The Return of Bucket Smith
Chapter 6
Three months later…
Cordes Junction Sheriff Bucket Smith tossed the front page of the Phoenix Gazette into the trash can.
The gun battle at Stoney Johnson’s ranch not only made the daily papers in the state of Arizona but also made national news. The word had spread, making Bucket an instant hero.
The reporters from newspapers and magazines across the state were relentless. It had been three months, and Bucket was still fielding calls. “Sheriff, could I set up an interview? Could I send a photographer and take some photos of you in uniform?”
Bucket sat at his desk. It was early Monday morning. He had a lot of paperwork to complete, but he wasn’t in the mood to tackle it. Instead, he poured himself another cup of coffee, sat back, and eyed the two photos on his desk — one of Maggie Smith and the other of his wife, Julia.
So much had happened. Even as strong as he was — a seasoned war veteran who had seen so much death at home and abroad — it was hard for him to handle at times, hard for him to let it all go and build a life with Julia. He picked up Julia’s photo, smiled, and returned the picture to the right corner of his desk.
Julia and Bucket were newlyweds. They were married just 28 days ago. They said their vows at the First Methodist Church in downtown Cordes Junction and spent their honeymoon on Coronado Island in San Diego.
The wedding was the talk of the county. It was standing room only at the small white Victorian-style church on the corner of First Street and Elm. The Rev. Elmer Thompson had overseen more than 200 weddings in his 20 years of service to the community, but the Bucket Smith — Julia Childress wedding was one he’d never forget.
Inquisitive onlookers from around the state motored through the streets of Cordes, hoping to get a glimpse of the newlyweds on their wedding day.
Of course, the wedding reception was held at the Johnson ranch as Stoney and his wife, Alexandra, opened the gate, allowing the townsfolk in to enjoy the festivities — including pig roasting ceremonies and barn dance, followed by an array of fireworks to complete the occasion.
The Phoenix Gazette ran a full-page spread in its bridal section, and photos of the wedding surfaced as far away as San Diego, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas. The reporters and photographers followed the young couple to the beaches along Coronado Island.
Bucket picked up Maggie’s picture, shook his head, and carefully placed the photo in its rightful place on his desk.
He pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked across his office to the window. He looked down on Main Street and then looked north toward the Cordes Junction Cemetery. The cemetery was barely visible from the window, but the image in his head of Maggie’s final resting place was front and center in his thoughts.
“Maggie, oh Maggie...rest in peace.”
The powers-to-be in the town of Cordes Junction had been good to him. When Sheriff Joe Arona resigned his position shortly after the gun battle, it was inevitable that Bucket Smith, the local hero, would be offered the job.
Arona had indeed put in his years of service — thirty to be exact, and he felt it was time to grab his pension, sell his house, and move to Green Valley, a retirement community south of Tucson. “I think I’ll hang up my spurs and play some golf.”
It took some prodding by Mayor Roman Walker, Judge Samuel Criner, and the town’s top citizen, Stoney Johnson, to get Bucket to accept the job. They took it slow and allowed Bucket time to think it over. Bucket gave it a lot of thought, but in the end, he accepted the job. After all, he would soon have a wife to support...and they planned to have a baby soon.
Bucket moved away from the window and noticed the picture on the north wall of his office was crooked. On the way back to his desk, he stopped to adjust the black and white photo of Stoney, Maggie, and a little boy, all sitting on the steps of the Johnson ranch house. Bucket figured he must have been about nine years old at the time. He quickly remembered those happy times he spent on the ranch — fishing, hunting, and hanging around with the cowhands in the bunkhouse.
The little boy in the photo had no idea of the twists and turns he would face as he grew into a man. Ironically, the Johnson ranch, which at one time was his playground, would turn into a battlefield and turn his life upside down at the age of twenty-five.
The phone on Bucket’s desk rang out.
Bucket answered the call on the third ring. “It’s me, honey,” Julia said. “Are you going to be on time tonight? I’m cooking your favorite pork chops.”
“That’s great!” Bucket said. “I need to stop by Stoney’s hardware store and pick up a few things, but I should be home by six o’clock.”
“You be sure to say hello to Mary.”
Mary Hamilton was the new manager at the hardware store. She had taken over the position, replacing Julia, who had run the business for Stoney for so many years. Julia needed to concentrate on one thing: her husband.
That alone will be a full-time job.
*****
Santiago Malfonso maneuvered his four-year-old Cadillac off Highway 89, turned left, and headed to downtown Prescott. He was looking for the Hassayampa Inn, a landmark hotel that had been built back in the 1920s. He had read good reviews about the place, and supposedly, he had a room reserved on the top floor of the establishment, overlooking the famous downtown area and the well-known drinking holes along Whiskey Row.
Santiago was the oldest of the Malfonso sons, and he was certainly no spring chicken. He was close to retirement age, not that he was expecting a retirement check anytime soon, like never—hit men like him rarely file taxes.
His father, Sam Malfonso, was on his deathbed, tucked away in his bedroom at the family home south of Las Vegas, complete with nurses to tend to his every need. The old man still ran the underground business, even at the age of 92. Sam was a vengeful man, and he had one dying wish: revenge for the death of three of his sons.
Gambler Herman Smith was responsible for the death of Rocco Malfonso more than 20 years ago in a shootout near Los Angeles, and more recently, in a gun battle at some wild horse ranch in Arizona; two more brothers were lost, Anthony and Sammy. The two brothers had completed their mission all right. They finally got their man. Sammy was credited with the kill as he poured six shots into the chest of Herman Smith.
Santiago knew it was Bucket Smith who had returned fire on that day at the ranch. He had a stack of clippings in his briefcase to prove it. He remembers his father slamming a lamp against a wall and trashing his desk when he heard the news of this Bucket Smith ending the life of his youngest boy. His father’s face turned bright red. He had seen anger in his father before, but nothing could compare to the way his father reacted upon hearing the news.
It was the final straw. All the life in his father’s body seemed to float out of the room. The old man slumped in his chair. “This Herman Smith takes down my Rocco, and now it’s the son...this Bucket Smith, who takes the last breath from Anthony and my young boy... my precious Sammy!”
Santiago figured this would be his final job. His final killings. It was time to get out of the business and find this Bucket Smith and some John Wayne wannabe, a rancher called Stoney Johnson.
Take them down. Then, leave the country and settle somewhere in Costa Rica — far from Las Vegas and far from the family business.
Santiago, just weeks ago, had sat down next to his father’s bed and listened to the dying man’s order, “Get Bucket Smith… whatever it takes, get him.”
Yes, Santiago and his father had seen all the photos and all the headlines about the two men who took down Anthony and Sammy. They had seen the wedding pictures of the perfect couple, Bucket and Julia Smith. They had seen plenty of images of an Arizona rancher who had helped make a laughingstock out of the Malfonso Family. They were all smiling and upright while Tony and Sammy were gone, buried six feet under.
*****
Bucket raced up the steps and into the arms of Julia. He held her tight and kissed her.
“It’s good to be home,” Bucket said. “I can smell those pork chops.”
“Hold on now. Sit yourself down. I’ll get you a glass of wine. You sit back in the lazy chair and relax.”
Bucket sat back and eyed the living room.
“I can’t believe what you’ve done to the place in a few short weeks.”
“It’s our home — your home. I love you, Bucket.”
Bucket glanced at the television. Julie had the sound turned down. The news was on, and it was a special report from Las Vegas. Bucket grabbed the remote and turned the sound up.
“Julia, listen to this!”
“Crime boss Sam Malfonso died today at his home in Boulder City, Nevada — a town just 40 miles south of Las Vegas, just weeks before his trial for tax evasion, extortion, and his responsibility regarding a gun battle which took place in Arizona three months ago. Seven people died that day — including two Malfonso brothers, Anthony and Sam Jr.” stated the reporter, Mary Anne Mobley.
The reporter continued, “Also, authorities have not been able to locate Sam Malfonso’s oldest son, Santiago, the remaining member of the Malfonso family. The funeral for the crime boss is scheduled for next Sunday, and the proceedings will be under tight security.”
“This never ends,” shouted Bucket as he stood up and put his arm around Julia.
“What does this mean, Bucket?”
“It means the Malfonso family is through, and once they catch up with Santiago, they can close the books on one of the most notorious underground crime syndicates in Las Vegas. He’s probably already out of the country. Chances are, he’s got plenty of money in a foreign bank somewhere.”
“I don’t understand this world sometimes,” Julia said. “Why do these thugs exist, and how do they get away with all this?”
“It’s all about money and power,” Bucket said. “These people want it all, and they don’t care how they get it.”
Bucket took Julia’s hand, “Let’s get out of here and go for a walk.”
Bucket was back in his office the following morning. It had been a busy couple of hours. There had been a break-in at the auto parts store. At first glance, it looked to be a job done by a couple of teenagers; missing were a couple of socket sets and a case of 30-weight oil.
The big case of the day: the rescue of Betty Hudson’s cat, Tilly.
Tilly, one of six cats owned by the widowed Hudson, had scampered up a giant oak tree and couldn’t get down. One call to the Cordes Fire Department resolved the issue.
Deputy Wanda Ridgeway entered Bucket’s office.
Wanda was a jack-of-all-trades around the office. She’d answer the phone, file papers, and make coffee. Wanda was the mother of three and worked only twenty hours a week, but she was always on call in case Bucket needed her to handle a situation — a situation that wouldn’t require a revolver.
Wanda loved her job and was content with keeping the office in spotless condition. She left the challenging fieldwork to the Simpson twin brothers, Matt and Mark — a couple of hunks. It was tough, at first glance, to distinguish the difference between the two. Matt had a slight scar on his forehead, and she practically had to kiss him to discover which brother she was talking to.
“Bucket, there is someone here to see you.”
In walked Freddie Greathouse.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucket exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you since 1958. What the heck are you doing back in town?”
“I’m with the FBI, working out of the Phoenix division. They sent me up here to see you, and I jumped at the chance to get up here and see my old basketball buddy.”
“I do remember reading about a Freddie Greathouse with the FBI in Phoenix...some journal I was reading...or it might have been a newspaper article. I didn’t think it was the same Greathouse who outscored me my senior year in high school.”
“This is I old buddy. Speaking of news articles, boy, have you been in the news.”
“Don’t remind me,” Bucket said, offering his high school buddy a chair.
“Well, Bucket. We have something in common other than basketball.”
“What is that, may I ask?”
“The Malfonso brothers. I was assigned to their case during my first year with the bureau. When I first started this business, it was in New Jersey. Man, they have a long list of criminal activity, except drugs, and I can’t believe they stayed away from that hot potato.”
Bucket listened attentively as Freddie summed up the Malfonso file.
“So, there you have it. I asked the higher-ups to give me a chance to come up here. Heck, I was born here, and I heard about the run-in my good buddy had with some of the Malfonso brothers.”
“Run-in...it was more like an all-out war.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m up to date, and I just might be a little ahead of the curve, which is another reason I’m sitting across from you at this very moment.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Bucket.
“Well, the rumor is Santiago Malfonso is long gone...maybe he’s already deep in Mexico by now, but I don’t think so. I think he’s coming here, and his M.O. has always been revenge, just like his old man.”
“My God, I said to Julia last night that this thing was never going to be over. My intuition was telling me so. I’ve had that sixth sense...that ache in the back of my neck...telling me to keep my eyes open.”
“Well, you’re right about that, Bucket. I’m going to stay a while over at the Hotel Cordes, and I’m going to cling to you like a wet blanket. He’s coming. I’m sure of it. Chances are he’ll bring some thugs with him and hire them at top dollar. Heck, he’s out of brothers, his father is gone, and all the Malfonso holdings have been seized by the IRS as of today.”
“This isn’t good. I need to ride out to the Johnson ranch. Stoney and his family need to be warned. It might be a good idea to get his family out of town for a while. Now, Stoney...he’s a different story. He’ll want to protect that ranch of his. He’s gonna offer his help, and knowing Stoney…he won’t take no for an answer.”
Freddie added that five men from the FBI office in Phoenix are assigned to the case and are focusing on a 200-mile radius from Phoenix north to Camp Verde and the area from Prescott to Black Canyon City.
“The higher-ups are only going so far with me on this. That’s why we have just a few agents available. They still believe he’s heading for Mexico.”
The two men looked at each other. They both knew the answer. Santiago was coming.
“One thing I forgot to tell you, Bucket.”
“What’s that?”
“Santiago Malfonso is a crack shot, and he can handle explosives.”
Chapter 7
The clerk at the Hassayampa Inn handed the room key to the dark-tanned, gray-haired gentleman and pointed him in the direction of the elevator. “Number 43, fourth floor, third room on the right...great room...overlooks Gurley Street.”
“Much obliged,” said the man.
Santiago unlocked the door. The room was what he had expected. He had a good view of the street below. He could see people scurrying up and down the sidewalk. They all looked like they were in a hurry to get to their legal jobs, put in their usual forty hours a week, and take home a couple of measly checks a month — just enough to pay their bills.
Of course, Santiago couldn’t begin to understand what it was like to make an honest living. He had survived more than sixty of his adult years on the wrong side of the law. He followed in his father’s footsteps. None of the Malfonso sons escaped the business. Not one of them broke away from their father’s hold on them.
Santiago closed the curtain. Suddenly, he felt very alone. He would have to get used to it.
“I’m the only one left,” Santiago said under his breath.
He took his gun out of his holster and placed it on the nightstand. He shuffled off his Florsheim shoes, puffed up a pillow, and stretched out on the bed. He said those words again, “I’m the only one left.”
There was no brother to call, no father to speak to. Santiago had talked to his father ten days ago, and the man could barely speak., Besides, chances are the family home was probably bugged. As for his mother? Well, she passed away eight years ago. She just got tired of it all. She died a wrinkly old woman at the age of 72.
Santiago took a deep breath and looked around his room. He'd one last job ahead of him, and then he’d disappear, and for the first time in his life, he'd be free. He’d change his name, buy a boat, and spend what was left of his golden years away from it all.
Santiago shook his head. How does a hitman enjoy life? He knew he had paid the price for more than half a century. As a little boy in New Jersey, he’d tag along with his father — in and out of every speakeasy joint in town. His father was a loan shark then, and if the customers didn’t pay up, chances are their bodies would be found in the East River.
Sam Malfonso was the worst of them. Santiago had no chance, no chance at all, for an ordinary life. Instead, he followed in his father’s footsteps and became a carbon copy of the ruthless crime boss.
He was branded a Malfonso from the beginning, and now, as he eyed the ceiling fan above him, Santiago figured he was at the end of the road. He was tired. He had resigned himself to the fact that he’d either go out in a blaze of glory or, if he was lucky — and he’d always been lucky, he’d survive and disappear...never to be heard from again.
He thought back to his childhood days, playing hide and seek with his brothers. Things were so simple then. Sammy could never hide from him for very long. Sammy was always the first one to be tagged, while Rocco and Anthony were a bit more cagey— always the last to be caught.
Why did he have to grow up? Why was it written in stone that the offspring of Sam Malfonso would be destined to become killers...destined for a life of crime, members of an underground crime syndicate — surfacing only when there was a job to do...an order to carry out...an execution to complete.
Each killing took more and more out of him. Santiago wanted out. He had his fill of it all, but he couldn’t let his guard down. He needed to set his final plan into place. He needed to complete his last mission, and then it would all be over — forever.
His plan was simple.
Santiago saw to it that his hired guns would have an out-of-the-way place to hold up. They’d be arriving in less than forty-eight hours. There were six of them — none of them had made it through the sixth grade. They were born killers, not much different from him, but they were a crazy bunch, and they thought of only one thing: the $25,000 payout they would each receive upon completion of their assignment.
The ranch was hidden deep in the hills behind the quiet little town of Mayer. Santiago’s first mistake was giving each of the men $5,000 upfront. He hoped they hadn’t gambled it all away in Laughlin or spent it all on whiskey and wild women. He expected them to show up on time, or there would be hell to pay.
The ranch was just five miles directly west of Cordes Junction.
Santiago was tired of talking to himself. He put his shoes on, put his revolver back in his holster, grabbed his hat and coat, and headed out the door. He looked like any other old-timer in town — except for the piece he had hidden just under his left shoulder.
He entered the lobby and tipped his hat to the clerk.
The clerk responded, “Have a nice dinner, Mr. Jorgensen.” Earlier in the day, Santiago remembered to change out the plates on his car. He had signed the guest register at the hotel as Lloyd Jorgensen from Minnesota, even went so far as to write down the plate number for the unsuspecting clerk.
The sun was setting as he left the hotel lobby. He walked west along the sidewalk — heading for Whiskey Row and a couple of drinks at the Birdcage Saloon. It took him less than five minutes to get to the entrance of the Birdcage. The watering hole was crowded, just as well, he thought. He did manage to find a stool at the bar, settled in, and mingled with the crowd.
He felt right at home in a tavern. Heck, most people didn’t even bother to ask his name or where he was from...most of them were wallowing in their misery. There were a couple of pool games in progress in the back room, but even though he was good at the game, getting in a pool game would bring too much attention his way...and he didn’t need that
.
He had a job to do. His job was a lot different than the rest of the clientele at the bar. He was sure of it. In a few days, he would destroy a town and take out its hero — the sheriff.
Santiago ordered a second drink and eyed his hands. They were steady. He had nerves of steel when it came to killing people. He was calm under fire. His father had helped him with that. His father would always say, “Chances are you’re unlikely to face someone who has been through what you have. Remember, you’re gonna have the upper hand. Play it smart, analyze the situation, and then get the job done.”
He looked around. For a moment, he thought he heard his father’s voice as a man passed by with his arm around a woman. The man was built like his father and even shuffled as he walked, much like his father did. Santiago turned back to the bar. There were those words again, “I’m the only one left.”
Santiago glanced at the television above the bar. It was a good thing he did. He jumped off his stool and moved to his left a couple of feet. He caught the tail end of the TV anchor’s report.
“Crime boss Sam Malfonso died today at his family home in Boulder City, Nevada. Malfonso, 92, was scheduled to go on trial for tax evasion, extortion, and murder in just two weeks. Funeral arrangements are set for Sunday morning at the Desert Lawn Cemetery in Las Vegas. The authorities are on the lookout for the oldest and the only remaining son of the crime boss, Santiago Malfonso. The funeral will be under tight security...in other news...”
Santiago slid a ten-dollar bill under his glass and left the Birdcage, slowly...careful not to draw any attention to himself. His eyes were glassy. He headed up Gurley Street, alone in his thoughts. Under his breath, he uttered the exact words again, “I’m the only one left.”
*****
Freddie and Bucket were on the road quickly. They sped up I-17 in Freddie’s white Ford Fairlane. Bucket looked west toward the mountains. It was another clear day with a blue sky as far as the eye could see.
Bucket motioned to Freddie that the entrance to Stoney’s ranch was just ahead. “You’ll have to use the phone just to the right of the gate, a new addition to the place since the shootout.”
Freddie got out of his car, picked up the phone, and within seconds the gate opened. “The ranch house is about a mile in — just a mile from where it all went down.”
“You have been deep in thought, haven’t you, good buddy?”
“Yes, I have. Yes, I have.” Bucket said.
Stoney greeted the new arrivals and shuffled them into his den.
Bucket had sat in Stoney’s den just three months ago and listened to Stoney’s tale of Maggie and Herman Smith — listened and then squirmed in his seat as Stoney, reluctantly, unleashed all of Maggie and Herman’s secrets while shattering Bucket’s past and all his childhood memories in the process.
That day will forever be lodged in his mind. How he survived that day and the months that followed was due to the love and support from Julia... and from Stoney, his godfather — a fact Bucket discovered during all the turmoil. The day ended in a gun battle and the death of seven people, including the life of his father, a man he had known for less than twenty-four hours.
“Stoney, you’re looking a lot better. How’s the shoulder?”
The rancher handed the two men a beer as Bucket said, "I can't
believe it. It’s as good as new. Went out to the gun range yesterday. My .30-30 was smoldering...didn’t miss a target.”
Bucket shook his head and turned to Freddie.
“This guy can hit anything from two hundred yards out...just look at that rack,” Bucket said as he pointed to the north end of the den and the huge elk head on the wall.
Freddie smiled and then got right to the point. “Mr. Johnson.”
“Call me, Stoney.”
“Stoney, I’m Fred Greathouse, a special agent with the FBI, and I’m assigned to the Malfonso case. We have reason to believe Santiago Malfonso is heading this way.”
“Haven’t we seen enough of those guys?”
“There’s a good possibility he may be, after you and Bucket, payback for killing his brothers.”
Greathouse went on to explain to Stoney his reasoning for why he assumed Malfonso was heading for the ranch. “To him, this is the scene of the crime. He lost two brothers here, and to make matters worse, his father died yesterday at the Malfonso Estate.”
Greathouse summarized his feelings on the matter and ended by saying, “Chances are good he’ll be bringing an army this time.”
Stoney sat down in his leather chair behind his desk. “I need to get my family out of here. You’d think that thug would try to get himself out of the country, but there’s no understanding these people...the first time they came here...they just walked right up and started blasting away.”
*****
Bucket stood up and walked over to the fireplace, and eyed the picture on the mantel — a picture of Maggie, Bucket, Stoney, and his family.
“We’ve got to prepare, Stoney.” Bucket said. “My office is small, but I have my deputies already canvassing the roads in and out of here and up and down I-17 from Cordes to Camp Verde. Freddie has five agents in the area, and the FBI office in Phoenix is on alert. We’ll get them...we’ve done it before, we’ll do it again.”
Santiago was up early the next morning. He ate breakfast at a cafe near the hotel and then walked the four blocks to the rent-a-car company. “I’m interested in a jeep, need it for a week.”
“Sure thing,” said the young man with wavy blond hair and dressed in a tank top and a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts.
“It’s been a crazy day. Three men from Wisconsin arrived first thing this morning and rented the last three vans I had on the lot. Now, you show up out of the blue and want a Jeep. I think I’ve got one left.”
“Business must be good. Is there any chance you can complete this? I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Jorgensen,” said the sales agent as he eyed the credit card. “Let me fill out the paperwork, run the card through, and I’ll be right back with the keys.”
Santiago returned to the hotel parking lot and pulled into the space next to his Cadillac. He had made one last stop at the closest hardware store. He picked up a couple of pairs of wire cutters, two coolers, seven sets of gloves, and a light brown golf hat.
The fifty-something cashier had asked. “You in town for some golf?”
“No, never played the game, just like the hat.”
Santiago shook his head. The cashier was oblivious to the fact that he had just bought seven sets of gloves and some wire cutters, but the golf hat got her attention.
“You play?”
“No way, but my husband certainly does. The only thing is that the man spends more time at the bar afterward. He calls it the 19th hole.”
Santiago tipped the brim of his newly acquired hat and left the hardware store.
It was mid-morning, and the parking lot was empty.
He looked around and quickly opened the trunk of his car. The trunk was practically full. Two golf bags took up most of the room. He pulled out a briefcase and crammed the coolers in the trunk, along with the sack of goodies he had just bought at the hardware store.
.
He closed the truck and headed for the back entrance to the hotel.
*****
Bucket and Freddie left Stoney’s ranch convinced that his wife, Alexandra, and his daughters, Katherine, Anne, and Judy, would visit relatives for a couple of weeks.
Alexandra would take the girls to Flagstaff and stay with Stoney Jr., her stepson, and Stoney’s oldest son. Stoney’s son recently graduated from Northern Arizona University and landed an upper-management job with the United States Forest Service.
As for Stoney, he wasn’t going anywhere. His first order of business was to gather ammo and check on his arsenal in the basement of the main house. He would need to clue in the cowhands and prepare them for another fight...another battle with a bunch of thugs from Las Vegas.
Freddie made it back to Cordes in record time, dropped Bucket off at his office, and headed back to the hotel. He needed to make some calls — including checking in with his office in Phoenix.
Bucket checked in with his deputies, the Simpson twins.
Everything was quiet, no strangers in town...nothing out of the ordinary...another quiet day and night in Cordes Junction.
Bucket cleaned up his desk and called Wanda.
“Everything is fine at the office. The phone hardly rang most of the day, but I had my radio with me. Call me if you need anything. Got spaghetti cooking. Need to feed some hungry kids.”
“That’s great, Wanda. I’m heading home.”
Julia sat on the front porch, awaiting Bucket’s arrival. She sipped on a glass of tea. An hour ago, she planted another rose bush on the west side of the house — she now had four of them planted, all in a neat and perfectly placed row.
She picked up her planting and gardening skills from Mildred Dunworthy — Maggie’s best friend and partner in crime. The same woman who had helped raise Bucket during his childhood years... the same woman that Maggie confided in on the day Bucket was left on the front porch...the very same porch Julia was now sitting in — sipping on what was left of her iced tea.
Julia shook her head as she recalled what lengths Maggie and Mildred went to keep the family secret from the townspeople.
The two women concocted a story about why the little fella suddenly appeared. As the story goes, Maggie’s Aunt Belle, from back east, had passed away in a car accident, along with her husband. The baby survived the crash, pulled from the wreckage, crying, but alive and well...and all alone.
The story worked.
Things were now coming together, Julia thought, as she eyed the dirt road, waiting patiently for Bucket and that cruiser of his to make another appearance on Cherry Farms Road. Their time together was precious...the two of them had been through so much in such a short time.
Julia placed her glass of tea on the table next to the hand-woven straw chair. The rocker swung back and forth as she stepped off the porch and headed for the big oak tree just fifty steps from the main house. She sat in the swing — the old swing Bucket had played on many, many times during his childhood.
She glanced back at the house. Such a lovely home, she thought. A circular driveway led up to the house. Hedges surrounded the front of the old farmhouse. One large picture window in the living room allowed for a perfect view of the tall oak tree, the driveway, and Cherry Farms Road. Small windows were situated on both sides of the house, with green-colored awnings attached to each one, cutting down the direct sunlight in the early morning hours while allowing just enough sunlight to filter in during the evening hours — still providing great views of the beautiful Arizona sunsets.
As for the barn, north of the house — still a work in progress, but Bucket did manage to clean out the loft — the loft he used to hide in as a young boy. In the breezeway was the old pickup truck, which hadn’t moved a bit. The battery had run out of power, and two of the tires were flat. Bucket had a lot of work to do on the truck before he could cruise down Main Street on a Sunday afternoon, looking for a cold root beer at the A&W.
Julia jumped off the swing and marked her progress, just like Bucket used to do. “Okay,” she said, “that’s one foot further. Good job,” clapping her hands as if she had just set the world record in swing jumping.
She wandered over to the wooded fence that separated the house and the east pasture. She remembers how distraught Bucket was when he rushed home on the day he discovered the family secret. He took his anger out on the piece of ground that once housed his makeshift basketball court — his favorite childhood spot.
Bucket had set fire to his court...his playground. Julie cringed and muttered to herself, How did Bucket survive it all?
He survived all right as Julie turned and looked up the dusty road. Bucket was on his way.
Bucket parked his cruiser, gave Julia a hug and a kiss, and then looked at her with a concerned look. “I've got some bad news.”
“What’s wrong, Bucket?”
“You remember Freddie Greathouse?”
“Of course I do. He’s that little guard who outscored you in high school. I heard he got a job with the FBI, but I lost track of him. I heard he was working in New Jersey.”
“Just to set the record straight, he outscored me my senior year, but I had the edge in career points.”
“Oh, honey, really,” Julia said with a slight grin on her face. “Why do you bring his name up?”
“He’s in town. He’s working out of the Phoenix office, and he’s assigned to the Malfonso case.”
Bucket went on to fill his wife in on just how much Freddie knew about the Malfonso brothers, and the more she listened to the story, the more nervous Julia got.
“Oh, Bucket. This is awful. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to take care of this, Santiago Malfonso. Don’t you worry. There are FBI men all over this area, and my deputies are patrolling the entrances and exits to town. Until this is over, I want you to stay put and stay safe. They may go after Stoney’s ranch again.”
“Oh, no!”
“Alexandra and the girls are going to stay in Flagstaff for a few weeks, and Stoney, well, you know Stoney, he’s preparing his cowboys for another showdown.”
Matt Simpson checked the time.
He was in the last hour of his shift. It was a boring day — one poor soul had a flat tire two miles north of the Cordes Junction turnoff. Luckily, the man had a spare, and the deputy kept the traffic moving while the man, cursing under his breath, struggled with the tire iron but eventually got the job done and was ready to return to the road. “I’m going to miss my daughter’s play over in Cottonwood...I’ll make it up to her somehow.”
“Take it easy,” said the deputy, “no reason to add a speeding ticket to your evening. Good evening, Mr. Jones.”
Deputy Simpson returned to Cordes and made his final run down Main Street, driving by the Valley National Bank, the library, and the high school. He then made a right turn onto Second Street, where all the businesses were closed up tighter than a drum — including Stoney Johnson’s hardware store.
The parking lot at the Hotel Cordes, over on Johnson Street, was only half full. Deputy Simpson wasn’t surprised. After all, it was Thursday, seven o’clock in the evening, and everyone was lying low until the weekend. Matt maneuvered his cruiser into his assigned space. As he figured, his brother, Mark, was already in the office.
Mark was a night owl. He loved the night shift, and it wasn’t unusual for him to arrive an hour before his scheduled time.
Bucket was lucky to have the Simpson brothers as his deputies. They were both young and ambitious, eager to learn and succeed in their chosen profession. Their father retired from the highway patrol in 1946, and their grandfather was a homicide detective for the City of Tucson in the 1940s. Both the father and the grandfather attended Matt and Mark’s graduation in 1964 when the boys received their degrees in Criminal Justice from Arizona State University.
Bucket said to Julia recently, “Those Simpson brothers are so young.”
Julia smiled and said to Bucket. “Honey, they’re just three years younger than you.”
Deep down, Julia knew exactly what Bucket meant. Bucket had seen it all in his 25 years.
Unfortunately, Bucket grew up too fast... too fast.
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