The Happy Catfish turned out to be just on the outskirts of Tyrell, which was less than a full mile. B.A. swung his van into a heavily patched parking lot illuminated by a pair of streetlamps that flickered on and off, and a blinking green-and-pink neon sign that might have been stolen from one of the less desirable motels in Vegas. Several ancient pickups were parked close to the little tin-roof building. The faint strains of a Patsy Cline song were audible as B.A. rolled down his window.
"Let me guess…along with beer and bait, they've got 'Girls, Girls, Girls,' right?" Face asked with some of his usual cheek.
"Face…"
"Hannibal, I was kidding. I don't think I'd be their type, anyway, or vice versa."
"I'll start fillin' up. You wanna grab us somethin' to eat while you're in there? I'll take 2 percent if they don't have no whole milk."
"All right, B.A. I'm gonna try and put out a few feelers for our friend Mr. Prescott while we're here, too." Hannibal's eyes were mischievous.
B.A. raised one heavy fist. "Don't you be startin' a fight before I've had my milk."
"Did I say anything about a fight?" Hannibal said innocently.
"You on the jazz already and we ain't even there yet," said the big man with resignation, lowering his fist. "Jus' be careful wit' these redneck types. I got your back."
Face felt his stomach growl again. "Maybe if we've lucked out, they'll have some decent coffee along with their 'Eats,'" he said, pointing to the gaudy sign on the roof. "And if we're even luckier, they don't prepare the food and the bait in the same room."
"I wonder what kinda bait they got?" Murdock mused, scanning the cloudy sky furtively for any sign of a waxing moon.
"All right, guys, let's see how 'happy' this place is."
Inside, the Happy Catfish appeared to be the bastard offspring of a down-home diner and a hunting and fishing supply store. Patsy Cline had given way to Charlie Daniels on a banged-up jukebox in the corner. Mounted deer heads and fishing trophies stared into space with glassy, dead eyes. The stale aromas of cigarette smoke and Budweiser hung in the air, but with the hint of something pleasant and home-cooked just underneath. A few grizzled-looking sorts in tractor-supply and hunting caps slouched over a Formica bar with nearly empty glasses of beer close at hand while a youngish blonde in a teal uniform scrubbed at a stubborn stain with a dishcloth.
"Hi there," said Face to the waitress, plastering his most charming smile across his features. "We're, ah, sure hungry tonight. What's on the menu?"
The girl, who couldn't have been more than a few years out of high school, looked up from her task. "Ain't much. Jay Bruce, he don't get in till 'round five or so. He's the best fry cook in the county. 'Course, he's also my second cousin," she offered, meeting Face's dazzling smile and batting her eyes.
Hannibal pulled two twenties from his pocket. "That's all right. We do need a full tank for that van outside. This should just about cover it. And we'll settle for coffee if that's all you've got."
"Okay. I think I can scare up summa that. You boys want I should check the kitchen?"
"Won't be necessary. I saw some lovely pecan pie in that bake case…"
"Oh, that! My momma makes that herself. You wanna try some?"
"Love to." Face tried not to stare at the name badge perched atop her curvy bosom. "Thanks, uh, Millie Rose?"
"Call me Rosey! Millie's my granny's name and I never liked her. One slice comin' right up," she chirped.
"We'll take two," interrupted Hannibal.
Murdock stood off to one side, hands in his jacket pockets, eyeballing a mounted stuffed rabbit on the wall with feral intensity. He hadn't said a word.
"Uh, does your buddy in the ballcap there want anything?" Rosie asked.
"You probably don't have what he wants," sighed Face.
She shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.
Hannibal took the barstool next to Face, and idly unwrapped one of the packets of saltine crackers from a bowl. "Don't get any ideas, Face," he murmured.
"What? Her?" Face, looking scandalized, pointed to the swinging double door. "Look, Hannibal, she's all right on the eyes, but the Brains Fairy sure didn't stop by her house. When have I ever gotten ideas over someone like that?"
A wicked grin. "Let me count the ways."
"Just let it go, all right? I ordered pecan pie; I didn't ask her out! I'm hungry!"
"Remember, we've got to be careful down here. We're in hostile territory. For all you know, she could be Prescott's girl." Hannibal crunched on his saltines, looking thoughtful at the same time.
"Relax. No sweat."
"Here we go," said Rosey, flouncing past with a two plates and a steaming pot of coffee. "Dig in, boys. If you don't mind me bein' nosy, what's a couple 'a Yankees doin' in Tyrell at four AM anyhow?" She leaned on the counter, exposing a little more of her ample cleavage and watching Face's eyes stray.
"Oh, uh…"
"We're not staying long. You wouldn't happen to know how much farther Possum Lodge is?" asked Hannibal.
"Keep goin' right down 41, hang a left by the old Mathers place, then another left where Yarbrough's Garage used to be, and you're there. Maybe eight miles." She frowned. "Possum Lodge's a lot smaller'n Tyrell. Why there?"
"The mayor's wife needs some help around the house."
"Oh." The frown persisted. "Y'all don't look like handymen."
Hannibal's eyes twinkled. "You'd be surprised."
"In fact, we're pretty good at that kind of thing," proffered Face, adding a wink.
"Your buddy there…what's he do? He's a little, uh…" She pointed to an oblivious Murdock, who was now face-to-face with a raccoon.
"Weird? Strange? Don't worry, he's harmless. Unless it's a full moon," Face said only half-jokingly.
"Oh. Just checkin'. Y'all enjoy that pie," said Rosey.
"Rosey," asked Hannibal, leaning in closer to the bar, "you wouldn't happen to know a guy named Trey Prescott, would you? He's the constable in Possum Lodge, and Mrs. Hawkins told us to ask for him. Does he ever come by?"
She blanched, and the hand holding the coffeepot trembled. "Oh, yessir, I know that sumbitch," she said, lowering her own voice so that the other patrons couldn't hear. "'Scuse my language. He ain't nothin' but a snake what's got a badge, thass what he is. Him'n that damn half-breed friend of his, Ike Redthorn, gettin' loaded and piss-mean, goin' up into them woods every Friday…" She put down the pot. "Y'all ain't…you know, FBI men, somethin' like that? They done stole my little niece's pug Dottie, 'course, we couldn't prove nothin'. And ol' Trey's the law 'round here, sad to say."
Face and Hannibal shared a quick glance. "No, miss, we're not FBI. But we are 'house cleaners,'" said Hannibal, "and we're going to try and put a stop to all this."
"Nothing the four of us can't handle," grinned Face. "Say, where is B.A., anyway?"
"You wouldn't happen to have any bottles of milk, would you?" asked Hannibal. "For our other friend."
Rosey perked up. "I think I might just, but it'll be out in the icehouse. Gimme a minute or two." She bustled back through the swinging doors.
The man sitting beside Face turned, as if just now noticing his two bar-mates. He looked like a semi-professional wrestler who'd been fired for debauchery and forced to work at hard labor outdoors for the last ten years of his life. His already ugly face was further disfigured by a weal on his right cheek and a yellowed set of stumpy teeth. A filthy bandanna with a rebel flag motif was tied around his greasy hair. "Milk? Lookie, fellas, we gotta couple 'a city boys wantin' milk. Prob'ly cookies too." He and the four other equally rough yokels shared a harsh laugh. He stood; he was easily six feet four. "This place ain't for city boys," he warned in a slurred voice.
"How kind." Out of habit, Hannibal reached for a cigar in his mouth that wasn't there. Instead, he put on a serene smile. "If we encounter any, we'll be sure to let them know."
"Fact is, ain't too safe for city boys or Yankees t'all 'round here." The big man slammed one set of tattooed knuckles into an open hand. "Why don't y'all just scat now, and take your damn milk on the way out" Another guttural, humorless laugh.
"Hannibal." Face had tensed visibly in his seat, and pulled at his colonel's sleeve. Hannibal just shrugged.
"Won't you guys at least let us finish our coffee? After all I've heard about Southern hospitality, Face…"
"Yeah…" He sighed, already knowing what was coming.
"I'm givin' you till three to git. One, two…"
"Amazing. Gorgeous George here actually knows how to count!"
"Three!"
Right as the behemoth's fist came forward, Hannibal ducked and swung his nearly full mug of coffee directly at his attacker's midsection. Roaring in pain, the big local staggered backward. Hannibal followed with a fierce uppercut and a left hook, which sent the other crashing into a display of fishing rods.
The other men charged at Face, who'd sprung to his feet like a cat. The first blow, by a trollish-looking man in fatigues and a John Deere cap, caught him squarely under the chin, but he quickly recovered and dished out a couple of quick jabs. When the troll staggered toward him again, Face smashed the now-empty barstool over his head.
"Not the face. Please!" he prayed fervently as the remaining three converged on him.
All but forgotten, Murdock yelped and sprung at one of his friend's attackers. A clumsy roundhouse kick was aimed at the rangy pilot; he easily dodged it and planted one of his own firmly in the other man's midsection. The local went down like an empty sack of grain, with a pained oof!
"B.A.!"
In response to his friends' almost simultaneous call for aid, B.A. Baracus appeared in the door like an avenging angel. He sauntered in to face the remaining two barflies, one of whom clenched a billy club and the other what appeared to be brass knuckles. The club-wielder screamed and swung his weapon wildly. B.A. did what he'd done so well many times before; dodged, weaved, and waited patiently for an opening. When it came, he launched several jabs, a powerful crosshook, then tossed his opponent almost casually into a table, which broke in two. Mr. Brass Knuckles was right behind, hissing in rage. B.A., thinking quickly, grabbed the eight-point buck's head mounted on the wall behind him. In one fluid motion, he slammed it down over the overalls-clad man's shoulders so hard that he appeared to be some strange human-Bambi hybrid. With a muffled shriek, he crumpled to the ground.
Stepping over the various forms on the floor groaning in pain, B.A. scowled and thrust one finger into Hannibal's grinning face. "What'd I tell you? I don't like no fights before I've had my milk, Hannibal!"
"Take it easy, B.A. It's on its way," said Hannibal blithely, as if discussing the weather. "You guys all right?"
Face brushed at the front of his shirt and rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, no problem. Did you smell that guy's breath? Guess they don't sell much Listerine down here."
"Murdock?"
"A-OK, Colonel. Good thing for them it's not a full moon."
Rosey re-appeared then, and almost dropped the quart bottle of milk she carried in surprise. "What'n the Sam Hill happened in here?"
Face, a guilty smile quirking at his lips, raised his coffee mug. "Sorry about the mess. We, ah, we just had a bit of an introduction to some of the, uh, local color."
"You'll…you'll…" It was the leader of the group, sounding like a gaffed fish from his prone position. "You'll pay for this!"
"Shut up, sucka!" B.A. snapped, raising one fist. The Neanderthal looked up at him and cringed.
"These gentlemen were a little less than hospitable, miss. We were acting in self-defense. Sorry for the trouble. We'll pay for any damages," offered Hannibal, reaching into his pocket for more twenties.
The waitress only shook her head and giggled. "Naw, don't worry about it. Ol' Jay Bruce and our bossman'll deal with it when they get in, and I'll tell 'em the truth.. Them fellas been askin' for a bruising for awhile anyhow. Y'all just better go 'fore they get here." She held one finger to her lips. "How was that pecan pie, by the way?"
"Delicious," said Face, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. "Don't suppose you could share the recipe?"
"'Fraid not. Momma'd kill me. Y'all want somethin' for the road, though?"
"I want my milk," B.A. said with surprising calm, and reached for the bottle she'd brought. He popped the cap off and drained most of it in a single swallow. Wiping his upper lip, he turned to Rosey. "Y'all got some good milk down here. Sorry I missed that pecan pie."
With his head askance, Murdock gave Rosey an odd stare. "Would you perchance to have any steak tartare, or a filet mignon done extra rare?" he asked in his poshest boarding school accent.
"Huh?"
Face held up his hands like a football referee. "Don't mind him. He's, ah, not feeling himself these days. Maybe just some sausage, or bacon?"
"That I think I could round up. Hope it's okay cold."
"So long as it's rare…rare…" His tongue lolled out of his mouth.
"Murdock!"
"Whatever meat you got, muchacha. I like it rare, though."
Hannibal took out another bill and placed it on the counter. "For especially good service. Now, about those directions to Possum Lodge again?"
She repeated them, and Face jotted notes on a napkin. "So, it's left at one obsolete landmark, then another at a place that burned ten years ago?" he asked with a shrug.
"Yeah, y'all got it. And say hi to the Hawkinses for me, y'hear? They're nice folks, go to the same church as my niece and hers." Rosey's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "And kick ol' Trey's ass clear down to 'Bama for me, would ya? Even if you ain't FBI, or KGB, somethin' like that…"
"You could file us under 'something like that,'" said Hannibal with amusement. "Again, sorry for the mess. No chance I could buy some cigars here, is there?
"Nothin' but some Marlboros and a few Luckies that Jay Bruce likes. I never touch 'em," she confessed. "Sorry. Be careful, now, y'hear?" She stared, her gaze settling on Face.
He caught it and smiled back. "We're pretty good at that, too."
"Come on, guys, we've got clients to meet." Hannibal swallowed the last of the coffee Rosey had poured for him. "Miss, it's been a real smash."
"Thanks for the milk." B.A. offered a rare smile.
"Until we meet again, Rosey."
"Hey! What about my meat?" Murdock's eyes widened.
"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot." Rosey dashed back to the kitchen, and returned moments later with a plate wrapped in paper towels. "Deer sausage. Jay Bruce's own. Real spicy, too. And some doughnuts for your big friend too."
Hannibal shepherded Murdock, who was looking at the food like a starving lion looks at a sickly zebra, quickly away. "Perfect. Oh, and we'll try to swing by again if we get the chance."
"Y'all do that." And with that, the A-Team was gone.
The big man who'd attacked Hannibal finally dragged himself up to a kneeling pose, and massaged his still-sore head. "Who were them guys? Trey ain't gonna like them comin' in here, pushin' us around," he complained.
Millie Rose faced him with all the ferocity her five-feet-nothing could manage. "You'd best count on it, Orey Grissom. I think those fellas mean business."