Peck of Pickled Peppers

By I. E. Woodward

Timothy Evans-Barnes is three and lives with his fathers in an apartment above their bar and grill, The Pickled Pepper. His grandfather, Miss Jason, runs The Rendezvous, the most successful gay brothel and restaurant in the state. His great-grandfather prefers to be called Mom and wears daffodil aprons and bright yellow earrings; he manages a homeless shelter for that well-known Sripper-for-God, the Reverend Margie Bartholomew.

Timothy spends his days playing with his babysitter, Sandra Dee, and watching the cats who parade down Peters Street and Piper Avenue and the rats who hover around the alley trash bins. On the same day that Mike and Logan, his parents, discover he has learned a new word something Miss Jason says he learned genetically Timmy becomes terrified that someone is being eaten by the rodent population.

Join the Rendezvous gang in this new adventure in mystery, and meet the latest members of the team: a Ringling Brothers clown, a laundromat owner who names her children for Hollywood stars, all four stooges, assorted professors, a fraternity stud, all following Miss Jason into rat infested tunnels while investigating murder.

This time Miss Jason might just get her merit badge in Detective. . .if its designed by Donatella Versace!

About The First Rendezvous Mystery, RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPERS. . . this novel with its tongue twisting title seemingly came out of nowhere to land squarely on my list of favorites for this year. This is a book not to be missed.

Drewey Wayne Gunn, Lambda Literary Review, author of The Gay Male Sleuth in Print and Film

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475927030

I. E. Woodward

I. E. WOODWARD and his family make their home in the northern Rockies

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by I. E. Woodward

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2702-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2703-0 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2704-7 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908756

iUniverse rev. date: 5/24/2012

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The author would like to acknowledge that these are very real people only to him. He met some of them while jointly laboring on a previous work of fiction. This is also a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. If you are fully intent on tying a face to a name, let it be the product of your imagination, too. Otherwise, get a life!

The use of real names, titles, products, and events is done within the context of the fictional characters conversing and should not be misconstrued as having any factual basis. I mean, for goodness sakes, if Logan said it, I’d believe it, but if Jason said it, I’d check with Antoine first.

En amour, écrire est dangereux, sans compter que c’est inutile.

Le Demi-Monde by Alexandre Dumas Fils

(In love, writing is dangerous, not to mention pointless.)

…but without you

it fills the empty places

Pretty Kitty Creighton had a cotton batten cat.

The cotton batten cat was bitten by a rat.

The kitten that was bitten had a button for an eye,

And biting off the button made the cotton batten fly.

eMail to: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

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

Dear Tyrone

Happy Birthday. When I brung you home from the hospital I thouwt the Good Lord could not be better to me. Now I here from Michael and Logan the words you are teeching your preshius granbaby to say and I am so ashamd. Praise Jesus you did not larn such a vocabulary from me. It must have come from those pore unlarned boy hores which you pimp. I hope you have a very happy birthday. I am not fer shure. I think you are 47.

Mom (your father) Norman Chambers.

eMail to: Mom (NChambers)@FallenDoves.com

From: [e-mail]

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

Father

It could not possibly be the employees at The Rendezvous from whom I learned to speak as they are usually waiting tables or otherwise have their mouths full! And I certainly don’t blame you as the only things I recall having obtained from my short childhood association with you are staying on my feet all day in three inch heels, a strong dislike for color co-ordinated plastic jewelry, and proper technique for blowing the UPS man in three minutes flat. Thank you for your birthday wishes. I cannot be 47. That would make you 68 you stupid cow!

Miss Jason LaFortune

(Do not ever call me Tyrone again you bitch.)

Note on an Easter Card to Timmy Barnes-Evans from his Damaw, Miss Jason:

Timothy, my sweetness, I hope you like the bunnies on the cover of this card. We shall go to the store and buy your present the next time I come to see you.

Tell your daddies the Easter

Bunny is going to leave a little something on

their doorstep – but not to worry:

soap, water, and a good stiff brush will bring it

right up!

Your loving Damaw.

eMail to: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

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

Antoine, we are all fine. Mike and Timmy say hello. I put the Chicken Noodle soup on the menu right after Christmas and people really like it. Thanks for letting me fix it. We’ve had a real good winter. Business keeps growing just like you said it would. You were right also about the location. It’s so close to campus we almost never start the car except to buy supplies. I may want to talk to you about changing my major. These psych classes are so much bullshit. Maybe marketing is not what I thought it was going to be. We’ve got Spring Break next week. Our neighbors tell us we won’t have any business at all. Thank God it’s only two weeks. Tim’s growing like a weed. Maybe all that mess two years ago didn’t scar him at all. Got to go. It’s time to make a grocery run. Logan

Chapter One

Miss Jason adjusted the black vintage-inspired cotton and wool Yves St. Laurent jumpsuit so the plunging neckline revealed his carefully crafted artificial cleavage, stretched his six foot frame to accentuate his long legs against the new white leather of his office chair, crossed his ankles to reveal his matching six-inch wood wedge two piece sandals, glanced quickly in the office mirror to make certain his Henry Margu wig in the Victoria style was in place, and enunciated carefully into his black porcelain Viscount reproduction telephone, "Michael, darling, whatever gave you the idea that le bel enfant, Timothy, learned to say that awful word from me? Hmm?"

Because, Jason, he said you taught it to him.

Well, don’t let’s forget, Mikey, dear, little Timmy may be the brightest child of three I have ever known, but you are aware he was conceived in a whore house by parents who were employed there.

"Your daughter and I were engaged in the same trade as his grandfather, Jason, and that’s you!"

"That attitude has a certain je ne c’est quoi, Michael. Desperation?"

Let me get this straight. Are you saying, my three year old son says ‘fuck’ because of genetics?

There was an incredibly long Geraldine Page pause during which Miss Jason inhaled deeply from a Pizzazz filtered Dunhill cigarette. Well, the apple never falls very far from the bush.

Apples grow on trees.

Whatever.

Okay. In the meantime, Logan and I have decided Timmy won’t be spending any more Saturday’s with his grandfather until we get his vocabulary cleaned up.

You’re a bigger son-of-a-bitch than my father!

Apples, Jason, and the line went dead.

The three year old held the back of the booth and the sill and stretched up on his tiptoes to peer out the window. It was a new trick he’d learned since his fathers allowed him to come downstairs for supper on nights the bar wasn’t busy, and he absolutely loved the sight of cars buzzing along Piper Avenue as he peaked through the pane. What he loved even more were the stray cats that passed by on the sidewalk below. He would lift himself like a premier danseur at the bar to see one dart up the avenue and into the dark alley. I can have a kitty, daddy. Tell Damaw I can. He turned his angelic smile to his daddy Michael and, in the glow from the Budweiser lamp hanging down over the booth, there was no denying his paternity.

CLIPPING FROM DANA TURNKEY’S COLUMN CAPITOL DINING: Despite the rather lurid rumors which continually circulate about the flamboyant Miss Jason one has to say the food at The Rendezvous is as good as it gets. Chef Antoine LaFortune’s Grilled Double Cut Pork Chop with Jack Gritts and a White Wine and Dijon Mustard Reduction may be the single best dish on the west side. Don’t miss his spectacular potatoes whipped with creamed cheese, onions, garlic, white pepper and the perfect amounts of butter and cream. It’s five stars all the way.***** [And rumor has it the gorgeous waiters are all on the menu, too!]

For a time, when that horrible set of circumstances involving the babe’s deceased mother, his grandfather, Miss Jason, Jason’s infamous, now celebrated, restaurant and brothel, The Rendezvous, and almost everyone Michael knew in the state’s capital city, there was some question about who Timothy’s father was. Now, when you saw the two together, you didn’t need the DNA test results. One was the other’s miniature: alabaster skin, sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a crown of natural blond silk.

Timothy jumped from the booth and circled the empty bar at a full gallop. Mike opened the novel he’d been trying to read for his British Lit class and let him play. It was not quite seven and what few customers they’d had during the usual dinner service had disappeared. Spring Break was not the time to be in business in a university town. He and Logan had put every penny they’d been able to save in their two years together into a down payment and moved half way across the state to go to college, start a business, and, as Antoine said, Put things behind’em.

Mike looked up to see his pocket-sized double press his face against a glass pane at the corner entrance and blow clouds of mist onto the cool surface. One at a time Timmy moved from pane to pane of the gridded panels of the doorway, which sat at an angle to the intersection of Peters Street and Piper Avenue. As Antoine said, Ya’ gotta smile, kid. Is ‘ay a better place for a pub call’dah Pickled Pepper? Antoine was Jason’s husband and the one person that Mike and Logan depended on for sound advice and fatherly comfort. He’d been right about The Pickled Pepper, within six months they were the most popular hangout for the arts crowd.

They’d cleaned and oiled the old oak paneling and bar, waxed the floor till you could skate on it, put new dark maroon vinyl on anything with a seat, polished the brass, and talked half a dozen breweries out of ceiling fixtures and clocks and even a lighted chalk board for their biggest addition, the menu which hung over the bar. A couple of days, thanks to Logan’s skills in their tiny backroom kitchen, they’d already done a thousand dollars in sandwiches alone, and, if they added take-out, that could double.

Kitty, daddy! Timmy shouted, and slapped the glass, go to alley, kitty. Get the rats!

Don’t leave hand prints on the glass, Tim, Mike looked up from his book, Papa will kill us both.

Papa will do what? Logan pushed a high chair out of the kitchen. He had a tray balanced across the arms of the chair and their supper balanced on the tray. He pushed the chair up to the booth and began to unload it. I made chicken noodle for tomorrow. The weather said it was going to be rainy. He put a large bowl in front of Michael.

Sliding to the edge of the seat, Mikey called, Timmy, come on, let’s wash our hands. Timmy whooped and dashed to the kitchen, hitting the swinging doors with both hands. As he disappeared he shouted, Look in alley, daddy, see the fuckin’ rats!

Logan caught Mike’s glance, Did you call Jason?

Like talking to Glen Beck; he blamed it on genetics.

I’ll call Antoine. He put the rest of the plates and bowls on the table. He had made a slider version of their veggie burger for Tim and a large one with a plate of pickled haricot vert to share with Mike. Somehow supper for the two of them had evolved into two forks and one plate; nothing that needed discussing got beyond it. He put a single wedge of sweet potato pie at the far end of the table. Timmy would get his share when all the noodles were gone. He heard something from the kitchen about stop using that word and Damaw says okay and then the doors swung open and Logan hoisted a red-faced little boy into his high chair and kissed an exasperated big boy as he slid into the booth before him. He handed a spoon to Timmy and supper began.

When Logan turned the light off in the kitchen it was nearly eight and Timmy had curled up in the booth with his head in his father’s lap. Mike had returned to his novel and, as yet, no customers had called. The kitchen’s put away. Everything’s ready for tomorrow. He tossed his apron into the hamper by the staircase and put a small clipboard on the bar. Logan stretched. Still 6’2, he hadn’t grown taller since they left The Rendezvous; he was just more confident and seemed taller. He still had the shock of black Superman hair that hung in a curl over his forehead and the same broad shoulders and trim waist – maybe not a 32, but a snug 33, at least, and his eyes didn’t miss anything. I’ll take him up to bed. You sure you don’t want me to close tonight? I’m just going to be working on that paper for psychology." He lifted the sleeper to his shoulder.

No. I’ll bet we set a new record. Not a soul through that door. He stretched his legs out onto the booth and leaned against the wall. I’m gonna finish this if it kills me. He held up his copy of 1984.

Next year we close during Spring Break. Logan put an arm protectively across Timmy’s back and went up the stairs and into the apartment above. Just before the door closed he called back, I left the menu on the bar.

I’ll post it. Michael folded a corner of the novel page, shut it, put it down, and crossed behind the bar. He picked up the clip board and studied it for a moment, took an old cigar box of chalk from under the counter and, using an empty beer crate as a step, climbed up onto the counter.

Logan held Timmy with one arm while he pulled back the covers with the other. They had picked the back inside corner of the apartment for their son’s bedroom, since it was the quietest, in the hopes it would let them sleep a little longer. Lately, though, the number of cats in the alley had been on the increase, and, even though they put the lids tightly on the bins and cans of trash, something was always getting banged around. When it did, they could count on a cry in the dark.

He removed the still sleeping boy’s shirt and shoes, slipped off his Gap jeans (from Old Navy, size small), and put him in the center of the twin bed. For a moment Timmy tried to wake, but Logan’s experience brushed his forehead with one hand and lifted the covers to tuck him in with the other. He switched on the nightlight, tiptoed from the room, flipped the overhead light off, and quietly closed the door. He treaded softly down the narrow hall, past the master bedroom and bathroom, and into the kitchen where he had his laptop and notebooks waiting on the Formica table. He didn’t like Guenther’s psychology class, mainly because the man sat at the front of the room behind a pair of nearly black sunglasses and read the text to them for precisely fifty minutes, four days a week. The only really demanding assignment had been this paper and he was determined to get it out of the way before the end of break. He stretched – twice – and sat.

MENU BOARD

The Pickled Pepper

Sandwiches

Open Faced Caesar Burger

Double Beef Patties on Onion Roll Topped with a Caesar Salad

Grilled Provolone on Rye

With Tomato and Avocado

Memphis Beef Brisket

With Sweet and Sour Coleslaw

All Sandwiches Served with Pepper Fries

Today’s Soup

Antoine’s Chicken Noodle

Today’s Salad

Endive and Pear Tomato with Soy Dressing

And Crisp Asian Noodles

Desserts

Key Lime Pie Coconut Cake French Vanilla Pizza

Mike finished the list of specials. Not as complex as usual, he thought, but why waste the effort when the numbers just weren’t there. He double checked the prices and climbed down from the bar, picked up the disinfectant cloth and gave the bar top a good cleaning.

It is better we should all close and go to bed, the tiny dark skinned man leaning in the front door called to Mike.

Hello, Rasheed.

Not three customers in the entire evening and now the television says storms and thunder coming.

I heard it was going to get colder.

That was this morning. Tonight they say it gets more. Storms and thunder. I moved my car in the alley by yours. Last time, when the spring storms came, the gutter was so deep I wet my carpet!

Logan says we’re going to close next year for Spring Break. We’re losing money this week.

Probably wise in the business of beer. Not possible with the convenience store. People see the sign, 7-Eleven, they expect it. Still, it’s a good place the rest of the year. I like the neighborhood.

So do we.

My wife and I like what you do with this place. Much cleaner. Nicer people come here. She likes your veggie burger.

Thank you.

Well, got to get back to store. The tiny woman gets nervous by herself. She watches too much Alfred Hitchcock. Good night, Michael.

Good night, Rasheed.

Oh, by the by, the street lights in the alley are all in need of fixing. Probably that Etter boy playing flip the bean again. I will call the city tomorrow. He waved and closed the door. As Michael saw him disappear down Piper he caught a hint of a distant flash of lightening and realized there really was a storm moving closer.

Logan saw the flash from the kitchen window. He pulled back the curtain to try to catch a glimpse of the sky. The combination of clouds and reflected light from the town made it just a haze above the distant campus buildings. He flipped on the radio in the hope of getting a weather report. It was the university station which usually broadcast NPR or student news. Tonight it was a repeat of what was becoming a major issue, expansion. The school had grown so fast over the years that whole sections of the community had been surrounded. Little pockets had been completely closed off by dorms and classrooms and office buildings. They were like tiny villages. The Pickled Pepper was on a block with a convenience store, a Laundromat, and a used book store. They had been isolated so long that most people thought of them as college owned, but, in reality, they were town and not gown. People called it Union Village because it was so close to the Student Union. About a mile down Piper was Stadium Village. Two miles east on Peters was Ramsey Village because the old Ramsey Movie Theatre still operated.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR University Newspaper The Drumbeat I’ve been going to school here for four years and it seems to me that every time the administration decides to make it look like it’s doing something it starts building. A lot of the buildings nobody needs. Can anybody tell me what the new Landscaping Building is for? I’ve never seen more than 3 cars there and it takes up more space than the Bookstore. If we really need a new computer center why can’t we build it over a parking lot or in the basement of the Education and Psych Building. Don’t tear down Union Village, half the campus does its laundry there. Use some common sense once