clyde McAllister asks.

Steve Edwards grins. “Ah, ya know, boss, just working the leads. Ya gotta keep your eyes open for these primo stories.”

“Yeah, right. This piece isn’t much of anything,” the editor motions to the just-published edition of the Star, "but that picture y’all took…”

The two newspapermen stare at the front page photograph of a fuzzy human figure, soaring through the night air like a flying squirrel. In the background light glints off a metallic rooster, also in mid-flight.

“Hell, I thought my idea for a headline was the best part,” Steve says.

“Y’all know we could never have printed: ‘County Almost Loses Cock,’ Clyde says and laughs.

“But you sure could have sold more papers,” Steve counters.

“So have ya talked with the Police Chief? They got any leads?”

“Just their normal suspects to round up.” Steve yawns to hide a smile. “But they’re not wasting a lot of time on the case. My bet is those yahoos are halfway to Albuquerque.”

“And you have no idea who…”

“Nah. I was just lucky to get the shot...and I couldn’t see…”

“So you always carry your camera around at two in the mornin?’”

Steve grins and walks out into the late-afternoon heat, searching for yet another ten column inches.

* * *

Four hundred miles away, at a Shell station in Van Horn, Texas, the cousins spend their last five bucks on gas. Merle dips his rope-burned hands into the windshield water bucket and winces.

“Y’all could have at least picked up the damn rooster.”

“Shut up. I had ta get the truck while you was playing Flying Wallenda.”

“So you says...but, damn, we didn’t even get the cock...” Merle whines.

Chuck gazes across the wind-swept west Texas desert at miles of nothingness. “You’re wrong, partner. We got it all right.”

As a straight-ahead jazz guitarist and an urban planner who favors growth control, Terry Sanville is used to having his ideas rejected. As far as his short fiction is concerned: “The story is well written but just doesn’t meet our needs…” is the typical editorial response he receives. Sound familiar?  With 1,700 submissions over the past three years (Jeez, that a lot of stamps and e-mails), his acceptance rate is about 4%.  He’s been rejected by the finest print journals and magazines (Ploughshares, The New Yorker, The Kenyon Review, Agni, The Sun, The New England Review, Glimmer Train) but is making inroads into the Community College and State University circuit.  Not bad for someone on the verge of geezerdom.