Forgot the Turkey

I wake up early and make coffee because it’s a big day for me and Lydia – it’s the day her old man finally has a date with a government bullet. Truth be told, I didn’t get much sleep. My gut’s been dizzy all month, thinking the nightmare was actually going to be over soon.

And damn it! Guess I’m not great at making coffee either, as I forgot the carafe again and the machine’s dribbling all over the counter.

“Heya handsome,” I hear from the doorway, just as I begin wiping up the soggy mess.

It’s Lydia, in her nightgown, and she’s as gorgeous as the day she walked into my life. Lord, I can’t believe that was ten years ago. Where’s the time gone?

I pull her in close, give her a long peck on the beak, run my hands down her feathers. “Morning, baby.” Her scent… she smells of home. A place I never thought I’d find.

I give her another peck when I see the fear in her eyes. “Hey, it’s over. It’s finally over.” I say it as much for her benefit as mine.

Lydia McGobble – wife of the most notorious turkey mobster in all of New Farmington – is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Maybe the only good thing. A life of private investigation mostly just leaves you with scars.

She settles into my arms, nuzzles my wattle. “I know,” she says. “I can’t believe it. It feels like taking a breath after a lifetime of drowning.”

Don’t I know it, babe. Jack McGobble is an animal. Was.

Just then, the patio door slams open and Martin Dinde – my old partner from the force – rushes in. He’s lucky I have years of experience, because my Colt 1911 is already in my hand.

“Christ, Martin! I damn near blew your brains out!”

“Eugene! Lydia! Sorry!” he says, gulping down air. “But you gotta see this.”

He slams the morning’s paper on the counter, and on the front page is none other than Jack McGobble, shaking hands with a human – the President of the United States. They’re both grinning at the camera, and the headline above proudly proclaims, “President Pardons Turkey!”

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, and I feel Lydia grow tense. I know old Jack has connections, but I never thought he’d swing something like this.

I still remember the day I brought him down, at the old pork processing plant. To the casual eye Jack was an upstanding meat magnate, but Lydia – just an anonymous informant at the time, calling me up in the middle of the night, but I never forgot that voice – told me there was more than just pork being ground up and packaged. Seemed like Jack had a side business of offing turkeys, bundling them up with potatoes and cranberry, freezing the whole thing in a plastic coffin, and selling them to humans.

Yeah, the guy was sick.

But he was everywhere too, with feathers in every pie. I knew the mayor was on his payroll, but it caught me by surprise the chief of police was too. I should have known, of course, since I’d been getting the run around for months, but it all fell into place when I came upon Jack holding the chief of police over an industrial meat grinder. Seemed like the chief wanted a bigger cut, and Jack was all too eager to oblige.

“Jack! Don’t do it!” Much as I didn’t like the chief, he belonged behind bars and not in a frozen dinner. “You’re better than this!”

“No, Eugene,” he said. “I’m really not.” I’ll never forget the look he had in his eye, like he was both horrified and delighted at what was happening, like he knew he was a monster and revelled in it. “I can’t help myself. I’m not better than this – I am this.”

And then he tossed the chief into the grinder, spraying feathers and giblets everywhere.

I went for him. I knew if I didn’t get the upper hand I was done for, as he’d never let me walk out alive – and even back then, I was terrified of what he might do to Lydia. I didn’t think I’d make it, because Jack was built like an ostrich, but he was tired from a night of tying up loose ends, and it looked like the chief of police had managed to shoot him once or twice too.

Ultimately, I landed a lucky right hook, knocked him out, and the rest is history. I called up Martin, who got the arrest and a promotion, and with the top level corruption gone, we knew Jack was going down for good.

Or so we thought.

I hug Lydia more tightly. The poor hen. She had to live with that monstrosity for far too many years.

“Thanks for the news, Martin. It’s terrible, but better to tear the Band-Aid off. Does the chief know yet? I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack wasn’t returning, with a vengeance.”

“That’s just it,” Martin says, ruffling his feathers. “Thing is, I called into the precinct, but nobody’s answering.”

We let that hang in the air for a moment, a silence that washes out the dawn.

I grab my coat just as Martin fishes out his keys.

“I’m coming too,” says Lydia.

“No, babe. It’s too dangerous–”

“–The hell it is!” She’s already slipped on a jacket and her purse – and I know she’s got more than makeup and mints in there, and she’d not hesitate to defend herself. “I’m not leaving you, and that’s final.”

So the three of us pack into Martin’s station wagon and drive into the city. The streets are surprisingly empty, but then again, I’m not used to greeting the sun so maybe this is normal.

Normal. How close we were to normal. Suburbs? Marriage? A poodle?

The legal system worked, justice was served, and then victory was snatched away at the last possible moment. Maybe I’m not cut out for playing house, and maybe a mobster’s wife isn’t either, but retirement was actually starting to grow on me. I’m too old for this dance and I just want to sit down for a while.

I don’t like this.

And my gut’s right. It always is. Downtown New Farmington is a ghost city. Abandoned cars line the streets and errant feathers blow in the wind, and terrified eyes follow us from every alley and window.

Martin pulls into the precinct parking lot. The police station is deserted.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” Martin mutters, and as soon as we see the mess inside – tables knocked over, papers scattered about like a hurricane had passed through the building – we both draw our guns.

“This way,” he says. “We have to see the chief.”

But the chief’s office is empty too, except for a sickly sweet smell, and a thick red goop smeared over the walls and floor. Lydia gasps and Martin gags. I approach the stuff, touch it.

“Cranberries,” I whisper.

The sick bastards have been here all right.

We hear a commotion down the hall. Sounds like a filing cabinet falling over, glass shattering. Inane cackling.

When we rush out we see a couple thugs taking a crowbar to the place. Unfortunately, they spot us.

“Oy!” shouts one. “Isn’t that the coppers Jack put a price on?”

Damn it!

A moment later they open fire. I grab Lydia and leap behind a desk, shielding her from the plaster and wood raining down on us from where the bullets tear up the walls. There’s a hall not too far from us, and we can duck down it as soon as these idiots run out of bullets. I just need to make sure Martin knows the plan–

Martin!?

The brave idiot is just standing there, returning fire. I see red streak the hallway as he takes a bullet, and when he sinks to his knees he fires off a final three shots, before silence suffocates the hallway.

“Martin!”

“Rat bastards,” he wheezes. “Call themselves turkeys.” He coughs, dribbling red.

Oh god, there’s so much red.

“Lie down, we’ll get you bandaged up!”

He grabs my wing. “Eugene. Save it.” Another wet cough. “I’m clocking out.” He lets out a long wet gurgle, then fishes out his car keys and puts them in my hand. “Go to Dairy Hills. My sister. She can help you.”

“Martin.” I’m at a loss for words. My first partner. My oldest friend.

“Go. Hide. Plan.” He wheezes. “And promise me, you’ll get the bastard.”

“We will,” I say.

And then there’s nothing more to be said, ever again. I lay him down and close his eyes. I wish there was time for a more proper send off, but I can hear more of Jack’s goons elsewhere in the building. We hightail it to the parking lot and I hammer the pedal of Martin’s car.

“Oh, Martin,” Lydia says, and her voice breaks my heart. I squeeze her hand as I drive. She’s all I have left now, but I do have her, thanks to Martin. We both owe him so much.

When I took Jack down, we found enough evidence to unravel his entire empire. Half of city council were implicated in shady dealings, as well as numerous prominent businessmen. Seemed like there was good money in the turkey flesh trade, and the humans provided an insatiable market.

And there was evidence on Lydia, too. Enough she’d never see the light of day again. I had a duty to bring her to justice, only I didn’t think she’d get any. A judge wouldn’t care that her tips were what lit the fuse, because there was no proof of it and only the testimony of a washed up old drunk like me.

But I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d grown attached. Was tempted.

It was Martin that pushed me over the edge.

“You always had a good nose for character,” he said. “Why don’t you put your righteousness down, and just this once follow your heart?”

Following that advice was the best mistake I ever made.

“Eugene,” says Lydia, snapping me back to the present. We’ve hit the interstate, still hours away from Dairy Hills. “We’re being followed.”

I glance in the mirror and see it’s true. Two black cars behind us, splitting on either side of us and pulling up. This is it then. I look at Lydia and she looks at me. So much goes unsaid, and all we have time for is a quick peck. Then we both draw our guns.

The goons pull up thinking they have the drop on us, but as soon as the windows roll down we give them a surprise. Lydia splatters the driver to the right of us, and his car goes spiraling into a ditch. The guys on the left are a bit more nimble and we trade lead, and turn our cars into Swiss cheese.

And I don’t like Swiss cheese.

My gun’s out of bullets so I ram the others at an off-ramp. They go tumbling down a hill and slam into a median, and their car lands on its roof with a crunch. I gun it, leaving them in the dust, and as soon as there’s some respectable distance between us I check on Lydia.

She’s wide-eyed, flustered, and breathing heavily – just as I am – but good lord above, she’s fine!

“We made it,” I say.

She grins. “We did!” Then she checks her gun. “Just in time too. I’m all out.”

“Same.”

And unfortunately, Martin’s car has also had enough. Maybe they hit something, or maybe that last ramming was too hard for the old girl, but the dash suddenly lights up red and the engine begins smoking.

We pull over near a side road. We’re still hundreds of miles from Dairy Hills, but there’s a sign here that says “Township of Gladburry.”

“Maybe we can find a mechanic,” I say.

“Maybe.” Lydia grabs my hand and we walk into Gladburry.

Right off we can tell it’s a human town. I don’t have anything against humans per se, but there is a lot of bad blood in our history, and it always makes me a little nervous when they gather in groups. But the handful of homes that make up Gladburry hardly qualifies as gathering.

We pick a likely house and knock on the door. A red cheeked kid opens it, and we hear the sounds of cheery chatter inside, and a waft of gingerbread washes over us.

“Hello?” the kid says.

“Hi there,” I say. “Sorry to bother you, but our car broke down. We were wondering if we could use your phone to call a mechanic.”

The kid thinks it over for a moment, and I’m beginning to wonder if I should have started with “Are your parents home?”, but then she finally smiles and nods.

“Yeah, please come in!”

She shows us into her kitchen, which is probably small by human standards but pretty spacious for us. And it’s nice and warm here. Didn’t even realize how cold it had gotten outside.

She closes the door behind us and says, “I’ll just get my mom.”

“Thanks,” we both say.

It smells lovely in here. Lots of fresh baking, and I can definitely smell corn. My stomach rumbles. Maybe we can catch a meal.

Then Lydia elbows me, and points up at the kitchen table, and my gut’s in freefall. There’s cans upon cans of cranberry sauce.

And then we hear the kid shouting at the top of her shrill voice: “Mom! You’ll never believe it! It’s a Thanksgiving Day miracle!”